Psychic Junkie (5 page)

Once my evenings had involved long phone conversations with Gina, but all that changed with the arrival of my cards. Not only could they tell me the future, but they could also tell me what someone was thinking. The cards were a portal into people’s minds. Sure, Gina made attempts at that as well (“What’s he thinking? He’s thinking he must be a pretty brilliant fucking actor to have gotten you to fall for all that your-eyes-are-golden bullshit”), but I liked the cards’ version much better. Besides, if I wanted them to say something, to send me a certain message, I’d just keep pulling and pulling until they did. Gina, on the other hand, would’ve snapped long ago. (“I’m on to you, missy. You want me to tell you to give him another chance, but I won’t. He sucks, and you know it.”) Of course, my repeatedly pulling cards until they said what I wanted was a little like someone dropping her diamond ring into a Cracker Jack box and then exclaiming with joy when she finds it seconds later, but that didn’t seem to bother me.

I returned to Los Angeles equipped with my trusty cards and the knowledge that the film, and I, would be a success. As the town car pulled up my street, the Hollywood sign appeared to stand a little taller, the palm trees looked a bit more majestic, and even the smoggy sky seemed not quite as choking. Yes, I was certain. My life was about to begin, and it would be amazing.

HOW WRONG I WAS.

Only a few months after returning to Los Angeles, I’d already run out of money, the only men I met were those who delivered bags of Chinese food to my door, and it looked as though a movie I’d been relying on to launch my career was taking a quick and tragic journey to video. Where was my amazing life?

Still, I believed in Aurelia’s words. It takes time, I figured, for a life to do an about-face, to upswing from the pits of despair. All the readings we continued to do—just about daily, much to the delight of my long-distance phone company—stubbornly insisted my world was on the verge of becoming magnificent, but soon I began to wonder whether seeking a second opinion might be a good idea.

Just a few blocks from where I lived was a house, a seemingly normal and dignified white Craftsman, save for the gigantic neon hand looming in the middle of the yard. Blinding pink, the sign slapped passersby with its message:
FIVE-DOLLAR PALM READINGS
! I’d glance at the sign as I drove by, somewhat scared yet slightly captured by its command, until one day the pull was just too great. With a small bag of groceries in my car and dinner with Gina planned for an hour later, I threw all obligations and logic out the window and jerked my car to the curb. I had a hand. I had five dollars. I was gonna get a reading.

Walking up the steps, I again had the same vision of a gypsy psychic that I’d had upon meeting Aurelia, all the ridiculous stereotypes one would collect from watching too much TV—the scarves, the jewelry, the crafty smile. I shook my head, picturing Aurelia in her Gap sweatshirt. I knocked on the door.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one who watched too much TV. There before me was a psychic straight from Central Casting. Long flowing dress, bright scarves, sequins, ornate gold jewelry. She even came complete with a Russian accent. Was this really how she was? Or was this an act? I couldn’t help but wonder if at the end of the day she’d stretch her arms, sigh, and then head off to her bedrooom, where she’d wash away the garish makeup and slip on a pair of jeans to watch
When Harry Met Sally…
with her girlfriends.

As the gypsy lead me inside, I knew I should run. Instinct told me to grasp at whatever logic and rationale I had remaining, say “Oh, hi, just wanted to compliment you on your tasteful sign,” and bolt. But of course I didn’t do that. Instead I followed her to the living room and sat before a crystal ball.

Once the business transaction—four singles, three quarters, a nickel, and two dimes—was out of the way, she got down to business. She studied my palm, her eyes narrowed, her gypsy breath on my skin. After about a minute she sat back and shook her head. Her jewelry clanged.

“You have a curse.”

Simple. As if announcing I had brown hair.

In silent horror I listened to the details: An older woman in my life wished me ill and had cast a curse, and till it was gone, my life would be tainted.

“
Tainted
,” she said again, “viz bad luck.”

I sat back, fleetingly noticing that the red paint she’d picked for the room was the same charming shade as blood from a fresh-cut artery, and thought, “Why, yes, this makes perfect sense.” It explained everything. Of course I had a curse! I was supposed to be happy with a career and love, but this darn curse kept blocking those things. It was like some evil force field that no goodness could penetrate. In a way I was relieved, relieved it was that simple. We’d remove the curse and I’d be gifted with the life I was supposed to have. On the way home I’d even buy a lottery ticket, as I figured the universe might tweak some numbers to help make up for lost time.

“Two hundred dollars,” the gyspy said.

I’d win two hundred dollars? Had she read my mind?

“To remove zee curse. Is bargain, special for you.” She smiled. “Cash only.”

Now I lost it. Having the curse was one thing, but not being able to afford to remove it was another. Somehow I panicked my way to the front door, made the gypsy
swear
that she’d get rid of the curse as soon as I found the money, swear that this wasn’t a one-time-only offer, and then flew out the door, past the gargantuan hand, and into my car. I could practically feel the curse on me, scratching me like an itchy sweater.

Right as I dumped my last shoe box of bills onto my bed—determined to find at least one credit card pin number—the phone rang. Thank God it was Aurelia; the second she said hello I began frantically spewing words—“scarves, curse, hand in yard, pin number, Russian”—until somehow she was able to locate the pertinent ones, string them together, and then tell me to stop.

“It’s a scam,” she said. “Are you breathing? I need to hear you take a deep breath.”

I took a deep, wobbly breath.

“It’s a scam. A very common scam. You don’t have a curse.”

I stared at my credit card statements. The entire bed was filled with them, every inch. “But—but then why isn’t my life as good as it should be?”

Aurelia laughed, softly, sweetly. “It’ll get better. And I have something you can do, if you’re still worried. Get some sage. It’s purifying. Burn it around your house, visualize the negative energy leaving, feel the air being cleansed. If there is any kind of negative energy around you, the sage will help.”

I didn’t need to hear another word. Within seconds I was in my car and about to pull away from the curb, when there was Gina, standing on the sidewalk, ready for the dinner I’d neglected to cook, and looking rather confused.

“Get in,” I yelled.

Obediantly she climbed in, bottle of wine in hand, and buckled her seat belt. She glanced at me as I threw the car in drive and punched the accelerator.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she said, “but I like it.”

An hour later we had sage. The man at the new-age store said we’d only need a bit, but to be safe I bought bundles. I wasn’t messing around with this cleansing business. I was serious, and now I was holding a match.

“Ready?” I asked Gina.

She, too, held a bundle in her hand. She nodded solemnly. We lit the sage.

At first it was fun, traipsing around the apartment from corner to corner, waving the sage as we cleansed my aura and purified my energy. But then the smoke got thick. Really thick. Apparently there was a reason you only needed a little bit. I opened the windows, but the smoke was everywhere. We started to cough. I doused the sage in water, we fanned at the smoke, but it was no use. The room was a dense haze.

And then the fire alarm went off. We both stood there, fixated by the blaring contraption at the top of the wall, until finally Gina was spurred into action and grabbed a broom. Furiously she beat the thing, yelling at it to shut up, while in the background I heard my neighbors stirring. People were smelling the smoke. There were sounds in the hallway. Knocks on doors. I could only imagine that the fire department was already howling up the street.

Sage extinguished, every window open, we eventually had no choice but to join my neighbors on the sidewalk. As my unit faced the street and had windows through which smoke was still drifting, it was pretty obvious who had some explaining to do.

A couple months later I had no proof the sage had done anything. The only change in my life seemed to be the addition of a new cat—which was then accompanied by the fear that I was on my way to becoming Crazy Cat Lady. Though, really, to be a Crazy Cat Lady you must live in an old wood house with chipped gray paint and an unkempt yard. Crazy Cat Ladies mutter strange things from their porches, and kids dare each other to approach on Halloween, spooked by creepy feline silhouettes in the windows. I had no house, and thus no porch, no yard, nothing—so, in truth, being a Crazy Cat Lady would’ve been a step
up
.

The bottom line was, China wasn’t living up to her catly duties. Everyone else had cats that cuddled and nestled and purred, while mine did nothing but judge me and piss in the tub. Actually, that’s a lie. She’d started doing more than just piss in the tub; she’d started doing another little number that seriously challenged the pledges of Clorox. So, with hopes of having a normal cat, I adopted Onyx, a tattered little black kitten from the pound. As we pulled out of the parking lot, Onyx wailing in a box beside me, I knew soon she’d be the cat I’d always wanted. Happy, curled next to me at night, and greeting me with meows of love when I returned home. Versus China, who howled from the window when she saw me approach, a cry I’d long ago learned could be translated as “Are you trying to kill me? It’s been almost two hours since I’ve eaten!”

So yes, I had high hopes for Onyx. Yet this sweet little kitten must have read some instruction booklet on how my luck tends to go, and in accordance immediately took up residence inside my closet and refused to leave. My only Onyx sightings involved glimpses of her sprints to the food bowl or her stealthy endeavors to the bathroom, where she’d gnaw on the toilet paper’s plastic wrapper, her eye on the door.

I hoped this wasn’t an indication of my future as a mother to human children. Who was to say it wouldn’t be the same? One daughter rebelling against toilet training altogether, the other sneaking food at the crack of dawn and then hiding out in darkness, nestling in shoes.

Not that I needed to worry about kids, as I was still in my midtwenties, and the children bridge wasn’t one I’d be crossing for quite some time. No, at that point I was even afraid of dating, in part due to the dreadful luck I’d been having in that department. The last time I’d gone out was with a man who’d told me I reminded him of his mother, and that his father had proposed after having known her for only one day. Red flags began to wave, bells and whistles began to chorus, and the sky practically lit up with stars that spelled “Run!” But I saw the date through to the end, even resisting the urge to leap from the car when he turned to me with a syrupy gaze and pronounced that my skin was “like a song.” In case I hadn’t heard him, he then proceeded to demonstrate how my skin was like a song—by bellowing in full operatic grandeur “Your skin is like a song…
ahhh-ahhhh-AHHHH
!” My knuckles were white as my grip on the door handle became deadly. Finally I was able to sneak back inside my building, hoping my neighbors wouldn’t identify me as the one who’d elicited such an aurally offensive compliment. After that, I vowed to take a break from the dating world, just a temporary one, but a break nonetheless.

China, The Bathtub Destroyer, was not pleased with the friend I’d gotten her, and she began to unleash her skills on other parts of my apartment, depositing little presents by windows or tucking them into corners. With each discovery I’d recoil in horror, as she lay innocently in her leopard-print bed, quietly plotting, a well-fed cat who clearly had issues.

“Go to a pet psychic,” Gina said as she watched me frantically scrub the carpet.

I glanced back at her, trying to ascertain her expression. Face turned openly toward me. Smiling. Eyes clear and wide. But then one eyebrow twitched slightly, and I was on to her.

“No, seriously,” she continued. “I bet she has issues from her childhood. Neglect and abandonment. Sibling rivalry.”

“I hate you. I’m traumatized, and you’re making jokes.”