Christine's Psychic

Everyone has a girlfriend named Christine. My Christine is very tall, very lean, long straight yellow blonde hair all one length to her waist, and she looks like a 1970's cover model complete with knit bikini, pale lips, and dark smoky eye make up around the saddest blue eyes you've ever seen.

Everyone loves Christine. She's beautiful. Complicated. And she looks like the kind of girl you would cast in a movie about The Doors, in fact someone did, she's an extra in the movie The Doors.    

Every Tuesday for the past ten years Christine is counseled by a psychic. Some guy in the valley. She gives him $80 for a 15 minute session. I have no idea what he tells her, but now I think Christine goes to him because she doesn't know how not to.

Christine and I read the same books, share some philosophies, we like the same drink, share the same friends, eat the same foods, but aside from that we have nothing in common. Still, on occasion, we manage to talk each other into trying something new.

"Go see my psychic." Christine once said coaxing, "You can't criticize what you've never tried."

Ah the powerful voice of reason.

"Fine." I tell her. "I'll do it." 

I'm not a believer of psychics. Not in the traditional sense. Certainly not enough to spend $80 on. Money would be more useful going to charity in my opinion. But I go. Just this one time. I head into the valley and visit Christine's psychic.

The psychic reminds me of Crispin Glover. Tall. Skinny. Short sleek black hair. Very pale. Like Christine. I can see Christine's attraction to her psychic. The comfort of being in his company. He reminds me of her. 

The psychic wore faded grey dress slacks, a blue shirt, and a faded grey suit vest. He was also adorned with dark colored beads around his wrist and neck.

He performed his reading in what I can only describe as what might have once been a walk-in closet, only now the closet looked more like a sweat hut, just four dark walls and two benches, one on each opposite long wall.

When the psychic shook my hand, he held my hand in his for a minute or so before decisively letting my hand go.  

"Interesting." Was all he said, and then motioned for me to enter his sweat-hut.

The psychic then sat on one bench. I sat across from him on the other.

The psychic sat upright properly postured, feet apart aligned with his shoulders, and one hand firmly upon each knee. He then began a deep breathing technique commonly used in meditation. Approximately thirty seconds past. Then he spoke.   

"I see a new man in your life. He is older than you. This man in not meant to be your lover but you will make one of him. You will meet this man in a public room. Perhaps a bar. A restaurant. He is nicely dressed. Pleasant disposition. But there is something ominous about him. He is not what he seems."

The psychic continued to speak predictions until my 15 minutes were almost finished.

The very last thing the psychic said to me was, "You will recognize this man by his gold car. It will sparkle and shine unnaturally."

Well,

Ok then,

Thanks much,

I will beware of a man in a bar,

Or a restaurant,

With a gold shiny sparkly car.

Awesome.

Great.

And with that I paid the psychic $80 and thanked him for the read.

About a month later I did in fact meet a man. An older man. We met in a restaurant. He and I had sex a few times. And he did in fact drive a gold Jaguar.

"See!" Christine exclaimed.

But I reasoned with Christine that we humans only use a small portion of our brains. Science has yet conclude what the rest of our brains do. It would not be entirely difficult to influence others by the power of suggestion either consciously or subconsciously. Manipulation tactics is the job of any salesman.

Still, I did meet a man who drove a gold car.

About two months after this man and I met, I was watching the news and saw the same man with the gold Jaguar being arrested and lead away by police in handcuffs. It seems this man had embezzled millions of dollars from his company. Part of the evidence that lead to his arrest was in his car.
His gold shiny car.

Odd,

I cannot recall meeting a man since then who drives a gold car,

Or,

Maybe,

I just stopped looking.