Psychic Blues

by Mark Edward

  “No,” she burbled. “Oscar never wore a collar. I didn’t want him to catch it on a fence or something and strangle himself.”

  This was a downward spiral I couldn’t adequately handle in my allotted two minutes and forty seconds. The other people in line shifted uncomfortably.

  “No, I said I saw a collar. Maybe he’s with a new owner who has given him one. Let’s look at the future card and see what it brings, shall we?”

  I took a deep cleansing breath, crossed my mental fingers, and turned over the future card.

  “Ah, the Hermit! This is wonderful! The Hermit represents solitude and introspection. It’s a pulling back, a re-evaluation of life as seen though clear-sighted thought and reflection.”

  Cat Lady replied with a sniffle and a muffled “Huh?”

  I went on sagely, “He’s going through a re-examination of exactly what’s important to him as a cat. The Hermit climbs to the top of a mountain and sits in a cave and meditates. After he has given himself the time necessary to arrive at the big picture, he climbs down off the mountain and shines this newfound enlightenment into other people’s lives. You know how independent and aloof cats can be. They sometimes like to be alone and out on their own.”

  “Not Oscar. He was so different.” Cat Lady gazed off into the distance pensively.

  I was now hoping no one else was listening to us very closely. A silence hung oppressively in the room for what seemed like an eternity.

  Finally, Cat Lady said, “Do the cards say he will be coming back to me?”

  “The cards tell me he has to go through this necessary lesson in his life, but when he comes back, he will appreciate you so much more and stay put instead of running around all night. He’s in a transition and stuck right now, that’s all.”

  “That sounds better. But what about the coyotes?”

  “The coyotes?” I whispered.

  “Yes. Didn’t you see them in your cards?” Cat Lady whined. “I heard them crunching around the bushes in the easement behind my house the night before Oscar disappeared.”

  “Well, the cards don’t show any other animals except Oscar. Perhaps it was another cat you heard, or maybe Oscar has a girlfriend you don’t know about.”

  “No, he was the only cat in our neighborhood. I know it.” She was beginning to get on my nerves. The whole party was beginning to get on my nerves. Whatever energy I had left to get me through the final minutes here was quickly draining away.

  “Hmm, I can only tell you what the cards tell me, but . . .” I leaned in close to her and quietly asked, “Can you hear what I’m saying?”

  When there was a mere ten minutes left in my four-hour agreement and a dozen anxious women were still lightly pushing and shoving each other outside in the hallway, Anne’s assistant poked her head into the doorway and attempted unsuccessfully to be contrite. She yelled out over the crowd to me, “Anne wants you to make the readings shorter, okay?”

  I decided that I had had enough. Four hours was my usual limit, unless I am rewarded with tips, food, or pleasant company, none of which I could expect at this party.

  I made my way through the doorway and delivered the dreaded announcement: “I’m sorry, ladies, but I only have time for one or possibly two more readings before I have to leave. So I will take these two ladies that were next in line and call it a night. Thank you.”

  There was a brief lull of absolute disbelief. Then the levee broke. Loud groans of disappointment mixed with angry exclamations and hateful, most unladylike language. This is what agents, managers, circus ringleaders, sideshow hawkers, and pimps normally get paid to deal with.

  I rose what was left of my voice to add, “I’m really terribly sorry, but the line has to end somewhere, with someone, and I can only go on for the amount of time I’ve been contracted. Please understand I’ve been here for four hours, I have a two-hour drive ahead, and I’m exhausted.”

  My words were met with incredulous stares, hisses, and boos.

  I knew, with that sinking feeling Frankenstein must have felt as the villagers were approaching him with fiery torches and pitchforks, that my pleas were falling on very deaf and drunk ears. It was no use.

  Screams went up for the hostess.

  “Find Anne, find Anne! She can do something here.”

  “She has to do something! Somebody find her!”

  I actually recoiled in terror, thinking that these women might try to hold me here against my will, their psychic hostage. I looked down into my bag at that single apple left untouched while my stomach growled.

  It didn’t take a psychic to predict what the next step would be. Anne and her entourage stormed into the room with narrowed eyes.

  “Did you get everybody?” Anne demanded.

  I tried to keep my tone courteous. “What do you mean get everybody? It’s ten o’clock and I’ve finished my four-hour commitment.”

  “Can’t you stay for another hour? You haven’t given me my reading yet! I have just been soooo busy.”

  She was the Boss. I was the employee. Contracts notwithstanding. This is a standard ploy I hear all the time. But I was adamant about getting out of there.

  “Anne,” I pleaded. “I’m totally exhausted and I need to head home. It’s a long drive and—”

  “Listen, there were a lot of other girls who came here with their friends tonight. They snuck in without any invitation. It’s not fair that the people I invited don’t get a reading and they did.”

  “How was I to know which were your invited friends and which were not?”

  “You’re supposed to be the psychic, aren’t you?”

  I could feel the blood rushing to my head. When such a comment is used in situations like this, they can be fighting words. I now needed to be very careful with what I would say. All eyes and ears were upon me.

  “Yes, I am most certainly psychic, as those who have had a reading from me tonight will tell you. But I can only access my psychic gift when giving advice about very psychic issues through the tarot, not to decipher security for you.”

  Anne’s arms folded and one foot stepped forward in a recognizable position of aggressiveness. I held my ground.

  And then, the last possible way out of this whole debacle came to my mind. Invoke her maternal instincts, if she still has any.

  She’d seemed like just one more in the crowd at the time, but Anne’s daughter had received a solid reading from me earlier in the evening. So I succumbed to a somewhat mild lie, with the hope of getting out of this mess relatively unscathed.

  “I have a child at home waiting for me.” My dog Jim was like a child sometimes, that was at least true. “I told the babysitter I would be home before one o’clock.” Jim would need to be let outside before then, certainly.

  There was one more detached pause, which seemed to last decades. Anne’s ferocious eye contact broke away from me and toward the doorway. Then silently, like frightened farm animals, all the women backed away from the doorway and gave up their vigil. I had struck the one humane chord within each of them that few could argue over, discount, or deny.

  “I’ll get my checkbook.” Anne vanished into the crowd and left me packing my bag, feeling a great deal relieved. There was light at the end of this tunnel.

  Now I had to find Anne and her checkbook.

  I passed through halls where only hours before I had been treated like a god. Now, most of the people ignored me. I spotted Anne chatting with one of her friends and eyeing me suspiciously. She hadn’t gone for her checkbook yet. I waited in the drafty foyer. I approached her and reminded her.

  “Oh, yeah. Just give me a few minutes,” she said and disappeared again.

  I idly passed by the four-tiered confectionary table, which now was a carved-up, dripping mass of sugary surrealism, and wandered into the expansive kitchen where I nibbled at some leftover baked Brie, stale chips, and picked-over grapes. Time passed and still no Anne and no check.

  The head caterer gave me a look of pity as I watched
in vain for Anne to reappear, and we shared a psychic moment of common understanding. The music blared on. Women who only minutes before had fawned over me were now staggering past as if I were invisible. They now had no more use for me.

  When Anne finally appeared with my folded check, her thanks sounded hollow. I tried to put on my best face, but it was a waste of time. I was drained.

  “Do you have time for one more reading?” I heard a faint and final voice shriek.

  “Merry Christmas!” I cheerfully chimed as I shut the door behind me and ran for my car. It was almost midnight and I was beat.

  I collapsed into the driver’s seat and put the pedal to the metal to get out of there. I popped a eucalyptus throat lozenge onto my swollen tongue and listened to the heavenly hum of my car’s engine heading home. I knew deep in my gut—and without any particular clairvoyant gift—that I had probably seen the last of Anne and her corporate party crowd.

  But then again, maybe not.

  16 M. Lamar Keene “as told to” Allen Spraggett, The Psychic Mafia (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1976).

  CHAPTER X

  THE CELEBRITY

  SYNDROME

  Tact is the ability to describe others as they see themselves.

  —Eleanor Chaffee

  Those lucky enough to inhabit the realms of superstardom and hyper-exclusivity are often privately very lonely. Psychics share a special bond with celebrities. Movie stars may shun the paparazzi yet crave a psychic’s help in purging the insecurities that often plague their lives. Psychics learn to take full advantage of these fears by reassuring and spiritually nourishing their clients while at the same time nourishing their own cash flow.

  Actors are practitioners of an art rooted in ritual magic and some are notoriously superstitious. “Break a leg” is universally voiced before performances; woe to anyone who utters the cursed word “Macbeth” anywhere near a stage door; and don’t dare whistle in an actor’s dressing room. Stars and starlets have been known to hold fast to the most outlandish beliefs in charms, amulets, and other so-called lucky objects. Robin Williams’ lucky token is a carved wooden trinket that belonged to his father. Esteemed Academy Award–winner Geoffrey Rush won’t be without a plastic Daffy Duck figure in his pocket. Cameron Diaz keeps a special necklace to ward off the effects of aging. The list goes on and on. More people than anyone would like to admit carry on with such silliness. Soap opera stars, commercial actors, those on the way up—all of them spend an inordinate amount of time brooding over lost opportunities and ascribing way too much power to fate and luck.

  A catalogue illustration from the foremost dealer of mentalist and medium supplies in the ’50’s and ’60s: Robert Nelson Enterprises, circa 1950s.

  I was once booked to do tarot card readings at a star-studded wrap party that the chief shareholder and CEO of RKO Pictures was hosting. I arrived at the immense Brentwood chateau and was escorted by two large headphone-wearing guards to a small, nicely appointed room above the chauffeur’s garage where stray partygoers could get a private psychic reading.

  Soon the word spread through the main house crowd that I knew my stuff, which resulted in a busy evening of tarot thrills. As the evening progressed, a steady stream of glittering glamour flowed in. Bored trophy wives, truly stunning in their leathers and lace, climbed the narrow stairway that led to my little loft of dreams.

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about you, young man.” A dowager who looked like Mary Pickford’s aunt met me at the top of the stairs, a little out of breath. I smelled the rich aroma of very expensive perfume and admired her collection of authentic Art Deco diamonds.

  “Well, I certainly look forward to reading your cards,” I said as I rose from my Louis XIV chair to shake her skeletal hand. The novelty for these patrons was to hear about themselves in a heartfelt manner. I pride myself in my directness in these situations. It’s one of the few chances in my life when I get to feel needed, get my own ego fed a little, and feel important for a few hours to the elite and powerful.

  Performing a double tarot reading at The Haunted Hayride, Hollywood, CA, 2010.

  After dealing out the cards in an “empathic trance,” I basically centered on what I might have felt if I were in her shoes. I became her. Sometimes it’s just that simple. Tarot cards are my esoteric passport to total verbal freedom. I delivered my brightest vision for this grand dame.

  “You have too much money and not enough time. Charities and people compete for your attention. You are often bothered by having so many people around you, and you suffer from not having a peaceful moment to yourself.”

  She beamed, clearly impressed. “That part about not having time for myself is so true. I was just talking to my husband about that very thing on the way over here tonight. How odd that you would know that!”

  It was not odd, merely common sense. Everybody wants a piece of someone who is rich—including me.

  I continued contemplatively turning over the cards. “Ah, the Hermit card. There’s going to be a fabulous breakaway experience coming up for you. You are going to go somewhere you have never been before and find moments of peace and elation that are long overdue.”

  She shook her head. “I’m tired of running all over the globe.” Apparently for Madame jet-setting was a bother.

  It only took me a heartbeat to minutely correct my course. “When I see a breakaway or travel, that doesn’t necessarily mean actual physical travel. This might point to an inner, more spiritual travel. Peace of mind comes in many forms, doesn’t it?”

  She looked wounded. “Well, I’m not really a particularly religious person.”

  This was one tough cookie. I shifted gears again. “I’m not seeing anything religious or churchy. It’s more like a place where you can commune with your inner self. Things like music, reading, looking at art, or whatever puts you in touch with calmness and clarity. Look forward to an enlightenment, where you can be totally free to express yourself and indulge in something new, perhaps something you have always wanted to do for yourself, but you have been too busy doing things for everybody else.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  Then I added a creative angle. “Perhaps what I’m seeing has to do with writing or some creative side of your nature. It could be writing or poetry, books or a journal, that sort of thing. If you can write five or six minutes each day, soon you will be writing a valuable book.”

  “Well, I don’t write myself.” She sighed, then pensively gazed out the mullioned windowpanes and over the long line of Porsche, Mercedes, and Rolls-Royce vehicles lined up along the perfectly maintained drive that stretched off into the topiary-dotted distance. “I love books, but I never seem to have the time to read what I really want to read.”

  “You will,” I assured her. “Very soon, time will present itself. Time is what the Hermit has the most of. It could be the best time in your life.”

  “Well, you certainly have told me some wonderful things. I must send my husband up here right away.” She smiled and pressed a hundred-dollar bill into my hand.

  Hopefully her husband would also visit me, without knowing precisely what I had already heard from her. I was now in a position to subtly use information about her in his reading.

  As a professional mentalist, I have learned how to effectively recall playing cards, driver’s license numbers, and other trivia at a moment’s notice. Being a good psychic—beyond all the hard work and preparation—involves possessing the strength of memory to extract and hold obscure bits of information for later use. By force of habit, I filed Madame’s body language and her reactions to my insights into my memory’s recycle bin. The chances were good it would all come in handy later in the evening, and I wanted to be prepared.

  As the party died down to the clink and clatter of costly china and cutlery being tidied up, I began to pack my mojo bag. The heavy tread of a man’s footsteps climbed the stairs. It was late, but I quickly unpacked my cards again, popped a breath mint into my mouth, and resu
med a semblance of upscale decorum.

  A tall gentleman with distinguished gray hair and wearing a fine Brioni tuxedo sat down. He was in good shape and sported a George Hamilton tan. “I have heard from the crowd that you are very good. My wife was very taken with your comments, so I thought I would give you a try before the party folds up for the night.”

  Taken with or taken in?

  “Thank you, I’m Mark. That’s nice to hear. How kind of you to tell me.” I reached out my hand to receive his firm handshake, which revealed a strong people person.

  He didn’t offer his name, only a cordial “I’m very glad to meet you.”

  The fix was in.

  His initial enthusiasm was a good portent. I passed him my tarot cards. “Please mix the cards carefully. This is one of the most important parts of your reading. You are now putting your personal vibrations on the cards. Each card will be one of a set of pictures that will tell me everything I need to know.”

  “Really?” he asked matter-of-factly.

  “Really.”

  “I’ve never done this before,” he confessed as he mixed the cards.

  “Good. This could be a breakthrough experience for you.” Older first-timers always surprised me. It’s hard for me to believe that someone who had reached such high levels in society had never touched a tarot card along the way. This can work in my favor. Sitters who have had previous negative readings can be harder to satisfy and will expect much more time and energy.

  “Now split the cards into three stacks, which will represent your past, present, and future.”

  This done, I flipped over the top card of the past pile. I was not surprised to see the Emperor. The Emperor is totally in charge. This gentleman was regal, important, and significant.

  I was quick to exploit the obvious. “You are the Emperor,” I began. “I see that time off is indicated. You are trying to do too many things at one time and spreading yourself far too thin. This is often the problem with the Emperor. There are so many people around you who depend heavily on you.”