Disclaimer:
John Constantine is the property of DC comics, used without permission. Present usage is not intended as a challenge to the copyright holder's ownership. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
John Edward belongs to no one but himself. He is a real person, and has not been consulted or even notified as to his appearance in this and/or future chapters.
Part Two: Smoke and Mirrors
Is it a bad thing to lie a little, for a good cause? I'm not talking about fudging your taxes a little or telling your fat aunt that she looks like she's lost weight. In my work, I talk to a lot of people who want comfort. Some of them are curious, some are skeptical, a few are desperate. All of them are looking to me for some kind of answers. I don't always have them, but people expect me to, just because I can talk to those who have crossed over.
I've had the gift since before I was twelve. I sometimes get images, sounds, or even smells from the other side. It's all in my mind, of course. It's like seeing the face of someone I'm talking to on the phone as I talk to them. Now, I do it for a living.
The problem is that I don't really talk to people on the other side. It's not nearly that clear. I feel them extend their energy to me, like the feeling you get when someone is standing right behind you, and these images and sensations just float up into consciousness. Sometimes it seems like they're triggering images form my own experience, sometimes it's something entirely new. And it doesn't always seem relevant to whoever I'm talking to. Let me give you an example.
I'd been on my feet for an hour and a half, standing under the studio lights in front of a particularly difficult crowd. I was getting plenty of images from the other side -- I always do, when I open up to it -- but I was having a lot of trouble connecting any of it to people in the audience. I'd had to rely on cold reading more than I like to. Cold reading is an old stage magician's technique involving using vague and leading statements to get a response and using the responses to zero in on what the person wants to hear. I sometimes have to use it to help me connect some image I get from the other side with a person in the audience.
Through the evening, there had been two recurring images: a mirror and the smell of roasting meat. I'd brought them up a couple of times, since whoever was reaching out to me seemed fairly insistent, but no one in the audience took them. It was discouraging, I hardly ever draw such a complete blank when I'm on stage. I relaxed a little, knowing my editors would trim out the references that didn't pan out when condensing the two- hour studio session into a thirty-minute broadcast, but it still bothered me that I couldn't connect these images with anyone.
"I want to acknowledge a mirror," I had said at one point. "Larger than a shaving mirror, but not mounted on a wall or anything like that. Maybe it's a hand-held mirror, maybe an heirloom piece, something inherited from someone who's crossed over." It wasn't an heirloom, I knew that, but I wanted to try and connect with someone. "Maybe not a mirror, maybe a picture frame? An antique?" I caught someone looking up at that. The studio techs with the boom mikes saw me focus in on that area of the stands, and moved in.
It turned out that the man who had looked up at the mention of a picture frame had inherited an antique photo of his great grandparents, so I moved on to a name game. "I'm getting a 'J' name with the frame, Jack, John, Johnny, maybe a soft 'G,' Gerald or Jerry…" The old man's name had been Jerry, as it turned out. I fumbled around for a few minutes, trying to lock in the barbecue angle, but the guy simply didn't know that much about great granddad. He was happy to know that the old guy was still around and still checking in on the family from time to time, though. That exchange probably wouldn't make it into the final edit.
Later I tried the barbecue angle. "I'm getting a strong grill-like smell. Like a picnic or a barbecue…" Again, no takers. "Some sort of party, outdoors, some family get-together…" Eventually, someone connected that with her mother's last birthday. This person was easier to read cold. I had to slow her down a bit, keep her from giving me too much and making the trick of it too obvious. That one would make it into the final cut, since she had tears and a smile. I might even have the crew make it the last segment, after cutting most of the middle out. It would make a nice, quick ending; a strong hit for me, a few quick questions and answers (with her leading trimmed out), and the emotional finish.
We wrapped, and I was glad to have it over. Even though I was sure we had enough good stuff for a show, with a taped private session to pad it out, I still felt a little off. The barbecue smell and the mirror were still with me, on and off, as if whoever was sending it was unhappy that I hadn't made a connection for them. That was odd, really, usually it's the living people who are pushy about it. Still, a few minutes quiet in my office was all I needed to put it out of my mind.
I like driving home myself, as it usually helps me get grounded in the physical world after a long session. Whoever it was tried again on the expressway. The smell was so strong I almost thought it was something in the car. Maybe it was stronger since there was only one person trying to come through. I really don't know. I do know that the image of the mirror, a round, black-framed mirror, superimposed itself on my rear-view. It reflected the road behind me just fine, but it wasn't the right shape or size. And it broke.
I heard the glass crack quite clearly. It was then that I realized that I was dealing with a death by violence. That's always disturbing, both because of the sorrow it usually brings up in the survivors and the energy with which the people on the other side project it. Strong emotions are always tough to channel, and the bad ones are worse.
The episode threw me. I usually don't take it so hard when one shows up uninvited, which is rare these days. It was a few minutes before I noticed that I'd missed my exit. I had to get off the expressway and turn around, and construction on the surface streets detoured me into a part of the city I wouldn't normally drive through.
That's when I thought I'd hit someone.
He was standing in the road. I remember that I didn't see him until it was too late, and that I thought he was black. Then I hit him, or at least drove through the spot where I'd seen him. I didn't feel an impact.
I stopped the car and looked around, but I only saw one person, a white guy, on the street, standing on the curb and looking at me with irritation in his eyes. I got out to make sure I hadn't hit him. "You okay?"
He took a puff on his cigarette and growled at me, "What the bloody hell do you want?"
John Constantine is the property of DC comics, used without permission. Present usage is not intended as a challenge to the copyright holder's ownership. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
John Edward belongs to no one but himself. He is a real person, and has not been consulted or even notified as to his appearance in this and/or future chapters.
Part Two: Smoke and Mirrors
Is it a bad thing to lie a little, for a good cause? I'm not talking about fudging your taxes a little or telling your fat aunt that she looks like she's lost weight. In my work, I talk to a lot of people who want comfort. Some of them are curious, some are skeptical, a few are desperate. All of them are looking to me for some kind of answers. I don't always have them, but people expect me to, just because I can talk to those who have crossed over.
I've had the gift since before I was twelve. I sometimes get images, sounds, or even smells from the other side. It's all in my mind, of course. It's like seeing the face of someone I'm talking to on the phone as I talk to them. Now, I do it for a living.
The problem is that I don't really talk to people on the other side. It's not nearly that clear. I feel them extend their energy to me, like the feeling you get when someone is standing right behind you, and these images and sensations just float up into consciousness. Sometimes it seems like they're triggering images form my own experience, sometimes it's something entirely new. And it doesn't always seem relevant to whoever I'm talking to. Let me give you an example.
I'd been on my feet for an hour and a half, standing under the studio lights in front of a particularly difficult crowd. I was getting plenty of images from the other side -- I always do, when I open up to it -- but I was having a lot of trouble connecting any of it to people in the audience. I'd had to rely on cold reading more than I like to. Cold reading is an old stage magician's technique involving using vague and leading statements to get a response and using the responses to zero in on what the person wants to hear. I sometimes have to use it to help me connect some image I get from the other side with a person in the audience.
Through the evening, there had been two recurring images: a mirror and the smell of roasting meat. I'd brought them up a couple of times, since whoever was reaching out to me seemed fairly insistent, but no one in the audience took them. It was discouraging, I hardly ever draw such a complete blank when I'm on stage. I relaxed a little, knowing my editors would trim out the references that didn't pan out when condensing the two- hour studio session into a thirty-minute broadcast, but it still bothered me that I couldn't connect these images with anyone.
"I want to acknowledge a mirror," I had said at one point. "Larger than a shaving mirror, but not mounted on a wall or anything like that. Maybe it's a hand-held mirror, maybe an heirloom piece, something inherited from someone who's crossed over." It wasn't an heirloom, I knew that, but I wanted to try and connect with someone. "Maybe not a mirror, maybe a picture frame? An antique?" I caught someone looking up at that. The studio techs with the boom mikes saw me focus in on that area of the stands, and moved in.
It turned out that the man who had looked up at the mention of a picture frame had inherited an antique photo of his great grandparents, so I moved on to a name game. "I'm getting a 'J' name with the frame, Jack, John, Johnny, maybe a soft 'G,' Gerald or Jerry…" The old man's name had been Jerry, as it turned out. I fumbled around for a few minutes, trying to lock in the barbecue angle, but the guy simply didn't know that much about great granddad. He was happy to know that the old guy was still around and still checking in on the family from time to time, though. That exchange probably wouldn't make it into the final edit.
Later I tried the barbecue angle. "I'm getting a strong grill-like smell. Like a picnic or a barbecue…" Again, no takers. "Some sort of party, outdoors, some family get-together…" Eventually, someone connected that with her mother's last birthday. This person was easier to read cold. I had to slow her down a bit, keep her from giving me too much and making the trick of it too obvious. That one would make it into the final cut, since she had tears and a smile. I might even have the crew make it the last segment, after cutting most of the middle out. It would make a nice, quick ending; a strong hit for me, a few quick questions and answers (with her leading trimmed out), and the emotional finish.
We wrapped, and I was glad to have it over. Even though I was sure we had enough good stuff for a show, with a taped private session to pad it out, I still felt a little off. The barbecue smell and the mirror were still with me, on and off, as if whoever was sending it was unhappy that I hadn't made a connection for them. That was odd, really, usually it's the living people who are pushy about it. Still, a few minutes quiet in my office was all I needed to put it out of my mind.
I like driving home myself, as it usually helps me get grounded in the physical world after a long session. Whoever it was tried again on the expressway. The smell was so strong I almost thought it was something in the car. Maybe it was stronger since there was only one person trying to come through. I really don't know. I do know that the image of the mirror, a round, black-framed mirror, superimposed itself on my rear-view. It reflected the road behind me just fine, but it wasn't the right shape or size. And it broke.
I heard the glass crack quite clearly. It was then that I realized that I was dealing with a death by violence. That's always disturbing, both because of the sorrow it usually brings up in the survivors and the energy with which the people on the other side project it. Strong emotions are always tough to channel, and the bad ones are worse.
The episode threw me. I usually don't take it so hard when one shows up uninvited, which is rare these days. It was a few minutes before I noticed that I'd missed my exit. I had to get off the expressway and turn around, and construction on the surface streets detoured me into a part of the city I wouldn't normally drive through.
That's when I thought I'd hit someone.
He was standing in the road. I remember that I didn't see him until it was too late, and that I thought he was black. Then I hit him, or at least drove through the spot where I'd seen him. I didn't feel an impact.
I stopped the car and looked around, but I only saw one person, a white guy, on the street, standing on the curb and looking at me with irritation in his eyes. I got out to make sure I hadn't hit him. "You okay?"
He took a puff on his cigarette and growled at me, "What the bloody hell do you want?"