13 Bites Volume I (13 Bites Anthology Series)

by Lynne Cantwell

  Every table included a sign which promoted the ‘Show Special,’ although it was obvious the entire group had colluded ahead of time to agree on a standard fee that should be charged. The signs were different in shape, size, and font, yet they all agreed when it came to message. At today’s show, no matter who you ended up selecting, it appeared a person could obtain a psychic reading for the bargain price of eighty dollars.

  Jake had never had a psychic reading, but he’d done some research. Regardless of where they lived or the venue offered, Internet ads, local soothsayers, and card readers all seemed to consistently quote a price of eighty dollars for a session. Jake had come to this local psychic fair hoping to save a bit of money; the radio advertisement had promised special rates only available during the event. He’d been disappointed to pay his admission and enter the small building to discover that of the forty-three exhibitors — thirty-eight of them psychics — every single one of them was charging the standard eighty dollars. There seemed to be no deals here after all.

  Jake had been coached by a spiritually minded friend before coming to the fair. “Walk around the entire event,” they’d advised him. “Don’t hire the first person you see. The best thing to do is walk around, once, maybe twice, and see if any of them stand out to you. If you feel drawn to someone specific, you know, your gut tells you they might be interesting or helpful, then talk to them. If it feels right after you’ve talked with them, then get a reading. If it doesn’t, then don’t. Timing isn’t always right for a reading, so don’t feel pressured into it.”

  Jake had done as his friend advised, slowly wandering around the perimeter of the room, making eye contact with some of the mediums, but smiling and quickly looking away so they didn’t engage him in conversation. He would stop occasionally and flip through the displayed binders, reading the testimonials. ‘Madame Cassandra was incredible. She knew everything I was thinking and helped steer me onto the right path again in my life!’ After reading one or two stories every testimonial looked very much the same, and none were very impressive. They all blended into one big jumble that proclaimed ‘unremarkable.’

  He’d noticed Truman’s booth on the first circuit but hadn’t given it more than a quick glance before moving past. On his second pass, Jake had slowed down to consider Truman more seriously. When it was time to make his third and final pass, Jake ignored the others and walked directly to Truman’s booth.

  Truman’s booth was very different from the others. The display table was completely empty of any decoration. The scuffed grey table contained nothing but a single crude sign made from the cardboard bottom of a discarded bottled water case. Folded in half and propped up, it looked like it’d been crafted by a first grade child. Written in black magic marker, the sign read:

  Truman’s Booth

  Psychic Readings;

  Not For Sale.

  A man — Jake guessed that he was Truman — sat across the table, deeply engrossed in reading a novel. He appeared to be about 40 years old and his dry brown hair stood up in different directions as if he’d just woken up from sleeping. He wore a plain green T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and well-worn canvas running shoes. Black sunglasses rested on top of his head, appearing to look at Jake with interest since the man’s head was buried in his book.

  Before approaching the booth, Jake had watched Truman for ten minutes. He hadn’t moved, except to turn the pages of his book. He didn’t look up once at any of the people walking by. The odd person had stopped and attempted to engage him, but Truman ignored them until they walked away. Jake didn’t know why, but he was fascinated with the man; he felt compelled to speak with him.

  “Excuse me,” Jake said again.

  “Okay,” Truman said without looking up. “You’re excused.”

  “I’d like a psychic reading,” Jake said.

  Truman said nothing. After a few seconds he turned the page of his book. When it became obvious that Jake was going to stand there until he received an answer, Truman reached forward. With his attention still engrossed in his book, he tapped the clumsy looking sign.

  “Says here on this sign that psychic readings aren’t for sale,” he said.

  “I didn’t say I wanted to buy a reading from you,” Jake said. “I only said that I want one. From you, please.”

  “Twenty-two.” Truman said.

  “What’s that mean?” Jake asked.

  “It means of all the people who’ve walked by my booth and read this sign today, you’re the twenty-second person clever enough to tell me you aren’t interested in buying what I so obviously am not selling.” He turned the page in his book and scanned the new one with interest. “It’s getting late in the day. Twenty-two is a decent number. Takes the longest amount of time for the first person to make the offer; usually a couple of hours. After the first clever one comes by, then the idea comes to others more quickly.”

  “What’s the most you’ve ever had?” Jake asks. “People in one day asking you for a free reading?”

  Truman turned the page again. “One hundred and twelve,” he said. “And that makes you the first person to ask me that particular question today. Congratulations.”

  “Oh,” Jake said. Truman wasn’t very personable. He didn’t make you feel like spending more time with him. Jake wondered why Truman was even here, sitting at a booth all day long when he obviously had no interest in giving readings. His interest in getting a psychic consultation with this man began to fade. Jake started to walk away.

  “Wait,” Truman said. Jake turned back, expecting that Truman would have stopped reading his book and finally looked at him.

  He was wrong. Nose still in the book, Truman was waving his hand at Jake, pointing to a bare table behind him in his booth with two folding chairs sitting opposite each other. “Come here for a minute. Let me hold your hand. If I think there’s anything worth telling you, then I’ll give you a free reading.”

  Jake stood uncertainly, not saying a word.

  “Come on, then; my charm and generosity won’t last forever. Get over here so I can be sure you’re wasting my time. I’m finding it difficult to focus on this book with all your nattering.”

  Something inside Jake told him to leave, to walk away and go get lunch. Something else told him to go ahead and hold Truman’s hand. He figured he was already here, and there was nothing to lose, so he walked back to the table and firmly gripped Truman’s extended hand.

  Immediately Jake felt a tingle; an electric sensation that turned into a jolt which entered his hand and quickly spread to envelop his arm, neck, and then skull. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unexpected and odd. There was also a warmth and a sensation of dizziness. As it faded, Truman let go of Jake’s hand.

  “Damn it.” Truman shook his head and slowly closed his book. He looked at Jake. Their eyes met and Jake felt an intense focus from Truman’s gaze. It was unsettling, but he couldn’t look away.

  “Okay.” Truman stood up and placed the book on the table. “I’ll give you a reading.”

  ~~~

  “Hey look.” A woman spoke up from the booth across the aisle. “Charly finally has a client.”

  “Poor fool,” someone in the booth to the left muttered. “Don’t waste your time with Charly.”

  Jake looked around. The entire area surrounding them had become quiet. The other exhibitors looked at him with sympathy, and at Truman with disgust. Jake looked at Truman and saw he was ignoring everyone, watching Jake blankly. “So, you coming? Or going?”

  “Why are they calling you Charly? I thought your name was Truman.”

  “It is,” Truman said. “The quacks around here all call me Charly. It’s their clever short form for ‘charlatan.’”

  “A fake?” Jake asked. “A person who claims to be something, but isn’t?”

  “Exactly,” Truman said. He held his arm out and pointed to the small reading table at the back of the booth. “Ready to get your free psychic reading or not?”

  Jake looked one more time
at the other psychics. Was he understanding this correctly? The other professionals thought Truman was a fake psychic? Why would they allow him to get a booth, then? Jake wasn’t sure what was going on, but he’d made his decision; there was no harm in sitting down to ask Truman a few more questions. He could always decide not to have the reading if things didn’t feel right. He nodded his head and walked to the back of the small booth. There were flimsy walls covered with splotched grey fabric that separated them from the booths on either side. The front of the booth was far enough away that strangers passing by wouldn’t overhear them. He sat down in the chair across from Truman.

  “I’m confused,” Jake said.

  “I’ll bet you are.” Truman nodded.

  “Are you a charlatan?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So you’re not a psychic?” Jake asked.

  “No. Where’d you get that idea from?”

  “This is a psychic fair. You have a table amidst a bunch of psychics. You’re offering psychic readings just like the rest of them...”

  Truman shook his head. “I try to make the sign as simple as possible to avoid this type of confusion.” He stood up and walked to the front of the booth, snatched the sign brusquely, and then brought it back.

  He held it up in front of Jake. “Read it. The whole sign, out loud.”

  “Okay,” Jake said. “Truman’s Booth. Psychic Readings; Not For Sale.”

  “Thank you,” Truman said. He released the sign and let it drift carelessly to the ground.

  Jake didn’t know what to say. He was starting to worry that Truman wasn’t entirely sane.

  “Look,” Truman said. “I sit in a room filled with professional psychics and admit that I’m a charlatan because I’m not like them at all. My presence at this fair does suggest that I’m one of them, but by their standards I’m a fake.”

  Jake shook his head; he still didn’t get it.

  “I’m a fake psychic, kid. These ‘real’ psychics,” Truman swept his arm around to indicate the others in the building, “are what society has come to expect. Clever people with no true ability who promise to reveal wonderful and mysterious facts about their customers’ futures. They make a big show of tapping into the spirit world, drawing cards, picking sticks out of a jar, focusing on a large crystal ball, using all sorts of tricks and techniques to impress their customers. The truth is that, whether they know it or not, all they can manage is to read the body language and signals given off by their customers, which enables them to guess enough information to appear genuine. Then they begin to make bold claims, which leaves the customer feeling good about their future. Sit here for a weekend and you’ll hear Sandy beside me say pretty much the same thing to each and every client. Jonathan, who sits two booths over, is, of course, nothing like Sandy. He uses different props and delivers a totally different script — to every customer that sits down with him. The people line up, pay their eighty bucks, get their show, and leave feeling better about their past and optimistic about their future. That’s what a real psychic does, and that’s why I’m a charlatan. I don’t do any of that.”

  “What do you do?” Jake asked.

  Truman grinned. “I give a true psychic reading. You see, I’m the only real reader in this entire building.”

  “So how does this work?” Jake asked.

  “Different than a regular reading,” Truman said. He rested a pair of dark glasses on his head and put his hand gently on what appeared to be giant headphones. “With a normal reading, you sit across from the psychic and they do their thing, whatever that might be. Then they make statements and wait for your feedback before making even more statements.”

  “Sounds right from what I understand.” Jake said.

  “They rely on your posture, breathing, body signals, pupil dilation, where you look when they make a comment, et cetera, to give them clues. The average psychic uses these cues to know when they are warm or cold.”

  “You sound like a skeptic,” Jake said.

  “I’m not,” Truman said. “It’s what they do, and most of them are very good at it. Did you see the large woman in the wheelchair a couple of booths to my left?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Madam Sansa. She speaks with a Hungarian accent and tapes all her sessions with a small digital recorder. I’ve known her for a long time. Her real name is Tina Jones and she grew up in Pittsburgh. She wouldn’t know Hungary if you flew here there and there was a big sign when you got off the plane saying ‘Welcome to Hungary.’” Truman made a sour face. “Yet she sells out each and every day. People wait in line to hear her insights, false though they are. Do you think if she got out of wheelchair — she doesn’t need it, by the way — and started calling herself Tina the Psychic, people would be as quick to line up for her?”

  “No,” Jake said. “Likely not.”

  “Of course not,” Truman said. “Sizzle sells the steak. People want a show and she gives it to them.”

  “If you don’t like the community, then why come to these things?” Jake asked. “Why put up with them if they’re all fakes?”

  “We went over this, remember?” Truman smiled. “The fake is me. I’m the only pretend snake oil salesman in this entire group full of snake oil salesmen. And the reason I come to these? It’s to meet people like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “I guess so,” Truman shrugged. “Because here you are, and I’m offering to give you a free reading.”

  “How do your readings differ?” Jake asked.

  “I put on these glasses,” Truman passed them to Jake and he looked through them. The lenses were solid dark metal; it was impossible to see anything with them on. Jake handed the glasses back to Truman.

  “Then I put the headset on. Once I do I can’t hear a damn thing.”

  “So you won’t be able to see me or hear me?”

  “Not one little bit. There’s zero chance that you’ll give me a single cue about the information I’m sharing. I will be blind and deaf. I won’t hear a word; the information is for your ears only. If you want, you can record it on your phone. From experience I can tell you that the chances of a recording being complete and of good quality are very slim.”

  “My phone is excellent,” Jake said.

  “It has nothing to do with the phone,” Truman assured him.

  “How long will the session last?”

  “Not sure,” Truman said. “It lasts until I stop talking. When I do stop, I’ll nod my head three times; then I’ll go silent and keep the headset and glasses on. This is very important; are you listening?”

  “Yes,” Jake assured him.

  “When I am done with the reading, you get up and leave. Don’t worry about paying me; we’ve already agreed that the price is zero. Do not, under any circumstances, wait for me to take the glasses off and start asking me questions about your reading. Just get up, walk out of this building, and don’t come back to talk to me again. That’s the only real price you must agree to pay for this experience. I hope you understand this, Jake; it’s very, very important.”

  “I understand. I’ll get up and leave after you’re done.”

  “Okay, then. Place your right hand on the table, about six inches away from mine so that we don’t touch.”

  Jake did as he was instructed.

  “Excellent.” Truman’s eyes sparkled as he lowered first the headset, and then the glasses over his eyes. He placed his hand on the table and smiled. “Well Jake, it looks as if we are ready to begin. I hope you enjoy the information you’re about to receive. If you’re sitting comfortably, then let’s begin.”

  Truman sat up straight, took three deep breaths, then sat quietly for a moment. When he began to speak, his voice was deeper and slower.

  The reading had begun…

  ~~~

  “I need your help, Tina.”

  The woman in the wheelchair turned around and smiled pleasantly. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, my friend,” she said in a heavy Hungar
ian accent. “I am Madame Sansa. I must look exactly like a beautiful lady named Tina, but that is not my name.”

  The man scowled and shook his head. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t have time for this. I remember seeing you here last year. There was a guy named Truman a couple booths over, and he gave me a reading. He told me who you really are. I don’t mean to sound rude, lady, but I need to find Truman and talk to him. Have you seen him around? Please, I’m desperate to find him.”

  Tina looked at the man and nodded. Now that he mentioned it, she did recognize him from the psychic fair last year. “Listen, dear,” she said. “I’m sorry you got caught up in all that last year. To be fair, everyone did try to warn you to stay away from him.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he admitted. Jake had heard the ‘we tried to warn you’ speech a lot in the past six months, and he wasn’t in the mood for it right now. “Everyone tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. Regardless of all that, I still need to find him. Is he at the show this year?”

  Tina pursed her lips together and looked around. There were no interested clients or prospects at the moment; she had a few minutes to spare. “Come to the back where it’s more private,” she offered.

  “I don’t want another reading,” Jake said.

  “I know that. I will tell you as much as I can, but I don’t want anyone else to hear.”

  “Oh.” Jake’s eyes seemed to become calmer and more clear. He nodded, followed her to the back of her booth and sat down in the chair across from her.

  Tina stared at him for a few moments until finally he raised his eyebrows and she nodded. “I haven’t seen him since the fair last year,” she said.

  Jake frowned. “Don’t most of you all do a tour? A circuit of shows that travels around the country?”

  “Yes,” Tina admitted. “Most of us, but not Charly.”

  “Don’t call him that,” Jake said.