How I got a job as a fortune teller

The interviewer struck me as solid and reassuring. It could have been his business-like blue blazer, distinguished grey hair and kindly smile that did it. Or it could have his crisp, no-nonsense introduction.

“My name is Keith,” he said, shaking my hand. “My spirit guide’s name is Blue Star. He’s on the intergalactic committee.”

I felt less nervous immediately.

I’d applied for a job as a fortune teller at the New Age shop where Keith worked. A music student, I was chronically broke, thanks to the cost of books, music lessons, post-rehearsal drinks and the occasional packet of fags. A flexible job at The Orb, a lovely old heritage Victorian terrace house of the sort that line Sydney’s inner city, sounded just the thing.

It was such a beautiful shop. The ground floor was all sandstone walls and cabinets, filled with crystals and pewter dragons that gleamed in the dim lights. Little pyramids of soap and boxes of incense lay about, adding their scent to the perfumed candles on the counter, where Keith manned the old fashioned till. Towards the back of the shop was a wooden staircase, with a sign saying ‘This Way to the Orbe’.

“This is Ruth!” said Keith with a flourish, turning to the woman who had just come down the stairs.

My real name is Fenella, but I chose to use the name Ruth, my middle name. Although a numerologist had once told me not to use it—saying it would condemn me to being a housewife—I liked it. It made me feel tougher and more psychic. Also, I thought it a clever way to fool the tax department, should they ever raid the shop.

Moira didn’t seem impressed. The owner of The Orb, she was an attractive woman in her late 30s with clear skin, clear eyes, and the habit of gazing into the distance for long stretches between sentences. Right from the start, I talked at her at top speed. Her silence made me nervous. She looked through me as I presented my credentials: a familiarity with the tarot pack, a stint at a spiritualist church, a string of friends who swore by my predictions, and a year of night classes at astrology school.

“I’m having a dinner for all the psychics,” Moira said at last. “I want to see how everybody’s energies mesh.” And she gave me the address, before wafting back upstairs.

The house where we gathered the next week was an old terrace house, renovated inside with trendy lighting and polished floorboards. Keith sat at one end of the rough-hewn dining table, his silver hair and natty blue blazer making him look like a banker. Jade, a glossy black-haired woman in her 40s, sat next to me, her silk scarf wrapped expensively around her shoulders. In between performing spiritual duties, she cut hair for a living, and looked as though she prospered at it. Opposite her was Gabriella, a giggly heap of beads and frizzy hair, who swore she was gypsy-descended. And next to me was faraway Moira, who slowly revealed her cornucopia of gifts, from her ability to read minds to a talent for kindness.

Then there was me, the youngest by at least ten years, longhaired and with lipstick a shade too red. Everyone was pleasant enough, but it was awkward to begin with, because we were a group of strangers without much to say to each other. Fortunately, a higher power stepped in.

“Greetings,” said the spirit guide Blue Star, issuing from Keith’s mouth. “It is wonderful to welcome you here tonight.”

Blue Star’s high-pitched accent suggested he’d dropped in via India, Romania and somewhere in New Zealand. Keith’s eyes fluttered behind his eyelids, his face scrunched with the effort of channelling an ancient spirit. He looked like a cat coughing up a fur ball.

“The circle is very strong tonight,” said Blue Star. “There are powerful energies drawing near.”

“From where, Blue Star?” breathed Gabriella.

“From beyond, from whence the light emanates,” said Blue Star in a singsong, waggling Keith’s head in time with his words. “It is a glorious place…”

“I know,” said Jade brutally. “I’ve been there.”

Jade radiated power. She struck me as the sort of person who didn’t like being upstaged, even if the person taking the limelight was an ancient and benevolent entity with a seat on the intergalactic committee. Blue Star glared at her, but she sailed on. “I saw the light during both my near death experiences,” she said.

“You’ve had two such experiences?” asked Gabriella, wide-eyed. Jade nodded solemnly.

“It is a great thing, is it not?” said Blue Star, smoothly back on track. “We sometimes show the light to small, needy souls to reassure them their lives are not completely futile.”

This was the downside of the New Age: the competitive spirituality. I learned the hierarchy early on: having a Native American spirit guide was a good thing. Being able to claim you’d had a near death experience was even better. Authentic gypsy blood flowing through your veins put you into the big league. But trance mediumship of the sort Keith was exhibiting trumped the lot. So although Jade’s near death experiences were good, she needed to raise the stakes to take control of the table. This, apparently, was no problem.

“The greatest event of my life happened the other night,” she began, quietly. Jade’s weighty aura demanded attention, and we leaned in to hear her. “I awoke to find my bedroom awash with golden light.”

Blue Star said nothing.

“I looked out my window and saw…” her voice faltered, as though she couldn’t express the magnitude of it.

“A UFO?” asked Blue Star.

Jade shot him an impatient look. “Yes,” she snapped, “but it wasn’t any ordinary UFO.”

Things were getting tense. Blue Star softened his manner and looked at Jade politely, as though eager for her to continue.

“It was big and filled the whole sky,” said Jade, her eyes closed. “It beamed in love and light, and I felt wanted… and chosen.”

Blue Star nodded and seemed impressed.

“Did it look like this?” he asked, describing a ship bristling with top-of-the-line alien hardware. His sounded awestruck.

Jade nodded. “Yes, that’s the one,” she said.

“Did it have these sorts of markings?” asked Blue Star, sketching signs in the air with his fingers.

“Yes,” said Jade, sounding pleased.

“And was its light like a river of gold, with flashes of sparks?”

“Yes,” said Jade, tossing her well-groomed head. “That’s it.”

“Ah,” said Blue Star. “What you saw was the scout ship.” He sat back in his chair and beamed. “Now I’ve seen the mother ship.”

By now I’d downed half a bottle of white wine, which kept me insulated against the icy silence that descended. Never having experienced abduction, possession or beatific visions, I had nothing to contribute to the conversation. But Gabriella, in a fit of sisterly psychic solidarity, broke in. “Blue Star,” she said hesitantly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything, my child,” said Blue Star.

“What level are you?” asked Gabriella. “What spirit level, that is?”

Blue Star looked startled. It looked like this notion of spiritual rank was a new one on him, but he did his best.

“I’m a ‘nine’,” he said cautiously, testing out the concept. I could almost see him thinking: is this too big a claim to make? Would ‘ten’ have gone too far? He decided he liked his choice. “Yes, I am a nine, my child.”

Gabriella looked pleased.

“Thank you, Blue Star,” she said. “But I should tell you, I’ve had the honour of meeting a ‘two’.”

“I can feel my host needs a Scotch,” said Blue Star, dropping out and leaving his ‘host’ Keith slowly blinking at us all.

“What’s been happening?” asked Keith, all innocent.

Moira brought out pasta, and we ate. Later the conversation became lively again as we discussed how The Orb would operate: what to charge the customers, how long to make the readings, and what to put on our business cards.

“What do you think, Ruth?” said Moira, turning to me.

“‘Fortune Teller’ is OK by me,” I said.

This didn’t go down well.

“I’m not a fortune teller,” said Jade. “I am a spiritual counsellor.”

She proved the point by counselling me, perhaps sensing I was a potential ally. I slipped off my watch and gave it to her and she held it between her palms. This was another sign of what a top notch psychic she was—it’s notoriously difficult to get psychic impressions from watches or anything else with technology in it. But she closed her eyes and within minutes knew all about me.

Apparently I had a pink aura. Very artistic. Very sweet. Very loving.

That’s nice.

I am – or I was—a young soul.

That’s not so good—the older the soul, the higher the wisdom quotient.

But, above all, my aura promised fame. Very definitely. There were nods from all around the table, including from Moira. They were smiling. Clearly, I was part of the group. I was accepted.

I was hired.

And I loved them all. If they could see a great musical future in my aura, they were all fine by me. That was, after all, why I spent so many hours annoying my flatmates with singing practice.

And thus was Madam Ruth born. That Sunday I went into Moira’s shop and up two flights of stairs, past the ground floor racks of souvenir postcards, and then first floor jewellery, until I found myself in the attic room. It sat under the eaves and featured furniture that lived on that border between antiques and junk: small tables covered in crystals, candle sticks and glass paperweights; an old Singer sewing machine-turned-table; pre-Raphaelite prints on the wall; and old, foot-smoothed floorboards.

I perched on the rose-covered sofa, meditating on white light to clear my psychic faculties. I did a few mental warm-ups, so I could channel messages from the universe effectively. I ate a few of the lollies Moira had put in a bowl next to the coffee. I thumbed through an astrology magazine. Then I played with my cards.

Finally, someone climbed the stairs. My first customer: a dark, anxious girl, of 20, a couple years younger than me, who poured out a troubled tale of romantic wreckage, insecurities and a string of minor, personal failures, before I’d had a chance to get the cards laid out.

It was to be like that every Sunday for the next five years. (And the occasional Wednesday, when the weekday reader rang in with a busted Third Eye.) There are many people who think psychics are charlatans who use tricks and deceits to prise information out of people. Not at all; try and stop most people from spilling their guts, is all I can say.

Proud of my clairvoyant abilities, I asked people not to speak before I’d laid out the cards. But most people just can’t contain themselves, particularly if they have an urgent problem, and I soon discovered that the greatest gift a fortune teller can offer is the ability to listen.

So, for five years, I listened.