With Just A Touch

I have about an hour before they pull the switch on what was once a very ingenious and lucrative career.

My name is Barnard Oliver, or Barn Owliver, a moniker courtesy of the town’s youth who would come to me for advice. They said I “had an answer for everything.” That I was as wise as an owl. A persona I encouraged, to abate my deep loneliness living with an enigma of a father.

I hated my name since the day I could pronounce the pretentious, British flavored label. But to be fair, mother was from the Isle of White, and in the sixties, women at least got a say in their children’s naming. Barnard was Fathers’ choice, Oliver was Mother’s. I never used my last name.

How she hooked up with a backward, awkward, unsophisticated and reticent farmer from the Midwest is beyond me. It didn’t matter how many questions I asked as a child. “It’s none of your business” was always his standard retort.

When mom walked out on dad and me, any chance of forming a healthy identity was lost. All I knew for sure was that she was homesick and sick of my dad. What did that little abandoned five-year-old boy know of his place in the world, other than, unless you’re a crop to be harvested, your chances of being seen are nil?

Is it any wonder then, when I had the opportunity to rise above my irrelevant existence, I would jump at it? I wonder how many other souls have found their calling at the rail of a local bar. Usually that is the place dreams are drowned, not found.

Even though it was almost a decade ago, I remember the moment my life shifted, as if it happened yesterday. It was a Friday night, I was lonely, and since dad passed, the farm had turned to tumble weeds and brush. I wasn’t about to follow in his footsteps, working on a tractor, harvesting by moonlight. After several days bedridden with a raging fever that the doctor labeled grief, I relished returning to my old watering hole and friends who had worried about my absence.

Most nights at the bar, I was comforted that I had a place to go where no one had a right to judge. But that night, I would be the judge.

My best friend, and fellow lost soul, Ed, was downing a cold one as if it was his last wish. Tipping a little too close to my stool, I gave him a firm but gentle shove back. Just as my fingers dug deeply into his down jacket, my whole body vibrated. Not unlike an electric shock, I shook and convulsed. It was brief but transporting. Before I knew what I was saying, I had predicted his beloved dog Phil would be struck by a car and killed that very night. Bursting into tears, Ed whispered through his sobs that Phil was hit just a couple of hours earlier, and he couldn’t drown his pain fast enough. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Jesse the bartender and owner.

Between clenched fists, Ed’s head rested on the bar. All he could say was, “How did you know?” All I could say that night was “I didn’t.”

That marked the first night as the small town’s soothsayer, psychic, intuitive, fortune teller and mentalist. It got easier and more accurate with every free beer Jesse poured for his new business partner.

No one wanted answers more than the beer- chugging lot that surrounded me with questions they weren’t even sure they wanted the answers to. “Is he cheating? Will I get fired for that? Is that really my child?” I fielded endless heartbreaking requests for the truth night after night. I was good for business. Jesse was thrilled with the increase of customers, most waiting to question his in-house Barn Owl.

To promote and legitimize our new shared venture, I cut him in for ten percent of the proceeds. He made a banner with a huge owl for above the “fortune teller’s” shabby leather booth. It wasn’t just the locals who wanted a peek into the future, many of my clients came from the surrounding towns. I finally had a purpose that didn’t involve cow manure and rusty plows. It was even more intoxicating than the free libation.

Like all Cinderella stories, this too had to have an ending. I knew my ability to see the future and read the past was slowly diminishing. Initially I would get a mild shock with a touch of each customer’s arm. But over the course of a year, the electrical sensation and the images that followed were fading.

In the past I had been statistically more accurate than most local psychics, so faking was not an option. At the end of my last reading that night in August, I reviewed my notes. Most of what I had predicted were generic happenstances found in the course of a normal day. Many of the predictions were made because of information given by the hopeful believers during their own session. But what do I do about the last reading that involved the loss of a loved one? The wife of Ted, a bar regular, had been ill for a long time. I felt secure in predicting the inevitable. But if it didn’t happen soon, I would be exposed as a charlatan. Already my faithful followers were becoming disenchanted by how mundane and less profound recent readings were. In the past, I could almost predict the end of day stock market results. Now I was lucky if I could help my client find a lost ring.

If the “death prediction” came true, I would be holding court in this booth for years to come. The money was good, and bars have a built-in base of pathetic hopefuls. An inebriated buzz filled the bar after my prophetic vision of impending death. Voices in my head screamed “fool!” Did I go too far? Would my clients be too afraid to visit me?

As luck or fate would have it, Jesse made a date for me to read the entire staff at the local nursing home his girlfriend Bev worked at. It would be a great comeback and the home is where Ted’s wife resides.

Maggie, the head nurse, summoned her team to meet me at the front door of the nursing home. With cheers and applause, I tossed my flowing black wool cape over my shoulder and entered with an air of royalty.

Passing through the halls on my way to the employee lounge gave me a chance to read the name of the room’s occupant. Fortunately, Ted’s wife’s room was at the end of a long hall, far from the nurse’s station.

The staff readings went relatively fast. I just had to revisit all the care I gave to my ailing, elderly father, and I knew what would resonate with the caregivers.

After several handshakes and hugs, I assured the staff I could find my way out. Quickly I passed through dim lit halls till I reached her room. It seemed almost too easy. Fortunately, she was sleeping in a private room. Her blinds were shut, so in the darkness no one could see who was pressing layers of heavy black wool over her face. Once she stopped thrashing, I pulled away and brushed her finger impressions from my cape. Leaving her room, I continued to walk to the front door wearing the only evidence.

My fortune telling business was booming after the news of the nursing home death. My customers cut me some slack, since Ted’s last name was the same last name as the unfortunate young woman who was recently admitted for physical therapy. That one coincidence led to another.

A couple months after the demise of the nursing home resident during my visit, I would find myself sitting across from her husband-the local police chief. I steadied my hand as I reached to touch his arm. A surge of electricity ran the full length of my body. It would be the first and last time I would be able to read my own future. Without hesitation, I handed him my heavy black wool cape. For I now knew she had bitten off a piece of the cape, and he had come to claim me and the evidence.

The clock above my bed seemed to grow louder as my exit grew closer. I had ten minutes left, just enough time for one last client. With my back to the metal bars, I could hear the Warden’s keys turning in the lock.

Sitting across from me, I shared with the Warden his dreary, cell block future, and then we shared my electrifying departure.