Psychic Blues

by Mark Edward

  Each sitter was also given a small rectangle of paper to press their glamorous pouting lips upon, and I studiously scrutinized each whorl and line with my magnifying glass, as if each imprint was the rarest of butterflies. Fashionable women hovered and fluttered closer, and loved the attention—almost as much as I enjoyed giving it to them. Free lipstick? Why not? One set of lips is definitely not like another, and the spectrum of forms—from scrunched-up to lithe and relaxed—was impressive.

  “Mmm, yes. I see a great talent for art and a flair for the creative side of life in your lips. You are a person who has passion in your soul and only wishes to share it with the right people.”

  This persona was not hard to nail down given that the lady sitting in front of me was wearing a Day-Glo orange pantsuit with a zebra-striped hat, under the brim of which sat hugely oversized sunglasses perched on her surgically altered nose. Her diamonds and pearls were on full display and her nails were perfect. Her choice of lipstick was appropriately a shocking pink, further set off by a leopard-patterned scarf wound around her shoulders.

  She laughed a croaking “Ya’ got that right, sweetie,” like Phyllis Diller. All she needed was a long cigarette holder to complete the Laugh-In vignette.

  She sighed. “Now tell me about my love life.”

  “This small line that curves downward on the lower part of your lip tells me that you can get overly emotional and even sad when it comes to love and relationships. You take love very seriously, but you may not always let other people know that.”

  “I speak my mind all right, but not always about love. You’re right again. Gee. You are good. Do you do parties?”

  “Yes. My contact information is on the bottom of your lip-print paper. Give me a call anytime.”

  “My daughter-in-law is having a baby shower and you would be just the perfect gift for her.”

  “Hope to see you again . . .” A line had formed, trailing off into the lingerie department. “Next!”

  I love my work.

  Burt is from the old school, the very old school, complete with a bad toupee and the smooth-tongued charm of a carnival midway man. Dealing with Burt is an adventure in Hollywood chutzpah. Burt’s been paying me exactly the same fee for over twenty years—no cost-of-living raises and no extras. He never asks so much as tells me where I’m going, what I’ll be doing, and what I’ll be getting out of the deal. It’s always a take-it-or-leave-it deal with Uncle Burt, and there is no use haggling or begging for anything like travel or parking reimbursement. I usually take his deals. He knows all the rungs of the Hollywood ladder, upwards and downwards. He could get a client anything from a bald-headed stripper to a herd of reindeer, if that client is willing to put up with his banter.

  “I need psychic shtick for an Elks Club dinner this Saturday night. You get your usual.”

  I replied the same way I had for nearly a quarter of a century: “Sure, Burt. I’ll check back with you first thing Sunday morning.”

  Burt always pipes up with the exact same thing, before he hangs up: “Good, ‘cause I wanna get that check out to you and into your hot little hand as soon as I can, so that you can get on with your incredibly successful career.”

  Burt’s so glib, so polished, so . . . obnoxious. How can anyone possibly argue with a pro like Burt?

  Quick and to the point, he is, day after day, night after night—like clockwork. He’s a legend in this town. Everybody has at least one Burt story to tell. If you’re a singer, musician, magician, palm reader, ventriloquist, caricature artist, popcorn vendor, or fire-eater living in Los Angeles, you know Burt.

  Which begs the question, why would a psychic need an agent like Burt if he or she were really psychic? There’s no simple answer for the believers, but for everyone else it’s purely a matter of turning superstition into coin, which after all remains one of the best definitions of the word “magic.”15

  So far, my favorite agent entrepreneur, who has built his image on all the classic Hollywood stereotypes put together (with a dash of the most up-to-date fastidiousness) has to be Rodney, party planner to the stars. Combine all the eccentricities I previously chronicled into one person. Then add some brash gayness and a complete disregard for both talent and the need for civility toward entertainers, and you have Rodney.

  I first met Rodney when trying to find a place to pee at Eddie Murphy’s baby shower. He was running rampant, like a Napoleonic tyrant, shouting high-pitched commands to his catering staff, who were doing their best to dodge his mood and stay busy. I had arrived at Eddie’s palatial home early with some time to kill. Knowing I would soon be sitting in one place on uncomfortable metal folding chairs for close to four hours, I slipped away, in search of a restroom. A solemn-faced set designer, who was busy hefting huge potted ferns around the pool, directed me to a man standing nearby. Not knowing any better, I walked straight up to him and introduced myself.

  “Hello, I’m Mark. I’m one of the psychics.”

  The man visibly bristled. “Yeah? So what. Go back to your table and wait for my signal.”

  “Fine, but first I need to take a piss. Where’s the loo?”

  “There’s a wooden shed in the back for you people. It doesn’t close all the way, but that’s it. Now don’t bother me. And don’t go near the house either. You are not allowed inside under any circumstances.”

  I made my way through a tangle of pre-party chaos to what must have been the servants’ restroom, a small broom-closet-like structure hanging off one side of a rickety wooden deck that led out to the pool. The door was indeed partly off its hinges and the inside of this makeshift crate looked worse than a truck-stop toilet. I took care of my business and, on my return, crossed back in front of the same irritable man, who glowered at me like I was a mangy dog.

  He screamed after me, “And don’t forget to put on your fez!”

  I had no idea who this obnoxious guy was at the time, but I intuitively knew I should obey his every wish. I put on the ridiculous red fez I had been given and adjusted the gold tassel away from my face. At least it wasn’t a turban.

  “So,” I asked my agent, Greg, the next day, “who was that guy at Eddie’s party with the big mouth?”

  “Oh, you must mean Rodney. An overweight guy who looks like Manuel Noriega, only with a shaved head and horn-rimmed glasses?”

  “That’s the guy!” The description was startlingly on target.

  Greg sighed. “He’s harmless. He’s just from New York.”

  Fast-forward several years to a high-end private party in Newport Beach. My agent had told me to arrive early and find Rodney. He would tell me where to go, so to speak.

  I was valet-parked at a tremendous mansion on Newport Bay, one with what I have come to refer to as a James Bond-villain type of layout. This lair was hopelessly overdecorated with priceless Asian antiques, and featured its own lap pool, which ran at right angles to a private boat dock. It was unbelievably opulent. The kitchen had its own built-in sushi bar. And the high-ceilinged library was one of the most impressive rooms I had ever seen. You could almost imagine Dr. No greeting his guests with a martini—shaken, not stirred.

  The party was in full swing when I came through the entryway and I set out to find Rodney. I approached a cocktail waitress wearing black fishnet stockings and pussycat ears, and serving drinks from a silver tray.

  I yelled over the din, “Hiya! Do you know where I can find Rodney?”

  She listlessly pointed to a gargantuan fireplace ablaze with giant timbers the size of small telephone poles. Leaning against it was a fellow dressed immaculately in a gray suit with a black turtleneck. He immediately made eye contact with me, and I fought my way through a loud throng of revelers.

  Ready for the worst, I offered my hand. “Hello. My name is Mark. I’ll be your psychic for the night.”

  “Really?”

  He turned back to his conversation. Classic Rodney, I thought. He was playing this gig low-key, which was smart. There was no need to be catty within e
arshot of this crowd.

  “Where would you like me to go?” I asked cautiously.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask the host? He’s standing over there.” He pointed to a smiling Dan Quayle lookalike wearing a white linen suit and woven straw loafers, sipping a martini.

  I waited for my turn to interrupt the adulation this person was getting from the small clique around him, and then ventured a cordial “Hello. My name is Mark. I’m your psychic for tonight.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Mark. Where would you like to work?”

  “I couldn’t help but notice your library on my way in. Would that be all right?”

  “Perfect. Go for it and enjoy yourself.” He waved me away and off I went to the library.

  Once there, I sat myself down on a huge Asian throne attached to a raised dais on which several couples were drinking and snuggling each other. I soon settled into three nonstop hours of tarot readings. It was all love and money, with an emphasis on money. When I needed a break, I wandered back out into the teeming living room. I decided that at such a stupendous affair it would be better to first ask for a break, so I approached the Man in the Gray Suit.

  “I’m going to take a short ten-minute break. Is that okay?”

  He looked at me with a blank expression and said, “Sure, why not? The food is great. It’s over there, past the lap pool.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled. I strolled in his pointed direction through several knots of important-looking people munching and nodding to each other as they surveyed a tastefully lit yacht. Rodney wasn’t such a bad guy after all. He had actually allowed me to partake of the sumptuous celebrity food.

  I meandered my way past some of America’s most beautiful people to a floor-to-ceiling wall of box-like shelves skillfully interwoven with delicious scallops, skewered rock shrimp, Ming vases, and gilded Buddhas. As I passed each group of babbling guests, I caught snatches of conversation that I listened to carefully. I might be able to use some of this information later. Most of what I heard were angry diatribes against liberals and Democrats. Although Ronald Reagan himself had his own astrologer, I made a mental note to steer clear of all political minefields in my final hour of tarot ramblings.

  I had just dipped a gorgeous section of macadamia-encrusted rack of lamb into some perfectly divine plum sauce when a small man, who I was forced to acknowledge, tugged at me from behind.

  “So, you’re getting yourself something to eat, eh?”

  “Yes, and it’s very good too. You should try the Greek caviar. It’s delicious.”

  The gentleman flushed beet red and raised his voice. “Yeah, well, when you’re finished feeding your face, you can get back to work!”

  “Really? Okay. I’ll be back to my tarot cards in a few minutes, if you don’t mind. Who are you, anyway? I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” Suddenly, I was getting that sinking feeling.

  “I’m Rodney,” he blared in my ear so closely I could smell his Merlot breath. “Who else would I be?”

  I hastily gave my half-empty plate of delicacies into a waiter’s hands that had magically appeared out of nowhere, and rushed back to the library, stopping only to grab a glass of Evian water.

  I never discovered who the Man in the Gray Suit was. To his credit, he had probably just written me off as another OC eccentric when I’d introduced myself, and had smoothly gone along with a potentially embarrassing situation, which could have become ugly at the end of the night, when it came time for me to ask for my check.

  The real Rodney ignored me for the remainder of the party. Eventually, while he was bidding everyone farewell from his appointed end zone at the valet’s station, I handed in my ticket to leave. Rodney was clearly just as exhausted as I was, yet this state of near collapse did not prevent him from delivering one final sneering comment.

  “You really are a lousy psychic.”

  What may have sounded to the crowd like just another snide jab from a drunken bystander hit home. In his own perverse and charmless Hollywood wisdom, given my mix-up with whoever was the real Rodney, he was of course quite right.

  15 From the seminal work by Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary (London: Neale Publishing Company, 1911). Recommended reading.

  CHAPTER IX

  LADIES’ NIGHT

  No amount of logic can shatter a faith consciously based on a lie.

  —Lamar Keene16

  The drive was grueling. Unlit freeway signs and dark stretches of empty toll roads that seemed to go on forever added to my sense of foreboding. Could this be right? What do people do way out in places like this, anyway? Make lots of money, I surmised. Two solid hours into the godforsaken outland of northeastern Orange County, I hoped that Yahoo! Maps had performed its magic correctly.

  Finally, a faint light showed through the mist and fog, and I rolled up to a gated community guardhouse to inquire whether or not I had found the correct address. I was solemnly let in and told to follow the signs. It was so dark I could barely see any street signs or road markings—just row upon row of huge cookie-cutter mansions covered in Christmas lights and tacky lawn ornaments.

  There was no movement on the streets except my own car and a few downed tree branches skidding across the road in the wind. Could this be the village from The Stepford Wives I have heard so much about? Or could I be near the dreaded sand pits from Invaders from Mars? Somehow, deep down in my psychic gut, I knew this was going to be one of those evenings—one that would run against all my hopes for enjoyment, familiarity, and good taste.

  I slowly pulled up to a massive marble-faced home that could have doubled for a mausoleum and checked my maps one last time. I was as ready for this night as I was ever going to be and amazingly right on schedule. The eerie strains of female laughter, mixed with country and western music, wafted from the curtained windows above. I mentally reminded myself that a job is a job and made my way through heavy gusts of leaves and bracken to the cavernous front porch and rang the doorbell. A woman talking on her cell phone opened the door and motioned me forward without speaking a word of greeting.

  I introduced myself to the next person I saw with a hearty handshake and an attempt at light humor. “Good evening. I’m the psychic you ordered.”

  Anne, the corpulent corporate hostess, then greeted me in a businesslike manner, despite the fact that this was the third party I had worked for her in a year. She had ended up after both previous engagements crying on my shoulder, yet I had discovered that Anne was at her core a cold, hard person, even after she got a few drinks under her belt. The last time I had worked for her had been with the same top-name corporate financial group, but during a mixed-singles party on a boat cruising around Southern California’s posh Newport Beach harbor. That night I had felt trapped on board for the five long hours of the cruise, without breaks, food, or water to sustain me. So for tonight’s soiree, I had brought along an apple and some pretzels with my tarot cards in my mojo bag, anticipating the same treatment.

  Tonight was their annual Holiday Ladies’ Night, and I was their specially invited psychic friend. I was escorted through a baronial living room bedecked with an overkill of holiday cheer, Christian-style. The fireplace was completely covered with an unbelievably horrendous collection of Christmas-themed Beanie Babies. We’re talking seventy-five to a hundred little reindeer, Santas, elves, and gnomes. It was way over the top, even for FAO Schwarz at their holiday best. The fire was an uninspiring fake gas log that certainly didn’t balance with the rest of the arrangement.

  The smell of cinnamon, potpourri, and pine needles competed for my nose’s attention. On a huge armoire next to the fireplace sat what appeared to be a collection of several dozen nativity and Nutcracker figures along with some tin soldiers, all surrounded by a thin layer of cotton or some other wispy material that looked like the decorator had been going for a snow-scene look. The whole jumble was lit from underneath, giving everyone who stood near it a pasty-white complexion. I love the idea of ghosts at Christmas, but I was
sure this winter vision had never been intended as such a macabre backdrop.

  An oversized dining table dominated the center of the room, set up with an enormous four-tiered, almost ceiling-high arrangement of chocolates, truffles, ice cream cakes, and other super-deluxe candies, all topped with tinsel. It was so overwhelming to behold, even the caterers stood by looking at it in awe, watching for a telltale drip to manifest itself and destroy the perfection of the creation.

  Almost before I could set my bag down, an anorexic brunette swept into the room and immediately clutched my arm, gushing, “Oh, you must be the psychic! I’d love to help you warm up before you really start working the party.”

  I’ve heard this sentiment voiced many times and can’t imagine what “warming up” has to do with what I’ve been hired to do. I’m confident that a plumber doesn’t need to warm up before he fixes a toilet, and I doubt he would start any earlier than when he was good and ready to get to work.

  As gently as possible I reminded her, “I’ll start in fifteen minutes. I need to find a chair and a table, set up, and then I’ll talk to you, okay?”

  As I tell my sitters endlessly, a giver tends to attract takers. Nine times out of ten at these sorts of bloated gatherings I will end up staying additional time, especially when the toasted hostess finally realizes that she hasn’t had her own fortune told, which invariably ends with me staying for that one last excruciating reading. Can I say no to the person who hired me? Not if I want to work for her or any of her friends again.

  Anne escorted me upstairs, through her bedroom, and out onto a tiny windswept balcony. Snow was the only missing element from this frigid, wintry tableau.

  “We thought it would be nice for you to set up out here,” Anne said, pointing to a small wooden picnic table wrapped in a fluttering black tablecloth. A waiter was trying to light a restaurant-style tower heater in the near gale-force wind that had kicked up.