Desert Mirage (1,258)

[paradoxical]

Desert Mirage


It all started when I read an article in the newspaper about a psychic in Hillsboro who worked unsolved cases with the police. It described how she could perceive future events, or give someone details about their past. You could call her, and the information would just appear in her mind. I had torn out the bit of newspaper with her phone number and placed it in my wallet. We were about to make a major change and I wanted to know what would happen but over time, I forgot it was there, and I guess I’ll always wonder if things would have turned out differently if I had actually called.

“Do you think you’ll like New Mexico?” Laura would ask me. We had been married for two years.

“Of course.” “What about you?”

“The weather will be nice.”

I had just accepted a job as a civilian employee with the Army, working on a project in Las Cruces. The money was good, not like the jobs I had in Oregon, but things didn’t work out in New Mexico. I was let go after only three months, when the entire project was canceled due to budgets cuts, and I had been unemployed for over a year and a half. Laura was already talking about moving back in with her sister. My benefits had been extended, but it wasn’t enough to cover all of our expenses and I kept applying for jobs but it seemed hopeless. Some days I even considered suicide. That’s when I remembered the psychic I had read about in the paper.

“Do you believe in psychics?” I had asked Laura one night at dinner.

“Why?” “You’re not thinking about calling a psychic are you?”

“No, I was just curious.”

“Well you’d better not spend any money on something so stupid.”

I had carried that piece of newspaper in my wallet for two years and when I really needed it, when I finally remembered it was there, it was too late. It had gotten wet somehow, the ink had faded and I couldn't make out the number. I even tried searching on Google, and I found plenty of other psychics online, but not the one I had read about in the paper. I decided to post an ad on Craigslist, explaining that I used to live in the area and had read an article a couple of years ago in the Daily Oregonian about a psychic who lived in Hillsboro, a suburb of Portland. That it was important that I contact her because I needed information about my future and the next day, there was a message in my inbox.


From: Tara <[email protected]>
To: Mike Brussley <[email protected]>
Sent: Monday, October 10, 2011 8:53 PM
Subject: Seeking information on Portland psychic


I can help you but first I need to know your sign and how old are you?
What do you need her for?

She seemed a little strange, but I wrote back the following day.


From: Mike Brussley <[email protected]>
To: Tara <[email protected]>
Sent: Tuesday, October 11, 2011 10:32 AM
Subject: Seeking information on Portland psychic


Hi,

Thanks for the email. I’m a Sagittarius, I’m 34, and I used to live in Portland.

I live in Las Cruces, New Mexico now. I’ve been unemployed for a long time and
I think my wife is about to leave me.

I’ve been feeling suicidal and I want to know my future.

Tara wrote back and told me that she knew a lot of people in the psychic community. She traveled, she said, staying in one place for awhile and then moving on. We sent messages to each other every few days but after two weeks had passed I realized that Tara wasn’t going to help me. Instead, her messages had become more and more flirtatious. She had sent me a picture of herself and she was pretty, with long, curly black hair and dark eyes. She was wrapped in a towel and leaning into a bathroom mirror, holding an iPhone in one hand, it looked like she had just taken a shower. Her hair was wet, and she was smiling. She was 28, she said, and single. I was lonely, and the temptation was too strong.

Before long, we were talking on the phone. I had bought a prepaid cellular phone so that my wife wouldn’t notice the calls when we got our phone bill. Laura had taken a job as a nurse’s aid and that was our main source of income. I kept telling myself that I was going to quit talking to Tara. I felt awful, especially with my wife working so hard, but I couldn’t stop. When she told me that she wanted to meet, that she would pay to fly out to New Mexico, I couldn’t say no. When I spoke to her the next day, she told me that she couldn’t get a direct flight to Las Cruces and that we would have to meet in Albuquerque. She also told me that the tickets were more expensive then she thought and she needed five hundred dollars to help pay the cost. “You don’t mind paying?” she had asked.

“Well, it is a lot of money.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I just want to see you so bad.”

I knew that my wife would notice, but I cashed a check for five hundred dollars, I would think of an excuse later. I sent it to Tara through Western Union and two days later I was heading north on I-25. It was Laura’s idea that I get a motel room for the night instead of driving all the way back to Las Cruces the same day, I had told her that I was going to a job fair. It was terrible, lying to her like that, and withdrawing all that money, but the closer I got to Albuquerque, the less it seemed to bother me. It’s just sex, I told myself, just this one time and then never again. When I got to Albuquerque, I took the Central Avenue exit heading west and found an old style motor court called the Desert Mirage. It looked clean but also a little seedy, just perfect I thought.

Once I had the room key I left and had lunch at a diner, then went back to the motel. Tara called to tell me that her flight had been delayed. “Where are you?” I asked.

“Salt Lake City. Are you still coming pick me up?”

“Of course,” I said.

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“Same here.”

“I should be there around 3 o’clock.”

We hung up and I placed the phone on the nightstand, thinking about what Tara had said. Something wasn’t right. I had brought a bottle of Dewar's and decided to pour myself a drink. I watched a show on television then had another scotch. Tara didn’t call at 3 o’clock and when I tried her phone it was turned off. I never heard from her again.


* * *

It’s this world that we live in, it’s enough to drive anyone insane and I don’t really blame Tara, or people like her. But I had lied to my wife and pissed away five hundred dollars. I’m pretty sure that Laura is going to leave me. If only I had called that number before we left Oregon, but now I wonder if anyone can really predict the future. Maybe no one has any answers to give. I certainly don’t know what’s going to happen.

[Delta40]

It's not a bad plot, if not a little predictable but I think the main problem here is that we don't really get to know the characters well enough in the story. You summarize the lives of Mike and Laura by telling us about their move and what happens but we don't really learn anything about their relationship or feel the strain that unemployment places upon them. There isn't any sign of a growing distance between them either. You tell us Mike considers suicide which would be far better written as a scene.

As it is, IMO, the reader has barely time to really appreciate Mike's plight and character to sympathize with him enough before he derails and cheats on his wife.

I think if you were to do more showing than telling in this story, it would be a much better read, especially as your writing skills flow rather well.

Good luck.

[paradoxical]

Thanks for the feedback, Delta. You're right, I think I did summarize too much, and the characters were not developed enough.

"Show don't tell." I guess it took another pair of eyes to see it. I also agree that Mike's thoughts of suicide would be better written as a scene

I was a little disappointed in the ending as well. Originally, the story was over 3,000 words and had an entirely different ending. It was almost two separate stories combined into one.

I spent an embarrassing amount of time on this story, but it looks like it needs even more work.

[Moonbear]

I agree it was a good read. I am not going to reiterate what has already been said about development, but I do have a few little points in line edits.


“Of course.” “What about you?”
This line only needs one set of quotes as it is only one person speaking without takes or action between. You probably know that since your later ones are done properly, but I thought I would put it in here anyway.


We were about to make a major change and I wanted to know what would happen but over time, I forgot it was there, and I guess I’ll always wonder if things would have turned out differently if I had actually called.

This is a slightly awkward sentence. It would work better broken up.

We were about to make a major change and I (was curious) wanted to know what would happen. Over (the two years I carried it) time, I (had forgotten) forgot it was there. I guess I'll always wonder if things would have turned out differently if I had actually (made the call) called.

The parts in () are suggestions for wording. Feel free to ignore or use as you like.

The only other suggestion I have is you build a little more sympathy for the main character. In this kind of story it is easy to hate him.

[paradoxical]

I revised this story, made some improvements, and gave it a new title. I think it's much better now. Please let me know what you think.



The Fortune Teller


Two years ago, I read an article in the Daily Oregonian about a psychic in Hillsboro who worked unsolved cases with the police. It described how she could perceive future events or give someone details about their past, and I had torn out the bit of newspaper with her phone number and placed it in my wallet. You could call her, and the information would just appear in her mind. We were about to leave Oregon and I wanted to know what would happen, but I forgot it was there and I guess I’ll always wonder how things would have turned out if I had called.

“Do you think you’ll like New Mexico?” I’d ask Laura.

“Of course. How about you?”

“The weather will be nice.”

I had just accepted a job as a civilian employee with the Army, working as a computer programmer on a project in Las Cruces. The money was good, even better than the jobs I had in Oregon, but things didn’t work out in New Mexico. I was let go after only three months, when the entire project was canceled due to budgets cuts, and I stayed unemployed for over a year and a half. Laura was already talking about moving out by then and I wondered if it wouldn’t be for the best if she really did leave. We had been married for six years but it seemed that I was more of a liability than an asset.

I kept applying for jobs but it seemed hopeless. I was in my truck one day during rush hour traffic and across the street was a gun store. Suddenly I had an urge to park the car and go in to purchase a gun. I’ll kill myself, I thought. This is all too much. With the afternoon sun beating down on the windshield, and the sound of traffic and car horns, I began to look around at the other drivers. Maybe I'll even take out someone else, I thought. That’s when I remembered the psychic I had read about in the paper.

“Do you believe in psychics?” I asked Laura one night after dinner, a glass of red wine in her hand.

“Why? You’re not thinking about calling a psychic are you?”

“No, I was just curious.”

“Well you’d better not spend any money on something as ridiculous as that.”

I had carried that piece of paper in my wallet for two years and when I really needed it, when I finally remembered it was there, it was gone. I wasn’t sure what happened, if it had fallen out or what, but now I had no way of getting in touch with her. I tried searching on Google, and I found plenty of other psychics online, but not the one I had read about in the paper. I even tried posting an ad on Craigs List but no one had heard of her. A week went by, and I was paralyzed by indecision. I had convinced myself that she was the only person who could tell me what to do next. Laura had found work as a payroll clerk with the City of Las Cruces. She had also decided that I was to attend a six week training course in Albuquerque to become a slot machine technician.

“It’s good money,” she told me. We were lying in bed watching television. She also informed me that she had decided to rent a small one bedroom apartment near work and would be moving out at the end of the week. I knew she was going to file for a legal separation.

“Think of it as an adjustment period,” Laura said. She was giving me a chance to get myself together and to see if her feelings toward me would change. I felt awful. She told me that she no longer even saw me as a man, and that’s what hurt the most.

I looked at the brochure she gave me. Becoming a slot technician wasn’t a bad idea. I already had a background in electronics and something about working in a casino seemed appealing. Maybe I could meet some women, I thought. I had a strong feeling that Laura was going to leave me for good and I had started to think about other girls for the first time since our marriage. The price for the course was decent, and we had already taken out a second mortgage on our home a few months back. There were coed dormitories included in the cost of tuition and I could stay there while I finished my training. The thought of being alone in Albuquerque excited me. Let her move out, I thought. I’ll find someone else.

But once she was gone, it affected me more then I thought. I felt as though I had to prove myself. I tried personal ads on Craigs List, even joined Match.com for awhile. I was 39, and a little bulgy, a little balding, but still not bad looking. Women would reply, but I didn’t know how to respond. It had been so long since I dated and looking back, I’m sure I came off as desperate. I considered going to bars but I couldn’t dance and often froze up when trying to talk to women in those places.

That’s when I began to consider something that I had never done before. It was a Saturday night, and I was going to tour the training facility in Albuquerque on Monday. I was going to write a check for tuition if the place seemed all right then drive back to Las Cruces and wait for classes to start in two weeks. I had also decided to hire a prostitute the first night I got to Albuquerque.

I woke up at sunrise on Monday morning, packed a change of clothes and my toothbrush, and headed north on I-25. I passed Socorro, then Los Lunas, finally crossing the Rio Grande River into Albuquerque. I took the Central Avenue exit heading west and found an old style motor court called the Desert Mirage. It looked clean but also a little seedy. Just perfect, I thought. I had brought a bottle of Dewar’s and sat it down on the nightstand, unpacked my clothes, then began looking through the phone book for an escort agency. I had a few hundred in cash, and could withdraw more from my account if needed.

I settled on AAA Escorts, the very first listing in the Yellow Pages, but I was too nervous to call. I poured myself a scotch on the rocks, and then had another. Maybe I’ll build up the courage I thought, but it was no use. I’d never be able to go through with it.

I decided to try my wallet one last time, not expecting much, but it was falling apart and I supposed there were tears and folds that could hide a crumpled, balled up piece of newsprint. Maybe I hadn’t looked hard enough, I thought, and when I searched, I found a small waded piece of newspaper buried under my Multnomah County library card, inside a tear in the wall of the wallet.

I carefully unfolded it. I could tell that the paper had gotten wet at some point but it was still readable. I could make out the name and number. Sonja Grace. (503) 746-6525. But I wasn’t going to call from New Mexico. I decided I was driving all the way back to Oregon to see her in person. Tomorrow I was going to find a sporting goods store and buy a tent and some supplies. There was a campground I knew of in Utah and another in Idaho on the banks of the Snake River. Once I got to Oregon, I could save money by staying in a state park outside of Portland. It would be an adventure, and I was starting to feel like a man again.

The next morning, I took I-40 to Gallup then turned north on US 491 toward Colorado, then west into Utah. I drove toward Moab and spent the night at Canyonlands National Park. In the morning, I headed northwest to Provo, Utah but I wasn’t able to find a campground so I got a cheap motel room outside of Salt Lake City. By this time, I was on I-84, which took me all the way through Idaho and into Oregon.

Once I reached Eastern Oregon, I barreled through Baker City and Pendleton. I made it to Hood River around 6 o’clock, and was in downtown Portland an hour and a half later. I parked at an overnight parking garage on 4th Avenue by the courthouse, slipped on my backpack, and began walking. I guess I need to call her, I thought. At least set up an appointment. On the sidewalk, there was that familiar energy I always loved about Portland. It gave you the feeling that anything could happen. I checked the time and it was nearly 8 o’clock. Not too late to call, I thought, so I sat down on a bench, and dialed the number. Her assistant answered my call and we setup an appointment for the next day.

I knew I would be too wound up to sleep, so the only thing to do was walk around all night with my backpack. I took Salmon Street down to Waterfront Park and started walking north. My pack was heavy, and I stopped to rest after passing under the Morrison Bridge. Darkness was just starting to fall when a young guy wearing a Bob Marley t-shirt came and sat down next to me.

“Hey, man,” he said, looking at my backpack. “You wouldn’t wanna buy some nugs would you?” For some reason, I decided to take him up on his offer.

“What kind you got?”

He glanced around, looking for bicycle cops, then pulled out a plastic bag. I could smell the pungent, chemical odor coming through the bag.

“This is called sour diesel.” He opened the ziplock and held the bag up for me to look.

“Yea, I’ll take a gram if you have a pipe.”

“I sure do.”

How long had it been since I last smoked pot? 15 years ago? Maybe it would help me form a closer connection to the psychic. He held out his fist then placed the bud in the palm of my hand. It looked like more then a gram. I slid a folded twenty dollar bill toward him on the park bench and he picked it up.

“Sorry I don’t have any bags.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” I said, shoving the weed in my pocket.

He then pulled out a glass pipe and began packing a bowl from his personal stash.

“I’m not used to smoking weed,” I told him.

“Oh yea? How long has it been?”

“A long time.”

“Then you better go slow on this. It’s real strong.”

He handed me his pipe and lighter and I took a small hit, blowing out a puff of smoke almost as soon as it entered. Immediately, I felt lightheaded and my muscles began to relax. I passed the pipe back to him and he reached for the lighter with his other hand. He took a long, hard drag while a group of tourists walked by. We passed the pipe back and forth a few times, watching the boats in the river. Time seemed to stop. It was as though I had been sitting on that bench smoking pot with that kid forever. Sounds were different. Everything had a kind of reverb effect.

“So what brings you to Portland?” he asked, and I started laughing.

“Well, would you believe a psychic?”

“A powerful psychic?” The question reminded me of the Carlos Castenaneda books I had read in college. Sorcerers and sorceresses. Men and women of power.

“Oh yes.”

“So you came here to see this psychic?” he asked. I glanced at him and his eyes were sincere, respectful. “Man, that is far out.”

“Yea, it is.”

“So which way you’re headed?” he asked.

“Oh, I thought I’d go up by PSU,” I said.

“That’s where I’m going. Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

We stood up and I slung my backpack over my shoulder then ran my hand and arm through the other strap. Once I was settled we started walking south across the grass back toward Yamhill Street. It was a bright night. The stars were out and the moon was half full.

“Portland’s great, isn’t it?

“It sure is,” I said.

Why didn’t I do things like this when I lived here? I wondered. Why had I been so uptight? My problems with Laura and the life I had left behind in New Mexico seemed a world away.

We took Yamhill past Pioneer Square then turned west on Broadway when I spotted a tall homeless man wearing a long purple coat with a hood. He looked like a wizard, I thought, and when I saw his face, he had the most peaceful eyes I’d ever seen—his face was glowing like a saint. Suddenly, a bright multicolored prism of light shot out from his face in all directions and he smiled at us. I turned my head to see if my new friend had seen the same thing. I could tell by the look on his face that he had seen it as well. He glanced at me for a moment then shrugged. “There’s some powerful dudes out here, and sometimes you get to meet some of them.”