His friendly grin fell and his eyes squinted slightly. "We have our misery, señor. That is what they buy."
For a moment, I was stunned. "Did you say that the tourists come to buy misery?"
"Sí, that is all we have left to sell."
Before I could process his pronouncement, a large tour bus drove up and stirred up a great deal of dust. I mused that the windows were darkly tinted to shield the passengers from the foreboding landscape. The door opened, and to my surprise the passengers exited the fine—each more affluent in appearance than the other. More striking to me, none of the new arrivals looked astonished. They all seemed acclimated to the horrid scene before they took their first steps onto the dirt.
The well-heeled group formed a circle around the man who had accompanied them on the bus. Each was handed a map of the village and led to a guide who had been wheeled up to greet them.
"Who is that person?" I asked my young man, amazed at what I was seeing.
"That's Hector, he's the main guide for the village."
"But he has no legs. Isn't it difficult for him to move around?"
"Sí, but he has his chair and he's used to it."
I tried not to stare at the disabled man, but I couldn't stop. Nearly his entire bottom half seemed to be missing and the seat that cradled his remaining torso offered very little stability for the uneven ground beneath. As he was pushed across the dirt, he hung onto the broken arm rests as one would do aboard a cheap airline undergoing tremendous turbulence..
"He could fall over," I said unaware of myself.
"If he does, someone will put him back," my guide said casually. "I'll show you the house of La Llorona first."
We walked around the back of a putrid outhouse then came upon a pink and green ramble of a structure. "What's here?" I asked.
"The women come here to be sad with La Llorona."
"Who is this La Llorona?" the name sounded to me like a reference to a shaman or mystical healer. My hopes for finding something phenomenal to report on were building.
"Look inside," the boy instructed.
I lifted the faded cloth that substituted for a door to peek inside the mystic's enclave. A blond-haired woman who appeared to be in her late thirties was crouched beside a thick but softly built old woman and asked in the most pathetic tones why she couldn't conceive a child. I couldn't decipher if the older woman could understand the language of the visitor. She said nothing in reply but extended her wide arms and brought the visitor close to her abundant bosom. The young woman sobbed violently and allowed for her body to melt into the folds of the fleshy Llorona.
"Is she going to be okay?" I asked, fearing for the young woman's emotional well-being.
"Oh sí, once they sit with La Llorona, it's always better." The boy smiled.
As I continued to observe what I hoped was a cathartic process for a woman who longed for children of her own, another villager approached holding a baby in her arms. She stepped inside the shack and handed the baby to the blond woman, who then proceeded to let out shrieks of agony. I cringed at the sound. My guide went back inside, and when I followed to see what had become of the infertile female, he was placing a clean white pillow under her head and had stretched out a soft blanket for her to lie on.
"She'll be okay," he assured me, placing the baby in her empty arms.
The crying intensified and I decided it was time for us to move on. "Where is that man going?" I asked, spotting a person walking toward an expanse of desert by himself.
"He's been here two weeks."
"Why so long?"
"He came from someplace in California with his boyfriend, but he stayed behind."
"Why?"
"I guess he's not ready to leave."
"But where is he going? It can't be safe for him to wander off by himself."
"We don't stop anyone from doing what they want. He'll come back or not."
"But there's nothing out there, he could get hurt."
"Sí, he was bitten by a snake already, but the curandera healed him. I think he sees visions now."
"Visions of what?"
"We don't ask. But he seems happy here. Maybe he will stay."
I watched as the man drifted off further from the village. I couldn't imagine what could drive anyone to such madness as remaining in this hellish place. With my video camera, I took wide shots of the village and the people who were moving about freely. A large group had remained with the legless guide, including several who had picked him up and returned him to his rightful seat. I asked where Hector was leading them, and my guide informed that there were several points of interest.
"First, Hector takes them through the center of the village, where the women do their washing and the children play.
"How many people live here?" I asked.
"It depends. Sometimes someone will leave to try to find work, but they usually come back. I guess other places are worse."
I found the boy's assessment hard to believe but pressed further to get details of the itinerary.
"After seeing the church," the boy said, "Hector takes them through the cemetery; then we have drinks and snacks."
"At the cemetery?"
"It's a good place. It's very quiet and they can sit on the headstones while Hector tells them the story of how he lost his legs."
As an experienced journalist, I am capable of remaining objective when reporting a story no matter how emotive it may be, but I must confess a weight of unease was coming over me. I stopped to strip off my light jacket and took a few deep breaths of the fetid air. The heat of the afternoon sun was beginning to take its toll, but questions remained that I needed answers, so I again turned to my guide.
"Who discovered this place?"
"A doctor came here last year. He got lost on the road and found us by mistake, but he said he liked it and I guess he thought other people would like it here, too."
"What did he like?"
"He said that people would come and have a… como se dice? Breakthrough or breakdown?"
"He probably meant breakthrough."
The boy smiled and nodded. "The doctor said too that the people would have a psy-cho-lo-gi-cal healing when they saw how bad life could be. And you know, it's true. When they leave, they are happy. I see it on their faces."
I nodded in turn and thought about the ramifications of the newfound treatment. "And you do receive payment for the village?"
"Sí, the doctor gives us some of the money."
I was relieved to know that the villagers were being remunerated for their efforts. I followed my guide around for another hour and gathered a good amount of material for my story. As the day wore on, I felt an unusual fatigue, and I asked where I could sit and rest. My guide took me to a lone standing tree, and we sat on a pair of hard, odd-shaped stones. I shifted into a barely comfortable position and took a deep breath. I was feeling the sadness threaten to take hold and I fought to keep my own troubles from surfacing. Meanwhile, my guide had fetched a bucket of ice and returned to offer me a cold bottle of beer. It was a welcome offering.
"Thank you," I said with a forced grin. "It has been a long day." The cold wet bottle felt strangely comforting in my hands. I stared into the dark brown glass .
The young boy looked at me with pity in his eyes. I guessed my face was revealing my long hidden sorrow.
"I've tried not to think of it," I continued, "but coming here is making me think about Lisa." A lump formed in my throat when I said her name. It had been three weeks since she left our apartment and two weeks since I allowed myself to feel the loss.
"When the sun sets, the mariachis will be here to sing for us. They play all the sad songs. It will make you very sad."
"Does everyone stay to hear them?" I shifted on the stone, which seemed to have become harder than before.
"Most everyone. Did you bring cash? They charge by the song."
I nodded. The beer went down easily, and I felt a numbness come over my mind. I thought of t
he pain that was sure to come when the guitars and violins began to play their tragic melodies, and I prepared myself for the tearing at my heart strings. "Otra mas," I said, taking another beer from the boy.
I didn't bother to call the driver that afternoon. I knew that my time with Los Sufridos was just beginning.
Do Dead Psychics Smoke Cigarettes? by Robert McCoy
"The Psychic is dead!"
Carrie read the morning paper out loud over breakfast, excitedly mouthing every word of the article, never glancing in Al's direction.
"It says here that he predicted his death to the exact day and minute."
Al shook his head and sipped his orange juice, the pulpy home-style kind. Why his wife always bought the pulpy style when she knew how much he hated the way it sort of slithered down his throat, Al could not fathom. Looking out his sliding glass door, he saw a banana-yellow Ryder van pull slowly into the driveway across the suburban street.
"Looks like someone is moving into the Henderson place," he said.
"They say there will be a wake held for the Psychic this Friday and a special announcement will be made. There's a list of all the celebrities who have been invited. Everyone says he was the greatest psychic who ever lived!" Carrie practically bounced out of her seat in machine gun intensity.
"Great, honey. Did you hear what I just said? Someone's moving in across the street."
"Oh my God!" Carrie gasped. "There's a number listed here. It says the Psychic chose five winners and their significant others before he died. All we have to do is call the number and see if we won."
"Great, dear. I wonder how much they paid for the Henderson house in the state auction. It's not every day a toaster manages to electrocute a family of five."
"Al, can I call to see if I won? Please, please, please."
He shook his head and forced himself back to reality—at least his wife's unique view of it.
"How many times do I have to go over this with you? Last month I paid a phone bill of $711.08 for all those so-called psychic networks you call. Didn't the last one tell you would meet someone named Roy who would change our lives?"
Carrie pouted, pressing her lips tightly together.
"And as it turned out the only Roy we met was a sheep at the petting zoo, who, while we were feeding the animals, ripped off the zipper of my pants before I knew what was happening. Roy almost ripped off something else too!"
She waved her hand and scowled.
"That wasn't the Dead Psychic, it was one of those other numbers. I called the Dead Psychic the last weekend before he died, when he was still a live one. That's when he said I was going to make a major decision to change my life for the better. A week later I saw that ad and joined the health spa."
"Carrie..."
"I lost twelve pounds!"
"Could have been water weight."
"Al!"
He shook his head and took another sip of his slippery, slithery orange juice. "I just don't believe in these people. They're almost as bad as TV ministers or those Yellow Page ad guys."
Carrie sighed and pouted. Then she batted her eyelashes. Al could not stand when she did that.
"Okay. How much is it going to cost?"
She held her head high, beaming a smile. "Not one cent. This is a 1-800 number, silly."
He shrugged, knowing Carrie and all her psychics were his personal Waterloo.
As she dialed, he shoveled a mouthful of soggy corn flakes into his mouth and looked out across the street. Crates were being moved into the garage. What could they be packing in crates, he wondered.
While Carrie entered their names, last name first, into the phone, Al glanced across the street wondering if he should bother to introduce himself to the new neighbors. Carrie then gave her date of birth and, oddly enough, her favorite ice cream. Al decided they were probably very busy and company was the last thing on their minds.
Al fell back in his chair when Carrie's big red lips swooped in to kiss him. Tears of joy ran down her face.
"We won! We won! We won!" When they weren't waving above her head, her hands cradled her face in amazement.
"We won?" he said, more to himself than Carrie.
She thrust the phone in his hands and he pressed it to his ear.
On the line he heard, "Congratulations, Al and Carrie! It was predicted that you would call this number and be one of the lucky five couples to join the gala event. You will be given an all-expenses-paid vacation to the home of the Psychic to be present for the most important news of the millennium. Just hold this line and you will be connected to a live operator for more details. But get ready to pack your bags. You will be flying to beautiful Hollywood!"
Carrie was dancing around the kitchen still chanting in rapture like a religious zealot. "We won! We won!"
"We won?" Al repeated, letting his wife take the phone out of his hands while she gyrated around the room. Across the street the movers were unloading more of the warehouse-sized storage crates.
* * *
Welcome to Hollywood.
Mini-mall. Gas station. Themed ethnic restaurant. Coffee house. Palm tree. Rinse. Repeat.
Al had to admit it seemed too good to be true. The foundation put them up in a five-star hotel and gave them spending money to buy a few things on Rodeo Drive and eat at all the fancy restaurants. When the night of the gala arrived, they and the four other winning couples, (well, one wasn't a couple, his name was Stanley and he came by himself) were driven by stretch limousine to the party. In attendance: all the most beautiful people and the others everyone pretends are beautiful. Even those three action guys were there, the ones who opened that fast-food chain together. The guy who pretended to sing and had that album a while ago played for the crowd with his famous banjo. It was a who's who A-list, the Hollywood insider crowd of who's-hot-right-now stars.
And Al.
Rumor had it that the Dead Psychic had recorded a message that would be played that evening. As sometimes happens in Hollywood the rumor was true.
The recording was shown on a stadium-sized screen and the video opened with a shot of the space shuttle Galactica at Cape Canaveral in the distance. Then the camera panned in on the Psychic lighting up a cigarette in the foreground. He seemed gigantic. Al gaped. The Psychic did not look at all like he expected… frumpy, actually, and very tired looking.
The Psychic smiled to the camera.
"Hello, friends. I'm glad all of you could make it to my wake. I knew all of you would show." He winked knowingly and the crowd laughed. Al thought the joke a bit tacky, though he seemed to be the only one.
"I want to offer all of you something special, my friends. A unique vision, as it were. Over the years I have shared with you, and hundreds of thousands of other people, my gift of precognition. In return I would like to show you how, in sharing your dreams with me, you have helped realize my own. I have almost enough money in my estate to launch a satellite into space. Its purpose is to send my message to the stars. I mean the ones in space." The Psychic paused, as if expecting the laughter mixed with the second round of ohhhs and ahhhs that followed. "I am one hundred million dollars and change short of this goal. So tonight I ask you a favor, just as many of you have asked me countless times over the years: Help me raise this money and let me complete my special dream."
People were solemn, some even cried. All the stars could see the righteousness of this cause, and the cameras and reporters conveyed their concern. No one really questioned how odd the entire evening was.
"The only catch is that I need the money in one month's time, or I will miss NASA's current launch window." The Psychic took a long drag and let the smoke flow out of his nostrils and the words sink into the crowd. "Here is the interesting part," he said with a smile wrapped around the cigarette. Over the last few years, my powers have grown. They have become so acute that I have managed to predict all the questions that will be asked of me by the entire world in the month after my death, and I have recorded all of my prediction
s to your questions."
The crowd could hardly contain their excitement. Al, on the other hand, could hardly contain his dinner. He predicted the lobster and steak he ate earlier might come back to visit him in a chunky yet liquid form.
"So at five dollars a minute I will answer all of your questions, and together we will generate enough money to make all of our dreams come true. Thank you all, and I can't wait to share the future with each and every one of you." He paused after glancing thoughtfully skyward. "As a wise man once said, 'reach for the stars' and tonight I certainly am. Good night and enjoy the caviar."
The tape ended and the Dead Psychic became the biggest star of the night. People laughed and cheered and cried. They hugged each other and pledged their support to the cameras.
Al got a straight shot of Vodka and began to drown his own brand of painful tears, predicting in his mind the bills to come that might be so high as to share in the same orbit as the space shuttle.
* * *
Breakfast.
Carrie was reading the paper and giving Al the silent treatment, because he would not let her call the Dead Psychic's Hot Line. At the kitchen table, Al sipped his orange juice while watching for his neighbors across the street.
"Do you ever see them leave their house?" he said. "The new people I mean"
She cleared her throat loudly and turned to the funny pages, where she started to make some exaggerated snickers and forced giggles, not once looking at Al.
"Do they have jobs, you think?" Al asked.
No answer, but that was the way it had been ever since they arrived home from the all-star gala.
Al shook his head then dug his hands through his hair. "Three days?" Al shouted. "How much longer are you not going to speak to me?"
Carrie laughed out loud making it painfully obvious she was ignoring him. Not able to stand it one more second, he reached out and slapped down the paper. Her eyes glared up to meet his.
"Honey, can't you see it was just chance we were picked. Dumb luck even. People can't see the future. Well, even if some people can, which I still don't believe, I know for a fact dead people can't see the future, or see at all for that matter. I mean come on; it's just insanity to think otherwise, because the Psychic is dead!"
Winter's Regret Page 6
