Being psychic is a curious experience. It’s not something I flaunt or discuss openly. It happens when it happens, and when it does, it’s as if a floodgate opens. Let me share a recent encounter that illustrates this phenomenon.
The other night, while on the Wai’anae Ghost tour, I found myself finishing the tour guide’s sentences before he even spoke them. His wide-eyed reaction suggested he suspected something supernatural was afoot. I reassured him, attributing my insights to age and experience rather than any mystical ability.
“I’ve been where you are now,” I told him. “It’s easy to figure out.”
In my years on this earth, I’ve learned that claiming more than what you are only invites trouble. It attracts people seeking something to fill the void in their lives. These individuals often end up disillusioned when they discover you’re not the extraordinary being they hoped for. This disillusionment can lead to lawsuits and unwanted complications.
Therefore, I maintain a low profile, acknowledging only my talent for second-guessing. However, this doesn’t prevent unexpected psychic experiences from intruding into my life. Take, for instance, Howard Lishman.
I was sitting at a Starbucks, a place I don’t frequent but find convenient when other spots like Jamba Juice and Kozo Sushi are packed. While there, I picked up a newspaper Howard Lishman had left behind. The paper was filled with details of his life: his morning routine, arrogance, cowardice, and his insincere affection for his schnauzer—a pet he appears to view as a mere conversation piece rather than a companion.
Howard, despite his money, luxurious home, and car, has left a psychic imprint of loneliness on this newspaper. He’s not just lonely; he’s profoundly alone.
Before I could delve further into his psyche, Howard approached and reached for the paper. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot it.”
“No problem,” I replied, handing it over. Anticipating his thoughts, I preemptively addressed them. “Before you accuse me of stealing your newspaper, let me just say that I understand your situation. You crave company, yet you resist change and fear dying alone.”
Howard stood there, stunned, his mouth agape. I gave him back his newspaper and stood up to leave.
“It’s one or the other, Howard,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Your dog remains loyal despite your behavior, hoping you’ll change one day.”
I left him in a state of bewilderment, ensuring he wouldn’t follow me to my car. It bought me enough time to escape without confrontation. Another close call successfully avoided.
