We’re sitting in a boardroom full of lawyers, accountants and advisers—six of them with a combined charge-out rate of between $6,000 and $8,000 per hour. All waiting for the President and his entourage to arrive. Already fifteen minutes late.
They eventually show up. All dressed in what I call ‘priest suits’—the attire of the most successful professionals in Calgary. Identical matte black suits bearing a trace of silver pinstripes. No ties—considered infra dig. The same spotless, sparkling white shirts and Gucci loafers. The President—all six foot six of him, with rippling muscles beneath his suit—appears to have returned from a six-month sabbatical in a gym. Jerome places himself at the head of the long, glass conference table. He shoots his cuffs, displaying obsidian links and an obscenely expensive Rolex.
Then there’s Matt, my lawyer and partner of eighteen years, in torn jeans and a slightly frayed golf shirt. I’m in my customary jogging bottoms and mustard-yellow jersey with elbows patched in dark brown leather. Well, I did warn Jerome: “We don’t do suits.”
Normally, this type of meeting takes hours, usually followed by weeks of negotiation. Jerome agrees to the deal and is out of there within 45 minutes, leaving me flabbergasted. The quickest deal we’ve ever done. “Jerome, don’t you want any references from Matt and me?” I ask, bewildered. “We’re talking about fees of over a million to us?”
Jerome nods. “Of course I understand,” he says, as he dashes out—presumably late for his next session of pumping iron.
Somehow, I feel sorry for Jerome. Invite him to dinner at a restaurant.
It’s customary to choose the most prestigious French or steakhouse. I don’t. I ask him to come in casual clothing to a family-run suburban Thai kitchen.
While I’m dressed in my usual paraphernalia, Jerome stuns me. He’s wearing shorts and a tank top. His bare, muscular shoulders and arms are littered with tattoos.
In the middle of the obligatory pad Thai, some green papaya salad, drunken prawns and beef massaman, I ask inquisitively, “Did you research us to make such an instant decision?”
“Yes. Patricia, my clairvoyant, vouched for you.”
That was how I ended up having a tarot reading.
It took me a month to find Patricia. Her phone was out of commission. Her office, located in a seedy apartment building, was closed down. Very dubious.
Googling her, I discovered an email address and wrote to her. Two weeks later, she replied: “I don’t read my emails, but happened to see your message. I moved offices and Telus cut me off instead of transferring the line.” Dubiouser and dubiouser. How come such an accomplished clairvoyant couldn’t predict her own future?
“I’m fully booked this month—how about the next?” she asks.
“Patricia, I prefer the unvarnished truth. No sugar-coating.” She answers brusquely, “I wouldn’t be in business all these years if I didn’t tell it like I saw it.”
Finally, the day arrives.
I’m dressed in my usual “homeless outfit”, as my wife describes it. Holes in my hoodie, holes in my T-shirt. Shoes all creased and crumpled. Someone who looks as though they couldn’t afford a $4 bus ticket, let alone pay her exorbitant $130 fee.
Despite that, before I can even sit down she spouts, “You’ve travelled the world, yet you call Calgary your home.”How did she know?
“Shuffle the cards as much as you want. Split them into three piles and lay them on the table. Think of the question you wish to ask while you shuffle.”
My main concern is the delay in every deal I’m working on.
“Choose one of the three piles for me to read.”
Every time, the cards come up with pentacles—gold discs, the symbols of wealth and prosperity. The reading culminates in drawing the Emperor card.
“What do you think that card stands for?”
“Wealth, power and control,” I reply unhesitatingly.
“Whatever you believe that card represents—it will.”
I then ask about a partner I’m having problems with.
The cards are shuffled and laid out on the table in three piles. I choose one of them for Patricia to read. Unlike the pentacles in my previous readings, the cards come out grey, full of staves and swords, portending trouble and strife. Instead of the Emperor, the Tower card lays exposed—shattered by lightning. The card of destruction.
I then ask about a relative.
“You don’t like her, do you?” she comments.
“How do you know? You haven’t even turned them over to read.”
“In all your other turns, you laid the piles gently on the table. This time, notice how you thumped them down?”
You don’t know what the future holds. So how can you assess a tarot reader? I do so by keeping silent and letting her describe the people in my life. Patricia does so unwaveringly and in detail—not some generic answer that could be interpreted in any way I chose.
Was it worth seeing her?
Being an accountant, I compare her oracle of the future with the business plans and financial projections I prepare for my clients.
“These are mere projections,” I underline. “However, they use the building blocks of your business. This exercise gives you a better understanding of each component of your business and how it fits together to project the future. You begin to understand the value of each component and how sensitive it is to any variation.”
Your subconscious invariably understands when there’s a problem with a relationship or a business venture. But because you’ve invested so much money, time and effort into something, your conscious mind may admit to the problem too late.
Going to a clairvoyant, I instinctively recognised the truth in what she said about a person or situation. And I also knew what was incorrect. That alone was worth the reading.
And if I do win a lottery jackpot, I won’t hesitate to reward Patricia. My gift may only be $10—but, as I always say, it’s the thought that counts.
