Shell Out

Part 2: Psychic Friends Hotline

            He managed to survive for a little over a year at the Psychic Friends Hotline, which was amazing considering he'd sometimes misunderstood his own mind. The position had given him a unique opportunity to interact with interesting people, and he had learned much about human psychology during his many experiments. And, in spite of his initial high climaxing in the first month and the subsequent fall resembling a slow-motion dream where he'd jump out of a plane as it raced for the side of a mountain, just to discover that he had forgotten to take a parachute, he gave it his heart because it had given him a paycheck. But, as the thrill drew closer to death, he began to lose his step. His interest followed. The effects were gradual, but he could sense the difference between now and his first day. The standard protocol had sewn in him the seeds of boredom. He needed to spice things up. His readings had grown riskier. He was giving them futures that would change their destinies. He knew the risk had an expiration date, and eventually it would spoil him. But he kept it going for as long as he could. His paycheck was sufficient enough that he had forgotten what it was like to eat noodles on the couch in front of a dead TV on a Friday night.

            He eventually fell in hot water when he took things too far and a caller suspected him of fraud. It was a shame, too, because his future-predicting skills, or what passed as skills, landed him a weekly paycheck almost worth smiling about. The call in particular, which had brought the head psychic to break out his big fat red pen, began after lunch:

            "Well, Heeeelllloooo," said Greg, as he dangled the handset by his mouth. "Thank you for choosing the Psychic Friends Hotline where your future can make your dreams come true and all that fun stuff. Let us join minds, Mis..."

            "Wow, hi," said the male caller. "I can't believe I'm finally calling the Hotline. I've thought about it for months, ever since my girlfriend dumped me, but she used to make fun of it, saying it was a big joke. I couldn't get the nerve to call until a girl at Crappy Burger said, 'Tommy, you need to get over Mandy. She was never good for you. If you call the Psychic Friends Hotline today, the friendly psychic can tell you your future so you don't have to end up with girls like her again.' Wasn't that nice of her? So here I am, calling the Psychic Friends Hotline, and I'm nervous, but I need advice."

            "Well, Mister Tommy, let us see what we can find—"

            "You know my name? Wow, you're the real deal, man."

            "Of course, Tommy. I'm a psychic." Greg took notes on some Post-its while he listened to the caller and regurgitated his information. So far he had the caller's name and gender recorded next to a doodle of a rooster that he had been scribbling since his conversation with the previous caller.

            "That's so amazing. That is so frickin' awesome. I'm listening to everything Kelly says from now on. So what's my relational future?"

            For effect, Greg emitted a droning noise — he liked to do this whenever he needed the illusion of reading futures. Habit had also brought him to spit and gurgle at the end of the show. The whole system took about sixty seconds of the caller's time.

            "According to my amazing psychic powers I can predict that getting over Mandy will be in your best interest and that awaiting a new love is in your future."

            "Really? When?"

            "Well, Tommy, I predict a new beautiful woman will show up in your life very soon. And this woman, Tommy, you will not only find attractive, but with her a relationship you will also desire."