Psychic Blues

by Mark Edward

  “A mirror and one tiny light. If you are willing to relax and merge with your inner consciousness, thought feedback opens and it’s possible to see your deceased loved ones.”

  I nodded at the box. “You close people up in there?”

  “Well, the way the box looks on the outside has nothing to do with what happens inside.” She was starting to walk away from me, but I wasn’t quite through with my investigations.

  “So, it’s sort of like an isolation chamber from the ‘70s, only without the water, right?”

  “Exactly. The inside is covered with black velvet, and there is a chair that sits low and tilts back to make it relaxing. You gaze into a mirror and your guides show themselves. You should try it sometime.” She turned to leave for her office.

  “How much?” I asked as I followed her.

  “A dollar a minute. Most people need at least an hour or two to get the right level of communication.”

  Sitting in that box for more than twenty minutes seemed incomprehensible to me.

  “Is it air-conditioned?” I tried to ask as she made it clear that our conversation was over.

  “We tried using a fan but it was too noisy and made it hard for the sitters to relax.” She disappeared around a corner.

  I noticed the bookstore clerk, Jheff, who I later found out was a closet skeptic, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Hey, Jheff. Has anyone gone in there and seen anything?”

  “Nope, but I hear it’s a moneymaker, otherwise they wouldn’t have it. It’s kind of an eyesore, if you ask me.” He lit some sage incense and I ran for cover, knowing the cloying stench it would soon spread. Sage was supposedly used by American Indian shamans but I never saw one visit Light Path.

  I spent my slow periods practicing sleight-of-hand moves with my pack of ESP cards. These are the famous cards often seen on television and in the movies. Their recognizable symbols carry a scientific legitimacy: the circle, the plus sign, the wavy lines, the square, and the star. I’d receive interested looks from seers when I brought them out, and I was surprised to find that most of the psychics had never seen or heard of them before. I needed practice time, and since few knew what I might be doing with them (unless they were magicians who might have recognized the various moves and card piles I was making), the cards made very attractive bait for any passing sitter looking for something different.

  One lady stopped and asked in all honesty, “Are those some kind of devil cards or something?”

  I looked at her as if wounded to the heart. “Devil cards? My goodness, not at all. They are made for testing Extrasensory Perception—ESP. Would you like to try a test and see how you do? You may be very psychic and not even know it.”

  “No, thank you.” She answered tersely and drifted away toward the psychomanteum. She tried opening the door to see what was inside, but it was locked. She then stood reading the signs and testimonials taped all over the outside of the box in a wasted attempt to dress the ugly thing up. I silently hoped she would pop for the dollar a minute and treat herself to an hour of bliss with some long-departed relative.

  She looked around to see if anyone was watching and tried the door handle again. Some people will try and steal anything, even a clandestine moment with dead people. (I once caught a glimpse inside this cabinet of wonders. All I found was a low-wattage Christmas light and a mirror.)

  I then watched in awe as a nearby healer—Rahaalara—worked her hands in a frenzy of ballet-like movements over the spine of a prostrate housewife. Between the incense, soft lighting, and her display of liquid maneuvers, my own back started feeling better.

  Healing hands are a wonder to behold. In this case, no actual contact is made. Remember those pesky legal issues with “massage”? The healer works with aromatic oils and gentle New Age music to create a harmonious ritualistic atmosphere.

  I didn’t want to interrupt Rahaalara’s hypnotic dance so I kept my distance. She had this wonderful gesture where she would run her hands up and down the client’s face-down body, and then, as she reached the end of each extremity—be it an arm or a leg—do a dramatic throwing-off motion, as if she were trying to toss some slime off her hands after taking out the garbage. It was a graceful yet somehow disgusted-looking movement. It was very effective visually, and I later learned that this drawing-away action was indeed like taking out psychic garbage or tossing the sitter’s “negative energies” away.

  Whether or not this practice was medically sound is open to interpretation. All of Rahaalara’s clients seemed to rise after their sessions looking refreshed and relaxed. But who wouldn’t? For many of these stressed-out inner-city folks, just lying down on a specially designed massage bed and taking some time out in the rarefied, psychically charged atmosphere created by Light Path would be beneficial.

  All the hoopla with the hands was a powerful bit of magical pre-show for whoever happened to be watching. What a client believes in these situations is what’s really important. The body is fantastically obedient to the dictates of the subconscious mind. All people are to some degree psychosomatic—psyche (mind) and soma (body). Rahaalara performed seemingly remarkable cures by inspiring her “patients” with the most complete faith and reliance upon her powers, an advantage that most impudent charlatans have over the regular family practitioner. I saw the same adepts return over and over to Rahaalara as well as Jade, Tara, and Mona—each healer had their own exotic spin on this non-traditional market. Some offered dietary advice, vitamins, or other supplements. And I’m sure a few of them supplemented their Light Path income with more down-to-earth hands-on therapies.

  Trading readings was a common practice at Light Path. A tarot reader may do a reading in return for a healing session or an astrologer may get a clairvoyant reading when things got slow and outside sitters were scarce. I liked this part of the deal.

  I found out through years of working with the shut-eye psychics that most could never read for themselves. This was an accepted fact in Woo-Woo Land and is taken for granted by most psychics. Self-analysis was like performing surgery on your own eye; it just couldn’t be done if you were truly psychic.

  Peter would often glide over to my table and plunk down after a busy morning to ask, “So, what’s going on with my love life?”

  “You are looking for love in the wrong places,” I would reply.

  “I know. But what’s going on there?”

  Peter was one of the most respected readers at Light Path. He was also one of the loneliest. He looked at me with his sad cow eyes and said, “I met this guy the other night, and he seems like a good person. I just want to know what you see there.”

  I never wanted to encourage Peter in the love department. Every week he was on to someone new. He needed change more than anything, and I knew from working with him in radio that he was a workaholic. He did readings for ten to fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. This had to be one of the most draining jobs imaginable. Without play or an opportunity to break away from the nonstop stress of being a spiritual coach, it was all too common to get lost in the muddle. Peter seriously needed to recharge his psychic batteries. But like all of us, he was barely squeaking by on what he earned.

  “I see travel.”

  He sat up a little straighter in his chair. “You see travel?”

  “I do. And I see someone in a uniform of some kind. Maybe he’s a pilot or a flight attendant, I don’t know. Don’t worry. He’s not in the army, navy, or a cop.”

  “That’s good. I don’t like soldier types. They’re too macho. So where will I find this person?”

  I leaned back in my chair and narrowed my eyes. “I’m sensing someplace further south, maybe San Diego or Mexico. Are you planning a trip in that direction?”

  Peter leaned on his elbow. “I like New Orleans this time of year. But who can afford a trip past Palm Springs, working here for a living?”

  “Palm Springs isn’t bad for a weekend,” I ventured.

  “That’s what you see, huh?” />
  “That’s what I see, Pete. In fact, when you asked where you would find him, I felt that he would actually find you. You don’t have to do anything. Just be yourself and get away from all this.” I gestured to the room.

  “I can’t,” he said dejectedly. “I have my spirit circle on Sundays and the Feng Shui Fest on Mondays, and then I have readings booked right up until Friday night, when I have to be here for the ‘Shroud of Turin’ lecture.”

  “Oh, jeez,” I balked. “Not that ‘Shroud of Turin’ lecture again.”

  “Yeah, I’m just overbooked.”

  “Well, what can I say? That shroud has been around for centuries. I’m sure it can wait another week for you to get home from Palm Springs.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll consider what you said. You’re right about the uniform. I kinda like guys in uniforms. Listen, I gotta go. See ya’.”

  Peter rushed off to meet some slatternly broad in powder-blue leather who was waving at him from across the room and looking impatient. Next week it might be my turn to get a reading from Peter, though they never even came close to what was going on in my life.

  I wandered into an alcove and found a table set up with hundreds of glittering pendulums. On a velvet rack hung dozens of choices in wood, glass, gemstones and cut crystal, looking like they came from a chandelier shop. Each was tied to a leather cord. A willowy brunette in a tie-dyed T-shirt and with a dot of red painted on her forehead intercepted me. “Do you have a pendulum?”

  “No, but I’m certainly interested in finding out more about them.” I offered my hand. “Hi, I’m Mark.”

  “I’m Lillith.” She offered her slender hand with a faint blush. I tried to remember where I had heard that name before. Then it struck me. According to Jewish legend, Lillith was Adam’s first wife and was driven from paradise for disobeying him. She was regarded as a spectre and was the special dread of children. This girl’s parents must have had a singular sense of humor. I had to admit that Lillith had a nice ring to it but, like Lucretia, only added to my general bewilderment of the whole psychic name game.

  Lillith picked up a very expensive-looking pendulum and handed it to me. “This one is specially made and hollow inside.”

  She unscrewed the top of it. “You can fill it with a small piece of gold, a diamond, oil, or even water and it will help you find that element by following its individual vibrations.”

  She seemed sane.

  “So you don’t have one?” She swung the pendulum hypnotically in front of my eyes. A more susceptible person might have reached for their wallet. I needed gold and oil as much as the next guy.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know how some people manage to find their way home without one.”

  The image of hordes of pendulum-swinging zombies briefly assailed me. I decided to play dumb again. “Really? I thought they were just a game Kreskin invented.”

  “Who’s Kreskin?” She looked honestly puzzled.

  “He’s a mentalist.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I suppose religion might have something to do with making pendulums work.”

  I was confused. “What?”

  “Religion,” she repeated.

  The only thing I had ever seen that looked vaguely like a pendulum and had anything to do with religion was one of those dangly smoking censers that the Roman Catholic Church swung around. I needed some clarification.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m not sure what being a Methodist has to do with it.”

  “Oh, right. I said mentalist, not Methodist. A mentalist reads minds, that sort of thing.” No one ever understands what a mentalist is until you explain it to them.

  “If you do that sort of thing, then you definitely should have at least one of these with you at all times. These are the modern pocket-sized versions of divining rods that have helped people find whatever they want since time began.” Lillith was now waxing philosophic. Her New Age hard sell was a wonder to behold. She gazed lovingly at her rack of merchandise. “You really can read a person’s mind with one of these.”

  She was partially correct. According to scientific studies, pendulums supposedly tap into the subconscious mind by working through what is called ideomotor responses. These are minute and extremely subtle muscle movements. It’s all really a matter of suggestion and priming the pump by hypnotic-induction techniques.

  I was sure Lillith would have had me buy two, one for each hand. I watched her go through several customers before I got the hang (pun intended) of what she was doing. I learned that with the right presentation, a pendulum could be an invaluable psychic tool.

  “I’ll take this brass one.” I popped for my first of many different pendulums and never looked back.

  My tabletop décor was looking up. I was well on my way to becoming a psychic attraction. Now I had a honking big crystal and a shiny new pendulum!

  Actually, the pendulum got me out of some very tough jams. Imagine a reading where a sitter asks questions such as “Will I divorce my husband?” or “Is my boyfriend faithful to me?” Do I need the responsibility or the legal liability that comes with providing a glib answer to such life-changing questions? Not to mention the broken nose or slashed tires that a few of the “gentlemen” involved may have given me had I not been carrying my trusty pendulum.

  Since the pendulum works off muscle movements so subtle that they can only be perceived through the use of a weight on the end of a chain, a smart psychic can test the sitter and find out which is a yes and which is a no. When most people hold the end of the pendulum chain and ask it a question, it will swing in a back-and-forth line for a yes answer, and in a small circle for a no. A simple test taken with sample questions sets up the suggestion in the sitter’s mind. Sitters who have touchy questions already know the answer to their issues; they are merely looking for someone to validate their own gut feelings. The pendulum connects directly to this intuition in a very visual and physical way.

  “Will my husband and I split up?” asks the seeker of truth.

  “Ask the pendulum. It will tell you what is already in your heart,” says the savvy psychic. This way, the sitter takes the responsibility for his or her own life and the psychic saves face by being a facilitator instead of a marriage counselor.

  I missed my chance to sit in on Light Path’s “Charge Your Pendulum” ceremony, but it was probably a cozy little session. I also chose to pass up the “Create Your Own Crystal Wand” seminar (forty-five dollars, including supplies) and instead left Lillith with twenty-five of my day’s hard-earned dollars in exchange for this magnificent bauble. Now, I never leave for a gig without it.

  Further down the hall, the “Change Your DNA” lecture was warming up. I wondered if such a thing were possible and if the genetics professors at UCLA had heard about this innovation. On the wall next to my posted schedule was a sign-in sheet for next weekend’s “Pet Aura” symposium. It was already standing-room-only.

  I looked over my schedule of sitters, mentally gauging my strength based on the numbers. We were all locked into a rigid time frame. If a sitter paid for fifteen minutes, that was usually fine and went by effortlessly. If they paid for a thirty minutes or an hour, it could be a tedious process.

  Psychics have to have a lot of material, especially if we deal with return sitters who keep coming back for more. Tarot cards, runestones, and other toys always provide a good randomizer for readings. Each card or selection of stones offers an almost endless combination of tales. Nothing matters, unless you are stuck with a nut case. At Light Path, people often drifted in off the streets, and they might have just been released from a mental institution or, worse, escaped from one.

  On one fine morning, my first sitter was a giant of a man who eclipsed the sunshine filtering in through the rainbow windows. He presented me with his ticket for a thirty-minute reading. My first impression was that he looked like a killer. Weighing in at something more than 360 pounds, he looked definitely distur
bed. He was unshaven, wearing torn clothing, and had a facial tic that affected one of his rheumy eyes.

  “Hi, my name is Mark. What’s yours?”

  “Huh?” he grunted.

  “Your name?” I repeated cautiously.

  “Oh . . . uh-huh. I’m Nick. They call me Big Nick.”

  No doubt they did. I hoped “they” weren’t all expecting a reading from me that day. “Well, Nick, do you have any particular questions you would like me to focus on before we begin?”

  “Huh-uh.”

  This was “no” in Cro-Magnon speak. I had twenty-nine more minutes to fill with Man Mountain.

  I tried to distance myself and imagined Edith Anne’s admonition that we can always learn something from everyone. Perhaps Nick was a poet, a great painter, or a cello virtuoso. Something—possibly psychic—told me this wasn’t likely, but I had been wrong before.

  A small stream of drool fell from Big Nick’s dry, cracked lips. I decided to move ahead with a standard tarot reading, while hoping he was harmless and only slightly mentally impaired, if at all.

  It’s actually hard to do a bad reading if you stick to the cards and manage a smile now and then. The random layout and archetypal nature of the tarot cards that day helped. Big Nick said not a word and showed no sign whatsoever of comprehension throughout the excruciating reading. If ever there was sweat on my brow, it appeared at the thirty-minute mark on the clock. At that merciful moment, one of the bookstore initiates ritually rang a small brass gong that kept track of each half-hour interval, in case one of us had slipped into a deep trance (or, more importantly, to ensure that each sitter knew his or her time was up).

  When it was over, Nick shifted in his chair, stood, and without warning beamed a tremendous smile. “Thank you, Mark. You were dead-on accurate with everything you said.”

  He offered his hand. My common sense told me to avoid physical contact with this formidable fellow, but he had sincerely thanked me and gotten something out of the reading, which is more than I could say for hundreds of others I had read for. I shook his gigantic hand, receiving what is known as the Cowboy Crusher grip, then immediately headed for the restroom to wash.