by Mark Edward
The production values were good. The tall church windows had been sprayed over with some sort of opalescent sheen that allowed the sunlight to shine in rainbow colors across the floor. Any warm Christian fuzziness was an unintentional bonus to the gigantic wooden cross that dominated the nave. To remove this integral part of the pulpit’s architectural plan would have caused the roof to collapse.
I waited and watched the anxious clients as they got up and sat down like assembly-line automatons. This was a regular factory operation. After each got up, they were immediately replaced by another, happily proffering a ticket stub for their session. Some of these sitters must have been returning customers, as their chosen seers would stand and give them a loving bear hug and generous greeting before sitting back down to resume their work. The ratio of women to men was about five to one. Men were not only getting readings, but I was pleased to see there were a few giving them. And I was relieved to note that none was wearing medieval garb; I had reached my limit of Hollywood costumery with the Magic Castle turban suggestion and preferred a more casual approach.
I spotted my friend Peter deep into a reading with a sitter. He made eye contact with me momentarily and shot me a knowing smile. It looked like Pete was keeping himself in the money. Peter was smart enough to know that there would always be plenty of room for more psychics and more than enough work to go around. I also noticed a few of the older stalwarts I had seen at other venues look up from their work surreptitiously.
“Hi! You must be Mark,” Betsy said, as she swept into the room in a brightly colored muumuu. She was a jolly, overweight vision wearing a beaded headband and covered in numerous jangling baubles. An oversized pentagram necklace completed her stunning accessory collection. “Why don’t we talk in my office? It’s a bit noisy out here.”
It was. And there was hardly a place to stand. We went through a long hallway into an adjoining room and Betsy closed the door.
This was evidently the sanctum sanctorum of Light Path. On the walls assorted East Indian and African masks competed with cheap reproductions of Krishna and Jesus. Every possible flat surface was piled high with books and dusty clusters of knickknacks representing eons of religious belief systems. The bookshelves lining the walls were in a condition of near collapse. Whatever light managed to shine on them fought through the accumulated grime that covered the single cracked window and an amber haze of floating microscopic debris.
I sat myself down in an African cane chair and surveyed this New Age sanctuary, complete with an everlasting stench of sage smoke. The room’s whole atmosphere seemed to exhale a medley of half-forgotten superstitions.
I felt at home in this joint already. Not even Hitchcock could have sketched a better set. It reeked of hard work and hours of real-world experience. All these things also told me that Betsy was no pushover and I had better be pretty good at whatever I would try to pass by her.
Betsy cut right to the chase. “So, what’s your experience with mediumship? We always need good mediums to teach classes and promote our programs. We have plenty of card readers already.”
“I have a lot of experience doing séances.” I was telling the truth. I did séances, just not the kind of séances Betsy might choose to attend.
Betsy folded her chubby hands on her desk and leaned forward. “Tell me about your spirit guides.”
“I only have one,” I replied. “My spirit guide has been Dr. Edward Saint for the last nine years.” This was once again a true statement. Every respectable ghost has to have a spirit guide. It’s kind of like their agent on the Other Side. In my theatrical séances at the Magic Castle, where I was then still working as medium in their Houdini Séance Room, Dr. Saint was the chosen entity I used to invoke as my spirit guide to reach the spirit of Harry Houdini, since Dr. Saint had been Beatrice Houdini’s agent after Houdini passed away in 1933.
There was no sin in omitting the other half of this truth. If Betsy knew who Dr. Saint was, she might question whether or not I was a genuine medium, since Dr. Saint was an ex-sideshow barker and a phony psychic himself for many years. If Betsy knew her stuff on the history of mediumship, she would have known about his exploits. Using his name as my guide should have definitely called my veracity as a “real” medium into question.
Betsy’s face remained impassive. It seemed I had passed the first hurdle with the chief Madame of Mediumship.
“I see,” she said calmly as she unclasped her hands. “So what classes can you teach?”
“I teach a special seminar on corporate intuition, which is very popular.” True again. I had performed a lecture combined with an ESP demonstration at several business meetings for Toyota, IBM, and Southern California Edison over the years. It was never intended for shut-eyes or as a religious experience, but I could ante up the bullshit factor for the New Age crowd with only a few minor adjustments. “I also have a lecture on how to develop clairvoyance,” I added. This was basically the same lecture as my intuition seminar, just less corporate and more New Agey. Back then you couldn’t go into Toyota and tell them you would teach their employees how to become clairvoyant, though nowadays it just might fly.
Betsy seemed happy with what I had to offer. She smiled a knowing grin that could have been tinged with that wink-wink, nod-nod “with it” carny wisdom, but I wasn’t sure. She stood up and asked if I would consent to do a sample reading for her chief assistant, Lucretia.
“I would be happy to.” I stood and met her gaze unflinchingly.
I thought briefly about the name Lucretia. Lucretia Borgia had been the illegitimate daughter of Pope Alexander VI, and in the Italian Renaissance had made herself famous as a poisoner, personifying the concept of a Black Widow. Could anyone, even in the younger generation of Goth-minded parents, imagine naming their daughter after a mistress of mayhem? My imagination ran wild with what she might look like. I could hardly wait to be introduced.
I followed Betsy out of her office, back through the dreamlike bustle of the sandalwood-scented main room, and to where the cash register was positioned next to their padded meditation room. The recorded sounds of whale calls mixed with soft New Age music as I entered the room through a dazzling bead curtain.
Suddenly, the background of the room went faintly out of focus. Lucretia certainly lived up to her namesake. She was a wraith-like creature of possibly Hispanic origin who projected complete confidence. She was tall and moved with a slow, seductive malevolence. Her gaunt, olive-skinned face was a mixture of Hollywood gypsy and dark-eyed Medusa, and was dominated by giant coils of luxurious raven-black hair that fell from a bejeweled tiara. Her outfit was in keeping with today’s Camelot theme, but with a decidedly strong twist in the direction of black on black. As to be expected, her fingers, arms, and every other uncovered appendage were sheathed in layers of sparkling New Age jewelry. Unicorns danced with owls, sphinxes, cats, and other mystical creatures from her left hand to her right. This was way before the current obsession with tattooing, but I’m sure there were a few dusky inked embellishments hidden beneath her tresses too, if my carnival intuition was correct.
Lucretia looked me over like a snake fixing on a mouse. I met her gaze with the strongest impersonation of a mongoose looking back at a snake that I could summon. I had to remind myself this was Anaheim, not Atlantis.
I offered my hand as Betsy introduced us. Lucretia’s features softened into a well-rehearsed smile that could have melted butter. I prepared to offer her my best shot.
“Would you like a reading?” I asked politely.
“Why, yes. What kind of readings do you do?” she asked, like the spider to the fly.
My mind immediately went back to Nightmare Alley. What would the Great Stanton have done in my situation? I decided to make a leap and curry favor with the best method at my disposal: pure unadulterated bullshit.
“I do many different kinds of readings, and I have my tarot cards with me. But for you, I think I would like to just sit down and see what my spirit guide tells me abo
ut you, if that is all right.”
“Perfect!” She smiled even more deeply into my eyes before she lowered her gaze hypnotically. This one was a real worker.
We were offered a small corner table and before we even sat down she immediately threw me a curveball. Taking one of her dozens of rings off her hand with almost a movement of defiance, she dropped a heavy, antique gold ring into my palm and asked me, “So what do your spirit guides tell you about this?”
I took the ring in my hand and closed my fingers around it reverently. All “objects of invocation” should be handled as if they were very precious, even if they aren’t and were made from thrift-shop purchases. I closed my eyes and hunched my shoulders in mock trance for a stage beat or two. Then I relaxed totally, took a deep breath, and released it slowly through my nose as I spoke.
“The vibrations are marvelous! My psyche is absolutely tingling. There is energy all around us. It’s a sort of ahhhh . . . mmm. In fact, I’d say it was the best ahhhhh . . . mmm I’ve ever experienced. This ring belonged to a person of great personal power. Here is a woman who possessed an almost unstoppable willpower . . . very strong. I might even say that she was in some ways an incredibly stubborn person.
“She was self-reliant and independent to a great degree. And I see something that had to do with a horse and carriage, great movement, and a commotion of some kind. I see a broken wrist, or part of a hand or fingers, and this had to do with what made this person so persistent, passionate, and maybe even a little angry. This ring was on that hand or very near it. I also sense that this ring has traveled a great distance and been lost and found many times. It always manages to find its way back onto your finger. It is a good-luck beacon of some sort and is bound to you by some very dominant ancestral energy. It’s not something you picked up at JCPenney’s down the block, that’s for sure.”
I handed her ring back to her as if it had given me a slight electrical shock. A bit of respectful fear mixed with amusement flashed across my face. I stopped, blinked, rubbed my eyes, and waited.
Lucretia burst out with an enthusiastic, “Wow! You have been talking about my grandmother. She escaped from Russia with my grandfather with nothing but the clothes on her back. I think I remember her telling me that she broke her arm or fingers when she was a teenager. I don’t know about the horse and carriage you saw but it certainly could have happened that way. I know from living in New York City with her in her last years that she was as stubborn as they come. When my grandfather passed away, before I was born, she had to fend for herself in the city for many years. This ring is a very powerful good-luck charm for me. She was a gifted clairvoyant. Everything I learned about being psychic came from her. My parents never understood me and were not supportive of my spiritual goals, but she was. That was very good, Mark. Thank you.”
Lucretia smiled contritely and then abruptly stood up, backing away, as if bitten by a vampire bat. My guess was that either I had been amazingly accurate or she had recognized that I was her equal in bullshit. Either way, I knew I was probably home and dry, with a new job reading at Light Path.
How did I manage such an accurate reading? It was another standard monologue I have rattled out for years. The key is to begin by noting two important things. First, does the ring look like it could be more than fifty or sixty years old? And second, does the wearer’s finger that held the ring look as if the ring has been worn there for more than a few years? If both these facts are apparent, then it only matters whether you can tell a good story, which is all this reading had been. Almost everyone has broken an arm or a leg at some time in his or her life. And how many grannies aren’t stubborn old crones? Especially if their granddaughter looks like she walked out of Dracula’s castle. Stubbornness, great passion, and self-reliance are all desirable attributes to attach to any woman who looks like she could suck a tennis ball through a stovepipe.
To be a good psychic you have to prefer the company of strangers. It’s much easier to convince absolute strangers than it is those who know you. Then, you only have to be able to fake the truth, or your particular version of the truth, with a mystical spin.
After my reading, Lucretia sashayed over to where Betsy was counting money into the cash register, and with some trepidation I opted to make myself scarce. Let the two of them decide my fate in private.
It was a good time to discover the wonders that were on display in Light Path’s bookstore. Over the years I have come to appreciate, enjoy, and make good use of the mysteries and ever-eccentric product lines bookstores carry. This one contained everything the aspiring medium or up-and-coming psychic could ever wish for: pendulums; crystals of every size, shape, and price; decks of every kind of divination card; plaster angel sconces; yin-yang posters; racks of New Age music—you get the idea. There wasn’t enough room for all the piles of ancient books of wisdom that were usually marked down. When I had the chance, I could dig through decades of cast-off self-help and psychic flotsam and jetsam that represented the optimum of the OC’s occult lore. Their used-book section was a goldmine.
I found that many of these well-handled tomes contained gems of penciled notations and quips that made them even more valuable for their colloquial insights and distinctly regional flavor. Witches who live on the beach have wholly different attitudes toward surfers and tourists than their landlocked sisters, who deal with truckers and pipefitters.
After ten minutes or so, Betsy appeared, looking very interested, and offered a complimentary “Well, you certainly made an impression on Lucretia.”
“Is that good?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. We can put you on the payroll whenever you want to start. I just need you to do the usual paperwork when you have a minute.”
I had skimmed over their monthly newsletter while waiting in the bookstore and had noticed a blurb about an upcoming fundraiser. I figured I might tip the scales a bit further.
“By the way, there’s going to be a big windfall coming here in the next two months. It will be more than enough to repaint and fix the roof.”
Betsy merely looked at me with the incredulity normally reserved for skeptics. I stood firm but stifled any further mention of the issue.
I showed up the following Saturday morning ready to work. Several of the more industrious members of the group were already setting up their tables, and I wasted no time. I introduced myself to the strangest and yet most influential personalities I could have ever imagined I’d meet. Scores of psychics introduced themselves either out of a true desire to extend their friendship or to assess how they would deal with this new kid on the block. Light Path’s crew pretty much lined themselves up into one of these two camps. I would learn to focus my attention on those who opened up to me. You get what you give, and I was willing to offer whatever I could in order to receive as much as possible in return.
One of the first people I met that morning was Chandra, who was busy hoisting a huge pad of newsprint paper on an easel and arranging various pastels and art supplies on her table.
“Hello, I’m Mark. I’m new here. Can I ask what you do?”
“Oh, hi! I’m an intuitive clairvoyant.”
“Ah, me too. It’s nice to meet you.” I shook her hand, which was offered in a distracted, loose-gripped fashion, her fingers in the most minimal precursor to possible friendship.
“So what do you do with the pad? Caricature drawings?”
“Oh, no. I do automatic drawings.”
I played dumb. “Automatic drawings?”
I had seen English mediums do spirit portraits on the BBC and was somewhat familiar with the process. Basically, they sketch an image of a deceased loved one as they see them. Often the images can be frighteningly accurate. I can only surmise what method they employ to come up with such accuracy, short of actual psychic ability: our old friend pre-show. These sweet little old lady psychics get a quick look at a family photo or portrait on the sly beforehand, or through a helper, and then recreate it using what they learned in art school. Th
ere is some skill required, though mostly in the area of acting.
“So, do you sketch a spirit or what?” I asked innocently.
She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly and sighed. “Not really, I usually just draw what I feel.”
Chandra’s method was even simpler than the English mediums and didn’t involve any extra work at all. I only needed to watch her once to capture her magic lesson. A nervous woman soon arrived for a sitting, and I watched in awe as Chandra immediately started telling her what she saw and drawing squiggles and glyphs on her pad. It was a marvelous demonstration of stream-of-consciousness doodling, but what it had to do with anything supernatural was beyond me. I kept waiting for a face or something specific to emerge from the squiggles, but only the most abstract forms were visible from my perch twenty feet away. However, her sitter was enthusiastically and affirmatively nodding at whatever Chandra was saying.
I couldn’t hear everything clearly, but she was hitting all the high notes with buzzwords: “Financial problems getting better in the next month . . . Love life is on hold . . . Family members are draining you . . . Travel to some new places . . . Job title change or advancement.”
These were the same cheery positive indicators any reader uses with cards, numbers, or palm readings. As far as I could see, there wasn’t any connection between what Chandra was rapidly sketching and what she was babbling on about. All her sweeping, grandiose gestures were beautiful to watch but had little or nothing to do with what she was saying.
Chandra nevertheless captivated her sitter with great swirls and strokes of such dramatic intensity that even the most skeptical onlooker would have been impressed.
The only possible connections I could make (and these were only what I could seem to make out by a major stretch of my imagination) were that the colors might in some way relate to emotional states: red or pink for love or passion, blue for the blues, green for money, and yellow for . . . maybe yellow was for happiness. Any of these logical associations didn’t seem to be necessary for Chandra’s sitter, who happily stood up, primly straightened her sundress, and accepted the drawing from Chandra as it was torn off the pad, as if it were some sacred scroll.
