by Mark Edward
“I think you will get a kick out of this,” she said with a fiery glint in her eyes.
I didn’t know what to expect. In the vastness of that elegant library, it was another of those unforeseen Hollywood moments that I crave. She handed me the box reverently and looked around the room to make sure no one else was present. I thought for a moment she was going to haul out an ancient Hand of Glory, the traditional witch’s candle fashioned from the severed right hand of a hanged felon. Instead, the box contained a beautifully bound volume of Malleus Maleficarum (The Witch’s Hammer), first published in 1487, the foremost guidebook for witch-hunting and undoubtedly one of the most infamous books ever written on the grislier aspects of the Inquisition. The text was exquisitely detailed Latin, and there were curious hand-drawn pictures in the margins of crooked fingers pointing out the original owner and inquisitor’s favorite methods of torture.
“Have you read all of this?” I asked innocently.
“Yes. I have an English translation I can email to you, if you like. It’s quite a nasty little book.”
“I’ll pass on that. Thanks anyway.”
After a few unbelievable minutes of allowing my perusal of this antiquarian treasure, she slid it carefully back into its hiding place and moaned. “I’m still really angry that I didn’t get the complete collection I was bidding on. This is only half of it.”
Mrs. Thompson was obviously no casual dilettante at the local Goddess Shoppe. I made a mental note to never get on her bad side and offered a fairly lame, “Yes, it’s never good to break up a collection. It splits the energy. Books like these belong together, like a family.”
“You’re right. Listen, I gotta run. The second phase of the party is about to begin and I have to see how the food is coming along. Feel free to stay as long as you want.”
The elegant Mrs. Thompson disappeared down a darkened stairwell. It was now close to three in the morning. I glanced into the vaulted living room and saw a new crop of guests arriving, looking as fresh as daisies—the cream of Hollywood’s night creatures. I graciously made my escape.
Hollywood parties are almost always hilariously surreal. When I get lucky, I’m the guest of honor and treated like royalty. This is the exception and not the rule, but it happens enough to keep me interested in coming back.
One holiday eve I was booked at another overblown Hollywood dinner party. The agent had warned me that the hosts were “eccentric, but rich.” Bring it on, I say—the more eccentric, the better.
This couple turned out to be into fine art specifically depicting dogs. Dogs were everywhere. A life-sized super-realist portrait of an English beefeater hung over the gigantic mantel, only his head was that of a beagle. Weimaraner puppies ran amok in the rooms, and dog toys dominated the floor space. William Wegman would have felt quite at home.
The house was warm and friendly, and the art was all first-rate. This was a rare thing to see; trendy interior designers usually furnish everything from rooms full of giant stuffed teddy bears to books-as-objects arrangements for their wealthy clients. But this couple had invested well in both their art collection and their mix of friends, who all looked like young-buck movie producers accompanied by their gorgeous dates.
The evening went well and my readings were extremely popular. During a short birthday-song interval, while I was marveling at one of the host’s coffee-table books, which contained essays and photos on variations of dog turds (no, I’m not making this up), the hostess broke through the crowd with her favorite pup in her arms.
She was dressed from head to toe in a virginal white outfit that could have passed for a wedding dress and may have been used for that purpose quite recently. Blonde, young, skinny as a pup herself, and looking uppity with a rather spoiled American cool, this was my boss for the night.
“Excuse me!” She faced me, brushing back the perfectly disarranged locks of her hair that had drooped over one eye. She obviously had something important she wanted to ask me.
I prepared myself to satisfy her every whim. “Yes? How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she answered coquettishly. “How are you doing tonight?”
“Lovely party.”
“Yes it is, isn’t it?” She seemed uncomfortable and was choosing to look at the floor rather than make eye contact with me.
“Your palm reading was wonderful,” she purred, “and it was all so true.”
I smiled. “That’s my job.”
“I have a special little favor to ask of you, if I might?” She was beginning to blush. One of her perfectly manicured toes was now sketching lazy loops above the Navajo carpet. She held tightly to her dog as she licked her lips.
“Anything. What’s up?” I asked as casually as I could. My mind began to imagine scenes involving dog collars. An eternity of seconds passed.
“Well, it’s kind of weird.” Her laughter was girlish and she covered her mouth.
“Go ahead. I like weird. There’s not much I haven’t heard before, doing the kind of psychic work I do. Please feel free.”
“I can imagine.”
It was getting a little warm in the room, and I was about to loosen my collar.
“Well, okay.” She finally blurted out, “Can you read my dog’s paw?”
“Your dog’s paw?” I breathed a sigh of relief. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Whitney. Can you tell me about her future?”
She was serious.
“Why yes, of course. I do it all the time!” I really had done pet readings before on cable television. I had read for a golden retriever and a lonely cockatiel. And of course the Cat Lady’s runaway Oscar. So, why not? Besides, it’s difficult to give a bad psychic reading in these situations, as long as you are willing and able to keep a straight face.
“What I usually do is get an actual paw print to work with. Since she’s a puppy, she’s very nervous and it’s hard to keep her sitting still long enough for me to read her paw any other way. Do you have an ink pad and a piece of paper we could use?”
I secretly hoped she would find my requests too much of a bother, but true eccentricity is a wonderfully steadfast thing.
“That’s a terrific idea. I’ll go upstairs and get it done and come back in a few minutes!” She took off like a cannon shot. This would be a fun diversion. Why should a dog’s life line look that much different from a human’s life line? It was all in the storytelling.
I sat back in my expensive leather chair, reveling in the glory of the moment. Could it get any better than this? And if it did, would anyone ever believe it?
The hostess soon reappeared with a piece of paper smudged with a slightly smeared paw print.
“Is this good enough?” she asked as a curious group of onlookers began to assemble around us.
A confused guest asked, “What’s he doing?”
“He’s reading Whitney’s paw print,” our hostess cooed.
“Oh, this is great. I see so much already.” I went to work, mentally putting together a plausible storyline while jumping in with an excited “Do you see this line between these two claws that arches upwards?” I positioned my magnifying glass above the swirl in question. The hostess leaned in and bent down close to my face.
“Yes, I see it,” she answered in a hushed tone of reverence.
“That line tells me that Whitney has a lonely side to her personality. She doesn’t get to mix with other dogs as much as she would like to.”
“That’s true!” Our hostess looked guilty. “We don’t let her get out of the house and visit with other dogs.”
“I can see that she loves water and swimming.” I knew from working as an animal trainer that hunting dogs love the water.
“That’s incredible! We can’t keep her out of the pool!”
“Is she a water sign?” I asked.
“A what?” she looked confused.
“A water sign. You know, astrologically?”
“I would have to look up her papers to know her birth date
for sure. I’ll definitely be sure to look it up in the morning.” I had no doubt that she would.
“She is a Pisces, the water symbol. There is a long life line and even some evidence of a past life.” I was moving into wacko territory now, but why not? Everyone was buying it. “In this past life she lived very close to a body of water.” I looked away with a concerned look. “Her mother lived in Scotland, and Whitney lost her mother in a drowning. Poor puppy.”
Suddenly I felt someone standing close behind me, looking down on me.
“We should take her out to the beach more often, shouldn’t we, dear?” Hostess’ husband placed a protective arm around her waist, effectively pulling her aside and cutting her off from any further what might be considered inappropriately too close contact with the psychic.
And then—what a stroke of luck! There, lo and behold, was a tiny image on the edge of Whitney’s paw print where it had dragged away from the paper. It was clearly visible, if I turned the paper at a right angle. Peering intently through my 1930s magnifying glass, I focused in on what appeared to be a small dog-like entity with its head turned, looking back over its shoulder toward its tail. Amazing. I was even astonished myself. It was like something out of Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
I dangled the proverbial carrot: “Your dog needs a companion. She only has you and your husband, but I’m seeing another dog in Whitney’s future.”
“What do you mean?” Hostess asked as the small group tensed forward.
“Look at the paw print.” I handed her my magnifying glass as I pointed my index finger to the little pup figure looking behind itself.
Giving away her distinctive California lineage by squealing a perfectly San Fernando Valley-styled “Oh, my God!” she spotted the glyph. Her hand went to her mouth. The crowd surged forward to see what was going on. In a few moments, the entire room had surrounded us.
The husband snatched the paper from Hostess’ hand to see for himself. Perhaps he was a tad jealous.
“Be careful!” she screamed. “You’ll rip it!”
“Did you make this print?” he asked his wife a little accusingly.
“Just a few minutes ago with Whitney in the kitchen.” I supposed Hubby suspected some kind of trick on my part, but it was just fate mixed with a little imagination. They both grabbed up Whitney from the floor and fawned over her.
“Oh, baby,” Hostess cooed. “We are going to get you a new friend right away!”
“And we will start taking her out for more walks,” Hubby declared.
“There’s a great off-leash park in Laurel Canyon not far from here. You should take her up there,” one of Hostess’ girlfriend sympathetically offered while clinging to her date, who looked a lot like a heroin addict. “That’s where I met Bill.”
“We will. Mark, this is just so amazing!” Hostess squinted her eyes under a table lamp just to make sure of the image on the paper that we had all seen.
“Yeah, we gotta get that framed!” Hubby said.
“Great job,” someone else said behind me.
“It’s a gift,” I demurred. “It’s the dog, really. She’s quite exceptional.” I gave Whitney’s head a gentle pat and was rewarded with a generous lick.
Of course the inevitable happened. The crowd moved in closer and I was asked repeatedly for my business card. Word of mouth with a group like this is indispensable.
Somewhere on a wall in a mansion off Bellagio Road in Bel Air a framed inked image hangs, a tiny puppy within the paw print of a larger dog. Draw your own conclusions as to the symbolism or deeper meaning of this anomaly. Its owners treasure this image as much as I treasure the memory of that evening.
Psychics, clairvoyants, and fortune-tellers are not always a welcome addition to the party. It is rare, but there are sometimes clients who display outward hostility or irrational anger toward those who tell fortunes for a living. They are a sorry lot. In some homes, you may be ushered in as a “fortune-teller” but not welcome as a “psychic.”
The introductory comments at the front door of one party I had arrived at went like this:
“Good evening. I’m your psychic for the evening.”
“Psychic! We didn’t hire any psychic here! Do you tell fortunes?”
“Yes, that’s part of my job.”
“Well, if you’re a fortune-teller, that’s different. Please come in.”
When I do a little heavy lifting, lever up a person’s anger, and look at what’s underneath, many times I find fear. Generally, society shuns what they fear and saves their trust for something or someone they can understand or relate to. But if psychics were to be completely understood, we would soon be out of work. Fortunately or not, this won’t happen. There are too many variables for the idea of being “psychic” to be dissected, quantified, and scientifically defined. Until science catches up with superstition, I’ll continue to relate only the best-quality intuition I can offer.
Suspicious attitudes are understandable. There are so many less-than-average psychics out there, the chances of finding one with any level of genuine talent and compassion is slim. For that reason, I feel that no matter how skilled or intuitive, every psychic should be accepted only as an entertainment and nothing more. I have never tried to mislead anyone any more than a hired caricature artist or a bartender who mixes martinis differently for every customer. It’s all a relative equation. And, frankly, some people just need to lighten up.
I have had the dubious privilege of being booked at several of Eddie Murphy’s high-end parties. His begrudging support of my gift must have something to do with his willingness to offer his guests every conceivable diversion to keep them happy. It’s well known in Hollywood circles that he dislikes anything psychic, and each of my adventures at his parties has been a bittersweet experience.
Eddie’s parties fall into a hard-to-categorize zone—somewhere between Hollywood glam and carefully scripted Egyptian ritual. The Moroccan-style soirée, complete with belly and sword dancers, that he held for his daughter’s baby shower ranked right up there with the most lavish events I have ever been invited to. Unfortunately, I have also never been so denigrated and felt so mistreated as a human being, much less a psychic, than at these bloated ego-fests.
Wealth is no excuse for excess. Events like Eddie’s have given me an even greater strength of purpose and an abundance of experience. I can tell the difference between productions of pure class and crassly exploited psychic commercialism. Agents, party planners, event coordinators, publicity and public relations specialists may all recognize a chance to cash in on the psychic market, but in the grand scheme of things, I can’t always pick and choose where, when, or with whom my skills might be utilized. When a new celebrity client appears on my radar, I still think optimistically, knowing that highly sophisticated, unexpected, and perhaps even delightfully bizarre adventures await me. In spite of the many people who become totally intoxicated at one of these affairs or end up oblivious to the sober insights I offer, I have to believe that there will also be one or two individuals who come away with something more than a hangover.
17 Tomas de Torquemada (1420–1498), prominent leader of the Spanish Inquisition.
EPILOGUE
FUTURE TENSE
For those who believe, no explanation is necessary.
For those who do not believe, no explanation is possible.
—Joseph Dunninger
You have glimpsed only the tip of an ancient iceberg that shows no signs of melting. It appears immune to any form of metaphorical global warming caused by critical or rational thought. That’s good for me, perhaps not so good for you.
This psychic juggernaut isn’t slowing down for anyone. Instead, it’s catching on in epidemic proportions. We seem on the cusp of darker times than even I, with my decades in this profession, could have ever predicted, with bigger and more dangerous wars planned by leaders happy to provide doublespeak techno-talk sound-bite answers to the frightened masses. I foresee longer lines of clambering
truth-seekers and ever-burgeoning legions of psychics. The pain of losing a loved one through future global conflicts will surely be exploited by an increasing multitude of mediums promising mass misinformation from Beyond, just as they have done since time began.
As long as there are politicians and pundits willing to offer up visions of what the future might or should be, my conscience dictates that I carry on with my own vision of that future. I’ll likely be busier than ever and suffer more sore throats this coming season. In fact, I’ve been asked to do another round of readings for that corporate group who hired me for their Ladies’ Night. I look forward to telling the same people even more outrageous prophecies. This time, I might even get something to eat. I’ll polish my crystals and my teeth in anticipation of communing with hundreds of smiling, eager faces—maybe even yours.
I have never entertained a delusion that my observations could alter the course of culturally accepted psychic silliness, one way or another. I have only been driven by fate to express my bemused astonishment and my stories. You have vicariously traveled with me for a time without falling into the false-prophet gutter, like so many other so-called psychics, mediums, and soothsayers. Beware. Now, all they need is your name. These shrewd frauds are moving into the Information Age and improving their accuracy with the latest security and Google-styled Internet systems. Their job can be much easier when they know all about you before they even arrive at your doorstep.
In the purest sense, being “psychic” is paying attention without deception. My tricks of the trade have hopefully demonstrated how easy it is to increase my accuracy. I haven’t been averse to using the most blatant cons to get information, thereby heightening my visibility. Being too accurate has proven too unrealistic. Ultimately, any attempt to magically dazzle has never made a difference in whether or not a sitter has bought into my “gift.” Preaching to the choir is always a waste of time. People will believe whatever they want to believe.