by Mark Edward
I managed to squeak out, “Thanks, Valerie.” I hung up the phone and looked at Jim, lying with his sad-eyed take-me-for-a-walk look, his face resting between his paws.
Had I actually made a difference out there? Perhaps some of the losers came out winners, after all. There was indeed something genuine amid the fakery and the hucksterism. I had saved someone’s life.
Ginger’s reading might have been one of the most pedantic and silly readings I had ever given—I couldn’t remember in that moment. I may have been sitting on the toilet or feeding the dog, but I had made a difference to one of the hundreds of people I had talked to that particular December. The coldest, most miserable holiday season had not reached its icy hand deep enough into one lonely person’s life to kill her.
It was suddenly sunnier and brighter than ever outside as Jim and I took our usual walk that day. It was a long and thoughtful walk. There was hope. Though I was living in a dark world ruled by everyone else’s greed, avarice, and deception, though I was playing a small part in a huge commercial system that sold compassion and exploited human misery, as I looked around at the colors of the autumn leaves and breathed in the fresh morning air, the warmth of a new illumination dawned on me. I had an awesome responsibility.
CHAPTER III
WORLD’S GREATEST
Awareness and “management” of the potentially hostile environment, where audiences are culturally diverse, uncontrolled, and sometimes unseen, is as crucial to a spy’s success as his special devices.
—John Mulholland3
A bright red envelope arrived in my mailbox one morning, sandwiched in between the junk mail and the bills. I tore it open and read the glaring title topping the first page:
WANTED: THE WORLD’S GREATEST PSYCHIC
My first thought was that they had to be kidding, but I read on:
DO YOU KNOW SOMEONE OR ARE YOU THE SPECIAL PERSON WE ARE SEARCHING FOR? THE PSYCHIC FRIENDS NETWORK IS CONDUCTING A NATIONWIDE SEARCH FOR THE WORLD’S GREATEST PSYCHIC. IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE CONSIDERED FOR THIS FANTASTIC OPPORTUNITY, GET IN TOUCH WITH US AT OUR OFFICE. THIS IS AN EXCITING CHANCE TO HAVE YOUR PSYCHIC MESSAGE SPREAD ALL OVER THE WORLD AND MAY INVOLVE RADIO, TELEVISION, AND TRAVEL. WE HOPE TO HEAR FROM YOU SOON!
I immediately saw myself propelled to that exalted position. Knowing the unbridled bullshit this company was capable of spreading and their nearly limitless cash flow, I was just the guy to take them up on their offer. As far as I was concerned, their search was over.
An agent once told me to proceed through any public relations situation with the attitude that I have no competition. I like the bravado of that concept. It isn’t that I fancied myself as any better than my brothers and sisters in the psychic community—though psychics are known to have incredible egos, and I am no exception—it is simply that this concept is the only way to survive in Hollywood.
I was ready to take on the World’s Greatest title. I had worked hard performing my mentalism act and dozens of séances at the Magic Castle for several years, by this time. I had even spent a few years levitating my dog.4 I knew my way around a crystal ball. How many psychics can say that they have given a séance to bring back the spirit of Harry Houdini two to three times a month for over ten years, and sometimes twice in one night? Not even psychic superstar John Edward has done that. Uri Geller had even asked me to start up a 900 psychic line with him. (In a strange quirk of fate, when I received a phone message from Uri about this, my message machine stopped working. Go figure.)
I had received substantial, positive feedback for television work I had done for A&E’s Biography, NBC’s psychic show The Other Side, and Canadian Television’s highly regarded Forces Beyond series. After filming two episodes of the Learning Channel’s Exploring the Unknown, I’d had the unique privilege of working on the premiere episode of Penn and Teller’s Showtime series Bullshit, which later was tagged for an Emmy nomination. These experiences in front of the camera had taught me how to deal with all sorts of audiences and industry types. This was a major bonus, considering most professional psychics, other than a handful of those who have already made it on radio or television, have little or no audience-tested people skills or any stage presence to speak of. They are often either hopelessly clumsy or downright arrogant. They purport to be compassionate, angelic, and spiritual, but more often than not they are unscrupulous, compulsive liars.
Jim, Emperor of All Dogs, rehearsing in 1992.
I’m painting with a broad brush here, but these flaws have generally caused me to regret my association with many other psychics and pushed me toward wanting to trump their antiquated styles and phony mystiques. I knew I could do better if given half a chance. Half a chance was about all I expected, but half a chance is better than none. Plus, I believe one can accomplish whatever one puts one’s mind to. I have told my clients that very affirmation countless times; now it was time for me to listen to my own advice. With a little luck and a liberal amount of showmanship, I could ace this challenge and finally make some real money.
I called my Psychic Friend Valerie. “Valerie, I’m the World’s Greatest Psychic. What do I do next?”
“Don’t you know? If you’re the World’s Greatest Psychic, you ought to know what to do next—ha-ha! Just kidding, Mark. That’s great news! We thought you would be interested. I’ll have Dave give you a call with all the details.”
I suppressed the desire to ask what was in it for me financially and signed off with the sweetest “Thanks, Valerie. Hope to hear from you soon,” that I could manage.
The die had been cast. I was going for my fifteen minutes. What did I have to lose?
In the early 1990s I joined a group quite different from any of the magician clubs or groups I had yet experienced. This small circle of performers was committed to mentalism and a new term I had never heard before: psychic entertainment. Appropriately, they called themselves the Psychic Entertainers Association. I was intrigued and delighted when I first met up with them. None of them wore top hats or pulled doves out of their sleeves. They wanted people to think they were real wizards. While in that group I learned the difference between being merely interested in psychic matters and being an absolute believer in any and all strange beliefs.
Those who embraced Bigfoot, Elvis sightings, UFO abductions, crop circles, and every other oddball fad imaginable were a great force to be reckoned with. They bought tons of books, crystals, and all manner of silly things. In the psychic entertainment business, they were referred to politely as shut-eyes. Shut-eyes were often the first people to engage in a feeding frenzy of sycophantic adulation over the latest flavor-of-the-month psychic.
The ease with which shut-eyes penetrated the press and broadcast media world had been made clear to me by my contacts within various news and radio stations around Hollywood who would flock to any supposed house haunting, bleeding statue, or Virgin Mary manifestation with only the barest of factoids. It was a cinch to get the media’s attention with merely the flimsiest demonstration of psychic power, like bending a spoon or pretending to have a telepathic connection with someone’s pet cockatiel.
Early séance publicity, Hollywood, CA, 1975.
I considered this chink in the armor of America’s trust from the standpoint of a magician and mentalist performer, not a complete believer. I kept my skepticism in abeyance until further proof was provided, but I did not hold my breath for that proof. In the meantime, I took full advantage of this seemingly universal handicap. And soon I would infiltrate the psychic market from the inside. I would see it all of it from the perspective of the World’s Greatest Psychic.
I waited to hear from Dave. I knew from my experience with Hollywood agents that the amount of pay any performer can expect is usually calculated in direct proportion to how hungry that performer is at that moment. Calling every day would decrease any tiny bit of bargaining power I might possess and dilute my status on their want list. A week or two passed, but I continued to wait patiently.
I had almost forgotten about the whole thing when the phone rang one rainy afternoon.
“Hello. Is this Mark Edward?” a faraway voice asked.
“Speaking.”
“This is Michael. I’m one of the owners of the Psychic Friends Network. I got your number from Dave. I understand you are interested in being one of the psychics taking part in our search?”
I played it low-key. This guy could ruin me in a second if I said the wrong thing. One technique I had learned during all those years of 900 phone work was to keep your mouth shut for as long as possible and listen, listen, listen. As John Wayne once advised actors, “Talk low, talk slow, and don’t say too much.” This method had not only saved my voice from burning out after ten or twelve hours of 900 calls, it was just good common sense.
I imagined Michael sitting high up in a resplendent corner office overlooking some lush green park, his feet up on a massive desk, cigar dangling from one side of his mouth. I even had a fleeting psychic vision of him casually tossing his million-dollar baseball from hand to hand while we spoke, or receiving a pedicure from some nubile New-Ager minion. One thing was certain: I was talking to a pile of money at the other end of this line.
“Yes, I’m definitely up for it.” I spoke with alacrity then cut to the chase. “I’m ready to take the next step.”
“I will put you in touch with our West Coast representative, Bob, who is in charge of all the interviewing. We also have some other things in the works we would like to talk to you about. You have a fantastic record with us and we think you will do well with this job. Good luck!”
“Thanks, Michael. I’ll be looking forward to hearing from Bob.”
I hung up. I had resisted the temptation to tell The Boss anything I saw psychically in his future or give him a quick reading, something I knew many of my other Psychic Friends would have jumped at the chance to pull off. Talking money would have been another unutterable breach of psychic etiquette. Though later I wished I had had the nerve to be more businesslike and less spiritual.
Publicity artwork by Skeptic magazine’s Pat Linse for the CalTech lecture “The Psychology of the Psychic and the Believer.” Pasadena, CA, 1997.
When I took a moment to reflect on our exchange, I realized I hadn’t liked the way Mr. Michael had used the word “job.” He had made it sound like a gangster talking up a bank job, a heist. The word “opportunity” seemed to me a better choice. My psychic intuition had been working for me at that moment, but like many of the people I had told to pay attention to their inner voice while advising them on the 900 line, I wasn’t obeying my own. Greed and self-deception went hand in hand with being a super-psychic and had taken hold of my better judgment.
Two more clichéd bits of fortune-cookie wisdom that I had passed on to thousands of people over the years stared me straight in the face:
First, The biggest risk is to take no risk at all. This wasn’t an impossible dream, just another logical step up the shaky ladder of a professional psychic’s world. If I didn’t make it to the top rung, I still had more than enough work to do. Knowing the rogues who ran the Friends, I had no great expectations of wealth or fame. I’d be happy just to get under their skin, mess with them a bit, and see what happened. My chances of getting something valuable out of the experience were good, if I could keep up the image and beat them at their own game.
Though I was reminded of an idea from a story by Harlan Ellison: Was it worth the long climb up a mountain of dung to get to smell the rose at the top if in all likelihood, by the time I reached the top, I wouldn’t be able to smell anymore? The analogies to my situation weren’t lost in translation.
The second fortune-cookie axiom I had nearly run into the ground through overuse? The watched pot never boils. It never does, but as soon as you turn away . . . bingo!
Bingo came one lazy Sunday afternoon on my voicemail.
“Hey, this is Bob. I’m with the Psychic Friends Network. I hear you’re goin’ up for that new psychic thing we’re settin’ up. Give a shout back and we will have a meeting with you and our line producer.”
Line producer?
What a line producer had to do with the World’s Greatest Psychic puzzled me at first, but then I recalled mention of “radio, television, and travel” in the tease my Friends had sent out.
When I called back, the phone rang several times before being picked up by a voice that sounded like a radio jock doing a funny car commercial.
“Yo, this is Bob.”
I tried to sound casual yet mildly mysterious. “Yes, Bob, this is Mark Edward calling you back about setting up an interview for the psychic search?”
“Oh, yeah. Well . . . we’d like to get something together next Tuesday and talk over the deal.”
“The deal?” I ventured.
“Well, yeah. You know. What we want to get done in the next couple of months involves a lot of planning and we have to get right on it.”
This conversation was starting to sound like one of my less-than-satisfying 900 callers. Bob was definitely not a highly educated professional executive. A psychic vision flashed through my mind of Bob sitting in ripped boxer shorts in some trailer park, beer in hand. The image didn’t inspire confidence.
Advertisement for The Comedy and Magic Club, Hermosa Beach, CA, 2001.
It was time to wake up and smell the greasepaint. I sucked in my breath and got to the business at hand. “So, Bob, can you give me some idea what kind of money we are talking about here?”
Silence. Bob cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. Not a good sign.
“Gee. You know, I don’t have that information in front of me right now. Hopefully we will know more about your salary when we get together next week.”
Bob sounded exasperated, as if I had burdened him with some enigmatic cosmic question. Definitely not a good sign.
Though the word “salary” sounded good. I had never made a salary before as a psychic. Could this be something worthwhile after all?
I suggested a local watering hole and a meeting was set. I was told to bring along some headshots and a bio. I just happened to have a drawer full of publicity, glowing reference letters, and magazine clippings detailing my past adventures in mediumship. It was all sufficiently dark, moody, and psychic-looking stuff.
I now consider it a bad omen if anybody even mentions the name of the trendy bistro where Bob and I eventually met. It proved to be one of those places you read about in urban myths or antiquarian ghost stories where terrible luck follows anyone who enters its doors.
Bob showed up fifteen minutes late. My gut instinct had told me I would end up waiting at least that long. This is standard passive-aggressive Hollywood-agent policy. He arrived dressed like a cowboy, with a huge belt buckle and python-skin boots. We shook hands and Bob immediately went into his spiel.
“You’re gonna be one of three specially chosen psychics to be featured in a new infomercial we’re putting together for a whole new network, which will go on line in two months. It’ll be called the Psychic Revival Network, and we’re going for a whole new look and attitude. We see it kinda like the old revival church thing, with a tent and all the people whooping it up. You know what I mean? There’s gonna be a choir and a Dixieland band and all that Southern-style stuff.”
“Yes, I think I know what you mean.” I tried not to let the sinking feeling in my gut become apparent in my speech. I took a sip from my glass of iced tea and kept my mouth shut and my ears open.
“The guys back east want this to be a more honest, down-to-earth sort of deal. More spiritual and all that.” He looked deadly serious now, which started to make my skin crawl.
I tried to sound enthusiastic. “Yeah, I know what you mean. So many psychic lines are so phony and unrealistic.”
“Right. Our audiences are ready for a new approach.”
“I’m not going to have to pray or pass a money basket around or anything like that, am I?” As I said this, I thought that it might be time fo
r me to go. But my alter ego was whispering in my ear, What would the world’s greatest psychic do in this situation? I decided to sit tight and ride out the meeting. I hadn’t signed anything yet.
“No, no, no. We’re just going for the feel of an old-time revival, not any sort of particular religious theme or money action like that.”
“I see. That’s good. Then I’m to be one of the psychics who will be on camera?” I wanted to make sure I was going to be visible; otherwise, they might just use my voice or words for someone else to appear to speak. This had happened before. In most of these psychic television shows, the real magician is the editor. Your run-of-the-mill super-psychic taped television session may take from four to six hours to shoot, but it’s then edited down to a neat half-hour show. Can you figure out how the psychic is so uncannily accurate? The infomercial business is no different.
Bob went on, “Yep, you’ll be sharing the stage with our celebrity stars, Erik and Nell.” He smiled. At least all his teeth were intact, as far as I could see.
“Sounds good.” Then I spoke the words that just had to be said. “What’s going to be the pay? Is this a union job or what?”
“Well, no. That’s one of the reasons we chose you, because you’re not union yet, but I’m sure the pay will be right up there with the usual daily rates. All of our crew is non-union.”
Another bad sign.
“Daily rates? Like what kind of rates are we talking about?”
“It’ll probably be a package deal for the day, you know, for the morning rehearsal and later the shoot. I don’t have the details yet.” Bob was getting a tad indignant. “Hey, look, are you still interested or what?”
