who you gonna call?!

In the event that I lose my job as BART train operator, I’ve decided to pursue a career as an office machine psychic.

Young Susie J. was once quite impressed by the effectiveness of a pet psychic at mending the relationship between two fiesty cats. It turned out that Smudge, who invested hours grooming herself, was offended by Moondance’s dirty paws, leading her to behave in an aloof and dismissive manner. Poor Moondance felt demeaned and inferior, but she really did have some damn dirty paws. There’s a bit of a hole in my memory as to how this information was actually implemented in our lives, but I do remember never having cat fights in the house again. Really, the most impressive part of this pet psychic lady was that she didn’t even have to meet the cats! She did it all over the phone, only knowing their names.

But office machines don’t always have names, so I’ll make house calls. I’ll target those companies with really, really troublesome office machines. I’ll be their last resort, solving only those problems even the best repair people couldn’t solve. I’ll come in, charging 350 dollars per hour, as if I were a bigshot divorce attorney or some shit. Dressed in long, flowing skirts, hair scarves and wearing ever so much jewelry, I’ll be the picture of psychic prowess. Or, maybe I’ll dress bus-pro, just for kicks. Depends on the job, maybe.

Anyway, let’s say I’m called in cause the big old copier in the vault is making wheezing sounds and acting up sporadically. I’ll make a big production of listening to every side, opening each cover and looking inside. I’ll push different bits of paper through to assess the problem. Then I’ll ask to be alone with the office machine.

Now, it doesn’t matter what I do here, cause I’ll be alone with the office machine. But, since I’m a genuine machine psychic, I will genuinely communicate with the copier. I’ll channel it’s innermost being, if you will. And you know what its innermost being will say?

That it’s the typewriter’s fault. I’ll dramatically conclude that if they want their copier to work, they had better get a new typewriter. It turns out that copier is still holding a grudge cause the typewriter wasn’t initially very welcoming, since it had been around since the beginning and had seen copiers come and go. I tune in to the typewriter, and all its energy suggests that its just “too tired of the rotating copier game.” Can’t argue with that.

So, let’s say they take my advice, and get a more sociable typewriter. Then the copier is still having problems! They’ll call me back–especially since I was ever so effective the first time–and I’ll put on the same show. And I’ll dramatically conclude that the reason for the copier’s continued misbehavior has to do with the abuse of a wayward technician long ago. It feels violated, and is having trouble moving on. I suggest that they call my friend, Deseree, the office machine counselor, and I’ll give them her card. Normally, I say, Deseree is able to work through an office machine’s problems–no matter how deeply rooted in its psyche–in only two or three visits. And, I point out, she’s cheaper–only $250 an hour. Everyone knows counselors make less than psychics.

Yes, I think this is a very good plan. Fool-proof, even. I just need a couple of good references.

can you darling…can you picture this?

The sun’s shining, but you curse its very life-warming essence, that’s how far down in the H.O. you are today. But the air smells crisp, and if it wasn’t for your inevitable arrival at your place of employment, life wouldn’t be so bad after all. You approach your BART station, stick your ticket through, and ascend/descend to the requisite platform. A seasoned traveler, you don’t have to wait long, no, not long at all, for your train to arrive.

And sure, your earphones are coddling your hangover. It’s not soo bad. It doesn’t matter where on the train you choose. Wherever you’re going, your day is about to be perfect.

This is why: Over the bitter strains of Belle and Sebastian, or maybe you’ve given in and bought a Brighteyes album… whatever your poison, fate interrupts, and you hear my voice – yes! my voice!! – announcing the approaching BART station. Your body fills with glee. Just imagine. “Dublin/Pleasanton.” Maybe I would pronounce the forward slash “Dublin-forward-slash-Pleasanton.” Maybe you’re not going to DP. You’re going to 12 street. “Twelth Street” – can you hear it?!! And then, how eloquently I would deliver the transfer instructions! Oh. That’s the sound of sweetness, that’s what that would be. Your toes would curl in anticipation. You wouldn’t be able to wait to detrain. And when you did, there’d be my smiling face peeking out of the top of the train. Waving; ensuring all my passengers safely made it off the train, over that little gap and up the stairs.

Yes, yes, this would be perfection. This is my calling. I am ready. Sometimes I might misspeak and say “MacBart” rather than “MacArthur.” I’ll develop a following. Folks will laugh – actually laugh – on my BART train. We’ll have dance parties when we go under the bay. I’ll turn on my mini radio, and abuse the microphone. I’ll open the doors at strange places late at night. We’ll let on the loonies, and never complain.

And let’s say you and I have plans for the evening, but we have yet to finalize them. While commuting, all you need do is press that little button (maybe three times) and you will actually talk to me way up at the front of the train in the control pit! We’ll have a quick chat, and arrange to meet at 16th and Guerrero at 5:15. I’ve been working since three a.m. – it will be time for drink. And then you’re not going to wonder all day when we’re going to meet up as you otherwise might have.

I say, life is grand. We’re not even going to need cell phones anymore. Now, aren’t you glad to see me?

I still can't believe it. We didn't win the lottery.

But we had bought the winning lottery ticket – admittedly, self-proclaimed – and we had purchased it in a little bumpkin town somewhere in the Central California, where all winning lottery tickets are purchased. The gas station across the street called itself “Gas War” (out of ignorance, we decided). How could it not be the winning lottery ticket?

I tore it up into little pieces in the aftermath of the drawing. As I analagously tore up my dreams of that immediate trip to Greece, the jaunt from there to Iceland, and then to – sigh, Thailand. And Portland, as promised. I wasn’t going to be greedy, either. My mother would get a house, my sister an investor. I’d pay my friend’s credit card bills for a month or more, and we’d all take long vacations. I wouldn’t stop working, and I’d invest wisely. Life was going to be alright.

The worst part of losing the lottery even though you bought the self-proclaimed winning lottery ticket? Having all your confidence in Tony Robbins dashed.

I first met Tony in his Get the Edge series (my aunt introduced us). He had a really motivating goal-setting workshop on Disc 3. It emphasized that visualization was the key to success. Visualization and goal-setting. So, I set some goals. One was inner peace (ha!). The most material was to have a million dollars by my next birthday. Back then, this was eleven months away. I figured if I could make $100,000 a month, I’d be golden.

Yeah, so now I’m 4 months away, and the lotto seems like my best bet. Tony told me stories of this couple who set a similar goal – millions in months (plausible get rich quick scheme not required). They won the lottery. Then they decided that five million wasn’t enough. So they set another impossible goal. And won the lotto again. And why did this happen for them? Because they believed it would. They visualized it happening.

Oh, how I visualized. Oh, how I believed. I believed in you, Tony. I don’t know what I did wrong. I’m sorry I wouldn’t have your child, but I was broke, even though you said the money was coming.

What’s that, Great Universe?

I do have four more months. I think maybe I’ll give this rollercoaster of hope and dispair another try. Perhaps even twice a week. And oh, how I’ll visualize. Oh, how I’ll believe. Thanks, Tony. I feel better now. Greece’ll still be nice in late summer. However crowded.

(While we were growing up, my parents bought a lotto ticket every Wednesday and Saturday. They used the same numbers, and never missed a week. We’ve all had nightmares of not playing the one week our numbers came up. One time we won $1,500. That was good for thirteen-year-old me, even though I only got $50 and a new vest. I tell myself that thirteen-year-old me thought a vest was way hot. Way wrong.)