I Psychic
.....Copyright 2000 by Joseph P. Infranco
Note: Persons on welfare in New York City are required to participate in work programs, and also agree to be sent for training for potential suitable employment. A recent news story noted that a number of welfare recipients were referred to the "psychic hotline" for training as telephone psychics. No prior experience or known psychic ability was required. After the story broke, city officials announced they would discontinue referrals to the hotline. This story is fondly dedicated to the public servants who first conceived this unusual idea. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to living persons, particularly litigious ones, is coincidental and unintended.
Call me Milton. I am a psychic. Even as you read these words, my inner voice tells me that some of you will be skeptical. I now foresee such things. It is the blessing and curse of the mystical power that now courses through my veins. I have been trained to see the innermost secrets of human hearts.
I was not always aware of this power, at least, not before the letter from the city welfare official. How long ago it seems! Many years ago I worked for a White Castle Hamburger Establishment near Fordham Road in the Bronx. My mean-spirited boss did not see or appreciate my inner ability. I should have been promoted to assistant store manager, but the manager, pimple-faced George, was jealous and fired me unjustly. He made false accusations about how I did not keep the napkin containers filled. Yet, he knew full well how the young people grabbed large handfuls of napkins and could not be stopped without grave risk of serious injury. One such hoodlum threatened to stuff the napkins in my mouth! Pimple-faced George would not listen to this, but, I digress from the matter at hand. After I was unjustly fired, I was forced to seek public assistance. For a while this was uneventful until the letter came from the commissioner's office. I was told to call the psychic hotline to arrange for my training, but did not know what this meant. I had never heard of such things before.
At the nightly card game in our apartment building, I mentioned the matter to my friends. Fat Bob was the first to explain to me the meaning of this letter. He spoke coarsely of those who practiced the psychic arts, and had to yell at me to deal in my turn, as I was distracted and strangely disturbed by the information he gave. It was, I see now, a disruption in my psychic aura from the awakening of my inner powers.
The next day I reported to the psychic hotline address. There I met Miss Flossie, my psychic trainer and the blessed instructor who would open my third eye and awaken my inner voice. "Miss Flossie," I began, "I do not know why the kindly commissioner sent me here. Please check the form that I am unsuitable for this work and send me home." "Shut up and sit by the phone", she growled, and so I sat at the long table with many phones. This scene caused me great distress, which was certainly not my fault. I had explained to Miss Flossie (very respectfully) that I did not possess psychic powers. "Shut up, Mac" she replied, and it was then that I learned my psychic name was to be "Mac." We were all given special psychic names. The man next to me was to become "Bud", though sometimes he is also called "Pal." Miss Flossie, that most blessed of adepts, explained to us that all humanity possess psychic abilities, and we would be taught that afternoon how to read carrot cards. She could see as well that all of us in the room had very high degrees of psychic ability, which, we all supposed, was why the kindly commissioner had sent us to this place. The carrot cards had very interesting pictures, but did not display pictures of any vegetables, which was very confusing to me.
That night at the card game, Fat Bob asked me about my job training. I told him that I had been taught to tell the future by reading cards. He replied that if I could read cards, I would know which cards to hold, and not lose money in the game every night. I corrected his foolishness and told him these were special carrot cards, but in his perverse ignorance he replied "cards is cards in my book." This made me upset the whole night and prevented my psychic powers from working properly, and so I lost twenty eight dollars, but this was the fault of Fat Bob mocking my powers. The next day at work I began to take phone calls. A woman caller sounded very distressed. "You are distressed about something" I told her. "Yes", she replied, and I felt the chill of my power again. "Actually", she continued, "I am distressed about someone, not something. "Yes", I answered, sensing her vibrations, "someone close to you." "Exactly!" she gasped. Pressed down by the weight of my power I continued: "I see someone close to you; maybe a boyfriend, or close family member." She paused briefly before answering: "actually it's my dog, but I feel like he's a family member. How do you know these things?" I could only reply "it is not by brain power that I can see these things; the psychic emanations from the carrot cards show all." I mean this to sound only a little humble, as I think, in truth, I am doing a pretty good job. That night at the card game, I tell my stories to the boys. I try to tell them how much I love this job, as I am helping people, and this makes me feel very good about myself. Fat Bob is skeptical and asks what I do. I explain the training and how the first five minutes I must go very slow and get information about my caller, as well as waiting for the cards to warm up.
The cards, I explain, are like an engine trying to start on a cold day, and must be warmed up with my psychic energy. "You moron", says Fat Bob, and I do not like his tone of voice, "them people is calling a nine hundred number.
They tell you to keep em on to run up the phone bill." I am stung by his ignorance and caution him not to criticize powers he does not understand. Miss Flossie has warned us of this reaction from the unawakened.
The job continues to go well over the next few days, and I discover they are not called "carrot" cards, which makes sense to me since I could see no connection to vegetables. Some people in the room laugh at my error, but this was not my fault, as Miss Flossie does not pronounce her words clearly. Meanwhile, I can feel my psychic powers growing daily. On Friday night at the game I tell the boys how I am growing as a psychic. Fat Bob asks why I keep losing money if I have these powers, but I ignore his crass comments. Then, chicken-necked Billy asks me: "Can you use your powers to see numbers? You know, I mean like the pick-five lotto or Jacks is Wild game?" He is very excited by this question, as I can see the ball in this throat wobble very fast the way it does when he gets a good hand. I am astonished by the question; only yesterday Miss Flossie told us this question would be asked of us. How could she foresee this, except her powers be very highly developed? Again, I am filled with dread over the forces I have discovered, thanks to the kindness of the commissioner person from the city. Fortunately, I have been trained by Miss Flossie to know the answer. I explain to chicken-necked Billy that the cards can see the numbers that are good for him, but this may mean many things. If he will seek wisdom from beyond, sooner or later he will get the right numbers, unless his negative energy gives the cards a false reading. Chicken-necked Billy is still excited, and his neck lump jiggles like an insane marionette as he asks for his lucky numbers. I am very put off by this and tell him I do not like to mix business and pleasure, and if he really wants to know, would he please call me at my office tomorrow. Fat Bob accuses me of putting out a lot of "hooey", at least I think that is the word he uses. I tell him that small minds have always been afraid of great powers they do not understand, and that was what happened to that man Galileo Copernicus, at least I think that is his name, and I mean my answer to sting.
The next day I end up getting in trouble, but it is not my fault. On my third call, I feel the cards are nice and warmed up and start going right into my reading. Miss Flossie yelled at me, and her face got very red. She says the cards must be given the full five minutes to warm up each time. I try to explain that my psychic powers could tell the cards were very warm, almost hot. Sometimes you can just feel these things. Well, Miss Flossie started screaming at me "what do you know about this Pal" (and here she forgets my psychic name is Mac), and how I better do what I'm told and that goes for all of us, or something like that. Anyway, I was not at fault for this, and besides, how could she know that my cards were not warmed up? It is not as if she actually touched my deck. That night Fat Bob senses I am disturbed, and I tell him all. Again, he makes rude remarks, and repeats that I am full of this "hooey" substance; I make a mental note to find out what this is, and whether it is related to my powers. Then, Chicken-necked Billy asks me if I can bend spoons. I do not understand why he would ask this. "I see psychics on the tube", he explains, "and these guys bend spoons by looking at them." In all honesty, I do not see the point of this, as I am short on spoons on account of which they are sometimes thrown out by accident when left in soup cans. Later in my room I try to bend a spoon, but commence with a plastic spoon, as I figure this will be easier for starters. I stare at the spoon for almost an hour, but it does not bend. I begin to wonder if Chicken-necked Billy was mistaken, or worse, making this up to mock me.
The following day brings a shock my powers could not anticipate. Once again, I feel the cards are very heated and so on a few calls skip the warmup period. Miss Flossie finds out and begins to yell and scream again. She yells so loud that the little veins in the side of her face bulge. She screeches at me to go and never come back. I tell her I will not leave unless she fills out my form for the commissioner from the city, as I must report to him again the next week. As I walk in the street on the way home, I am filled with sadness over my lost career. The commissioner will understand, though, after I explain that I was given a deck of cards that heated up quickly. I can foresee that I will have no problem with the commissioner over this regrettable incident, particularly since it is clear that I am not at fault.