by Mark Edward
“You got that right.” He laughed.
“There’s a tendency to not have the time you need to relate to those closest to you. Many look to you for decisions and can drain your energy level. Traveling to try to escape these people only wears you down further. Since you don’t get a chance to recharge and relax, being the leader is no longer satisfying for you. You need to stop rushing around, breathe, smell those roses, and relax.”
He nodded in confirmation. “You’ve got the picture.” He now looked intrigued and began to stroke his chin. It was a sign that I was penetrating his thoughtful side, a fertile zone for me to mine. An impressed sitter may also move his or her chair closer to the table and adopt a classical posture—imagine Rodin’s The Thinker.
I went on soberly. “There is an experience in the near future that will be purely fun. No specific monetary goal or scheme is attached to it.”
He waved his hand tersely, as if to stifle or dismiss me. “I never do anything that doesn’t have a goal attached to it.”
“Precisely.” There is no stifling a psychic on a roll. We cling to our lexicon and move forward, undeterred by interruptions or exclamations. “This is why I’m seeing in the cards a shift away from anything that is a win-or-lose situation to more of a win-win experience for everyone involved.”
He breathed a deep sigh and said, “That sounds really good to me.”
Good enough for me too. I moved on to the present card, turning over the Wheel of Fortune. “This card says that right now you are taking chances, spinning the wheel of fortune, and rolling your dice on something.”
Unless I was way off, this man was an extremely high roller. Few people can afford a scrupulously starched and brushed tailor-made tux, perfect teeth, and a tennis-court tan without being a risk-taker or a gambler of one kind or another.
“The cards tell me that you are a person who can accomplish whatever you put your mind to, but what seems to be a missing for you is a free space where you won’t be judged by your peers or have to succeed. This place doesn’t involve your powers of control; it’s the letting go of control that the Wheel of Fortune speaks of.”
He cringed. “That’s very hard for me to accept.”
“I realize that. That’s why this new viewpoint may be so important, not only to your future mental health and success, but also to your physical mobility, your family, and your strength.” I was verging on getting too heavy with this fellow. He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. This may not have been what he wanted to hear, but I was homing in on issues that would tie in with his wife’s reading. I had to weave my dialogue very carefully while also not disclosing obvious details that she may have let slip to me earlier.
I took a short breath to let what I’d said sink in. I casually flipped over the future card: the World. This is a card of ultimate triumph, but it contains a built-in warning not to try to do too many things at once. This aspect connected to his wife’s admission that she had too little time. Time and free play were key issues for both of them. Isn’t time the very essence of any high-powered executive’s lifestyle? This was the critical area I was setting my sights on.
“The World card is an excellent card to have turn up in the future. It tells me that—”
“Yes, but what does it mean!”
“I’m going to tell you if you will let me.”
I was sure he wasn’t used to anyone speaking to him this way. Most people stopped having their hands slapped for basic bad manners when they brought in a multimillion-dollar blockbuster film or their first Oscar nomination.
He immediately became conciliatory and interjected a sincere “I’m so sorry. I’m not used to this. It’s fascinating.”
“I understand completely. The cards can be awesome in their reflections of our personalities. It takes some getting used to. Believe me, I know.”
He brought things back into his control quickly. “So tell me more about this World card or whatever it is.”
For a moment, Mr. Results had looked like a child caught stealing candy. Impatience was an unusual reaction for a man of his stature. He had allowed an important clue to drop in my lap.
“The World is about time management and, strangely enough, impatience,” I began. “The World predicts you can continue to have ultimate success in whatever you put your energies toward, but do not attempt to do too many things at once or you may lose the proper focus to handle any of them to their greatest potential.”
“That makes total sense. I’ve got three projects that are in pre-production, this huge film opening right now, and we start shooting two more projects in three weeks. I’m just overbooked.”
I was poised to go in for the clincher. With a confident pound of my hand on the final future card, I declared, “That’s why the World card says to focus on what is most important during the next four to six months and to let the other distractions go, for the time being. Cut your losses.”
“I need to do that. That’s for sure. You hit the nail right on the head.”
“You need time and a breakaway to clear your thoughts. A retreat away from all these juggling acts will be the best for you. You need rejuvenation.”
With a look of relief, he breathed a relaxed “Got it. I’ve been juggling entirely too much for a long, long time.”
“You are a leader. The Emperor represents you. This powerful aspect of your past doesn’t go away. Your risk-taking is at its zenith right now, as we can see through the Wheel of Fortune. Focus on your greatest strength. Everything else must go on the back burner.”
“Can’t you give me any timeline or specific dates?”
“Can’t is a word we don’t recognize in the psychic world, and though I wish I could give you exact information, what I do is not an exact science, at least not yet. Giving exact calendar dates would be like trying to draw a chalk line on a river as it rushes by. Time is fluid. One moment it’s the present, and then . . .” I paused for three seconds and held silent. “It becomes the past, like it just did. See what I mean?”
He sat back in his chair and looked slightly overwhelmed. I sat back in mine too, signaling that the reading was over.
“That was incredible.” He laughed again.
“Thank you,” I said, bowing my head swami-style.
He got up and pulled himself together. “I have a few people in my office I would like to have talk to you. Give me some of your cards. We do a lot of parties and I will definitely keep you in mind. Thank you again.”
The agent who had booked this party later informed me that the gentleman I had described to him was the head of RKO. A producer of a multitude of major motion pictures had cemented forever in my mind a great lesson that night: whether rich, famous, poor, or anonymous, we all need someone to talk to. So talk, baby, talk!
I was the supreme psychic avatar for some of the funniest people in the world at Buddy Hackett’s seventieth birthday party. Buddy’s wife Sherry had a special place in her heart for psychics, so after giving her a sample reading one afternoon, she set up what was to become a memorable evening of partying and roasting of the beloved comedian.
Those in attendance included Milton Berle, Sid Caesar, Bob Newhart, Bob and Dolores Hope, Joey Bishop, Steve Allen, Phyllis Diller, James Garner, Walter Matthau, and assorted character actors, agents, and their families. The scope of this event initially seemed a daunting challenge for me. I figured I would be laughed out of the room or become the brunt of endless psychic jokes.
As it turns out, comedians put their pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us, although many may start by pulling their pants over their head the funny way. The laughter that night was nonstop and contagious. Each Hollywood icon stepped up to the podium and put in his or her two cents about Buddy. But when they sat down at my little table, hilarity quickly turned to thoughtful introspection and professional respect. Many confessed that they had their own personal psychics.
During that evening I was introduced to Bob Hope and his lovely wife Dolore
s. Bob had suffered a stroke and appeared to be only semi-aware of what was going on around him, but I knew from experience that a seemingly disconnected or physically disabled exterior doesn’t necessarily mean that a person isn’t mentally still as sharp as a tack.
Deep in his eyes he still had an impish look. I was in awe in his presence. Bob was a man who had started his career third on the bill with acts such as Siamese twins and trained seals. He’d traveled so far, so often to entertain so many people. He had been everywhere and done everything. I wondered what I could possibly say or what the cards could tell us both about Bob Hope’s future. In fact, I felt as if I should be asking him about my future.
Once Dolores had brought him to my table, she stood by his side and listened to what I had to say. Bob’s future card turned out to be the Chariot, which meant travel or movement. His other cards were the Sun and the Emperor, which spelled out a great harvest of investments. Things were looking good for Bob and his family.
Dolores patted Bob on the back and said, “You see? I told you we were going to Singapore next month!”
Dolores was delighted and Bob broke out in a tremendous grin. In a soft whisper, he thanked me, and then shook my hand gratefully. It felt as if a monumental moment had passed in my psychic career.
At one particularly bizarre party, a woman excitedly sat down at my table, and I couldn’t place exactly where and when we had spoken before. It turned out I had given her a psychic reading previously. Gigi is a delightful, bright, and open person and the wife of acclaimed film producer Brian Grazer, who had entered the room with her.
“So, what’s all this about?” he asked as he took in my mosaic of cards, scrolls, candles, and psychic baubles, skillfully arranged to ensure maximum curiosity.
I took my moment to grab onto his curiosity before he could be drawn back into the chattering crowd. “It’s about things psychic. Not for everyone, of course, but the hostess of the party thought I might be helpful.”
Brian presented me his tough side with “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeeeah,” I replied, aping an Edward G. Robinson drawl. I didn’t care who he was. This was my show and he was in my theater tonight.
“Brian, go away so this man can do my cards.” Gigi swooshed her bracelet-bedecked arm over her shoulder in his direction. She didn’t want to wait another second.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Brian said, but glanced over his shoulder at us as he wandered away into his cadre of admirers.
Gigi and I had a wonderful session, and the cards were magically on target as well as surprisingly complicated. Then Brian returned and sat down after his wife. His glib attitude, which was surely the result of years of Hollywood hobnobbing, rapidly turned into a thinking man’s posture. The cards were dead-on and he was stunned.
The amazing thing was that, even though the cards of these two Hollywood toasts-of-the-town had been thoroughly mixed by each of them individually, Brian and Gigi had ended up with the exact same three cards, only in different aspects—past, present, and future. It was evident they were true soul mates, but with patterns that ran in different directions. This kind of tarot spread almost never happens. Sure, once in a while a married couple may have one or two cards alike, but rarely all three.
By the time his future card had been revealed and I had told him about its significance, Brian was a regular guy. I love when this happens. His finely cut persona was stripped away and he became no different, or more special, than anybody else.
He then wanted counsel, very private and personal counsel. What had started out as barely concealed skepticism on his part transformed into two guys just talking about life and women, as if we had known each other since childhood. Call it personal alchemy, transformative communication, or just the effect of expensive red wine, candlelight, and the tarot. This is the real magic in the so-called psychic world, if there is any such thing.
While in the midst of this same cauldron of celebrity madness, I was also introduced to the hostess’ adolescent daughter. She scurried into the party clutching the hand of a svelte Bel Air babe who followed her to a glass-fronted wooden bookcase directly behind me.
“Come and see Mommy’s magic books!” she cried out.
The library was indeed beautiful, with rare books meticulously ordered and maintained. Firelight glinted off gilt spines and fine leather-bound volumes. Since my background includes professional magic performances, I am always interested to see what other aficionados have managed to collect. I expected a few first-edition Houdini books or perhaps some older treatises on coin and card tricks.
As the little sprite danced away after sharing her mother’s treasures with her friend, I stood up and perused the shelf that I had been sitting in front of for several hours. These were not old conjuring or magic books filled with tricks. These were magick books. I pored over ancient volumes chronicling the very beginnings of witchcraft, alchemy, and magick. Crumbling tomes written centuries before by alchemists such as John Dee and Paracelsus were packed into every empty space behind the locked glass doors. I called over my psychic colleague for the evening, Cheri, to share in this find.
“Oh, my God,” Cheri whispered as we both felt ourselves transported. Seldom can one gaze upon works created in the twelfth century outside of a museum. We both instantly felt an additional respect for our hostess (along with a healthy dose of caution) when we spotted ritual objects tucked away in the shadowy corners of each towering bookcase—pieces of mandrake root, the occasional hazel-wood wand, ritual athamé daggers, and other pagan arts and crafts.
“Holy shit!” Cheri exclaimed. “No wonder these people are so serious about my readings. They must all be in some sort of coven or something.”
“Do you think so?”
“I don’t know, but these books are the real thing. They must be worth a fortune.”
I recalled something the hostess, Mrs. Thompson, had said on the phone while planning the particulars of this party’s schedule that had struck me as odd at the time.
“Mrs. Thompson told me it would be okay if we both stayed until five in the morning, if we wanted to.”
“She told me that too,” Cheri said.
“I don’t think I’m staying past two, thank you very much. Are you?”
“No way. Four hours is my limit. Especially after seeing all this. I mean, I like magic and all that, but this is really weird stuff.” She waved her hand at the books.
If we had known a little more about these people, we probably would have jumped at the chance to remain until dawn, but we both knew enough about the ways of Hollywood to be wary of strangers, especially strangers with books chronicling the medieval torture of witches and the treatises of infamous villains like Torquemada.17 Neither of us wanted to end up as the targets of some spell or ritual sacrifice.
“Let’s get back to work,” I suggested, “before someone sees us snooping around.”
“Good idea.”
We crept back to our tables. Soon Cheri had reached her four-hour limit of nonstop talking and was ready to leave. I had been asked to stay late to read for the hostess, a treat I could barely wait to experience.
I ended up waiting for a long time. As the candles guttered lower, a young woman with the look of a Russ Meyer vampire sauntered past my table, though no cheap Goth gal was this one. She seemed very familiar with the room and everything in it, so I chanced a few words with her and offered her a seat at my table.
“Hello.” Her voice was low and slow. “I’m Alexandra.” I took her bloodless, lily-white hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, which was not reciprocated. I had the distinct impression she was part of whatever inner circle Mrs. Thompson hung out with. For all I knew, they were in a coven together.
“You know, I couldn’t help but notice the books on these shelves and was wondering if I, eh, we might have a look at a few of them?”
“Absolutely not! Mrs. Thompson keeps them locked up for a reason. They’re very rare and are not to be touched by anybody but her. S
he might show you some of her collection, if you give her a good reading. I don’t know. They were cleansed by a very famous magician in London, you know.” She glowered at me with undisguised condescension.
“No, I didn’t know that. By ‘cleansed’ you don’t mean just dusted off, do you?”
“Of course not. Some of these books are incredibly evil and had to be ritually cleansed by someone who could exorcise the evil out of them.”
“I see. That’s comforting. Well, it was lovely talking with you.”
Alexandra rose abruptly. She didn’t seem at all interested in anything as pedestrian as a tarot reading from the likes of me and was quickly on the move.
I looked back at the main bookcase and noted that the doors were unexpectedly wide open. The temptation was almost unbearable, but I stayed the course and managed to sit still until around two in the morning, when Mrs. Thompson finally found time for me.
She looked waxen and detached as she made her way to my table. I had met her at a previous party, and there had been an immediate straightforwardness about her that was impossible not to respond to in the same manner. She pulled up one of her more comfortable wingback chairs, plopped down, and said a slurred hello.
“Tired?” I asked.
“Oh, no. This is just the first wave of guests. A whole new crowd will get here after three.”
I don’t remember anything outstanding about her reading. But I was determined to have a look at a few of those books. When that feeling of afterglow descended—the kind that comes after good sex or a satisfying psychic reading—I brought the subject up. “You know, I couldn’t help but notice the titles in your book collection. Very impressive. I’m into alchemy and the Craft somewhat. Could I have a peek?”
“Sure. I know a kindred soul when I see one.” She opened the bookcase, unlocked a lower drawer, and silently removed an unmarked gray leather clamshell box.