Wednesday, July 27:
A good astrologer should never predict a death. It's one of the cardinal rules of this business. But if I'd been the type who played by the rules, I wouldn't have seen him in the first place, right? I'd have hung up on him, told him to find someone else. That's what I should have done: passed him along. But I hadn't. That was my first mistake.
It was July when the phone call came in. The ancient electric fan thrummed and clattered from its precarious perch atop a mountain of books and unsorted papers, but its cooling properties were minimal on a day like this. The air in the tiny office was soupy with humidity, and a trail of sweat trickled casually down my spine. I grabbed for the ringing phone, spilling a generous slosh of coffee down the front of my newly-washed white t-shirt.
"Good morning, Star-Dynamics, Katy Klein speaking." I hoped the caller hadn't heard my muttered curse. Another clean shirt, down the tubes. It was shaping up to be that kind of day.
There was silence on the other end of the line, and I was on the brink of hanging up. No, wait. Someone was breathing. Maybe a client. And the landlord would be around soon to collect the rent. I repeated my greeting, more energetically.
"Hello, how may I help you?"
"Are you the astrologer?"
The voice was male, raspy, challenging. Probably another religious nut, calling to tell me I'd burn in hell if I didn't give up the necromancer's arts. I grimaced and suppressed a sigh. If I had a dollar for each of these loonies, I'd have my own secretary. Fat chance.
"Yes, I'm the astrologer. How may I help you?"
"So how good are you, anyway?"
"Pardon?"
I bit back an impulse to ask how good he was. Down girl -- there's a remote chance this one could be a paying customer. Be nice.
"What exactly are you looking for?" I countered. "I need to understand what you expect of me before I can commit..."
"I am asking how good you are," he interrupted. "Keep to the point. No psycho-babble. I've had it up to here with that shit. Just tell me straight out -- how good are you?"
"Would you like the names of some references?" I picked up a pencil and began to scribble a random pattern of spirals on the back of an overdue phone bill.
"Listen to me carefully," the caller said, in a hoarse whisper. I covered my free ear, straining to catch his words. "I'm looking for an exceptional astrologer. The best. I don't want any bullshit, I don't want mumbo-jumbo, I don't want excuses. I need the truth, and I won't stand for one more quack trying to give me the runaround. Got that?"
His words sounded rehearsed, his voice mechanical. This was just a bit too weird, I thought, my instinct to hang up arm-wrestling with my instinct to put food on the table. Food on the table won, by a narrow margin.
"My clients have no complaints." I worked to keep my voice neutral.
"I don't give a shit about your clients or anyone else. How do I know you can tell me what I need to know?"
"You don't!" I exploded. To hell with food on the table; this just wasn't worth it. "Look, buddy -- you don't know me from a hole in the ground, and you have no way of knowing if I'm good at what I do, or if I'm a complete charlatan, okay? I don't know if I can give you what you need, either. I'd be lying if I said I did. All I can do is what I always do -- tell you the truth about what I see in your chart. If you don't like that, I guess you're just shit out of luck, aren't you?"
There was a long silence. With my free hand, I tried to push a wayward lock of hair off my perspiring forehead. I slumped back into my chair, waiting for the caller to disconnect. I'd lost him, but damn, it was worth it. A girl can only take so much. Maybe I could borrow a few bucks from Greg to keep the slimy landlord at bay.
"Okay."
I jumped, startled that he was still there.
"Book me an appointment. What do you charge?"
I recovered quickly, naming an outrageously inflated hourly charge. If I was going to see this guy, he was damn well going to make it worth my while. I didn't relish an hour cooped up in the office with that kind of hostility; I should be getting danger pay. He accepted my terms with unexpected docility, and we set a meeting time for that afternoon. He gave me the information I asked for -- date, time and place of birth -- and I had the chart up on the screen of the laptop computer by the time the phone receiver was back in its cradle.
That's when it dawned on me -- I'd forgotten to ask his name. I've never been very good at details.
Turning my attention to Mr. Personality's chart, I began puzzling out the mass of arcane symbols. Leo Sun in the twelfth house -- desperately craves attention, even admiration, but deep down, doesn't feel he deserves it. Sun, Mercury, and Pluto all hovering around a Leo Ascendant -- has trouble hearing anyone else's side of the story. Bound up in his own perceptions. A Scorpio Moon in the fourth house showed a deep emotional investment in his early family environment. Was he nervous of being out in the big, bad world? That might explain his telephone manner.
Power and control issues were written all over the chart, bearing out my first, not especially favourable, impression. Furrowing my brow, I began muttering and jotting notes to myself. I'd been doing this full-time for five years now, and a new chart never failed to capture my interest. It was like peeking into someone's underwear drawer, with their permission, yet. It appealed both to my need to render order from chaos and my inherent nosiness.
I worked on the chart for half an hour, then placed it in a magenta-coloured file folder to await my new client's visit that afternoon. The rest of the morning was relatively uneventful. A couple of regular clients called to book appointments and I did some phone consultations. Just a regular weekday morning in the life of a struggling astrologer.
Hanging up after the fourth call, I yawned mightily and creaked backward in my tilting chair, squirming to coax the kinks out of my middle-aged back. Glancing around, I decided a quick tidying blitz might not be out of order. The office, located above the last of the hippie-style bakeries along Bank Street, wasn't exactly luxurious, but it was comfortable enough, in a boho kind of way.
There was good light from the west and south-facing windows, though the sashes stuck in the summer and rattled with winter's winds. The office walls were covered from floor to ceiling with posters and drawings of ancient astrological lore, from astrolabes and maps of the heavens, to charts indicating the herbs and minerals associated with each planet.
The furnishings themselves were minimal. A purple double futon on a polished wooden frame served as a couch, while a pine table on trestles and an ancient swivel chair made up my work space. Oversized pillows, covered in Indian cotton prints, lay scattered on the floor as auxiliary seating. Wicker baskets contained something resembling a filing system.
Reform was in the air, though. My fourteen-year-old daughter, Dawn, had recently taken it upon herself to back up my client records on our home computer. In fact, she was getting downright annoying about it, insisting that I bring a floppy disk home after work each night. Most of the time, I remembered.
A hanging lamp with rice paper shade hung from the middle of the ceiling, testament to my questionable skills as an electrician. I'd put the thing together from a kit, shorting out the entire top floor of the building when I'd first plugged it in. How was I supposed to know the wires were meant to be attached to two different screws? I'd told my friend Greg about it, laughing, and he'd chewed me out for not calling him in to help. I shrugged; the lamp worked now, didn't it?
I swiped at the rice paper with a cloth, knocking down some of the more obvious cobwebs. I tossed the floor cushions into a pile in the corner and watered the drooping ficus plant Greg had given me when I'd moved in here. The hardwood floors could use a good mopping, but it was too damn hot for anything resembling physical labour. I satisfied myself with scooping up the worst of the dust bunnies and tossing them into the garbage. I collected several used coffee mugs and stashed them in the bathroom to wash later. One of these days, I'd get around to giving this place a thorough going-over. One of these days. Maybe when the weather cooled some.
By early afternoon I had dealt with a number of minor crises. Two couples called, debating auspicious-looking wedding dates; a two a.m. nuptial for Couple Number One was ruled out. A young college co-ed breathlessly asked me to "do everyone's fortune" at a sorority party (I declined); a new grandmother commissioned a chart for her ten-day-old granddaughter (I accepted); and a holy roller assured me I'd be doomed to eternal flames if I continued to poison pure minds with astro-filth. I told him I was willing to take my chances and hung up on him.
I was just getting down to the despised task of billing my regular clients when I heard the downstairs door open. Startled, I glanced at my watch and realized I'd forgotten all about Mr. Personality's appointment. I dug around hastily for the chart and my notes, sweeping the billing records discreetly under a file folder, while simultaneously flicking lunchtime croissant crumbs onto the floor. No, that was no good. With one foot, I pushed the crumbs further under my desk, where they'd have to rot until I got around to my twice-yearly vacuuming.
The door rattled violently as Mr. Personality announced his arrival. I jumped up, hoping he wouldn't hammer the thing off its hinges. I'd have a hell of a time explaining that one to the landlord. What was this guy's problem, anyway? No need to wreck the place, I muttered to myself. I opened the door, pasting a welcoming smile on my face.
