Tales of a Drama Queen (13 page)

For once I'm able to tune her out because there's a clicking on the phone. “Do you hear that?” I interrupt.

“What?”

There's silence on the line. “Oh. Nothing. Um, Mom, I was thinking about your offer? To let me come and stay? And, well—” The clicking starts again. “There! That clicking.”

“Your call-waiting, you mean? You really ought to get Caller ID. I saw a segment on
Maury,
and this woman was being stalked by an ex-boyfriend, who was a cop, she said if she didn't—”

Call waiting! In a burst of optimism I'd ordered it along with my voice mail. I forgot I had it. “Hold on, Mom. Back in a sec.”

It's Sheila from Superior.

“Sheila, hello! Sorry it took so long to pick up. I was just doing a little ten-key practice.”

“Of course you were. I'm calling because I think I've got the job for you.”

“A job? For me?”

“The pay isn't great, ten an hour, but it's fun work.”

“Well, I
was
hoping for more.”

“Don't push it, dear.”

“No, I'm sorry. What's the job.”

“You're going to work as a telephonic metaphysical counselor.”

“Um—a what?”

“A phone psychic, dear!”

“A phone psychic,” I say, reverently. My future flashes before me: the humble beginnings, the slow rise, and finally the
nation-wide infomercial which makes me a household name. “You are a genius, Sheila. I won't—I won't let you down.”

“Please don't, dear. Oh, but I must ask you one question before I send you to them—do you feel you have been blessed with the Gift? The correct answer is ‘yes.'”

“Since I was a child,” I say. “My mother always insisted I was an intuitive. She's a counselor herself—in Sedona. The red rock country, you know. It's a nexus. I come from a…a long line of psychics.”

“And…?”

“Um, what? Oh! And the answer is, yes.”

“Very good, dear.” She spends five minutes giving me the job information. I'm about to hang up when I remember my mother's on the other line.

I hit the button, and hear: “…Cub Scout leader! Well, Dr. Laura had a thing or two to say about that, believe you me. She told her to—”

“Mom? Mom!”

“Yes, dear?”

I don't have the heart to tell her I've been on the other line this whole time. “The reason I called, Mom, is that—”

“I heard, you want to come live with me.”

“No. I got a job.”

“You just said you didn't have a job.”

When did she suddenly start paying attention? How can she talk for ten minutes without knowing I wasn't there, but have heard everything I said before that?

“I've got one now,” I say. “And I wanted you to be the first to hear. I'm going to be a phone psychic.”

“A phone psychic? That's wonderful! Latoya or Dionne?”

“Neither, Mom.”

“Not Cleo?” she says with awe. “I heard she was shut down.”

I laugh. “I don't really know, Mother.”

I am so pleased, I let her tell me about the advice her customers have gotten from various phone psychics over the years, as I go through my wardrobe. I wonder what the other psychics will be wearing.

M
orning. First day of new job—no, new
career.
Have planned the definitive phone psychic outfit. My ankle-length, Indian print skirt, bought cheap last year at import store in Virginia, with a linen peasant blouse. I tie a purple silk scarf around my head like a gypsy. My curls hang loosely from underneath the scarf. I check the mirror. Is it too much? Maybe a few less bangles. I remove half the silver clanging bracelets and look again. Perfect.

Psychic Connexion is located in Goleta—not far from ZZ's place. Inauspicious, but somehow comforting. I picture a ramshackle-yet-healing place: high ceilings with dusty skylights, pale-wood floors slightly scratched, the smell of incense and herbal tea, white walls covered with violet tapestries.

Or not.

The lobby of DRM Incorporated—which is the name
of the company that owns Psychic Connexion—has all the charm of an airport lounge. It's gray and bland and professional. The receptionist waves me to the back. I walk through a midsize cubicle farm, featuring institutional colors, furniture and even scent.

DRM is into more than psychic counseling. I pass signs for other departments: Business Advice, Sports Line, Bear Buddies, Threesomes and More, Cross-Dressing and so on. The sex stuff makes me feel I'm back at Café Lustre. I half expect to see a naked woman writhing on one of the desks. But there are only dreary people talking on phones.

I spot the Psychic sign, check out my compatriots and realize I've worn absolutely the wrong thing. Everyone else is in jeans and T-shirts. Not even cute T-shirts—they all have slogans. I despise slogans.

I pull up the shoulder of my blouse in an attempt to make it look less peasantlike. I hate feeling fashionably out of place. I don't even like if I'm wearing a sweater and everyone else is in short sleeves.

I hover near a middle-aged guy's desk. He's balding, with a blond bushy beard. A bright pink expanse of stomach bulges out between his Chuck Norris T-shirt and his blue jeans.

He says thanks for calling, hangs up and looks at me.

“Hi,” I say. “I'm new today, from Superior. I'm suppose to be working here.”

“You sure you're in the right place?” he asks. “Look's like you're ready for a costume party, Madame Zelda.”

I snatch the bandana from my head. “At least my chub of a stomach isn't hanging out my shirt.”

He laughs and pulls down his shirt. His bright blue eyes almost disappear when he smiles up at me. “What's your name?”

“Elle.” I grin at him, oddly pleased I've made him laugh. “Elle Medina.”

“I'm Darwin. Good to meetcha. C. Burke's not in, he's out for—”

“C. Burke?”

“Christopher C. Burke. Our manager. He's overfond of his middle initial. He's on paternity leave, I don't know who's supposed to train you….” He shrugs. “It'll have to be on-the-job training. Sit there. I'll call the switchboard and tell them you're accepting calls.”

“With no training?” I squeak.

“What do you need to know?”

“Um…
everything?
”

This stumps him for a moment. “Well. Most of the network are call-ins, people who work from home, but they like to have some people in the office, and temps can't telecommute. So you're stuck here. The switchboard knows when you've hung up, and automatically sends you more calls. The phone's easy to work. Headset. Accepting, not accepting.” He prattles on about the phone, and the sheet of emergency numbers, and what sort of place it is to work.

“But, um…what about being psychic? Aren't there exercises, or meditations, or something?”

He grins. “Didn't they ask if you have the Gift?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

He pulls a pack of tarot cards from his desk. “Use these to start.”

I have no idea how to read tarot. “Um…tarot's not really my strength.”

“No? Well, palm reading's not gonna cut it, Zelda.” He laughs again, and his phone rings.

“But what if I tell someone's future wrong?”

“Psychic Connexion,” he says. “Why am I laughing? Because your grandfather knew you'd be calling, and he gave me a joke to tell you.” He pauses to listen to the caller. “That's right, Grandpa Brenner.”

Darwin motions me toward my desk. “Grandpa Brenner says he misses you and is glad you've called Psychic Connexion for advice and guidance.” He mimes that I should open the desk drawer, and I do, and there's a cheat
sheet of sorts. “Oh, you want to hear his joke? Um…yeah. Let me see if I can recall. It was so funny how Grandpa Brenner told it.”

 

My phone rings. Darwin raises his eyebrows expectantly, so I turn the other way, pretending I don't see him. The woman at the desk on my other side is the only other person not wearing jeans. She's an Earth Mama, wearing a shapeless magenta tunic and blue leggings. An amethyst pendant hangs from her neck, and her long gray hair is twined into a braid in back. She should color her hair—she'd look much younger.

She hangs up, and looks at me and my still-ringing phone.

“Aren't you going to get that?”

“Oh. Is that mine?” I babble, hoping it'll stop ringing. “I didn't realize—”

“Yes. Answer it.”

Fuck. “Hello?”

“Is this the Psychic Connexion?” It's a man's voice.

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you a real psychic?”

“Um—” Probably shouldn't say no. I glance at the cheat sheet. “Thank you…for calling…the Psychic Connexion.” It's kind of hard to read—looks like a copy of a copy of a copy. “Can…I have…your name…and birthdate please?”

“My name is James. Birthdate—ten-twenty-sixty-seven.”

“Oh, mine's the twenty-first. What a coincidence.” Wait a minute, I can use this to good effect. “I mean, see, we already have a connection.”

“What year?”

I giggle. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

He chuckles. “What's your name?”

“Elle,” I tell him, then wonder whether it's okay to use my real name. Or is phone psyching like stripping, and I need a stage name? Something exotic. Like Mathilde or Seraphina.

“So what's my horoscope, Elle?”

“Um…” I'm suppose to give him his horoscope? I flip my cheat sheet over. Blank. “Well, let me get some other information from you. Then we'll get back to that.” I continue reading from the crib. “Can I…have your…home address…so I can…send you our free psychic…newsletter?”

“I already get that. What's my horoscope?”

“I have no idea,” I admit. “Horoscope isn't really my area of expertise.”

“Oh? What is?”

“Tarot reading,” I say, brightly. “How does that sound?”

“Fine. Here's my question: I'm thinking of sleeping with my brother's wife. Will I get caught?”

“James! Shame on you.” I hate infidelity. How hard is it to keep your dick in your pants? I'd pretended it was no big deal Louis slept with another woman, but that was only because I wanted my wedding. On the other hand, it
is
only sex, not necessarily the melding of souls. Well, unless you're me and Joshua. Of course he hasn't called recently, so I guess his soul wasn't melded. “I think there's a better question than ‘will I get caught?'”

“Yeah. I wouldn't normally…I mean, but she's really sexy.”

I spread the cards into a mess onto the desk. There's a picture of a dark-haired lass on one of them. “Brunette, is she?”

“Yeah,” he says, impressed.

“Um…” I strain at the cards. Nothing pops out. There are a lot of wands or rods or staffs showing, though. Quite phallic. “And you're very…warm for her. I'm getting a sense of a really electric, um, sexuality.”

“Oh, yeah.” He sounds as if I'm telling him to go ahead and boink her.

I scan the jumbled cards for something negative. And find Death, a skeleton in a cape, holding a sickle in its right claw. “Death is in the cards,” I intone.

“He's going to kill me,” James says.

“Your brother,” I say.

“So he will find out?”

“Definitely. And—ouch—are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes—yes—what does it say?”

“The progression is from the nine of staffs to the one of staffs. Nine is a powerful number. It's, um, powerful. And staffs, of course, refer to male sexual energy. So if you
do
sleep with her…well, I'm afraid it will have an adverse effect on your sex life. Sort of reverse Viagra.”

He praises me for helping him avoid the close call, and I mentally thank my mother for all the nonsense she's spewed over the years.

“Wow, Elle,” James finishes saying. “That was really helpful. A lot of readers don't get that specific.”

I preen. I've actually helped someone, and it was easy. “Don't thank me, James, thank the cards. But you know what you should do? Ask your sister-in-law if she's got a friend for you.”

“Well, she has been trying to set me up with one of the women from our church.”

These people are church-goers? And he was going to tup his brother's wife on the side? “Well, that sounds very…lovely. Someone who shares the same values.”

I do another tarot spread—more like 52-pickup—and sure enough, the cards recommend a date with the church lady.

“Thanks for your help, Elle.”

It's the first time I remember hearing those words attached to my name.

“You're very welcome. Give me a call if you have any other dilemmas you need help with.”

A nice touch, I think—asking for the repeat call. I'm a natural.

We say goodbye and I swing around in my seat to check if Darwin and Earth Mama have witnessed my first success.

“Do you have any idea how to use those?” Earth Mama asks.

“The tarot cards? Of course I do,” I say.

“How?”

I finger the cards as I settle back in seat. “I divine inspiration from the pictures.”

“There are serious consequences,” Earth Mama says, “to using the cards improperly. If you don't know what you're doing, I recommend you look into another line of work.” She gestures toward the Naughty Schoolgirls sign across the corridor.

I look at the picture on the card in my hand. It's a white-haired lady. “For example,” I say, as if she hadn't spoken, “from this card I divine that an old crone will become an obstacle in my life.”

“If you are going to work as a counselor,” she says sharply, “I suggest you educate yourself. Real people call with real problems, and the last thing they need is an ignorant girl offering bad advice. The cards are temperamental and subtle, and—”

“Give her a break, Adele,” Darwin cuts in. “It's her first call.”

“I just don't understand how they're hiring people these days. She makes a mockery of the whole profession.”

“We're phone psychics, Adele.” Darwin looks at her with sympathy. “I think she did really well, considering she has no training…I mean, other than her innate Gift.”

This quiets Adele down. “No training? Well, as long as she's not just in it for the money.”

“Me?” I scoff. “If I were in it for the money, I think I could find something that pays a lot better than this.”

My phone rings, and instead of nerves I feel excitement. “Thank you for calling the Psychic Connexion.”

 

I field nine calls—not including a bunch of hang-ups and try-outs—and my mean time logged is twenty-four minutes, which is above average. Most beginners get a lot of tens and
elevens. Darwin tells me it was a good first day—he says C. Burke will look over the numbers at home, and be impressed. I decide to like C. Burke, not only because he is a responsible father on paternity leave, but because I will be his new star psychic.

It was mostly easy, too. A lot of love questions: Is this man right for me? When am I going to meet Mr. Right? Is my boyfriend cheating? That sort of thing. I did get one lady who wanted to know if her dishwasher was broken. I asked what it was doing, and she described the noises and shudders. We talked about appliances and warrantees and stuff, then the cards told her to call Sears and ask them. The cards are wise.

Adele was at me all day, trying to teach me about tarot. She's annoying, but nice. She's like my mother, except she believes in all the New Age stuff instead of talk shows. And I'm fairly sure she could recognize my voice on the phone. But the more she talked about the cards, the less I understood; I tried it on a caller, but stumbled over the word “Hierophant,” and decided I was doing better my own way. Darwin suggested I try numerology—getting all the dates and numbers apparently increases your log-in time.

 

On the way home, I stop at Shika to tell Maya about my beautiful career. She's not there. Instead, a guy in his early twenties, with unevenly shorn hair and a ring through his eyebrow is pouring beer for the four customers at the booth. The argument group—I sort of coincidentally knew it was their day. Neil, the teddy bear, is there. Merrick is not.

“—never said blind people don't deserve access,” Neil is grumbling. “But Braille keypads on drive-up ATMs is ridiculous. It's like convertibles. You know how they make convertibles? They build the whole car, then chop off the top.”

“Bullshit, Neil,” one of the other men says.

“Chop off the top,” Neil repeats. “What I want to know is, what the hell do they do with the extra tops? Probably sell 'em to the military-industrial complex for ninety grand a pop—like those toilet seats, your tax money at work. The whole two-party system is a joke.”

“Going at it again, huh?” I say to the eyebrow-ring bartender.

“It's an argument group. They come in once a week to vent.”

“Yeah. I had no idea today's their day,” I lie. “And that's, um, the whole group?”