I
turn on the TV to watch STAR TREK re-runs and there she is: Miss Cleo, urging
me to "Caal me now." I haven't called her (my son says he'll talk to her when
she calls him) and I haven't stopped at the "European Psychic," who reads palms
few blocks from my house (I figure it's okay to drive on by — she knows I'm
not coming). But that doesn't mean I'm inexperienced with psychics — on the
contrary, I've had contact with three of them over the years.
The
first time was back in the ‘60's, when I lived in New York. A friend of mine (who
may really be psychic — but that's another story) heard of this woman and
suggested we go. The woman charged a fat $5, as I recall, so it didn't involve
a huge cash outlay, and we made appointments.
I
was anticipating a little hole-in-the-wall shop with strings of beads in the doorways
and a crystal ball gazed into by a woman with long, dangling earrings and a lot
of scarves. Instead, we wound up in a very nice, beautifully furnished apartment
in a high-rise on Madison Avenue. The psychic was dressed in a business suit and
sat behind a desk; there wasn't a crystal ball or a Tarot deck anywhere in sight.
I had made up my mind
to be uncooperative — my theory was (and is) that psychics feed back stuff
they've picked up from your babbling. I gave her my name and waited. The psychic
seemed a little disconcerted, but gamely plunged in. "I see you surrounded by
papers," she said. I worked for a newspaper representative, and we had a closet
full of newspapers in the office, but my appointment was around 5:30 p.m. —
after work — and I was dressed for the work. I didn't think seeing me surrounded
by papers counted for much. What office isn't full of papers? I said, "Um." After
a few more long pauses — she clearly wanted me to talk and I stubbornly kept
silent — she told me I had a son. I had only been married a couple of years,
and we had no children then. "No, I don't," I said. "Then buy maternity clothes;
you're pregnant," she told me.
Now
I did in fact later have a son — about eight years later. Again, I don't
think that counts for much.
Another
silence was followed by, "I see you singing with a band." At that point, I lost
it and burst out laughing. The only tune I've ever been able to carry was a Lucky
Strike jingle that ran in the ‘50's. Any band that hired me would have to give
concerts exclusively for the hearing impaired.
My
first experience was a total bust, and it was a number of years before I tried
again. By that time, I was living in New Jersey and free-lancing as a theatre
critic. One of the shows I had to review was an interesting play about two sisters
who worked as psychics in the 1800's. In the spirit of the production, the theatre
had hired a group of psychics to do readings in the lobby during intermission,
and I agreed to to a sitting. The only thing I remember about it was the psychic's
insistence that, in a previous life, I'd been a Blackfoot Indian. That stuck in
my mind because it surprised me; I'd always seen myself as an Apache on the warpath.
The last time I was involved
with a psychic was about five years ago. We went through a period where everything
that could break, did. The microwave went belly up, the VCR got zapped by lightning,
the TV conked out, one car had a dead battery, the other car had something wrong
with the wiring, the pool developed a leak, the toilet overflowed, the shower
backed up, and-— in general — we were going broke with repair bills.
I have a friend who is
deeply involved with psychic readings, and she arranged (without telling me in
advance) for me to talk by telephone with a psychic in Canada. I didn't want to
offend her, so I agreed to take the phone call. There was no question of refusing
to feed him information — my friend had already filled him in on the situation.
The psychic was a man,
who was deeply religious. Every time he made a statement, he first asked God's
permission to make it. I didn't hear God answer, but apparently he did. He rambled
on for some time in generalities, and then he got down to business. "The reason
everything is breaking," he said firmly, "is that you have six dead Indians living
in your house." I managed to choke down my laughter and, after obtaining God's
and my permission, he exorcized the dead Indians. But I think he only got five
of them, because a few more things broke after the exorcism.
I've
named the remaining dead Indian "Shooting Bull" in honor of all the psychics I've
seen.
