Death of a Salesman, a Stranger, and a Friend
People ask me a lot of questions about a lot of things, but the biggest question I get is about death. What happens when you die? Is there a heaven or hell?
In all the conversations I’ve had with my elders about dying, I was told that when you died and crossed into the light, God (or whatever you call it) would be there to meet you and review your life.
I was told this is what people referred to as hell: being in the presence of this amazing, powerful, loving being and reviewing all of your bad decisions, missed opportunities, and selfish acts.
If this is true, I hope they let you shut your eyes.
I’d like to believe there’s a heaven. I’d like to believe we have choices on where to go next. But I don’t think I’ll truly know until I pass.
What I do know is that your soul does leave your body when you pass. And I do know most souls don’t stay here when they die. I also know there’s a different place they go when they die. I also know that wherever it is, people are happy there.
I know this because I’ve seen it.
I deal with death a lot in my job—I talk to dead people, I see dead people, I hear stories about dead people, and I try to find dead people. In fact, I think it’s fair to say I deal with death more than your average undertaker, unless of course your average undertaker happens to be a psychic too. But I’ve also been around a lot of physical death. I’ve lost friends and family, as we all have, but I’ve been witness to more than a few people passing. Each time I’ve seen this, it’s impacted me and changed the way I view life. I want to tell you about a few.
The moment right before someone I love dies, the world stops. The pulse of the city, the movement of the world, even my breath is suspended until I feel the soul leave the body and pass to the other side. And in that moment, I feel as close to them and to God as humanly possible for someone still alive. Such was the case with my friend Denny.
The Salesman
It’s not easy to describe Denny because he wore so many hats. The quickest way would be to say he was a six-foot leprechaun. A comic friend of ours, Louie Anderson, introduced us to each other back in the mid-eighties. This was probably the best thing Louie ever did for me. We were at a function Louie was hosting and he thought Denny and I might get along. He was right.
Apparently, Denny had heard from either Louie or somebody else that I was a psychic, because the first thing he said to me after “hello” was the typical stupid question everybody who doesn’t have a clue asks a psychic.
“So, what’s in my future?”
“I’m not sure you have a future. Get a blood test,” I replied.
That’s when I usually walk away leaving the person wondering if I was serious or not. But Denny was different. He had a smile that was a cross between pure joy and the devil, and just watching this guy’s reaction made me like him. We both laughed at what I’d said and I reassured him he wasn’t going to die. He seemed relieved.
We got to talking about people we knew and things we did and as it often does, it turned out we had a lot in common. We were both in recovery and we knew a lot of the same people. He had heard about my family, I had heard about my family. It seemed like we had traveled the same road, but somehow managed to just miss each other. By the end of our short conversation, he booked a reading.
As I mentioned earlier, I used to do readings in bars or restaurants, anywhere that was loud and full of people. (I wasn’t in love with the idea of being a psychic, so if I had to do them, I was going to do readings on my terms and where I wanted to be.) My clients, on the other hand, didn’t know what to think about meeting at Al’s Bar for a reading. But if they didn’t want to go I figured I didn’t have to do the reading, so I saw it as a win-win.
I asked Denny if he had a favorite place to meet and he suggested the Voodoo Room—a hip downtown bar that was known for being a bit wild. “Okay, perfect,” I thought.
I don’t remember exactly what we talked about during that first reading, but I do remember that I liked him—something I rarely felt after I did readings for people. And I know he liked what I said, because for most of it he was speechless. He just kept shaking his head and asking me how I knew this shit. This was Denny’s first reading, so it was like a magic trick for him. Whatever it was, Denny was hooked. We talked for a long time that first day, and the more we talked, the more I liked him.
We started hanging out socially. Denny knew everybody and everybody knew him—he was salesman, and he was a good one. He was funny, charming, slippery, and devilish. If you didn’t want what he was selling, you did by the end of the conversation. Maybe a week or two later you’d think, “What the hell? I didn’t want another cheese straightener.” But at the time, you’d buy a dozen. That was Denny. He just had that thing about him.
One of my favorite Denny stories was when he was a producer for a small-budget independent movie. Money was tight and there were no real stars in the movie. The movie was being made by a first-time director and being shot locally in Minneapolis, which was not exactly the recipe for an influx of cash. But Denny believed in this movie, so he worked everybody he knew to try to fund it. Big money, small money, it didn’t matter.
One day, they were hours away from shutting down the project because the money was gone. They couldn’t make the payroll and people were getting edgy about continuing the film. Denny secured a loan from a private investor in the nick of time to keep it going. But on the way to Denny’s office, with the check in hand, the investor was involved in a serious car crash and was rushed to the hospital. It appeared all was lost—they’d had so many setbacks (natural disasters, fighting between the cast and crew) that this latest issue just seemed to be the nail in the coffin. But Denny kept going. He grabbed his coat, ran to the hospital, and somehow, as the investor was going into surgery, got the check from him to save the day.
When he came back from the hospital, people asked him if the investor was okay or if Denny was okay. All he said, with that grin only Denny had, was, “Doesn’t matter. I got the check.”
Now some would say he was heartless. (In fact, if you asked the investor’s family, that would have been the nicest thing they’d say.) But the people who depended on Denny were in awe. If he believed in that film so strongly, they could put aside their petty differences and get behind it too. And they did. They finished the film.
The other side of Denny was that he could be a little untruthful. He meant well and his heart was in the right place, but his words didn’t always meet his actions. Like the time at my wedding when he announced that he was sending us to Mexico for our honeymoon. That never happened. Or the time he was going to hire me to work with his new company and make millions? He forgot. Or the membership to the swanky health club I was going to get for doing readings with him, which never came to fruition. Or all the people he was going to introduce me to who could have opened huge doors for me—just didn’t happen. And the amazing thing about Denny was that he could set it up so you’d feel bad if something he said didn’t come true. He would apologize so deeply you’d have to go to counseling to deal with your guilt.
Needless to say, he went through people and friends with ease, but we always kept in touch.
And then one day he was walking around the lake and suddenly started bleeding from everywhere—nose, mouth—everywhere. They rushed him to the hospital and managed to barely save his life, but the news wasn’t good.
He found out he had hepatitis C, he was a diabetic, and his liver was failing. If he didn’t get a liver transplant soon, he was going to die. News spread like wildfire that Denny was sick, and everybody was in shock. He had been sober for years, didn’t smoke, stayed in shape, and wasn’t a big eater. He was Denny. Denny types don’t die—you may want to kill them, but Dennys don’t die.
Turns out it wasn’t his time—his nephew donated half of his liver and saved Denny’s life. The world wasn’t ready for Denny to die and neither was he. He came back with that lucky charm attitude and decided to do something great with his life. During this whole ordeal, what amazed me was his calmness. He didn’t act afraid, he just tackled the next challenge. While I would have been in the fetal position asking for my mother and a diaper change, Denny didn’t do that. He kept going. You see a person’s true character under situations like that, and he handled it well.
We got close again after that—golfing when we could, watching the fights when they were on, and talking about his new joy, making documentaries about organ transplants.
Life seemed to be going well for Denny and it was fun hanging out with him again.
One day he came to the house for a reading and he looked great. He was happy and excited and had just completed a little film about the organ transplant thing. He was also hoping to meet another girl. (I purposely left out the stories of Denny and his women because that could truly fill a whole different book, but it’s safe to say he did love the ladies.) But among the million questions he did ask that day was one about a little lump under the skin on his forearm. He was worried it might be a big deal because his doctor seemed concerned when Denny described it to him on the phone.
He had made an appointment to have it checked the next day, but wanted my opinion on whether he should worry or not. I tuned into him and the first impression I got was of all these buds under his skin that felt like they were going to explode. They were all over his body. I told him this and we both just thought it was weird. He asked me repeatedly if he was okay and I just kept saying, “Yes, don’t worry it’s not a big deal,” but in my mind I thought, “Holy crap, this feels bad, really bad.”
He went to the doctor the next day and found out it was cancer. He called me immediately and asked if he was going to be okay. I said, “Yes, don’t worry, it’s okay.” But I knew it wasn’t. I couldn’t deal with the real possibility of Denny dying, so I lied. I had never done that before, but I knew if I said, “Yes, you’re sick,” it would be real, and I couldn’t fathom Denny being gone. I just couldn’t.
They did an MRI on his whole body and found the cancer was in his liver, his brain, his pancreas, everywhere! Within two weeks of our visit, Denny was at death’s door. With all that he had gone through, all that he had overcome, and who he was to me, I couldn’t come to grips with it. I knew I had let him down. I didn’t fully understand why I wasn’t honest with him. I felt like a coward, and I was ashamed to see him. His friend asked me to please come say goodbye, so I went. I sat with him and the many people who came to say their goodbyes. When he saw me he smiled and said, “So, is it still going to be okay?” I smiled back and said, “Blow me!”—an expression we used with each other almost daily. His eyes were shut, but that smile was still strong.
“I love you, Mikey,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
My eyes started to well up.
“I love you too, Denny,” I replied and his smile faded as he went in and out of consciousness.
The amazing thing about death is the transformation. On nights such as this when the person is dying gracefully and they’re surrounded by the people they love, that love fills the room. And as it progresses, the death angels come into the room. They are magnificent beings—huge angels filled with love and compassion. Their only purpose is to transport the souls to the other side, and they do it with great care.
Right before Denny died, I could see them coming. They bring a hushed tone and calming effect to the room. Sometimes the lighting in the room changes, as it did that night, and you no longer feel sad or alone. You feel like it’s okay to let go; you know you will see them again. That’s what happened the night my friend Denny the salesman died.
The Twin
Not long before I started my book, I had an interesting experience. I was struggling a bit on whether or not to even write another book because it was never my dream to be a writer, and in my mind I was far from being one. But I had a lot of stories to tell and these stories all seemed to fit under the same umbrella—answers.
So, on my way home from shopping I was told by that voice inside to go back to the store I had just come from. Being a psychic and having heard that voice a thousand times I knew ignoring it wasn’t an option—like when your mother tells you to come to dinner for the fourth time and you know the consequence of a fifth time is long, slow, painful death, so you go.
So I went back into the belly of the beast in rush hour traffic. I wasn’t sure what I needed or forgot at the store, but I just knew I had to go.
As I got close, I heard emergency vehicles coming up from behind me—ambulances, police, fire trucks all bearing down. I pulled over to let them pass and I noticed they were all going to the same store I was going to.
As I pulled into the lot, I noticed the emergency people were all centered around an older gentleman just outside the main door. One of the EMTs was frantically performing cpr on the man, and when I parked my car and walked closer to the scene, I could see it wasn’t working. I’ve never been an ambulance driver or worked in the ER, but I’ve been around death enough to know when someone is a goner, and this man appeared to be dead.
He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with slightly grey hair, and was casually dressed, lying flat on his back. His arms were spread wide apart as if he were on a cross and his skin had that purplish off-white color—the color someone has when they’ve passed or are about to.
A crowd had gathered to watch the efforts by the paramedics. Other than the occasional gasp when a new person would arrive to witness the scene, nobody was making a sound. Another clue that this was more serious than just an injured man lying on the ground was the color of the scene, the actual hue. It was dusk, so the light was changing from light blue to dark blue. The emergency lights were getting brighter as the night got darker, and the cold crisp air seemed to hold everything in slow motion. But there’s this particular light that comes with death—a kind of energy that’s only there when someone’s going to pass. I’d seen it a couple times at accident scenes and once at a robbery where a guy got killed. It’s like a bright white undertone. It’s actually really beautiful.
As I looked around and observed the crowd, I noticed a man kneeling and staring, dressed exactly like the man lying on the ground. He had his hand over his mouth as if he were in shock, a look of complete panic on his face. His level of grief seemed overwhelming and I felt bad, because at first I assumed it was the dead man’s twin. They both had slightly grey hair, same length, same clothes, same shoes, but his complexion was much more … alive.
The paramedics quickly put the dead man on a gurney and continued to do CPR as they wheeled him into the waiting ambulance. The paramedic seemed to take it personally that the man he was working on wasn’t responding. Every second he pushed his chest in and with every effort he begged the man to breathe.
“Come on! Come on!”
The twin got up and stood motionless, seemingly unable to move or even decide what to do. They put the man in the ambulance. Nobody talked to the twin standing alone and afraid. And nobody was going to.
As the crowd thinned and the man stood there, dazed and confused, I could see he was finally realizing he was dead.
He looked around and saw me staring at him. We locked eyes. He didn’t care who I was or what I was or why I could see him (and nobody else seemed to be able to). He just wanted somebody, anybody, to tell him what to do. I pointed with my eyes to the ambulance and said “Go.” And like a child being told something for the first time, he simply said okay and walked toward the ambulance. I never saw him again.
As the ambulance stayed parked, I noticed that bright white hue lift; all that was left were the emergency lights that eventually were shut off as the ambulance slowly drove away.
In the days that followed I thought a lot about that man. I thought how shocked he was that he was dead. I thought how scared he appeared when he finally figured it out. I thought about how he would have given anything just to be back in that heavy body once more and I thought about how sad he felt being so alone. I was also reminded how permanent death really is. When you’re done, you’re really done. That’s it, game over. And there was such a clear boundary between the living and the dead. Seeing that once again reminded me that earthbound spirits do not belong here.
But mostly I thought about how things that we think are so important really aren’t. The last thing he cared about wasn’t what kind of car he drove or what iPhone he had.
What we see as a must have really means nothing.
That night brought a lot of clarity to me and answered my questions. Maybe I don’t have all the answers, but I know they’re out there. I know answers come in many forms and in many ways and that day mine was as simple as “Go to the store.” For that man, it was as simple as “Just go.”
Buddy
Every once in a while, a person comes into your life who impacts you in ways it takes years to understand. My friend Buddy was one of those people for me.
“Buddy,” as he was nicknamed by friends, was a famous actor that I met through our mutual friend Melanie Griffith. He was going through a change in his life and was curious if things were going to get better. Usually when I talk to celebrities for the first time, they’re cautious because they think I’m going to pick up things about them that I might not like. If it’s a phone reading, some have gone as far as to disguise their voices or change their names so I won’t guess who they are. But Buddy wasn’t that kind of person. He was the guy you hoped he’d be—down to earth, blunt, and happy to chat.
That first time we talked, it was like talking to a long-lost friend. We covered everything from horses to music, and it wasn’t all about him. He also seemed interested in what my life was about. He told me he had talked to a few psychics before, so the whole thing wasn’t new to him, but the way he talked to me made me think he actually cared about my point of view. That never happens when I talk to celebs. They can be nice as pie but you still get the clear feeling that you’re no more than a distraction or a curiosity (which is fine, because most of the time I don’t exactly want to hang out with them either). But Buddy was different.
I did want to hang out with him.
We started talking all the time. He had this zest for life and always wanted to know more about the ins and outs of what I did. I had gotten jaded through the years—people were disappointing, my job was disappointing, money was always tight. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. My dog was depressed. It all just felt hard. But when Buddy came along, that changed. As we kept talking I noticed I was relying on him more than he was relying on me. His “never say die” attitude and his fearlessness with taking chances was how I wanted to be. I actually admired the guy, and I hadn’t admired anybody since JFK. I found myself needing to talk to him. He just made sense to me. He wasn’t shy about calling me out for feeling sorry for myself on my dark cloud days.
I was having knee issues and was told I needed surgery. He told me about all the physical issues he had as a dancer, football player, and actor doing stunts. He told me to “grow a pair and fight through the pain.” It was exactly what I needed to hear.
We talked about confidence—real confidence, not fake. And we talked about love, being willing to love unconditionally and without fear. Buddy helped me remember all the things I used to know effortlessly.
One beautiful summer day I was golfing with strangers at a fancy golf course not far from my house. As we were teeing off, my phone started to ring. I always shut it off when I golf so I thought it was odd that it was ringing. Still, I figured whoever it was would leave a message and I could get on with my game. But the phone never stopped ringing. They kept calling and calling me like a mental person. Finally, when I noticed the older gentlemen wearing knickers couldn’t finish his backswing because my phone was disrupting his shot, I decided to answer the damn thing.
“Holy shit! Holy shit!” I heard several voices say, in what seemed to be the background of the call.
“Hello?” I said.
“How ya doing?” Buddy asked.
“Well, I’m golfing at the moment. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, that’s nice. How’s the weather?” he asked. “Anybody wearing knickers?”
Buddy always had a great sense of humor.
“Actually, yes,” I said, staring at the knickers-wearing man who was now staring daggers at me due to his desire to tee off. “Can I call you back?”
“Oh yeah, sure, no problem,” he said.
I heard some yelling again, followed by another “Holy shit!” in the background.
“Are you in a fight with someone?” I asked.
“I’m flying my plane, actually,” he said with a laugh. “That’s why I’m calling. I think I’m going to crash—well actually I’m certain I’m going to crash—and I’m wondering if it’s going to be bad?”
I took a second to soak this in.
“You’re actually going to crash and you’re calling me to see if it’s going to be bad? jesus!” I said, tuning in to his situation. “Well, I think you’ll survive just fine, but holy crap!”
“Yeah, I know I’ll survive, but will I get in trouble for the beer?” he asked again, between screams in the background.
“You have beer?” I asked.
I was holding my phone standing near three uppity golfers who were anxious to get on with their game, while I counseled a famous actor about his impending plane crash.
“It actually doesn’t feel like it will be too bad,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “But holy crap, Buddy!!”
“I can’t believe you golf,” he said. “Thanks for picking up. Call you later!”
I heard yells, and then the phone went dead.
I stood there looking at my phone until I heard Mr. Knickers guy clearing his throat. I looked up and noticed all three guys staring at me with their mouths open.
“Your shot,” knickers man said.
While I had trouble focusing on the rest of my golf game, Buddy and his passengers survived the crash just fine. He seemed to be invincible—larger than life. Always seizing the day.
So, when Buddy called me one cold January day to talk about his health and his concern that there might be something wrong, I didn’t worry. Even when he told me he had been diagnosed with cancer, it still felt like it was going to be okay. He told me about his new television series and he said he was doing his best work. His spirits were high and he was optimistic about what was to come. And as I hung up the phone, I couldn’t help but feel optimistic myself. But a minute after I put the phone down, that changed. I remember it like you would a huge event like 9/11 or the Kennedy assassination. I took a step to go to the kitchen and I heard the words, “He’s going to die, you need to accept it,” in a calming soft voice. I knew that voice wasn’t mine.
My father had died a few years earlier and, as I’ve mentioned, I see death all the time in my line of work. But this was the first time I wasn’t able to comprehend the idea of another human being dying. Like with Denny later in my life, the thought of Buddy’s passing was too much to imagine.
I kept what I heard to myself and tried to apply all I had been taught about death to ease my mind. He’ll be in the light. He won’t be alone. There’s no such thing as death. Blah, blah, blah. But none of it seemed to matter. I didn’t care that there was no such thing as death. I didn’t care that his soul would be free and maybe even visit me somehow. I just didn’t want my friend to die.
We talked a few times before Buddy passed, about death and how nobody escapes it. We talked about friends and the life he knew, but we kept it short because his energy was shifting.
The day Buddy died I was at the store. It was a beautiful fall day in Minnesota, and as I rounded the corner to another aisle, I felt this wave of sadness like you’d imagine they felt in Star Wars when a planet was destroyed. I called his wife to confirm his passing and she was kind enough to take my call. She said he died peacefully with his loved ones around him, and somehow that made me feel better. She told me they were going to make preparations for his funeral and asked if I would please come. I felt honored that she would ask and I said I would try, but inside I didn’t think I could.
I struggled with his death for many years. Even losing my amazing mother, Mae, somehow seemed easier than the loss of Buddy.
And then one day I was golfing at the same hole I was at when he called me years earlier. I was lining up my shot when I swear I saw him, standing five feet in front of me, smiling and shaking his head.
“Golf,” he said with a smile. “You and golf.”
And then he was gone.
Buddy—and all the others who have passed and are important to us—will always be with us. I truly know that now. I may not be able to call him, but I know he’s there. I can feel him. I can feel them.
And so can you.
The Other Side
Earlier, I said I know there’s another side because I saw it. Well, I didn’t exactly see the other side, but I know there’s something.
When I was fifteen, life was a nightmare. I was sober, skinny, and lost. Everyone and their mother was getting high. I started too young and quit too soon.
My father was out of the house and my mother was dating a burned-out gangster.
My father was too busy hiding money, filing for bankruptcy, and moving to San Francisco to care. And my siblings were all higher than the cost of Rolling Stones tickets in 2017.
I was not a happy guy.
I thought a lot about death. What it meant to be dead, what it might feel like, how dark it was. What if everything I’d seen with my eyes or been taught until then was a lie?
Certainly my life was a lie: my friends weren’t really my friends, my big shot father with his big arms and unlimited bank roll was heading for the hills, my mother was completely obsessed with a Chicago gangster she had just started dating, and my dog decided to run across the highway to commit suicide. What was real anymore?
I started to doubt everything, I didn’t feel comfortable anywhere, and even sleep was difficult at best.
I didn’t believe in asking God, because who’s to say if somebody up there was listening?
Then one night I had a dream, the kind of dream that feels so real you can smell the grass and feel the breeze.
It started out in our basement. I was sitting on my brother’s bed, pondering, when somebody came to the back door. At first I was pissed because I was comfortable. I didn’t want to get up and get it, but nobody else would do it, so I went to the door.
I opened the door and there stood an angel. A full-on big wings, white cotton pants, angelic-looking guy angel. I remember thinking, “Oh fun, an angel dream. I like angel dreams.”
I told him to come in, but he put out his hand and handed me a small button. It was one of those “have a nice day” buttons, the yellow smiley face kind that I hated. I always thought it was a passive aggressive way of saying “fuck you” whenever somebody said “have a nice day.” In fact, if anybody ever said that to me I’d give them the finger. Clearly I have issues.
But this was a dream, and I knew that in dreams odd things mean stuff later on, so I went with it. I thanked him and put in my pocket.
He told me his name, but for some reason that’s the only part of the dream I don’t remember. Everything else is still clear as a bell. He told me he wanted me to come outside, that he wanted to show me something.
He seemed like a trustworthy guy, not one of those creepy types with eyes wide open and a monotone voice, so I went with him outside. When I did, I saw this huge, beautiful, multicolored hot air balloon, just waiting for me.
The balloon itself must have been ten stories tall and seemed to fill the whole sky—dark purple, red, maroon, blue, yellow. It was something. But the baskets underneath were the amazing part; four baskets on top of each other, separated by five feet of rope, each with its own décor.
I looked at the angel and asked if I could come aboard. He said of course. He showed me where my basket was. It was the bottom basket, and for some reason it felt like home. Inside were all the things I loved: a stereo for my music, books I loved to read, pictures, and even a television. But the best part was the bed and the glass bottom floor.
I couldn’t wait to take off.
The angel told me we could only go for a short time, that we had to be back soon. I was worried if I argued with him we wouldn’t go at all, so I said even a short trip was better than no trip and off we went.
We slowly climbed past the trees, above the houses, and into the warm clear air just before the clouds. I felt safe, I felt at peace, and I felt as excited as I’d ever been, wondering where we might go. I couldn’t wait to relax in my bed, put on some tunes, and watch the world go by.
But then we went back.
I remember telling my angel this was my dream, and that we needed to go a little longer, but he just smiled and said no.
When we landed, I didn’t want to leave. I handed him back his button in the hope that it would give me more time, but he took my hand and folded it back in my palm, and he smiled.
He escorted me back to the door and told me when it was my time, he would be back. I asked him if this was for when I die, and he said it was, “but not now,” and only if I finished what I was here to do.
And then I woke up. I tried so hard to fall back asleep, to look a little longer at the balloon or feel that air, but I was so excited I couldn’t.
Now here’s where it gets weird. When I finally gave up trying to go back to sleep, I sat up and in my hand was the button he gave me.
I’ve wondered for years if I fell asleep with that button in my hand or if someone put it there when I was sleeping.
But I know I didn’t sleep with that button, and why would someone put that in my hand?
The only thing I know for sure is that the dream was real, and I know when I die I will see that balloon again.