by Mark Edward
“Don’t you think it’s a bit cold out here?” I attempted. “We want your guests to be as comfortable as possible, don’t we?”
As the wind whistled around us, Anne assured me that the heater would soon be turned on. I knew from past experience that this artificial warmth would not thaw out the area for at least an hour. Since I was already nursing a raw throat from my previous night’s readings, I attempted to tactfully request a spot inside the house. Thankfully, my proposal was eventually accepted, and I set myself up in a spot in an adjoining room.
The party raged full steam ahead. Time roared by as holiday lyrics like “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” blared endlessly from every corner. The revelers—full of girlish cheer and apple martinis—circled my tiny table like hungry hyenas, glowing with inebriation.
Anne’s assistant came by to remind me that there were approximately a hundred guests and I was expected to provide each of them with an intimate psychic reading. I quickly did the math. Four hours is 240 minutes, divided by one hundred gave me a whopping two minutes and forty seconds for each reading. This didn’t take into account taking a breath in between or standing up to stretch my legs. Or taking a bite of that apple or some pretzels. I certainly had my work cut out for me.
The party grew louder. Fatigue set in. Even a DJ gets a break every hour, right? Some of the catering staff tried to get in line for a reading but were swiftly banished from the upstairs area and sent back to work.
I was preparing for my next reading with a warm smile and as much positive attitude as I could muster when I realized that I had already given three nonstop hours of readings. I had been booked for four hours, and there was still a long list of names left on the chart Anne had drawn up much like an appointment list.
A giant, leering blonde looked as if she might tear my head off if I didn’t get to her soon. The back of my throat ached, signaling that I stood a good chance of spending the next day or two with laryngitis. This would affect my next night’s booking, which was expected to last four hours as well, with the possibility of lots of overtime.
I realized I needed to pace myself. As I stood up to stretch my legs for the first time that evening, a redhead in a green beret broke out of the line and yelled in a boozy mist of bad perfume and vodka, “Where’re you going?”
I responded with, “Well, actually I’m going to take a ten-minute break.”
“They let you people take breaks?”
The “you people” momentarily stopped me dead in my tracks. I wisely counted to ten and tamed my temper. As had happened on other occasions, this could be the very person paying my bill at either a later job or even tonight. I moved cautiously toward the door.
“But you can’t leave!” she insisted. “I have been waiting in this line for over a half an hour to get my reading from you and now you’re leaving?”
A quick read of this person, without the necessity of any remotely psychic talents, told me that trying to reason with her or rely on her sense of common decency would never work. I quickly decided instead to just try to avoid conflict.
“Well, I’m not really leaving for that long. You see, it’s been over three hours since I started talking and I really need to get a drink of water and give my throat a break.”
“Oh, if that’s all it is,” she shot back, “I’ll go and get a glass of water for you.”
So much for the pity angle. I should have known it wouldn’t work. “No, please, you don’t understand. It’s not just about the water. I need to take a break and go to the restroom.”
She fell back for a nanosecond then thrust a garishly painted fingernail into my face. “You promise that I will be next when you come back?”
I gestured casually toward the others in line, including the gigantic blonde who had by then moved within striking distance, and who was now looking menacingly at both of us. “Well, I think a few other ladies were ahead of you in line. But if it’s okay with them, it’s fine with me. Now I really have to go. Please excuse me.”
Giant Blonde recognized her opening and stepped between us, announcing that she had been waiting just as long, if not longer, than the redhead and demanded that she be next. I not so psychically sensed an imminent catfight. It’s so complimentary to be fought over by desperate women, but this could get ugly.
I swiftly tried to edge through the crowded doorway and get away.
The redhead then cornered me in the stairwell. “Well, okay, psychic man. Take your break. But I’m gonna tell the hostess that you left your table.”
I was a trifle ruffled, but it’s my job to be and stay professional. Still, an evil line I have only used in rare moments (such as this sulfurous one) reached my lips and I couldn’t hold it back: “Really? Let me ask you something. Do you want a good reading or a bad reading?”
“Well, a good one, of course!”
“Then please let me pass, and I’ll see you in ten or fifteen minutes.”
Amazingly, like the Red Sea parting, the party crowd backed away from the door. Each “lady” reluctantly allowed me to pass by with a barely stifled mix of contempt and anxiety. I overheard one disillusioned woman hiss to the rest of the group, “I guess this must be a business.”
Yeah. Duh. What did they think, that I did this for my love of alcoholics?
So went another night amidst the highest of high society. I had begun to think that people at these sorts of affairs believed that, as a psychic, I was like an ascetic who never required air, water, or sustenance of any kind to survive and ply my talents. That I must be a highly evolved spiritual being in need of no earthly practicalities.
Sorry, my bladder is very down-to-earth and utterly human.
I have often falsely assumed that a seeker of the spiritual would naturally be a compassionate person, but instead I’ve found that many are either woefully undereducated, just plain rude, or laboring under the delusion that a psychic can continue to spit out great wisdom like some turbaned arcade automaton and all they needed to do was turn the crank or push a button to keep an endless stream of good fortune and guidance flowing their way.
The unbelievable selfishness inherent in these situations and the overall psychic conundrum has never failed to both annoy and fascinate me. Don’t these people realize that if they lavished a bit of civility on me, they might get that kindness paid back a hundredfold? They hardly ever do.
I once overheard a conversation between a caterer and her assistant at Santa Monica’s Jonathan Club:
“So the band will get their dinner around eight thirty. Do the psychics get any food?”
“No, the psychics just get water.”
Occasionally, though, hostesses, hosts, and even the odd event planner or agent will be gracious enough to ask if I’m comfortable or whether I might like a drink or a plate of leftovers with the other help in the kitchen. God bless their little hearts when they do that.
I really do love almost all of my jobs and I know I’m there to work. I suppose that not all of my fellow paranormal practitioners enjoy their work as much as I do. Plus, the historical aura of the gypsy life must carry with it the excess baggage and negativity expected from a “fortune-teller.” A psychic in today’s society is treated the same way he or she has been treated since the beginning of time: with an odd mix of both fear and fascination.
Humans may seek answers, but we are not so sure we really want to understand how everything works. Most of us enjoy the ancient tension between open palms and the pieces of silver that may cross them. It’s one of life’s sweet mysteries. If my insights and advice turn out to be accurate, I’m showered with accolades and attention. If my predictions are shown to be wrong, I’m scorned and vilified as a charlatan of the lowest caliber. Such is the dual role psychics have played throughout history. Total strangers may trust me with their deepest, darkest secrets, and yes, I sometimes get paid quite well for my services—at least as much as a plumber—but respect is a whole other matter.
If I’m lucky, I might work an
event that has a warm, friendly atmosphere. These parties are usually made up of people who have already “made it” in their lives, so there isn’t as much pressure from them to fix their problems or plot their futures. They already either have what they need or know how to achieve whatever they want in life. They are merely interested in being softly, lightheartedly entertained. At these events, I’m just the sprig of parsley on their sumptuous rack of lamb.
Yet probably ninety percent of my jobs begin with a battle to convince the host or hostess that I really am a classy, top-of-the-line professional. I find I can usually win them over within a few minutes with some soft-pedaled introductory psychic banter, though it’s a perpetual challenge. In the end, my main task is to subtly turn their expectations my way.
I managed to find a darkened corner in Anne’s house where I spent a few frenzied minutes trying to wolf down some bread, cold cuts, and a glass of bottled water before making a quick stop in the atrociously decorated bathroom. Then I bounced back into the fray.
As I made my way back up the grand staircase, a threesome of attractive twenty-somethings stopped me and turned excitedly to one another.
One squealed, “Look! A MAN! Who are you?”
I kept my cool. This being Ladies’ Night, I was probably the only man there. “I’m Mark.”
The loudest one screeched, “Are you the stripper?”
“No, I’m one of the psychics.”
“You’re one of the PSYCHICS! Oh my God! Read my palm!”
Loud One physically surrounded me with her arms, pinned me against the wall, and jammed one of her palms in my face, despite the fact that we were standing in the middle of a constant stream of females making their shaky way in their high-heeled shoes up and down the stairway, jostling drinks and overloaded plates of hors d’oeuvres.
“I’m sorry but you will have to get in line with everybody else. They’re waiting for me.” I pointed up the stairs, broke away, and regained my balance. My feet were getting stepped on, and when I looked up to the top of the stairs, I saw Redhead and the rest of the waiting line staring contemptuously down on me.
My line of clients was unfortunately no shorter than when I’d left. I was greeted with impatient glowers. They were quietly diffident, but clearly glad to see that I had returned. I sat down across from the fidgeting redhead and dug my heels in, determined to give her my best shot.
Redhead’s transformation was as dramatic as it was typical—somehow during my time away she had become as sweet as sugar candy. To return the favor I told her all about how her love life was soon to take a passionate turn in the next month. Since she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, I figured this was a safe path and I was soon rewarded with a nod that told me I was on the right track. She was at last satisfied, at least for the moment.
Redhead was also headed for great financial gain in the next three months. This windfall would arrive through a business of her own. How could I possibly foresee such an event? Simple: She had made it extremely clear how difficult she could be to work with or be around. Who else would put up with her impatient, two-faced nature but herself?
At times I am greatly tempted to tell an obnoxious person something really bad. But a cheap shot won’t help me get bookings, and it’s just too easy to further antagonize mean-spirited people, making them even unhappier than they already are. I cannot count the times a person has plunked down into the chair opposite me with “You’re not going to tell me anything bad, are you?”
Why in the world would I do that? I need to keep working, just like everyone else, and telling someone bad news tends to evaporate that client rather quickly. After giving one woman at a major corporate affair a dazzlingly positive handwriting analysis, she got up from her chair tentatively, as if expecting more, then turned back and asked, “There’s nothing negative there?”
“No, ma’am. Do you want me to tell you something negative?” I can do that too, but I’d rather leave sleeping dogs be.
Obviously at times I may see a fork in the road, or a chance to direct a sitter toward something that might need watching, but predicting death, illness, or horrible adversity is just plain stupid. I have never understood how some of the most well-known psychics on the current media circuit have no qualms with delivering devastating readings that can scar a person for life. Not to mention crossing the line into absurdity by purportedly having the ability to speak to the dead. I have been told incredible stories at almost every engagement I have worked, about psychics or mediums who have told someone something negative, and that person has never gotten over it. These unfortunates may then go ahead and make radical adjustments to their lives just because of a single offhanded negative statement. What’s up with that?
I prefer to look in the mirror every morning and see integrity looking back.
Giant Blonde had settled into another glass of champagne as she leaned against the wall, still waiting her turn.
My next client approached tentatively, with a great sadness evident in her body language. She was red-faced, and appeared ready to burst into tears as soon as she slumped into the chair opposite me. I immediately wondered what she was doing at a party like this. She looked utterly miserable.
“My little cat Oscar ran away two days ago. I’m sick with worry. I’m not interested in myself. I want this tarot reading to be for my cat. Can you do that?”
I quickly answered with complete confidence, “Of course I can.”
I went to work trying to set all of her worst fears to rest. How bad could it be for a lost cat? All I had to do was keep things upbeat and cheerful, tell her what she wanted to hear, and move on to the next person in line.
“It’s okay. Really. It’s no problem, just mix the cards and we will point the reading toward Oscar. As you mix the cards, try to send your thoughts through the cards and directly to him. This will strengthen your psychic connection to him, wherever he is. Okay?”
The rest of the group had me under a microscope, waiting to see how I would deal with this problem. One slipup and the rest of my night could be ruined.
Cat Lady nodded and brightened, the tears held in check. I was doing my job.
Affirmative nods make a difference—not only to me but to the expectant onlookers outside the sanctum sanctorum who are watching closely. When they witness a positive head movement, they surmise I am giving an accurate reading, whether or not this is the truth.
In the days of gypsy palmistry, the flap of a gypsy’s traveling tent would be left open to reveal the reader, seated and facing the opening. The sitter, or client, sat with his or her back to the line of waiting customers. If the reader was having trouble getting a positive response and felt that the crowd’s attention was not being fed the right message, that reader would simply move in a bit closer to the sitter’s face and, at a pivotal moment, ask the sitter quietly, “Can you hear what I’m saying?” The unwitting sitter would invariably respond with a nod of the head, sending a yes answer through their body language that the rest of the line witnessed. Those waiting would naturally be encouraged by what appeared to be such an accurate reading and would wait that extra minute or two for their own chance, longer than if this little trick of the trade had not been performed. I’ve always thought it a brilliant ruse.
Cat Lady gingerly handled the cards and dutifully followed my instructions to cut the pack into three piles, which represented Oscar’s feline past, present, and future. In order to speed up what could become a long, tortuous reading, I offered her a bargain.
“We don’t really need to deal with the past. In order to focus in on finding him, we mostly need to deal with what is going on with him in the present and what will come to pass in the future, right?”
She nervously nodded in agreement.
I turned over the top card of the pile that represented the present, and wouldn’t you know it, up popped our old friend, the Death card.
“He’s DEAD!” she screamed before I could manage a word or start in on damage control. “I kne
w it. My baby’s DEEEEAAAAD!” She collapsed into a heap on the table and began sobbing uncontrollably.
This is what might be referred to as a showstopper. Those waiting in line goggled in amazement, wondering what the hell I had told her. I mentally kicked myself for not removing that one all-powerful card for this reading. Shit. I just hadn’t thought about it. I don’t normally take cards out of my set, since I prefer not to sugarcoat anything, even for children, but this was most unfortunate.
It was going to take some hard work to wiggle out of this predicament, but there is always a way out. I took hold of the emotional reins and pulled back hard.
“No, no, no! You mustn’t misunderstand the Death card! We don’t recognize death in the psychic world. It doesn’t mean literal death. It merely means change.” I was slowly climbing out of the hole I had dug for myself. “Granted, it can be a major change, but it’s only change and change is always good. Your cat Oscar is going through some life changes. This would be especially true if he’s in a new or unfamiliar home.”
Cat Lady was looking up at me now and dabbing her eyes with a tissue that she then began to twist into a tight little knot. “Are you sure?” she whimpered.
I silently prayed that the card left to be revealed would be easier for Oscar and his sensitive situation. I continued unflustered, “Why, yes! Of course! He’s probably looking at you in a whole new light and seeing things differently for possibly the first time in his life. I’ll bet this is the first time he’s run away, right?”
It was stupid of me to ask this question. Psychics should never ask a question that will leave us open to being wrong. We prefer bold statements delivered as if they are facts. But it was too late. I had stumbled.
Cat Lady looked puzzled. “No, he does it all the time.”
I kept my dialogue moving, hoping that I could get a hit and redeem my blunder. “I see a collar.” I closed my eyes, not only for dramatic emphasis but to keep from seeing any negative reaction. I waited.