Psychic Blues

by Mark Edward

  Little old ladies carrying huge bundles of homemade tortillas, heavy equipment operators caked in mud and grease, transvestites, house painters in their white overalls, bricklayers, lesbian pastry chefs (amazingly, on more than two occasions), Belgian tourists, bicycle repairmen, and every conceivable form of human being passed through Light Path’s hallowed doors. The labyrinth of humanity that visited us there was never boring and always resulted in an introspective journey for everyone concerned.

  At one reading I was told that I was sitting with one of Picasso’s illegitimate daughters. I forget her name but I’ll call her Maria. As soon as she had sat down at my table, her regal posture and quick dark eyes immediately told me I was dealing with somebody special. But as The Psychic, one must assume a confident, knowing role and stick to it. I managed to stay focused and remain cool. I gave her my reading then paused to see if it had sunk in. I had correctly ascertained that she had a very artistic soul (she had incredibly thin fingers) and was shy about showing her art to anybody. She then seemed genuinely embarrassed to admit that her father had been Pablo Picasso. And I believed her. Her mother had been one of the dozens of European women he had courted in his lifetime of philandering.

  She went on to tell me that only a few people in the world knew this fact about her. Until the moment when I had suggested she become more involved in her art, she had been terrified to even think of showing her art to anybody. She brightened considerably during the few minutes I shared with her. She had been ashamed of her lineage and unwilling to consider that she might be as gifted as her father. My reading imbued her with a more positive perspective. Maybe a simple tarot card reading ended up helping Maria fulfill her own artistic destiny. Stranger things have happened and keep happening.

  Every time I see a derelict, homeless person or a potential loony careening down the street, I stop and wonder, could this be a mind that penned a classic short story that I have read or painted an inspiring image that might have changed someone’s life? It could be a down-on-his-luck visionary filmmaker or a great actor temporarily on the skids. We never know, do we? I find it’s better to be open to life’s limitless possibilities. Once you meet a few of the Big Nicks, Edith Annes and Byllies of the world, prejudices can disappear.

  There are exceptions to every rule, certainly. At many of the venues I had worked, including Light Path, one particularly odd psychic always gave me a vague feeling of unease. And I never felt inclined to venture closer in order to change that impression.

  I’ll refer to him as S.G. (Sinister Guy). I always felt uncomfortable near him. He looked amazingly like Snidely Whiplash from the old Dudley Do-Right cartoons, only he didn’t wear a top hat or a cape. He was a sour-faced man with gray hair parted down the middle and red sideburns as well as a permanent snarl to his upper lip that was only partially hidden by a pencil-thin moustache. The moustache only added to his old-movie-villain aura. He was the epitome of a phony psychic, in my opinion. He might have been a shining citizen, a good father, or even an astonishingly accurate psychic; I just didn’t like him. His beady, shiftless eyes unnerved me. He seemed to sit in some sort of judgment of those surrounding him, surveying the scene while sitting bolt upright beside a piece of cardboard signage that displayed his name and a few yellowed newspaper clippings chronicling his accomplishments.

  Yet like a bad road accident, I was always drawn to watching him, perhaps because he appeared to be so odiously mysterious. Each time S.G. had a sitter, that sitter looked equally as depraved and sinister as he did. And he appeared to deliver his readings bitterly, perhaps blinded by some greed or unhappiness with his life.

  Maybe it was me. Maybe I was seeing in Sinister Guy a crude reflection of where I might one day end up, if I chose to weave my duplicitous psychic path without any spiritual redemption or lofty goals to lever me out of the con I knew this honestly to be.

  Was I living a lie? S.G. was the Jiminy Cricket, the thorn in the rose, and the constant reminder of my dark side. I read the depths of Nightmare Alley written in the lines on his face. We are all mirrors to each other. So maybe he saw the same sort of conscience and menace in me.

  Many months after watching all these rich sources of inspiration and witnessing firsthand how big a draw lectures like “Max, the Crystal Skull” were, I set my sights on putting together a snake-oil stand of my own at Light Path. It was clear that wild talk and conspiracy theories increased visibility, publicity, and readings. The more outrageous and improbable a presentation’s premise, the better the ticket sales.

  There was good money to be made with a solid lecture/performance, plus I could take it on the road. The topic could center on almost anything, as long as it was New Agey. Not so coincidentally, I was working several long-distance hoax schemes with my cohort Tony “Doc” Shiels, who was then living in Cornwall, England. We were plotting a little world conquest through many nefarious channels, including Fate magazine in the U.S. and Fortean Times in the UK. Our idea was to devise the mother of all hoaxes and foist it upon an unsuspecting media. We were already making up outrageous conspiracy theories to generate publicity, shameful as that may be.

  Doc was already a legend in the UK from his invocation of the Loch Ness monster. Thanks to his guidance and inspiration, plus the added journalistic writing skills of a young woman named Luna Mars, we had come up with one hell of a fish tale and sold it lock, stock, and salty barrel to Fate magazine.

  We had postulated that during that year’s annual whale migration off the coast of California, there would be a major interspecies breakthrough between cetaceans and humans. This would ultimately lead to communication becoming possible with extraterrestrials, who we all know have lived in the deepest parts of this planet’s oceans for centuries, yes? The whales would be our go-betweens. After we had been published this tale in Fate magazine, I felt well versed enough in our theory to form an act of sorts. I sought out the name of the person in charge of booking the lecture calendar at Light Path, Merlina, and approached her about my idea.

  “You have heard about the recent whale communications, haven’t you?”

  “You mean the calls that they make? We have a lovely CD of that over here.” Merlina attempted to guide me over to the bookstore’s collection of CDs.

  “Oh, no, no, not that. I mean the research that the scientists up at Stanford have been working on. There’s a major breakthrough expected by the end of this year’s whale migration. They’re saying the whales are beaching themselves for a reason. It’s almost a suicidal impulse, you know.”

  “Really? I didn’t realize they had solved that mess yet.” Merlina put down the dream-catcher macramé she was hanging in one corner and turned to pay closer attention.

  “Oh, yes. Haven’t you heard of the U.S. Navy’s low-frequency sonar arrays and how they affect the whales?”

  “Well, sort of . . . ” Merlina’s interest looked sympathetically piqued.

  “It drives the whales crazy. It’s like banging a giant drum in their ears. The whole sonar thing is a massive cover-up anyway. The government says it is part of a system for detecting enemy submarines, but everyone I respect knows the real truth.”

  The cover of FATE magazine’s issue on Unidentified Submerged Objects (USOs) containing the Whalien Conspiracy, Jan. 1999.

  One of many advertisements for lectures, demos, hoaxes and bamboozles during the ’90s.

  I waited to see if Merlina would take the bait.

  “What’s the truth?” She looked concerned.

  “The sonar system penetrates into areas of the deepest underwater trenches where no submarine could ever operate. It’s too deep. What do you think they are looking for down that deep?” I asked, adding conspiratorially, “What do you think they are really chasing after?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Aliens, of course. Who else could take that kind of depth and pressure?”

  “That makes sense.” She nodded. “And you know about such things?”

  I whi
spered, “Strictly on a scientific level, of course. It’s all very hush-hush, you know. I have some contacts in Europe who are trying to stay on top of it. They say we are on the brink of an interspecies breakthrough that will be a code-breaker between mankind and the cetaceans. The great whales are going to be the bridge between the aliens and us. Finally there will be proof that they exist beyond doubt. Otherwise, if we keep poking around with all that low-frequency stuff, the whales will eventually die off. It’s purely a matter of survival for them.”

  “Wow.” Merlina’s mouth was now agape. “Listen, do you think you could put together a presentation for our UFO group on all this? It sounds fascinating!”

  I mirrored her look of concern and offered, “It would of course be highly speculative on my part. I have no real proof, just some research and magazine articles to back it up. Do you think we could sell tickets to something like that?”

  “I know we could.” She set her face in a look of militant activism. “We have to get the word out for the sake of the whales!”

  “And humanity,” I added soberly.

  Five weeks later the show was on. I stepped onto the pulpit of Light Path with a mere fifteen or twenty hardcore UFO fans and other curiosity seekers in attendance. The official Orange County Art Bell Chat Club held court with forty minutes of nonstop conspiracy theories that proved to be an excellent warm-up for my act. I had my fish story ready to cook and delivered it with all the earnestness and compassion I could gather. I went nuts with enthusiasm.

  The crowd ate it up as fast as I could dish it out, nodding with affirmation to each other like a group of professorial educators.

  Not being one to pass up any opportunity to drive home any message, I arranged two or three conjuring tricks dressed up as relics of the sea and put proverbial frosting on the cake. One of my artifacts was a marketed magic shop effect consisting of a small rectangular block of wood. Due to its diabolic inner construction, this little item would fall over after a minute or two when balanced atop another object in the correct manner. I combined this trick with an old champagne bottle covered with lichen and barnacles bought from the local antique mall. I caused quite a stir with my finale.

  “This piece of wood is all that is left of the Lucky R, a sixty-five-foot boat that once belonged to Robert and Thelma Reid. The boat disappeared between Palos Verdes and Catalina on New Year’s Day last year. The authorities said there was no evidence of an explosion or fire, and only pieces this size or smaller were found floating on the water the next day. The ocean around that area is over 2,500 feet deep. Their son Charles Reid is still missing. We just don’t know whether he drowned, was abducted, or . . . maybe he saw too much? I also have a bottle found nearby. Of course you all know about the secret government testing that has been going on in the channel between here and Catalina?”

  Several of the Art Bell clan nodded in confirmation and glared at each other knowingly.

  “Local newspapers have been reporting about the recently declassified Black Ops project Operation Sea Spray. This code name refers to the Sea Shadow, a new stealth boat making secret practice runs up and down the coast through the Catalina channel at night, under the cover of darkness. This boat travels at over 150 miles per hour. This is now declassified information, available thanks to the Freedom of Information Act.”

  The crowd nodded again to each other.

  “You can’t see the Sea Shadow coming. I gather that Mr. and Mrs. Reid didn’t see it coming either.”

  After reeling off this and other facts gleaned in my investigations, I prepared to throw them my sucker punch. “I have hopefully made you all aware in this lecture that there’s a lot going on in the oceans that we don’t know about. We know more about the surface of the moon than we know about the bottom of the Pacific Ocean and what may or may not be living there. I do know that when this bottle and this piece of wood are placed together, and we concentrate, they may give us all a sign, a physical sign of the power of the sea and everything that lives there. I propose an experiment, or if you prefer, a séance. A séance is defined as a meeting or session to invoke a spirit. I want to invoke your inner spirit. I’m going to place this bottle up here on the podium and place this piece of wood on top of it.”

  Suiting actions to words, I balanced the bottle on the podium’s very edge and the wood on the top of the bottle’s opening, forming a T-shape.

  I now had about sixty seconds to invoke my spirit guides before both items would fall to the floor, thanks to the wooden block’s ingenious construction. I made sure to walk down the center aisle of the church so that I would be as far away from the pulpit as possible. No threads or attachments were needed.

  “I now ask everyone present to concentrate with me. Concentrate, if you will, on the vast, untapped powers of the sea. Storms, tidal movements, and tsunamis all dwarf our puny human abilities to control nature. If you have ever experienced such great power, send all of that thought energy to the piece of wood across the room.”

  I raised my voice further. “We came from the sea, and to the sea we shall return. Some may say that the dark side of the sea haunts both man and the spirit world. Others say that it resonates with an energy we have yet to understand. Whatever you wish to call this great, unknown spirit of the sea, this equalizer that is stronger than any mortal and binds us all together, call on it now! The power of the sea can move mountains. Can we cause it to move a stick of wood here tonight? Let’s try.”

  I knew I now had about twenty seconds left. I fell silent and glanced around the room. Half of the audience was riveted on the block and bottle, while others were sitting with heads bowed. A few had their eyes closed and others evidenced clenched fists and a rigidity that could only suggest intense concentration. In the finest tradition of a stage hypnotist, I had successfully managed to induce the entire room into a high state of suggestibility.

  It wouldn’t have mattered if the block and bottle hadn’t moved at all. The audience had bought my story and that was all that truly counted. After a few more tense moments, almost on perfect cue, the block tipped off its perch from atop the bottle. This caused both objects to clatter off the edge of the podium onto the floor in one glorious movement.

  Eyes bulged and people stayed perfectly still in their seats. The silence was numbing. No magician-style applause was going to result from this group. I relaxed my shoulders in a show of complete exhaustion, as I had seen many mediums in Hollywood movies do, and then slowly made my way back to the microphone on the podium.

  “Any questions?” I asked as my eyebrows rose.

  There was that stunned silence I have learned to crave. Then hands were raised slowly in many parts of the room.

  “Can you do that again?” A guy with a long red beard asked.

  “No,” I answered wearily.

  “I don’t know how you did that!” one lady squealed.

  “I didn’t do it, we did it together,” I insisted.

  An older woman clutching her hand to her throat blurted out, “If the aliens come, what do we do?”

  “Come? They are already here. They have always been here. They only want to help us. Better you should ask the army and the navy what they will do when the whales, dolphins, and their alien friends finally start talking to us in a language we can all understand.”

  Whale investigation photo from the FATE magazine article, Jan. 1999.

  Applause followed this declaration. This humble charlatan was hailed as a hero. I was likely only saved from being struck down by a bolt of lightning by the very spiritual aspect of the message I had invoked.

  The most satisfying comment ended up coming from an old salt who stood up in his Greek fisherman’s hat and boldly stated, “Ya’ know, I had a hard time swallowing all that alien and whale stuff, but when you asked me to concentrate, at first I couldn’t get anything. But I swear the very second my mind went back to when I nearly drowned in Okinawa, that damn wood fell over and woke me straight outta that memory. It was incredible. I’
m glad to be alive and your lecture has reminded me of that. Thanks.”

  “That’s all the aliens want,” I added solemnly. “Life.”

  It was all for this one man’s moment of rapture and the realization of how precious life can be—whether you be human, whale, or alien—that the whole event was made worthwhile. He had gotten it, and he would likely remember it for the rest of his life.

  It’s probable that many others in the audience experienced differing degrees of the same epiphany, but were too shy to share it, too confused, or even knew it was all a trick. It didn’t matter. And yes, I made a little money on the deal, but I really did it for the sake of pulling it off. But nobody calls the Pope a con artist, do they? Water into wine? No problem. How did Jesus feed five thousand people with only one fish? The simplest answer is probably the correct one: with very small pieces. Call me a fraud or label me a trickster, these are the moments I live for. Creating illusions and connections this strong is an art.

  I was astonished at the simplicity of the whole enterprise at Light Path. If I walked up to a woman in a Beverly Hills bistro and started to give her a standard reading, telling her all about herself and her future the way a psychic does in today’s competitive market, she would probably call security and have me removed. Give me a crystal ball or a pack of tarot cards and a six-by-ten-foot banner advertising PSYCHIC READINGS and that same woman will stand in line for an hour for the same exact reading. This is the reality I live in.

  With the reputation of countless centuries of psychic belief preceding me, it takes very little to win over the average person. I’m granted permission to utter the most personal and off-the-wall comments merely because of what I’m perceived to be. Perception is everything. It matters not what the psychic chooses to use as his or her vehicle of enlightenment. Whether it’s panther bones or I Ching coins, they all form a readable pattern or loose script that drives the reader forward and provides the excuse to convince total strangers of something. The sitters transform what I say into their own profound insights. It’s all storytelling and this story can be attached to a cat turd as easily as to a runestone, if we can get the sitter to sit down for it.