Psychic Blues

by Mark Edward

  True story: A skeptic in the UK went to a psychic fair and watched a reader do a standard reading for his wife. After witnessing the reading, he was irritated by its generalities.

  Enjoying another evening’s entertainment with a fellow psychic at The Haunted Hayride, Hollywood, CA, 2010

  “Anyone can do what you did,” he protested. “I can’t believe we paid for that!”

  The psychic shot back, “No, sir, I doubt that. The tarot is an ancient psychic tool that I, as a gifted channel, can work with.”

  “Rubbish! There’s no magic in your silly cards. I could do what you did with anything. They’re printed paper. It’s all in what you said and how my wife responded to it.”

  The skeptic happened to have a banana in his hand at the time. It had been his chosen snack that day. “All right, then I’ll do a reading on you using this banana,” the skeptic proposed. “How’s that?”

  “The banana?”

  “That’s right, the banana. The way you peel the banana will tell me about your past. The way you eat the banana will tell me what’s going on in your present. And the lines on the inside of the banana peel will tell me everything I need to know about your future.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “You don’t think much of my own psychic powers, do you?” the skeptic challenged.

  “All right, do it!” said the confident psychic, sure that anything as silly as a banana reading would come to naught.

  The skeptic went ahead and did a reading for the psychic and, at its end, the psychic had to admit that the skeptic had been ninety percent correct with everything he had said. The skeptic’s reading had consisted of general statements as well, but the psychic, being the believer and not wanting to lose any more credibility with the rest of the crowd, had taken it all as the gospel truth.

  But the most astounding part of this story is what transpired some years later, when the skeptic apparently fell on hard times after losing his job. Desperate for work, his wife halfheartedly suggested he start doing psychic readings to supplement their income. He’s been a very successful reader ever since.

  I’m not in a position to confirm or deny whether he continued to use bananas to claim his rightful place among the luminaries of British psychic stardom, but who knows? This true story not only illustrates my point about the “anything goes” aspect of the psychic world we live in, but also served to inspire me, when I first heard, to greater acts of paranormal tomfoolery and my own experimentation in the realm of banana readings.

  As my days at Light Path became longer and I grew bored with what was becoming to me a depressing scene, I decided I had learned what I felt at the time I had needed to learn. Dealing with half-hour- to hour-long readings with borderline lunatics had become too much work for what I was getting out of the experience. A healthy chunk of these people needed serious psychiatric help. Plus, I was becoming lazy and repetitive in my readings and generally complacent.

  One morning on my way to Anaheim to work my usual day at the fair, I passed a Mexican grocery store. Sitting in the morning sun on top of one of the fruit stalls was a gigantic bunch of ripe bananas, probably twenty or thirty on one large stalk. It was a thing of beauty. It reminded me of the story of the English skeptic/psychic, and my mischievous side began to plot. I wondered what my friend Peter would say if instead of my usual table setup of crystals and cards, I cleared everything off except for a colossal bunch of bananas?

  My risk-taking, little-to-lose circuits fired off road flares in my brain. What could anyone say or do to stop me? A psychic would probably have to physically rob or kill someone to be asked to leave the sanctity of the Light Path Foundation. Betsy needed us psychics far more than we needed her. I had already brought aliens and dolphin magick into their lair.

  So I slid a twenty-dollar bill into the hand of the grateful grocer and filled the backseat of my car with an abundance of brilliantly yellow fruit.

  I arrived a little later in the morning than usual, due to my stop, and carried in my divination tools after everyone else had set up and was rolling along as usual. I plopped the bunch down on my assigned table with a thunk. I casually sat down, as if nothing was amiss. I didn’t notice anyone bat an eye in my direction. I imagined they thought I had finally lost it and didn’t want to chance disturbing the communally discreet psychic vibrations.

  As soon as Peter had finished with his current sitter, he strolled over as casually as he could manage. “Hi, Mark,” he said cheerfully.

  “Hey, Pete. What’s goin’ on?”

  “What’s with the bananas?”

  “The bananas?” I asked, as if confused by his question.

  “Yeah, the bananas. I mean, where’s your stuff?”

  “My stuff? Oh, yeah. Well, I’m reading bananas today. It’s the latest thing in England, you know. People really like it. They get to have a reading and eat a snack for the same price.”

  Peter looked worried. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  Suddenly people were turning their heads and tuning in to our conversation. Sitters, caught in mid-reading with their respective psychics, were dumbstruck as they watched us both. I even thought I caught the slightest shade of a grin on Sinister Guy’s face.

  “No, I’m not kidding. Would I kid you? The way they peel it tells me about their past, the way they eat it tells me about their present, and the lines on the inside of the peel tell me about their future. You should try it sometime, Pete.”

  “Whatever, Mark. But I predict you won’t be too busy today.” Peter moved away from my table like he might catch something from me.

  I was busy all day, once word got around about what I was doing and onlookers had had a chance to see that I was taking the whole thing quite seriously. People like something different now and then. They enjoy a novelty. I was definitely offering at least that much for a dollar a minute.

  Peter’s prediction was wrong, of course. I didn’t do quite as many readings as some of the other days I had worked there, but it also took extra time for the sitters to chew their banana and I had to be patient with their eating habits. A couple of my regulars came by, and one lady I had given readings to dozens of times refused to eat her banana. It was just too much for her, poor thing. I still managed to tell her what she needed to hear, which hadn’t changed that much since we had first met years earlier. I averaged just about the same amount of money by the day’s end as I usually did, and I had enjoyed a hilarious afternoon. Plus, it was a very healthy alternative to the pizza shack next door.

  The office staff never mentioned it. Why should they, as long as they got paid? I probably stretched the limits of my credibility with this stunt, but I often wonder whether anyone ever asked for a banana reading after I left Light Path.

  Still, even if it was a sign of my desperation to move on toward new things—and new places—during my time there I had been initiated into a rare school of mystery and wonder that few in my line of work can walk away from. Though after that weekend I admit I returned to tarot cards and palms. Bananas can get expensive.

  10 Read M. Lamar Keene’s insightful book The Psychic Mafia (“as told to” Allen Spraggett, New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1976) for a glimpse into the sordid world of the professional psychic and the true believer in the early decades of spiritualist fraud.

  11 Sadly, Jules has since passed on to that magic lounge in the sky and is no doubt flipping over tarot cards and gently pulling on his elegant cigarette holder there now.

  12 American cartoonist known for his darkly humorous and macabre characters.

  13 I would talk with Edith Anne at length dozens of times in the coming weeks, until Betsy informed me one day that she had passed away. She hasn’t made a spectral appearance so far and it’s been quite a few years. Thanks, Edith Anne, for all your valuable insights, wherever you are.

  CHAPTER VII

  VERY PRIVATE

  READINGS

  I discovered early on that however well you think other peopl
e are getting on with their lives, they’re just muddling through. We are all going through the same shit.

  —Roger Daltrey14

  You are unique. Just like everybody else.

  —Anonymous

  A private reading with a single individual is altogether a unique kettle of fish. A private reading can be painful and unrewarding. It can also end up being the most hysterical experience, in every sense of the word—particularly in the frenzied, unhinged sense.

  During my years in radio and at psychic fairs and other psychic events, several memorable clients were what I call “special cases”—individuals who are obsessive about anything considered psychic and who won’t take no for an answer. They seem to feel as if I’m their own private psychic trainer or life coach. This is fine with me, if they are reasonable individuals and act on what I might tell them with a grain of salt, but when they demand a reading in supermarkets, shopping malls, or at social events where I am an invited guest, it can get beyond obnoxious. Some of these sorry souls have driven to my house, mailed me nasty letters when I wasn’t responsive enough to them, and generally made a nuisance of themselves.

  Like the irrepressible zombies in a scene from Night of the Living Dead, psychic junkies have to have their fix. They have little or no regard for others; it’s all about them. A middle-of-the-night phone call was not uncommon, and if I wasn’t around to answer and immediately provide counsel, I was frequently treated to mean-spirited threats and rants left on my answering service. I was eventually forced to rent a post office box so that I could not be tracked down so easily.

  A friend who lives in New Zealand and is one of the world’s best-known psychics and authors was once asked by a woman of dubious mental capacity who he thought was the best psychic in the United States. This woman had gone so far as to show up on his doorstep, naked and begging for a reading. Thinking to help me gain some remuneration (as well as get himself out of a nasty situation), he offered my name and phone number. For months afterward she called me at all hours, until I abruptly ended all connection to this nutty and possibly dangerous sycophant.

  Such neurotic seekers are sometimes hard to discern during a first-time call for guidance. They might start off acting quite normally, but then quickly degenerate into blithering idiots, presenting difficult situations to escape from.

  One night Tami phoned, a woman who wanted a personal reading. This was early in my days of doing private readings, and I as yet had no idea what I was getting myself into. She sounded reasonable enough. She suggested that I meet her at her nearby apartment, and we set a time and settled on a fee for a half-hour reading.

  Her modest apartment building was in a part of town known for its singles scene. As I climbed the stairs to her apartment, I thought briefly that this might be a little more intimate than the usual situation, but I needed the cash and figured I could handle it. I knocked on the door and was met by an attractive bleached-blonde in her twenties. Okay, so far so good.

  “Hi, I’m Mark. I’m here for your psychic reading.”

  “Oh, hi. Glad you could come over. Please come in.”

  I noticed immediately that Tami looked a little nervous and that she glanced over my shoulder and down the stairs as I entered her apartment. It was a nice little love nest, complete with wicker furniture and a ceiling fan. She offered me a beer, which I declined, and asked me to sit in one of her oversized modern chairs. She pulled out cash for the reading and handed it to me in a hurried manner, suggesting that she wanted me to get to work pronto. Tami bit one of her nails and brushed back her severely dated Farrah Fawcett-style bangs.

  A candid shot giving tender private guidance to a wayward young girl sometime in the late ’90s.

  “So, I need to know about my boyfriend Danny right away.”

  “Can I take out my cards first?” I asked as politely as I could.

  “Oh, sure. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m a little nervous.” She chewed bubble gum and snapped it as she talked.

  “No need to be. This will be fun. Just relax and let me do all the work.” I felt like a masseur. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

  She fidgeted in her chair. “It’s not the reading part. It’s Danny I’m nervous about.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Well, he has a terrible temper.” Tami stood and went to the window, where she pulled aside the curtain and looked down at the parking lot.

  “Temper?”

  “Oh, yes. And he’s the jealous type. Capricorn and all that.”

  “Well, this reading will be more about you than him, so let’s forget about him and see what the cards can tell us about both of you, okay?” I tried to refocus my energy on shuffling the cards and letting her cut three piles for past, present, and future, before she sprang up again and paced the room.

  A strange feeling began to creep up my spine. “You do want me to go on with the reading, don’t you?”

  “I do. It’s just that he beat up the last guy he caught in here with me. He pays the rent and all, so he thinks he owns me.”

  I looked at the three cards she had cut to and was once again reminded of the synchronistic effect the tarot can sometimes have. Spread out was all I needed to know. The past was the Emperor, a card of hard dominance and power. The present card was the Hanged Man, a card of suspension and entrapment. And to round out this uncanny set, the future card was the Devil. The Devil means avoiding the temptation to stay with things that may be holding you back and breaking any chains of bondage that may be restraining you.

  Tami’s face dropped into a look of abject fear when she saw His Satanic Majesty staring up at her.

  “Now, don’t jump to any conclusions, Tami,” I said. “Let’s see how the other cards work out before you take the Devil too seriously.”

  “He is a devil. He almost killed my ex-husband.”

  “Ex-husband?”

  “Yeah. He hurt him real bad. He’s a judo expert.”

  My throat was suddenly very dry. I was almost ready for that cold beer Tami had offered, but I thought for my own safety it might be best to remain as clear-headed as possible.

  She began to whine. “He’s just so possessive. I can’t go anywhere or see anyone.”

  “Does Danny live close by?” I tried to ask casually.

  “He lives here, but he promised he would stay out for at least an hour. He’s working out at his gym.”

  “So, how does Danny feel about psychics? I mean in general.” I was trying to be tactful, but my courage was beginning to fade.

  “He hates them. When he was a baby someone told his mother that he would turn out bad and never amount to anything. I’m starting to think that the psychic was right. That’s why I called you.”

  I checked my watch. Twenty minutes left to go. I had completely forgotten about the tarot cards. I was instead considering whether or not it was worth thirty bucks to possibly end up in a hospital.

  Tami made up my mind for me. She had been standing by the window, surveying the parking lot when she said, “Oh, shit. He’s driving into the garage. You better go!”

  In two quick motions I threw Tami’s cash back onto her coffee table and scooped up my tarot cards. I was out the door in less than ten seconds and flying down the stairs, coat in hand. I tried to look unruffled as a jarheaded jock in a sweatsuit passed me at the bottom of the stairs. He was red-faced, flexing his hands in a threatening manner, and I swear the veins in his neck were standing out.

  Life as a private reader is never boring and adrenaline is a powerful cocktail. I count my blessings often and, on occasion, wonder if Tami is still alive.

  After my KYAK stint, I usually had at least two or three private readings scheduled each week. Danielle managed to get my phone number from the Light Path Foundation. I refer to Danielle as the Woman Who Never Listened.

  For our first reading, we decided on a neutral meeting place. I refused to do any more home readings without plenty of party guests in sight to pro
tect me from liability or harm. Sacred Grounds had become my base of operations, a coffeehouse perfectly suited to my purposes. It was not too upscale and catered to a clientele of bikers, old hippies, and beach locals. The décor was shabby-chic with tons of bad art on the walls and thrift-shop couches and pillows scattered about. Their tucked-away booths gave me the privacy I needed without being too cozy.

  When I arrived, Danielle was sitting in a booth looking dejectedly out the window, an empty coffee cup in front of her on the table. Her early arrival told she was in dire need of someone to talk to.

  We apparently had the whole place to ourselves. I ordered a tea, and then slid into the booth opposite her. “You must be Danielle?”

  “Yes, and you are Mark. I saw you at Light Path, but I was too shy to get a reading from you in front of all those people.”

  “All those people? They are mostly there to get readings just like this one,” I said, hoping to put her at ease.

  “I know. I just wasn’t ready, I guess.”

  Danielle obviously had some self-esteem problems. “That’s normal. Having total strangers talk to you about your life takes some getting used to, especially if they are psychic.”

  I sized her up as I sat down. She was average-looking with short-cropped red hair, no noticeable jewelry or wedding band, and she seemed a little rumpled for her middle-forties age. She wore a buttoned-up corduroy coat; in fact, only her face and hands were not covered by clothing. I recalled an older woman I had once seen in a sideshow who had looked as normal as this, until she had stripped off her long coat to reveal a completely tattooed body.