I used to believe in reincarnation. I liked all those stories of past lives and soul mates that so effortlessly brought together Buddhism and Barbara Cartland. But that was before I dropped in to see Zena the New York clairvoyant, seduced by her vampish Greenwich Village window display, advertising spiritual readings for $40.00
"The key to your future happiness lies in your past," said Sylvia, Zena's beguilingly pretty daughter, who had recently taken over the psychic family business since her mother went into early spiritual retirement. As she spoke, her big Greek eyes seemed focused on something just above my left shoulder. "If I appear to be looking at you intently," she purred, "it's because I am reading your aura." Well, that made me feel a lot better. At least she wasn't just looking out the window to see if her car had been clamped.
Plunging forward onto her crystal ball, she amazed me by asking if the letters J and M meant anything to me. When I told her I work very closely with two guys whose names start with those initials she looked pleased. "You must understand that bad karma is holding you back from true happiness. Tonight, while you are asleep, I will enter your dreams and discover what past-life event has caused you so much damage."
I was intrigued. I mean, who wouldn't be? We all love a good story but when the story is only about us, we love it even more. And while Sylvia was utterly compelling when she told me she had all the answers to my problems, she was even more convincing with the information that her karmic detective work would cost me a further $200.00.
When I asked her if she took credit cards, she said her machine was broken (the old ones are the best), so I handed over the cash and, as instructed, agreed to tell no one.
The next morning, Sylvia told me her dream-entering had been very successful and she knew the exact reason for my bad karma.
"Around 5000 years ago," she confided, "you were the only daughter born into a very wealthy family somewhere between Greece and Italy." (Sylvia admitted herself that she is a bit iffy on history and geography.) "You had a faithful maidservant who was also a girl, and you both fell in love. However," and here comes the bad karma bit, "you betrayed her by agreeing to marry a man chosen for you by your politically ambitious father. She was distraught for the rest of her life and never forgave you."
I left Sylvia's studio, reeling from the knowledge that I was a 5000-year-old lesbian. It just didn't make any sense. I didn't even own a pair of dungarees or a single record by KD Lang. The thought then crossed my mind that I might have had been one of those Neolithic lipstick lesbians who wore big fur coats and high heels. I was so confused that I went straight back to find out how I could get rid of all my bad karma there and then.
"Because you chose money over love," said Sylvia, who seemed delighted to see me back so soon, "you must repay your karmic debt by contributing a monetary sacrifice. The spirit guides have told me that the amount must be $9,000.
I explained that I couldn't get my hands on that kind of money before I left New York, so she insisted I call her immediately when I got back to Dublin.
At home, I did an internet search and discovered an article by Mark Jacobson in New York Metro describing in great detail an almost identical consultation with Zena. He even quoted her asking about the initials J and M. When I telephoned Sylvia for the last time, part of me still wanted to believe her touching story of lost lesbian love, but my last filament of faith in human nature was about to be extinguished.
"The spirit guides have told me that you must leave all your bad karma behind in the United States," she said, as her eyes penetrated my aura right the way across the Atlantic. "You are to give the money to me and I will donate it to charity here on your behalf. Then you will finally have closure and your karmic debt will be paid."
I told Sylvia that I would put the cheque in the post. Later that day I went out and bought a Jiffy bag that I dispatched off to her address in Manhattan. I only wish I could have been there as she opened it up and took out that big lump of dried 5000-year-old dog shite. Now that's bad karma.