No amount of logic can shatter a faith consciously based on a lie.
—Lamar Keene16
The drive was grueling. Unlit freeway signs and dark stretches of empty toll roads that seemed to go on forever added to my sense of foreboding. Could this be right? What do people do way out in places like this, anyway? Make lots of money, I surmised. Two solid hours into the godforsaken outland of northeastern Orange County, I hoped that Yahoo! Maps had performed its magic correctly.
Finally, a faint light showed through the mist and fog, and I rolled up to a gated community guardhouse to inquire whether or not I had found the correct address. I was solemnly let in and told to follow the signs. It was so dark I could barely see any street signs or road markings—just row upon row of huge cookie-cutter mansions covered in Christmas lights and tacky lawn ornaments.
There was no movement on the streets except my own car and a few downed tree branches skidding across the road in the wind. Could this be the village from The Stepford Wives I have heard so much about? Or could I be near the dreaded sand pits from Invaders from Mars? Somehow, deep down in my psychic gut, I knew this was going to be one of those evenings—one that would run against all my hopes for enjoyment, familiarity, and good taste.
I slowly pulled up to a massive marble-faced home that could have doubled for a mausoleum and checked my maps one last time. I was as ready for this night as I was ever going to be and amazingly right on schedule. The eerie strains of female laughter, mixed with country and western music, wafted from the curtained windows above. I mentally reminded myself that a job is a job and made my way through heavy gusts of leaves and bracken to the cavernous front porch and rang the doorbell. A woman talking on her cell phone opened the door and motioned me forward without speaking a word of greeting.
I introduced myself to the next person I saw with a hearty handshake and an attempt at light humor. “Good evening. I’m the psychic you ordered.”
Anne, the corpulent corporate hostess, then greeted me in a businesslike manner, despite the fact that this was the third party I had worked for her in a year. She had ended up after both previous engagements crying on my shoulder, yet I had discovered that Anne was at her core a cold, hard person, even after she got a few drinks under her belt. The last time I had worked for her had been with the same top-name corporate financial group, but during a mixed-singles party on a boat cruising around Southern California’s posh Newport Beach harbor. That night I had felt trapped on board for the five long hours of the cruise, without breaks, food, or water to sustain me. So for tonight’s soiree, I had brought along an apple and some pretzels with my tarot cards in my mojo bag, anticipating the same treatment.
Tonight was their annual Holiday Ladies’ Night, and I was their specially invited psychic friend. I was escorted through a baronial living room bedecked with an overkill of holiday cheer, Christian-style. The fireplace was completely covered with an unbelievably horrendous collection of Christmas-themed Beanie Babies. We’re talking seventy-five to a hundred little reindeer, Santas, elves, and gnomes. It was way over the top, even for FAO Schwarz at their holiday best. The fire was an uninspiring fake gas log that certainly didn’t balance with the rest of the arrangement.
The smell of cinnamon, potpourri, and pine needles competed for my nose’s attention. On a huge armoire next to the fireplace sat what appeared to be a collection of several dozen nativity and Nutcracker figures along with some tin soldiers, all surrounded by a thin layer of cotton or some other wispy material that looked like the decorator had been going for a snow-scene look. The whole jumble was lit from underneath, giving everyone who stood near it a pasty-white complexion. I love the idea of ghosts at Christmas, but I was sure this winter vision had never been intended as such a macabre backdrop.
An oversized dining table dominated the center of the room, set up with an enormous four-tiered, almost ceiling-high arrangement of chocolates, truffles, ice cream cakes, and other super-deluxe candies, all topped with tinsel. It was so overwhelming to behold, even the caterers stood by looking at it in awe, watching for a telltale drip to manifest itself and destroy the perfection of the creation.
Almost before I could set my bag down, an anorexic brunette swept into the room and immediately clutched my arm, gushing, “Oh, you must be the psychic! I’d love to help you warm up before you really start working the party.”
I’ve heard this sentiment voiced many times and can’t imagine what “warming up” has to do with what I’ve been hired to do. I’m confident that a plumber doesn’t need to warm up before he fixes a toilet, and I doubt he would start any earlier than when he was good and ready to get to work.
As gently as possible I reminded her, “I’ll start in fifteen minutes. I need to find a chair and a table, set up, and then I’ll talk to you, okay?”
As I tell my sitters endlessly, a giver tends to attract takers. Nine times out of ten at these sorts of bloated gatherings I will end up staying additional time, especially when the toasted hostess finally realizes that she hasn’t had her own fortune told, which invariably ends with me staying for that one last excruciating reading. Can I say no to the person who hired me? Not if I want to work for her or any of her friends again.
Anne escorted me upstairs, through her bedroom, and out onto a tiny windswept balcony. Snow was the only missing element from this frigid, wintry tableau.
“We thought it would be nice for you to set up out here,” Anne said, pointing to a small wooden picnic table wrapped in a fluttering black tablecloth. A waiter was trying to light a restaurant-style tower heater in the near gale-force wind that had kicked up.
“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 knew 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.
“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).