Lady Katherine

“You’re going to live to a very long age, at least 85.” Thus begins my imminent, and probably eminently methodical, trek to find meaning in an otherwise meaningless world. Nick Spencer and I have sealed our fate; we just don’t know it yet.

There are questions in this life beyond our comprehension or something like that; so the adage goes. Vonnegut tried to answer them very simply writing in Slaughterhouse Five that some alien being (the Tralfamordorians) was going to push a button and the universe would end. So it goes. I want more, but where can I find it. Certainly, I could look inside, but inside myself I’m mostly consumed by pop culture, sports and witty banter. There’s really not that much there. I can’t speak for my counterpart, but knowing myself is like knowing a movie character. There’s just not that much substance beyond my two-dimensional being—that is, besides an endless conversation about who would win in a fight; a Bengal tiger, a grizzly bear or a silverback gorilla with a baseball bat.

But I’m trying to change Ringo, I really am, and you guys caught me on a good day.

To this end, I’m visiting fifty-two psychics. Fifty-two people, who could, perhaps, explain an unintelligible world. Maybe they can tell me why I’m here. Maybe they can’t. As a cynic I look at them using their inner eye only in exchange for legal tender and I think it’s an abuse of power if they’ve got that inner eye or, worse, stealing if they do not. But, really, what’s the difference between them and a pastor who charges a tithe. Both are delivering peace of mind; one just gets tax breaks for it, you know. If a psychic provides me peace of mind at thirty-five dollars a visit then it’s a steal of a deal I say. To find true inner sanctum in a messed up world for the price of 35 dollars, well who wouldn’t shell out the dough for that kind of truthbomb?

I wondered upon entering Madame Katherine’s den, what I would be told. Would she open my eyes to the necessity of new experiences? Would she give me the strength to do the things I need to do by telling me something I already knew? Perhaps, I’ll walk the Earth…be a traveler, and experience and just go, go, go. Alas, snake oil salesmen come in many forms and I fear, one may have come to me in the form of a 65 year old woman who constantly answered her phone while surreptitiously looking at my palms. At least, they’re nice palms—the only pair I own, actually.

“Did I know that something was troubling me?” Oh, I had no idea Madame Katherine because I am not self-aware enough to know that like every human being there are things wrong. “Did I know that I’m going to be very successful?” Why no, I didn’t know that Madame, but I had been hoping to spend my last years on Earth wallowing in self-pity due to an unfulfilled life brought upon by my professional irresponsibility.

At this point, I can’t comment on a generalized set of problems that pervade psychics—I’ve only been to one—but I can speculate upon the profession a bit. My guess is that supposed legitimate psychics would claim that Madame Katherine is sullying their name by practicing without the inner eye. She is a snake oil salesmen they might say, and who knows, maybe they’re right. Maybe she is selling the emperor’s new clothes. But her problem isn’t necessarily that she can’t predict my future. I mean, half of predicting is asking questions, right? A person could take a look at me and see many things. She predicted I’d be successful. Well, why is that? When I walked into her den, I was wearing black work pants and a cashmere sweater. I was bathed, and my hair was coiffed. I’m white and skinny and about six feet tall and I speak intelligently when I choose to do so. Her job is to process this information. Could she know that I’m successful? No. But she could make an educated guess. When you add into this, the machine gun delivery of her “prophecies” and my yes or no answers to her questions, it allowed her to quickly whittle her guesses down from general to specific. And this is all fine. I don’t care that she tried to prophesy about me. It’s flattering. Really. Except that I don’t need to be told what I want to do in life. I already know that. My dreams are my dreams because they make me happy, and I don’t need to be told what makes me tick.

And that leads to the problem with Madame Katherine specifically. Why should I care to have her re-visit my past or tell me my future? These are things I either know or have a lot of influence over and it doesn’t interest me in the least either way. I’m interested in things I can’t control like, “Hey Katherine, how can we stop global warming or find Osama Bin Laden or help the Knicks win a basketball game?” These are things I’m interested in because these are things that are inherently interesting. When I ask her, “Why are we here,” why would I want her to comment on serendipity—our paths crossing for a reason— when she could be telling me that in June the Suns are going to win the championship and in betting on them now I’ll find meaning in life. That's information I can use. Alas, I learned nothing from Lady Katherine that I didn’t already know, and my eyes have not opened nor my soul split asunder.

Perhaps, I’m looking at this all wrong. Perhaps the fault does not lie with Katherine, but with myself. Perhaps, I have yet to open my own mind. But I can’t get over this sneaking suspicion that the world would be better off without her type of snake oil. Perhaps, instead, it is time for the Tralfamadorians to push the button. Well, apparently they can’t do so yet. One down, fifty-one to go. So it goes