Boardwalk gypsy
by Mark Richardson
[ fiction - september 09 ]
From the balcony of my highrise Santa Monica condo, I looked down at the cars and bike riders and T-shirt clad pedestrians moving freely. Farther west, below the cliff that lifts the town above the Pacific Coast Highway and the wide sandy beach, the placid Pacific Ocean stretched to the horizon.
I was at loose ends. Six months had passed since I was laid off from my job as a hedge fund manager. Still, despite my leisurely existence, I hadn't kicked my need for morning coffee. Unfortunately, my cupboards were bare.
I set out for the nearest Starbucks. Once I'd secured a large latte, I walked to a grassy, cliffside park. As I moved toward a bench, a pelican - wings stretched, its large jowly beak ajar - descended onto the wooden fence rimming the cliff. Although I lived near the ocean, pelican sightings were rare. I'd never seen one this far from the beach. I took his appearance as a good omen. Pelicans have the evolutionary advantage of carrying their food, which I found impressive. For an unusually long time the bird and I considered each other. Then it took off. I watched it fly toward the ocean. It flapped past the top of the Ferris wheel that rises up from the Santa Monica pier and then glided down to the end of the pier. The pelican - now a speck - perched itself on a light pole near a group of old fishermen casting their lines down to the Pacific.
On a whim, I followed. I walked along Ocean Avenue, trimmed with palm trees, then over the bridge spanning the freeway. Across the bridge, the beach promenade was alive. Old men on park benches grimly pushed chess pieces; rollerbladers scooted past; couples walked along the paved trail as homeless men begged for change; young girls stretched the limits of their bikini fabric; shirtless muscle men; volleyball players trading serves; and one bearded man standing on a milk crate shouted: Jesus loves you! My unemployed self welcomed the frantic activity.
I bought another latte from a local vendor. Although I walked leisurely, it would have taken just minutes to rendezvous with the pelican. But as I scuffled along the pier - sand scraping the bottoms of my shoes - my eyes were drawn to small wooden shop with a neon sign: Psychic, it read.
I'd never dabbled in the supernatural. But I'd started to wonder if I was on the right path. And this existential question was joined by more prosaic concerns: Will I find a job? Will my meager savings last? Don't I need to continue my 401K contributions? I was eager for answers.
So I stepped inside.
It was a nutshell of a room with space only for a bookcase, a round wooden table, and a back door. A ceiling light and a square window, its four panes dusted with sand and seawater, offered muted light. The walls were a merlot red, and shiny crescent moons were painted haphazardly throughout. Two stout wooden chairs flanked the table. On the chair facing me sat an old woman. Her hair had the texture and color of a used Brillo pad. She wore an aqua terrycloth robe, loosely cinched at the waist, and pink slippers covered her tiny feet. Using a cane and the chair's armrest, she pushed up her frail, five-foot frame.
"You've come to see me," she said. Her kind face wrinkled deeply as she smiled. "Sit down, my dear."
"You can see into the future?"
"Yes, of course. Come. Come!"
We both sank into our chairs. I felt my skin tightening, so I forced out a sigh. As I placed my nearly full latte on the table she gave me three options: palm reading, tarot cards, or she could check my psychic aura. I fished 40 dollars from my little purse, and said I'd like to start with my palm, then the tarot cards. The old gypsy stretched my arm into the center of the table and she rubbed a finger along my palm.
"You are searching, my dear," she said.
I thought: Of course I am searching! Why else would I be here? "I lost my job awhile back," I said, shifting in my seat.
"Yes, I see that. Your work meant a lot to you. You are now wondering what to do."
"Yes."
"You will work again, my dear. Do not worry. I see that clearly."
"You can see that?"
"Of course."
"What will I do? When will I begin?"
"It is not clear - your mind races. Things are changing for you, yes?" She released my hand, picked up the tarot cards.
"Let us check these."
She separated the cards into two stacks. I sipped my latte. After a few shuffles, she reformed the deck, rapped it on the table, and flipped the top card. Staring up at me was a foul creature. He was naked with black wings, angry eyes, a long beard, and curved horns. His head and torso were human, but he had the hairy legs of a goat, hooked claws for feet. On the bottom of the card in thick black letters: The Devil.
I shrieked. The container fell from my hands; the plastic lid broke free, and milky coffee spread across the table then spilled onto the old gypsy's lap. She stood up as quickly as she could, which wasn't quickly at all. A large brown circle expanded across her robe. She spat out a curse.
"I'm so sorry," I said, now also standing. "Let me help."
"Wait," she said, her face scrunched, lips tight. To reinforce her demand she held up her index finger. "Wait!" Then she slowly caned herself around the chair, opened the back door, and disappeared.
I sat. After waiting a decent amount of time, I rose from the chair. But before I could step toward the front door, it opened and in walked an elderly man. He was stout and unsmiling. He wore a gray overcoat, far too heavy for LA's temperate climate, and a weathered bowler hat, tilted back exposing his bald scalp.
"You're not Francesca," he said, his eyes squinted into little slits.
At this point, I know, it would have been perfectly normal to smile, direct the old man to the seat I had vacated, and tell him that Francesca would be out soon. I would have been sprung into the bright sunshine, free to search again for the pelican or just walk down to the sandy beach. Instead, perhaps some latent, previously unknown gypsy blood, mixed with my cultivated work ethic. I couldn't take the chance he would leave and deprive the old gypsy of a sale. It wasn't just a sense of obligation from having spilt the coffee that led me to tell the old man that I was Francesca's daughter - it was instinctual.
It came easily. As the old man sat down, I leaned on the table. I placed his knobby hand with its fat fingers and thick yellow fingernails on one of my hands, and with my free fingers I softly traced along the crooked map of lines and scars and wrinkles. I'd read enough horoscopes to know that we're all interested in the same things (love, work, health, wealth, happiness). With deft questioning, I let him steer my predictions. I spun a soothing tale that seemed to leave him both content and satisfied with my clairvoyance.
As he rose to leave, he dug his hand into his coat pocket and produced a wallet. It was then that the old gypsy, Francesca, walked through the back door wearing a fresh robe and a rag to clean the table.
"Ah, there you are," said the man. "Your daughter is lovely, Francesca. Where have you been hiding her?" She looked at the old man and then at me. "I must be going. Here - one for each of you," he said, handing both of us a freshly printed fifty...
I loved managing a hedge fund. I was remarkably good at it. It's true that I had delivered a couple of down quarters, but the whole economy was in the tank. Should I be expected to produce miracles? I didn't think so and was frankly shocked when the firm told me I was being let go. It wasn't personal, I was told. The firm was bleeding money, close to collapse, cuts were required. Not personal. Ugh! I was crushed. My career had been a steady upward climb - never a blip. Mainly, though, I thought I was bulletproof because Derek was on my side.
I had met Derek at Northwestern, during my last year of business school. He was a visiting day lecturer, invited by one of my professors to provide a real-world perspective on the cutthroat financial industry.
Derek was a natural leader. He stood at the front of the classroom, his athletic body held tight by his blue tailored suit, softly barking out his presentation with the same command I later learned he'd mastered while a middle linebacker at Yale. I'm not ashamed to admit I felt a schoolgirl crush as he took the chalk in his hands and wrote on the blackboard.
Later, as I ate my lunch at a little round table in the school cafeteria, Derek, holding his plastic lunch tray, asked if he could join me. His visit to the school wasn't altogether altruistic, he explained. His New York-based firm was growing rapidly, and he had been sent out to recruit new talent. "Only the best and brightest," he said. My professor had told him that I fell into both categories.
Three months later, after completing my matriculation at Northwestern, I was Derek's intern; his stocking-wearing, business-skirt-clad Girl Friday, at the office from the sun's rise and only riding the subway home long after the rush hour commute. I became a frantic Manhattan workaholic. I had to maintain such a pace to keep up with Derek. I proved myself an asset to the firm. The next few years, Derek's star climbed and I climbed along with him.
When Derek was hired away by a company in Los Angeles, I joined him, he a senior vice president and me his top lieutenant, my subway rides replaced with battling freeway traffic.
On that final day, as I packed up my few personal possessions and readied to leave our office tower for the last time, Derek, with two raps on my open door, entered my office.
Derek (Derek!) had been let go as well. "Don't worry," he said. "We're going to be fine. I'm planning to hang out my own shingle. Go clear your head. Lie low. I'll be in touch."
At first I didn't take well to my new freedom. I was angry. Bitter. I'd dedicated my young womanhood to work, and now I was thrown aside. I spent three weeks just moping around my apartment. Then, with the New Year approaching, I decided to get over myself. I recognized that I wasn't emotionally ready to re-start my career, and even if I were the job market was completely barren. Plus, I really wanted to wait for Derek's new outfit. So instead of looking for work I decided to take a holiday. It was years since my last real vacation. I had been given a modest two-month severance package. Why not take advantage? I set out on the grand European tour: London, Paris and Rome, of course. I ate tapas in sunny Spain, drank pints of beer during Germany's Oktoberfest, and smoked myself into a fuzzy high in the coffee shops of Amsterdam. I was in my early 30s and didn't feel the need to travel economically. So I stayed nearly every night in a swanky hotel. The final few weeks of my trip I spent tucked away on a remote Greek island, my beach blanket stretched on a pristine bit of sand, perfecting my topless suntan.
When I returned to LA, weeks after my severance had expired and I'd eaten through most of my savings, I tried to contact Derek. He returned no calls; multiple emails went unanswered. Had I waited too long? Was he abandoning me? Gone without so much as a farewell? The prospect, though hard to swallow, became increasingly real. With growing unease, I submitted my resume to a few financial firms I thought might be eager for my services. I reached out to erstwhile colleagues. I scoured online job postings, went to job fairs – I even tried to freelance. Zilch. When all my efforts landed on deaf ears, I felt a twinge of panic.
Now, in her dark gypsy shop, Francesca truly saw my future. No crystal ball was required. Did Francesca have psychic powers, a third eye that would let her see things that others could not? I don't know. But she was a businesswoman; once she saw two crisp 50-dollar bills, she knew we were a team. Francesca made her pitch. I had the gift, she reasoned, "You just proved it." All I needed were a few gentle pointers. "I can teach you to unlock your psychic abilities," she said. "Yes, my dear."
I resisted. The idea was preposterous! Still, I'll admit I was intrigued. Pia the gypsy!
With her tiny hand on my elbow, she led me into the back room. That little gypsy had made a cozy home for herself. There was a queen-sized bed, a bathroom, even a modest kitchen. A hand-woven rug, positioned in the room's center, added to the homey feeling. Then, with the understated wave of a seasoned performer, she pointed to a hanging clothes rack. Tightly packed was an endless assortment of gypsy girl outfits: red satin dresses, belly dance skirts, halter tops, shiny blouses and pants, vests, costume jewelry. Ever since I was a little girl, I'd been unable to resist playing dress-up. My resolve weakened. Also, inescapably, I needed to start earning some money. I had no job or prospects. Maybe the gypsy life could be a temporary solution until the job market loosened.
Francesca explained that since she was responsible for the rent, I was to give her half of my earnings. Recognizing the unfairness of this offer, I countered with ten per cent. We haggled and eventually landed on one-fifth. Still I wavered. Her face turned cold. She shook both her hands and cursed. Then she relaxed, a wise hint of a smile lifted her lips, and she said, "Things happen for a reason, my dear."
Who was I to question such logic? So once again, I was recruited.
I didn't immediately launch into my new profession. There was a feeling-out period. At first I only committed to making the walk from my home to the boardwalk two or three times a week. But this ruse could last only so long. I was an inveterate workaholic with a shiny new hamster wheel; I soon made it spin.
Business was good. Francesca had cultivated a stable of loyal clients. She counseled lonely widowers, the love torn, stock market speculators, gamblers, and even one starlet who arrived disguised in an over-sized coat, wide black sunglasses, and a dark wig, her bleach-blond hair tucked neatly underneath. These seekers of truth had scheduled appointments and Francesca kept them. But there was also a steady stream of people who, like me, were just walking along the boardwalk, saw the neon sign, and came inside our shop. I serviced these ad hoc customers. For some, it was just a lark. With others, I could feel a palpable angst. No one can avoid worry completely, but I suspected the general economic malaise heightened it.
Now daily, in the shabby little shop, I portrayed myself as a naturally gifted clairvoyant, descended from a long line of psychics and bestowed with the ability to see the future and steer the distraught along the proper path. Unlike Francesca, who continued to wear her banal robes, I chose to look like a gypsy. I wore big hoop earrings, gaudy rings, and Spanish mantillas made of the finest silk. I picked outfits that were a little racy – like playful Hallowe'en costumes – with necklines exposing just the hint of cleavage. While reading the palms of certain lonely men, I would lean forward, subtly squeeze together my arms, and thus pushed up my chest. Presto! Twenty-minute sessions would morph into an hour; tips added to my standard rate, return visits assured. My sessions were sprinkled with the argot of the psychic. Clients had "strong auras"; I was "channeling spirits"; I had a "sixth sense"; "the stars are (or are not) aligned for that right now." Usually I would leave my predictions to the general: "Worry not, you will find your true love, but only when you are ready." But sometimes a devilish mood would catch me, and I'd deliver offbeat forecasts: "You will break your little toe in the next six months," or "I see you will become great friends with a dog," or "There will be a period in your life when you become unusually fond of pasta." These would naturally pique the interest of the clients, and, I suspect, add a level of credibility to my predictions. Of course, it was all fabricated! I was no psychic. I could no more see into the future than the woman who delivers your mail knows what is inside each package.
Still, I enjoyed my work. Although I knew I was a fraud, I felt I was providing a service, not too different from a therapist's. I had a purpose. I took it seriously. I scoffed at the idea of psychic powers, but in a way I felt I had actually become a gypsy. At the end of one day, in the back room of Francesca's shop, as I admired my gypsy-clad reflection in the mirror, I felt I'd discovered my new place in the world.
Unfortunately, a busy psychic can't match the income of a successful hedge fund manager. I could no longer afford my mortgage. Foreclosure loomed. My plush condo - which, when purchased, required no down payment - was now worth less than the mortgage. It's true: I was once responsible for managing multimillion-dollar funds, but I was a disaster at handling my own finances. I stretched too much on my home purchase, saved almost nothing, and the money I did save was frittered away on a European joy ride. Now you'd think it would be difficult to move from a luxury condo with an ocean view to a creaky little gypsy shop. I suppose I could have faced the music and accepted bankruptcy. Maybe there was a way I could have kept my home. Who knows? But I never considered trying. I had changed. What good is a fancy condo to a gypsy? This wasn't a setback, I told myself. I could simply abandon my old life and start fresh. So I dropped my keys into the mailbox of my building. I gave no forwarding address. I left all my possessions, making no effort to retrieve them. I cast aside my credit cards, my cell phone, computer, even my SUV. Francesca, for a modest fee, agreed to let me share her bed.
On that first night, as we curled up on separate sides of her queen-sized mattress, the ocean moving beneath us, I was surprised to find myself endowed with a warm rush of well-being.
Now that I was living full-time on the boardwalk, Francesca became something of a role model. I saw her as someone who had found a better path, one not built on the avarice I'd seen consume many of my hedge fund compatriots. I became deeply fond of her.
We lived simply. Francesca had a flare for cooking, and in her modest kitchen, she brewed up thick soups and pasta and tangy vegetable dishes learned in the old country. I gathered that she saw me as something of a daughter. She doted on me.
As she told it, Francesca was living out what she believed was God's calling, tapping into her psychic powers to help others. She grew up, I learned, in Sicily, where one day, as a young girl, she had her first vision. She saw her uncle, who lived in far off Milan, walking along the road, a bird on his shoulder. She told her mother, who told her not to make up stories. The next day they learned that her dear uncle had died. More visions would follow. She was touched with the gift. Acceptance of real psychic powers was something I still struggled with, but I did believe that Francesca's belief was genuine, her commitment to using her abilities to help others real.
At night she would sit cross-legged behind me on the bed, twist my long hair into braids, and whisper in my ear, "You have the vision. Stop blocking it, my dear." Although I felt her prodding was misspent, I was very appreciative of her encouragement.
All summer and into September, as people flocked to the beach and the pier, we saw a steady stream of customers. Our cash flow was strong. Then as fall loomed Francesca became something of a phantom. We still shared the same bed, but she rose early and was gone most days. The few times our paths did cross she was in no mood to converse; her head bent low, she moved with all the alacrity her little cane could muster. I missed her.
Slow days at the shop had become more frequent. When traffic was light, I often locked the front door and strolled along the boardwalk. The ubiquitous sun was warm; a soft, freshening breeze blew in from the ocean. Sometimes I would go to the amusement park and watch families and young couples ride the Ferris wheel and merry-go-round, play carnival games, and eat cotton candy. But I preferred the end of the pier, away from the crowds. Here the wind and sun and ocean spray had dulled the wood to a sandy brown; the church-like quiet interrupted only by singing seagulls. I would sit on a bench, sun my face, and work to clear my mind. Or I'd watch as the orange sun sank into the ocean. The vastness of the Pacific soothed me. I was unshackled. At these times, I felt more blissful than I imagined was possible.
The arrival of Hallowe'en brought the season's first rain. As Thanksgiving approached, inclement weather became the norm. Foot traffic tapered off. I still worked, but not as feverishly, instead spending more time futzing around the shop. I took to rummaging through Francesca's bookshelf. Tucked in a stack of dusty, dog-eared romance paperbacks, I uncovered a thick tome: The Art of the Séance. If Francesca was right and I truly was gifted, perhaps I could communicate with the spirit world. Following the book's advice, I tried to slip into a trance and channel a specific spirit. I usually chose Abe Lincoln or Marilyn Monroe, neither of whom ever broke away from their otherworldly endeavors to pay me a visit. During these failed attempts - as I worked to open my mind - a recurring thought would invade: Where was Derek? Even though I felt ensconced in my new gypsy life, I apparently was still hurt by his abandonment.
A week before Christmas, despite a steady rain, I decided to take a walk along the beach. When I eventually made my way back to the gypsy shop, two grim-faced policemen confronted me. They stood guard outside the door as rain splashed down on their dark blue uniforms. The door was open, and I could see another man inside.
"What's going on?" I said. I held my hand on my forehead to shield my eyes from the rain.
"Do you know the woman who rents this place?" asked the beefier man. He took a step toward me. "A feeble old woman with a cane."
"Of course - Francesca."
"Francesca, that's right," said the big cop as the second cop took a step closer. I felt pinched. "How do you know Francesca?"
"I work here."
The two cops exchanged sideways glances. "You work here?" said the bigger cop.
"Yes. I live here, too."
The big cop put his arm around my shoulder. He turned toward the open door and yelled, "Nick, I got someone here you're gonna want to talk to."
The shop was clammy. Rain thumped on the roof. The man inside was Asian and short. His head was shaved clean, and he wore a khaki Colombo-style raincoat. The big cop explained who I was, put me down in one of the chairs, and then he and his uniformed partner left. The cop called Nick took the other chair - where I typically sat. "I'm Detective Lee," he said. "What's your name?"
"Pia. What's going on, Detective? Is Francesca okay?"
"You tell me, Pia. When was the last time you saw Francesca?" He was a bent forward, arm on his knees.
"I'm not sure - couple of days ago. Why?"
"You're not sure. You said you lived here. Is that right?"
"Yes, that's right. But Francesca hasn't been around much lately."
"She's been gone, you say. Do you know where?"
"No."
The detective leaned back in his chair. "Would you be surprised if I told you that we suspect Francesca has swindled over $300,000 from a woman in Beverley Hills?" Shaken, I stayed quiet. He continued. "I take it this does come as a surprise."
"Yes, yes - of course. Francesca - I don't believe it. She wouldn't do something like that."
"She would and she did. Your friend, Francesca, convinced an 85-year-old woman in Beverly Hills that her grandson in Iraq was in grave danger, and unless Francesca was paid increasingly large amounts of money to make special prayers on his behalf, the grandson was in for a grisly death."
I was taken to the police station, where I spent a good part of the afternoon answering questions. The old woman's son, who grew suspicious of his mother spending so much time with Francesca, had tipped off the cops. It was clear they had no idea where Francesca was - apparently she had enough psychic insight to know when to escape. After the police were satisfied that I wasn't involved and couldn't help them find Francesca, they took me back to the boardwalk. The shop was sealed off with yellow police tape; a padlock now locked the front door. Besides, the lease was in Francesca's name, and I didn't have enough money to cover the rent. I felt emotionally lost and bilious with fear. I was crippled by dread, and incapable of making a sane decision. So I spent the evening in a fog, wandering around the boardwalk. Then, after the food shops and carnival rides had shutdown for the night and most people had gone home, I snuck into the merry-go-round where I slept on a bench between a unicorn and a donkey.
The next few weeks were rough. I was now homeless. The rain continued past the New Year and all through January. I still spent every day on the boardwalk, cowering under awnings to stay dry, sleeping in doorways and when possible in the carousal, spending what little cash I had on boardwalk food or relying on the periodic kindness of vendors. There were other options - friends, family who I could have turned to. Homeless shelters. Perhaps depression prevented me from ameliorating my dismal circumstances. Or maybe I was in shock, forced to come to terms with Francesca's crime; Francesca, who I'd believed lived outside the consumption culture. I don't have a good answer for why I accepted my fate. I imagine each hollow-eyed homeless person you rush past on the street has their own story for how they got there.
And so, I became a miserable scarecrow woman who struggled to stand upright as the wind howled in from the ocean.
Then February arrived, and the rains eased. The sun, which now shone through breaks in the clouds, brought with it good fortune: a shopping cart had appeared on the boardwalk. I claimed it as my own. I now had somewhere to store possessions - specifically, cans and bottles. I was soon spending most of my waking hours tracking down these discarded items. The pickings were excellent on the boardwalk and along the promenade. I would fill up the cart and then take my found treasures to a nearby grocery store. My take wasn't extravagant, but sufficient to keep me fed. My success, however, didn't go unnoticed; a wild-eyed, four-toothed madwoman with her own shopping cart soon arrived as competition. She was like a shark that smelled blood in the water and no less aggressive. That madwoman was a champion scavenger. On more than one occasion, I would arrive at a garbage can expecting it to be full of recyclable items only to find it had been picked clean. There were enough discarded cans and bottles for both of us, so it must have been her thirst to monopolize the marketplace that caused her to try to steal from my stash. By then I had taken to sleeping under the boardwalk - the shelter was better, and it offered relative safety for the cart. One night, as the waves crashed in two-dozen yards away, I was jolted awake by the sounds of my rival plucking away my cans. As I rose to my feet and demanded she return the stolen items, she took off down the beach. She was nimble, but her arms were loaded with cans, slowing her progress. Twenty yards down the beach, I caught up, jumped onto her back, and tackled her to the sand, cursing. She struggled to break free, yelling, "The mayor of Chinatown said all cans are mine. All cans!" I was having none of her crazy banter. I was heavier and much younger and soon had both her arms pinned to the sand. We locked eyes, and I could see she recognized that I wasn't someone to be trifled with. Eventually I released her from my grasp and retrieved the discarded cans. For a few days, she steered clear, but we eventually became friendly rivals. On certain days, we'd move down the promenade in tandem; the garbage containers on one side hers, the other side mine. It was on one of these excursions that I stumbled upon the soup kitchen.
Santa Monica has a large homeless population. The soup kitchen offered two meals a day, enough to satiate my meager appetite. My new steady food source allowed me to start saving cash from my recycling, enough to form a small but tight wad that I kept tucked in my bra. The kitchen was affiliated with Goodwill, their two buildings contiguous. I had been wearing the same fraying gypsy-dress for weeks, which I now replaced.
Spring was near: the weather had brightened and with it my spirits. I imagine it was my lightened mood that sparked my decision to reopen shop. From that same Goodwill, I bought a small table and two chairs. These were unfolded at the base on the boardwalk - along the promenade. Pia the gypsy was back in business! Some of my previous clients stumbled upon my new location. I also attracted new customers. In no time, I was making enough to abandon the quest for bottles. I now stored the tables and chairs and some clothing in the shopping cart, which I would roll under the boardwalk each night. I was feeling good enough to rise with the sun each morning and join a group of silent senior citizens on the beach for Tai Chi. Afterward I would shower in one of the stalls provided for beach-goers, and then I'd duck into a boardwalk bathroom to change into that day's outfit.
In just weeks, I was earning enough money to rent out Francesca's old shop. Luckily, it had remained vacant. The rent wasn't cheap, but I'd managed to scrape together enough money to buy a used futon mattress from Goodwill. I began to fill up my wardrobe. My front door was once again revolving with clients. I was back to being a respectable fixture on the boardwalk. I had pulled myself out of my dismal situation and proven that I could run my own business. I felt proud.
There is little doubt that I would still be on that boardwalk, happily dishing out made-up stories of how the future would unfold, if something truly remarkable hadn't occurred. I had a vision.
It came while I was reading a palm. It flashed through my mind, like an image moving across a screen. But it was clear and stayed burned in my mind's eye. I cut the session short and hustled the customer out the door. I closed the shop for the day. I walked to town and used my savings to buy a new business suit. I then went to an upscale beauty salon and had my nails, hair, and make-up done.
Fresh as a spring tulip, I made my way back to the boardwalk. I arrived just as the setting sun pinked the clouds at the ocean's edge and danced its fading light across the swaying water.
There at the end of the pier, where long ago the pelican had landed, stood Derek. He was wearing the gray suit and polished shoes I'd foreseen in my vision. When he saw me and beckoned me over, it appeared as if he, too, had expected my arrival. That didn't stop him from asking where I had been and complaining that it was impossible to reach me. "Did you just throw away your cell phone and computer?" he joked. His fate had been better than mine; it seems that those at the top are assured a soft landing. He had been given more than a year's cushion and enough extra to launch his promised firm. But he couldn't do it alone; my days as his assistant were over, I was now his partner.
I never considered rejecting Derek's offer. Of course, the irony of actually having a vision and then ending my career as a psychic isn't lost on me. I certainly don't expect miracles when predicting the market. Although, I'm sure some clients will be attracted to a clairvoyant money manager, so I plan to highlight my psychic background on my work bio - if it helps me make more money, why not?
