Psychic Junkie (28 page)

I didn’t even need to hear the description to know I’d be perfect. I
was
a mad cowgirl. Well, when I’d been at my parents’ ranch, I’d been a mad cowgirl. Now, back in L.A., I was just mad and a girl, but still I was perfect. As she went on to describe the part—a young meat inspector who’s obsessed with red meat and is having an affair with a televangelist and then slowly begins to lose her mind to mad cow disease and becomes convinced she’s a kung fu action star—I was in pure passionflower and career bliss.

I was going to be in a movie.

I was going to be the
star
of a movie.

THINKING BACK, I CAN SAFELY SAY THAT THE LAST
day of school was always the best part of summer vacation. On that final Friday everything was still possible, each minute spiked with an unrivaled and buoyant anticipation. Nothing had yet interfered with “summer,” that golden shiny barbeque-scented, sand-beneath-your-feet, purely divine word. The days were unencumbered, bright, and spread out in lazy bliss, as if school would never ever happen again.

But alas, then rolled around the first free Monday, and the countdown to the dreaded first day of school officially began. Just like that the end was inevitable and looming, and from then on summer was a slippery waterslide downhill.

Similarly, the best part of doing a movie is when you still have yet to do it.
Mad Cowgirl
wasn’t slated to start filming for several months, and thus I was blessed with plenty of time to anticipate how wonderful it would be, and plenty of opportunities to utter such things as, “Me? What am I up to? Oh, you know, preparing for my next role. Is it a big role? Well, it’s the starring role, the title role, so yeah, I guess so. Oh my, look at that, I’m late for my kung fu lesson. We’ll chat later! Ciao!” And though perhaps it wasn’t very wise, I promptly quit my job as an errand girl to the rich. The way I saw it, I’d been given an opportunity and I was going to take full advantage of it by studying up for my role and relishing in my ability to claim I was a working actress.

The only downside to so much time before filming was that the psychic junkie within me was being seriously tested. Like a smoker in a cigar shop or a sex addict at a strip club, I was facing a monumental trigger. The only activity that could rival (and surpass) an acting job as a psychic-calling inducement was dating, which, thankfully, I suppose, I was in no danger of doing. Still, what I was facing would be tough. The old Sarah, the Sarah whose brain was held hostage by psychics, would be calling for at least two or three readings a day to ask how production would go, if the film would make me a star, or if it would get into Sundance, Cannes, Berlin, or Deauville. There were so many questions, so many unknowns, and since I refused to call psychics, the questions remained jammed and trapped inside my throat.

Okay, that’s almost true. I did call a couple psychics, but I don’t count those calls because my heart simply wasn’t in the readings. I just no longer believed. I knew psychics were sometimes right, but who was to say
when
those times were? Needless torture was what most of the predictions were, and right then my life was glowing, so why would I want to dull it with meaningless and possibly frightful words? Yes, even I was shocked at how rational I was becoming. Though, when dealing with an addiction, rationale and logic are all fine and dandy, but habit is the enemy. Despite everything, I couldn’t shake the habitual pull to call or bust out my cards for a spread.

As if all that free time with countless questions and a world made of phones wasn’t already a challenge, I then got a call from my friend Gordon, an event planner, that made me wonder if perhaps God had grown bored with my recovery and was longing for the good old endless entertainment of Sarah high on psychics. It turned out that, over a year ago, in one of my piques of psychic ecstasy, I’d promised Gordon I’d read tarot cards at a bar mitzvah. Getting out of the evening wasn’t an option, as not only was it too late, but the job was going to pay me three hundred dollars in cash. Oh, I should’ve added the words “independent film” onto the part about being cast in a movie. Hence, three hundred bucks wasn’t something to refuse.

As the date approached, I questioned my newfound and supposed sanity. I mean, would it be wise for an alcoholic to play bartender for a night? Or an opium fiend to tend a field of poppies?
No, Sarah, you can do this,
I told myself.
They’re just
cards.
They’re not to be feared.
Yeah, sure, that’s it.

The day of the event, Gordon called to tell me I’d freak when I saw the estate where the festivities were being held—a sprawling mansion on a bluff overlooking the Pacific—and to request that I arrive early enough to change into my costume.

“Costume?”

“Oh,” he said distractedly, clearly in a state of pre-event chaos. “Sorry. Thought I told you. It’s a haunted-house-themed bar mitzvah. You’re the Bride of Frankenstein.”

Okay. First, I’m the
Bride of Frankenstein
? And second, just who is this rich and twisted thirteen-year-old? Before I could voice any of this, Gordon was yelling at someone in the distance. “No! The kids can’t
touch
the dry ice! Do you want them to lose their fingers?” He took a deep, audible breath. “I’m losing it. Sarah, sweetheart, can I see you here soon, please?”

I promised I was on my way, and then collapsed on my bed. I was going to spend an evening with the instigator of my psychological downfall: the dreaded tarot cards. And, now, on top of that, I was voluntarily humiliating myself. Clearly I was a masochist. A danger to myself. A threat. A menace. I should be locked up or under constant supervision.

No, Sarah, you are the Bride of Frankenstein and now you must drive to Malibu.

I stared at the ceiling.

An hour and a half later I had a geisha whiteface and a three-foot-high black beehive wig with a white skunk stripe smack down the center. As for clothing, I donned a white sheet (one I prayed had never been used, though I found no reassuring crease marks) cut with tiny slits through which I was forced to jam my arms and head. I was uncomfortable, irritable, and itchy, and I looked ridiculous, but Gordon was too busy to field my wardrobe concerns.

“I don’t look like the Bride of Frankenstein,” I tried telling him as I followed him through the enormous backyard. “I look like Marge Simpson possessed by demons.”

Gordon told me I was his favorite person in the whole wide world, pointed out a table by the pool, draped in black velvet, that was to be my “station,” and pushed me in its direction. I obediently sulked to my spot, adjusted my hair, and took a seat in a chair whose legs were a far cry from being even. Just
lovely
. Beside me were my neighbors, Frankenstein and Dracula—Dracula being the lucky bastard who got to lie around in a coffin all day.

Swaying in place, I shuffled my cards and watched as a flock of preteens and barely-teens burst from a set of French doors and into the yard, heads swiveling as they took in the sights. Their nonchalant comments about the dance floor, which had an incredible view of the Pacific and was bigger than my apartment, and their remarks about the sushi bar, made me reminisce about my own childhood, a childhood where party décor had been comprised of such uncouth things as balloons and streamers. This décor included fake fireflies like those from the
Pirates of the Caribbean
ride at Disneyland, and props rented from the actual Addams Family movie. Upon hearing what appeared to be a ten-year-old proclaim, “You know, I’m not such a fan of unagi,” I feared I was in for a long, long evening.

Very soon I was descended upon by a gaggle of kids. “Your wig is funny,” they cried. “Who’re you supposed to be?” “Are you dead Marge?” “Does Ricky like me?” “Will I get into Crossroads School?” “Will I be a pro skater?” “Will I have my own band?”

I relaxed. This was easy! They were
kids
. In this case everything truly was for entertainment purposes only. I could tell them anything! They were so far from real life it would actually be good for them to dream big and hope high. And honestly, would any of them even remember what that strange dead-looking Marge had predicted at the party? No, they had MTV and lip gloss on the brain. They aspired to morph into Britney Spears or the next Tom Brady. What dent would my words make?

I pulled cards until, without warning, the kids around me disappeared, flocking to the other side of the dance floor to join a disturbed child who’d discovered the fun that could be reaped from poking and harassing the mummies. Fine, at least I got a break. Wobbling back in my chair, I told myself all was good. I could do this. Everything was okay. Wow. Suddenly, just like that, as if brought about by the power of my positive thoughts, a tray had been placed before my eyes, one filled with root beer floats and a very tiny and very well-hidden glass of clear liquid.
God?
I thought.
Did you just bring me a shot?

I looked up, into the face of a very hot bartender.
Why, hello, God.

“Vodka,” he said. “They won’t smell it on you.”

Drat. Gay. I should’ve known. Quickly I slung back the shot, thanked him profusely, and made him promise he’d return with more liquid kindness. He winked, clearly in agreement that I was in need of whatever mercy he could afford, and was gone.

Seconds later a little wallflower of a girl emerged from the crowd of Britney Spears wannabes, her ponytail slightly crooked, her glasses a bit too big for her face. When she spoke, I had to practically lie across the table to hear her, her timid voice no competition for Justin Timberlake’s “Senorita,” the song blaring from speakers taller than most of the partygoers. “Come around to my side!” I told her, smiling broadly, much friendlier on hard liquor. “Sit next to me!”

I confess I was nervous about what she’d ask, worried she’d inquire about popularity or boys or any number of things I myself remember being obsessed with at her age, any number of things I had a sinking feeling were bound to disappoint.
Stay positive, Sarah. They’re only cards.
“Now, what would you like to ask the magic tarot cards?”

She looked at me intently, as if trying to decide whether or not I was real.
Smart girl,
I thought.

Finally, very seriously, she said, “Will Sophie and I be friends forever?”

Ah, how adorable. I shuffled, concentrated on her friendship, and laid down a card: Death.

Shit. I quickly scooped it back up, hoping she hadn’t seen the sinister skeleton morbidly dancing with his scythe, ready and eager to hack into her dreams. Why hadn’t I taken the creepy cards out of the deck? I could practically hear the fuming call I was bound to get from this poor child’s parents. “Our daughter is convinced the grim reaper’s after her! We’ve had to put her in therapy! And she can’t watch her favorite show,
The Simpsons
, anymore, because she thinks Marge is the devil! What did you do to our daughter?!”

The poor girl was sitting quietly, hands folded in her lap, waiting for an answer.

“What was your name again?” I asked.

“Rebecca.”

“Rebecca, are you feeling that you aren’t seeing Sophie as much these days?”

She looked at her hands, fiddling with a little gold bracelet on her wrist. “She’s not really hanging out with me anymore.”

She’s not really hanging out with me anymore.
That was a sentence I myself could’ve uttered every year of my childhood. I knew the pain well. “Okay.” I glanced around, then leaned in closer. “I’m gonna tell you a secret. Normally I’m not supposed to reveal these things, but here it is. Right away I
knew
you were going to grow into an amazing, amazing woman.”

A little hesitantly, as if something had tickled her, she smiled.

“Seriously, you’re going be very happy with your life. But, here’s the thing. To become who you’re going to be, there will be changes. There have to be; otherwise in twenty years you’d be exactly as you are now, no taller, no different, just still sitting in this chair. So the changes are good, but sometimes they’ll be hard to go through. And friendships are one of the things that change. For
everyone
, friendships change. Sometimes we outgrow them and make new friendships. It’s just a normal part of life.”

To this she nodded solemnly. “Thanks. I gotta go.”

Great,
I thought as I watched the short glittery crowd swallow her,
I’ve just ruined her life.
Psychics suck.

Nelly’s “Hot in Herre” started up, and I was afforded a little break, as all the thirteen-year-olds and preteens within sight abandoned their drinks and food and fun to hit the dance floor, inspired by a song about stripping, to bust moves that would make me, a grown woman, blush. On the outer edge of the floor a prepubescent boy gyrated alongside a little girl in a half top. I looked away, at the chocolate fountain in the distance, and wondered what the hell had happened to the world.

Throughout the evening I kept an eye out for my little wallflower girl, searching the room for signs of distress, perhaps clumps of people comforting a crying child or gathered around the still body of a recent suicide. When finally I did see her, she was hurtling toward me at an alarming speed.

“Hi,” she said, breathless and excited and practically still skidding to a halt. “Does Ryan like me?”

Oh, boy. In the course of the evening I’d heard that same question about Ryan from about six mini Britneys. With those girls as her competition, poor little Rebecca didn’t stand a chance. I nodded toward the crowd. “Which one is he?”

She went to raise her arm, but I stopped her.

“No! Don’t point! Just tell me. That’s a lesson in life: Don’t ever point.”

“He’s at the sushi bar.”

I squinted. All I could see was a boy’s back and, unfortunately, that he was surrounded by what looked to be a fawning entourage. Without a doubt Ryan was a member of the übercool, and I wanted to dash across the room, grab his arm—and a few spicy tuna rolls—and take him aside to have a long chat about the power he possessed and the hearts I feared he’d break. Instead I forced a hopeful smile for Rebecca’s benefit, and shuffled. I figured I’d pull the Disappointment, Sorrow, or Futility card—cards I myself knew too well—and thus would be obliged to come up with some speech about boys and crushes and how just because your heart gets broken doesn’t mean you won’t go on to experience the wonderful bliss of a
lying pink-shirted metrosexual German sous-chef.
Yeah, the uplifting love speech could be tough for me. In order not to scare her, I’d have to go against all my instincts and ignore all my true feelings. After all, screaming “If you think you know pain now, just you wait!” to a thirteen-year-