CRASH TEST PSYCHIC

 

THE BEGINNING

 

The dream is why I drink. Not that I need it to sleep. But, it seems to keep things pleasant. It keeps 'things' tolerable. It keeps me in the dream longer, too. But, never long enough. If I drink enough, it brings back the right memories.

 

Memories of her...

 

Memories of Rachael...

 

If I leave things to chance, well, let's just say, 'Things' get out of hand. The word nightmare suddenly becomes an understatement. I have had drug induced ‘bad trips’ before. It doesn’t even compare. Oh yeah, the bad dreams are usually shorter. But, they’re not even close to short enough. I’d rather drink myself into a good dream, than to ever take my chances with a short, sober one. And that’s what I did last night. I drank until I could guarantee myself a good, pleasant sleep. But, as with everything else in this cold, miserable existence I call life, the good things are far too often cut short.

 

And so it was with my latest dream.

 

I had just finished enjoying a picnic by a steady, serene brook, lost in the deep, loving eyes of my Rachael, when the television began an urgent news bulletin. I suddenly found myself in the most familiar of places; my couch. The bed had seemed such a wasted piece of furniture since loosing her. The newscaster had just finished saying how urgent the message he had was and began with the details. Looking over to the clock on the wall, I realized it was late in the morning. Late for some, but early for me. I sat up and tried wipe the disappointment from my face. That’s when I heard the newscaster mention Rachael.

 

Shocked into reality, I was now locked onto the TV.

 

“The victim was found washed up on the beach by a neighborhood jogger. The estimated time of death was around six in the morning. Cause of death has yet to be released. Now with sports…” the anchorman continued as if the death he had just announced didn’t matter at all.

 

“No. No. No. Go back. “I yelled at the TV set, fumbling for my remote suddenly remembering I no longer had a working DVR, “Go back...”

 

Saying those two words, I suddenly turned to the corner. There, in the shadows of the morning, was a small knickknack shelf covered with various figurines, snow globes, and numerous mementos. Uncontrollably, I stared for what seemed like days frozen in time, not really knowing what to do next. But although my mind wasn't sure, there were other parts of me buried down deep inside that didn't hesitate. I found myself standing in that corner, still staring at the shelf full of what some people would call junk. To the uncaring eye, they seemed like the type of things you would buy on vacation for that friend that you had unfortunately promised that you would bring them something back. But to me, they were all the memories I had left.

 

That in itself was pretty strange to me. During sleep, my dreams were all about my memories. But as soon as I was awake, I had the hardest time bringing even the simplest memories up. I started to reach for a small statuette of one of those merry-go-round horses when my hand brushed a flat plastic card. As I picked it up, I realized it was an ID card. The face on the card was so much younger and was actually smiling.

 

"Could this fool have really been that happy?" I asked myself, staring into the hapless eyes of this naive babe in the woods.

 

That's when it happened, as it always does. You see, the really strange thing about not having memories to rely upon is the fact of my condition. It was something I was born with. As far back as I could remember, I had always had a wild talent for clairvoyance. I had the knack of just picking something up and being able to tell you its life history. I could see who owned it last or for that matter who had touched it last. I could usually pick up most of the action going on around the object. Depending on how old the memory, I can sometimes pick up conversations that went on around the object. It was a nifty little talent, but I hid it for years, afraid I would be pegged a freak. Of course, that was before psychics became a dime a dozen.

Oh yeah, I grew up with the TV psychics. Those wack jobs that would tell you how good your future was gonna be and all for a price. But this was different. Legitimate, respected individuals began to come out of the woodwork, all claiming to have some sort of psychic power. Some could read minds. Some could move things. And some, like me, could read the past off objects. Of course, there were a multitude of other facets to this psychic phenomenon. The point is that they were everywhere. And, after the initial shock, the nation as a whole began to embrace them.

 

The government, as it was so fond of doing, stepped in to regulate them. They tested them. They licensed them. They even taxed them. And they policed them. I put the card back on the shelf. No good memories there. Worthless. I wasn't even sure why I still kept that card on the shelf.

I had just started to scan the shelf for something with better memories, when the phone rang. Startled, I woke up on the couch again. Or maybe I never left the couch at all. Had I been dreaming all this time? I really wasn't sure. When you drink as much as I do, you really can't be sure of much of anything. All I knew right now was that the sound of the phone’s ringer was driving a sonic nail right through my skull. I began to frantically fumble for that blasted phone. God knew where it was. I was surprised it was even charged. But obviously, it was. I really wasn't concerned with who was calling. I just had to stop that infernal contraption from ringing, and fast.

 

Underneath the pizza box, and in one of the three dirty pairs of pants I found under it, I finally found that phone. I went to silence the machine, what I noticed who was calling. I wanted so bad to ignore it.

 

"Just silence it and let it ring." I tried to tell myself, but I knew deep down I had to answer it. So taking a deep breath, I pushed the green button and tried to sound happy, "Hey, Trae, how's it going?"

 

"What you mean how it's going?!" The really angry voice on the phone nearly screamed, "I got paying customers all over the lot, and Sammy’s out with the flu and that bum, Jared, and is off getting hitched. You’d think he'd have the decency to maybe pick a day he's off to marry that tramp."

 

God, I really don't need this, right now. I was so close to hanging up on him, and crashing back on the couch. That's when he unfortunately turned the conversation towards me, "and how about you, Whit? Where the hell have you been? I've been phoning you for the last hour! Are you filtering your calls now, ya asswipe? “

 

“No, no, no! Of course not, Trae! I just had a rough night." I replied truthfully, which is an oddity for me.

 

"Well, you better not! Big Nick ever comes to the conclusion that you’re not a stand up guy; there’ll be hell to pay! Got that?" Trae threatened in that uneducated, chopped up mess he called the English language.

 

"Come on, Trae, how long we been working together? Two, maybe three years?" I reminded him, trying to ease him up a bit.

 

"Ah, hell, don't remind me! If it wasn't for the fact you owed Big Nick, we wouldn't be talking now, would we?" Trae angrily reminded me.

 

I suddenly realized my attempts to ease Trae were fruitless. "Yeah, Trae, I know. What do you want?"

 

"What the? What do you think I want? I just told you those two idiots didn't come in!" I found myself massaging my forehead with my free hand as to back off my worsening hang over. "I need you to come in and help me sell some cars!"

Trae ran a used car lot down on main. He used that as a cover for a very lucrative chop shop which he ran as a part of Big Nick’s overall operations. I tried to pretend not to know so much about the bosses’ business. Sort of figured; the less you seemed to know the better. But, Trae and me went way back. All the way back, in fact, to before things went sour for me.

“Yeah…Sour…” I thought and then answered Trae, “You bet, Trae. No problem. I’ll be right there.”

 

“You bet your ass you'll be right in...” Whit heard as he pushed the red button.

 

As he held the cell phone in his hand, he could hear all the previous conversations he and Trae had had recently; all about him being late to work and how Big Nick was 'gonna have his ass' if he didn't straighten up. Finally Trae's voice echoed off the walls as if he were there yelling at him to his face. Then, they started overlapping in a nauseous symphony of cursing that caused Whit to hold his forehead to ease them back. Finally, as he could take no more, Whit dropped the cell phone on the floor and buried his pounding head in his hands.

 

 

He woke up twenty minutes later curled up in the fetal position on the couch; his head still pounding. Looking at the clock, he realized he was pushing his luck with Trae.

 

“Damn!” Was all he could say, as he slipped a jacket on and headed to the door.

 

Instinctively, he walked back to pick up the cell phone. As he reached for it, he froze, not wanting to hear Trae's voice for a while. Quickly, he grabbed a pair of thick leather gloves off the end table and slipped them on. Picking up the cell phone, he slipped out the door.

 

[MORE TO COME]

 

ALSO-This is a call out to all artists!  If you would like a crack at drawing Whit or building us a logo or any other artwork pertaining to CRASH TEST PSYCHIC, just email me at jackeduptales@gmail.com and ask any questions and send any art.

 

The art I like will be published and credit will be given!  In the future, I may be interested in doing an illustrated project with Whit and the world of the Crash Test Psychic!