I
watched a TV show last night where a group of women who were longtime friends
were arguing about going to see a psychic. Half of the women thought it would
be good fun, while the other half didn’t want any part of it because they were
certain psychics channeled some kind of voodoo power.
The
show made me think of the times I’ve had psychic readings, mainly out of
curiosity. The first was at Old Orchard Beach, back when I was about 20. The
woman, a Madame Somebody, told me I would marry a fair-haired man named Robert
who lived out of state.
My
mouth fell open. At the time, I was dating a fair-haired man named Robert who
was from the Boston area. When I later told him what the psychic had said, he
laughed, probably because he thought I’d made up the whole thing just so I
could bring up the topic of marriage.
As
it turned out, I married a dark-haired guy named Joe, from my own city.
Then,
back in 1999, I saw an advertisement on TV for a psychic hotline where people
could get “authentic” psychic readings. And as an introductory offer, the first
two minutes of the phone call would be free. Once again, curiosity got the
better of me, so I dialed the 1-900 number.
“Welcome,”
a female voice answered. “I’m Vicki, psychic number 714. How can I help you?”
“Yes,
I’m interested in the free psychic reading you advertised on TV,” I said.
“Fine,”
she said. “Your first two minutes are free, then every minute thereafter will
be $3.99, which will appear on your telephone bill. Now tell me something about yourself – your hobbies, your
interests.”
I
was tempted to say, “If you’re really psychic, you already should know what my
hobbies and interests are,” but I didn’t want to waste a single second of my
two free minutes. I quickly told her I
enjoyed photography and writing.
Vicki
said, “That’s good. Now, let me concentrate on my vision for you…”
She
then went silent, as if waiting for my aura to come through the telephone
line. Actually, she was just killing
time, but I was too clueless to realize it at that point. Finally, she said, “You have to drink wine
and take long walks in the woods.”
I
wanted to tell her that if I drank wine, I wouldn’t be able to stand up, never
mind take a walk anywhere, but I simply asked, “Why?”
“The
walks will help stimulate your thought processes so you can write a great
novel,” she explained. “And the wine…well, it’s not actually the wine you need,
it’s something in it. Let me
concentrate on what it is.”
I
checked my watch. One minute and 20
seconds already had slipped by.
“It’s
the berries!” Vicki exclaimed. “You
need the berries!”
“Why?
Do you foresee constipation in my future?”
She
laughed. “No. Berries will make you
clairvoyant.”
That
was a new one to me. I’d eaten bushels
of berries (mainly inside blueberry muffins) in my life, and as far as I could
tell, I didn’t have a clairvoyant bone in my body.
“Do
me a favor and close your eyes,” Vicki instructed. Fool that I was, I obeyed, not realizing it was her “psychic” way
of preventing me from looking at my watch.
“Now
take a deep breath and picture yourself in the finest hotel in Jamaica,” she
said. “You’re eating strawberries dipped in chocolate, there’s a warm breeze
blowing through your window, champagne is chilling in a bucket on the table…”
My
eyes flew open. “What on earth does any of this have to do with predicting my
future?” I interrupted.
Vicki
sighed impatiently. “I’m trying to put you in touch with your senses so you can
write a great novel! You must learn to
touch, see, smell and hear everything as if you are doing so for the first
time. It’s obvious you haven’t yet
suffered enough to write a bestseller.
Your ocean is too smooth. Your
waves have no foam – they’re not crashing against your shore.”
I
was beginning to think Vicki was the one who’d been drinking the wine.
Before
she continued to “metaphor” me to death or make me seasick, I decided to cut to
the chase. “Just tell me, will I or won’t I ever write a bestseller?”
“Yes,”
she answered, without hesitation. “You’ll write a thriller, and it will be
published in the year 2004.”
“2004?”
I repeated. “Heck, I could be dead by then!”
“No,”
she said seriously. “You won’t be.”
I
happened to glance at my watch and was shocked to see that nearly 20 minutes
had passed. Just as Vicki was about to
deliver another piece of her infinite wisdom (probably about eating pineapples
while lying in a hammock in Hawaii) I abruptly hung up. The realization that I’d been hoodwinked
into staying on the line 18 minutes longer than I’d intended (to the tune of
nearly $72) made me think of the famous old saying, “there’s a sucker born
every minute.”
Well,
2004 has long come and gone, and although I’ve written several books, the
closest I’ve come to having a bestseller is a fair-to-good seller.
Maybe
it’s time to drink some wine and go take a long walk in the woods.
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