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Possible Homes for Pop

Edward N. McConnell

    I’m a psychic. In fact, I’m so psychic I have coined the term, “psychicopathy.” You won’t find this term defined in the any mental health diagnostic manual. I had to create my own definition:
    “Psychicopathy,” is synonymous with ‘psychic’. It describes a personality trait, (some label it a disorder), characterized by a persistent, self-reinforcing belief by a person that they can see and/or feel future events.”
    That’s me to a tee. Well, not the “disorder” part. I’m a real psychic because I have “real” visions and feelings. I’m also “a modern day Cassandra” because, like her, no one believes me. For all psychics, our “professional hazard” is the fickleness of people. They want the “look around the corner” then get upset because they don’t like what you see. That’s where the Cassandra thing comes in. As a result, the first thing I learned about doing a psychic reading, charge up front.
    Anyway, do you ever get that feeling you know something going to happen, good or bad, before it does? I do, a lot. At first I dismissed it, instead, giving credit to habit, coincidence and Irish whiskey but now I know I have the “gift” of precognition. But, you decide for yourself. Here are some examples.
    First, some years back, my wife and I took a car trip out West. Before we left town, I knew there would be a mishap and there was. The mishap you ask; I drove almost the whole way across the Gadsden Purchase with my left turn signal on. The hooting and hollering directed at me over the failure to execute the signaled left turns was deafening. In every locale the condemnation was universal. I also received unkind looks that I will not soon forget.
    Once I realized the turn signal was malfunctioning, I said, “See, I knew this would happen before we left. I must be psychic.” To this day, my wife is sure that the inciting cause of the “mishap” was ordinary “operator error.” For the record, she was the one “hooting and hollering” during the entirety of this incident. She also gave me some of the dirtiest looks one could imagine.
    Then, there was that high school reunion matter. Before attending the event, I got a premonition. Someone was going to make a comment about an event from the past that should best be forgotten. Given that feeling, I thought staying home was in order. But, I had purchased tickets prior to having my “vision,” plus I heard the buffet was to die for, so we attended.
    As the evening progressed I relaxed. Things were going well. My wife was commenting on how nice everybody seemed. She said I appeared to be popular and I should consider running for office. I foresaw any attempt to enter politics as unwise. Then, someone I hadn’t seen in years stopped by our table. In front of everyone, a woman I will only identify as, Kathy, smiled, read my wife’s name tag and said,
    “I want you to know your husband tried to fuck me back in ‘66.”
    I jumped in with, “It is nice to see you too, Kathy. I hope you’re having fun tonight. Thank you for remembering me.”
    My wife’s eyes were glued to me; her stare unnerving. I had to come up with something else, fast. Shaking my head, I leaned over to her and said, “Kathy must have me confused with Senator Richardson at the next table.”
    From that point on, the rest of the evening seemed to drag. This outburst is the reason for my hesitancy to run for office, although, such allegations seem less of an impediment to public service these days.
    As for Kathy, I have to say, it was nice to see her again, this time with her blouse fully buttoned. I foresee that I will be staying as far away from her as possible, especially when I’m with my wife. But, in the event she attempts any contact; I suppose I’ll see her coming.
    My psychic prowess is not limited to driving and reunions. When it comes to sporting events, I’m “real psychic.” The best example I have is the “Norwood prognostication.”
    With about a minute to go in Super Bowl XXV, the Buffalo Bills needed a field goal to beat the New York Giants. They were driving down the field. I told everyone in the room, “Norwood’s gonna hit a forty eight yarder.” When I said that, the prediction was accurate.
    With my friends, my word was golden. Calls were made to bookies and bets placed based on my forecast. Then, my right foot starting hurting for no reason. It turns out there was a reason. With eight seconds to go, the Bills lined up to attempt the aforementioned, “forty eight yarder.” Norwood missed. It went “wide right.” The Bills lost. My friends were now out money after I shared my glimpse into the future. From that day forward, I never bet on sports or my predictions of the future. As to others, they do so at their own peril.
    When it comes to financial matters, my prophecies give me an unfair advantage. My second cousin, Abigail; was the 1957 Rose Bowl Queen. We were very close. I’ll never forget in 1966 (an eventful year for me as it turns out) when she saw me after a long absence. She greeted me with, “Hello, little boy.” I told you we were close. That is one of my fondest memories of her.
    A few months ago, I had that feeling again that something was going to happen. It did. Sadly, Cousin Abby died intestate. Her only living heir was the “little boy.” Others couldn’t, but I was able to identify the “little boy” long before I was officially notified it was me. I got her whole estate.
    It was not the financial windfall it first appeared to be. I discovered Cousin Abby’s estate was worth $9,876 before probate fees and taxes which were more than that amount. To add to this cascade of bad news, her house had a large tax lien exceeding its value. The fact she died in the home and her body was not discovered for about a month caused me to predict the price obtained at auction would be under market value. Again, I was right. There were no excess proceeds for me. I should have known being Rose Bowl Queen isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I have to admit, I missed that prediction.
    On a more serious note, my clairvoyant powers extend to political upheavals. I knew something was going to happen to Raj Gandhi the day a suicide bomber murdered him. Well, to be precise, on that day, I had a feeling somebody in India was going to die, probably. I also predicted President Reagan getting shot, although I thought it would happen sooner. He didn’t die though. About the Reagan shooting, I kept my mouth shut about my foreboding until now. I wasn’t interested getting a visit from the Secret Service. Sometimes, having “psychicopathy” raises questions best left alone.
    When it comes to foreseeing dangerous matters in the home which can lead to accidents, I excel. My parents left me a rocking chair. It “walked” to the left when rocked fast enough. One day, my granddaughter was taking the rocker for a stroll. Nearby the family cat was lying on the floor, flicking its tail back and forth. As the rocker crept closer to the unsuspecting feline, I had one of those “psychic moments.” I warned the tyke that, if she did not moderate the intensity of her rocking, she would soon arrive at the cat’s tail. The little moppet didn’t listen. Soon, there was a burst of cat profanity.
    I had not heard such howling and yowling since I mentioned over Thanksgiving dinner that I had a vision Jesus was created on a Hollywood backlot and that fact would be revealed very soon on the 700 Club. My religious family members find my claims of “psychicopathy” to be blasphemous, divination and downright “weird.” Now, when grace is said at dinner, it includes an extra prayer for “Pop.” Even my wife, not normally given to prayer, joins in the invocation. I’m touched but suspicious.
    I don’t think anyone understands that throughout the years I have found being a psychic very taxing. I am convinced the world is simultaneously not ready for and very tired of my predictions but, the premonitions keep coming. Anyway, you now have my offer of proof regarding my “psychicopathy” for what it’s worth.
    I am sure I know my family’s view, however. Recently, I found a folder on my kitchen table with an attached Post-It note which read, “For Mom, Please Read!!” The folder was entitled, “Possible Homes for Pop.” You don’t have to be psychic to know the contents.
    Please excuse me; I have to interrupt this now because the doorbell will ring very soon. I have a feeling it is about that “Possible Homes for Pop” matter. I should probably lock the door.

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