The Painted Penis and the Séance, Part II

Chris and I can’t get out of this crazy bar fast enough. We barrel down the stairs, leaving our two half-full cups on a ledge just beside the handrail. It isn’t until we hit the warm air of the outdoors that we realize we could have taken our drinks with us. Everyone else seems to be holding bar cups or other open containers.

Within five strides we are at the curb. Our séance house is right across the street. We stand, facing each other, each of us reflecting on what we just witnessed in the bar. A painted penis and an undisguised sex act atop a lounge chair. Poor Chris is likely to have some emotional scars from having seen a red, white and blue penis. She’s short in stature so the guy’s penis would have been up front and personal, inches from her tormented eyeballs. A close-up gander at an unpainted penis can be a scary thing; I can’t imagine how scary a close-up look at a painted penis is. I hate to think that a patriotic penis may drive Chris to be afraid of America. Only therapy will tell…

I break the silence. “Well, we still have another fifteen minutes before the séance starts. Do you just wanna head over there now?”

“Sure. We can sit on that wall in front of the séance house and penis watch…er, I mean people watch. Can’t get that painted penis out of my head. I’m going to have nightmares.”

We’re walking slowly across the street when Chris blurts out, “What kind of paint do you think he used?”

I’ve already given this some thought. “I don’t know. I didn’t see it so I can’t be sure. Maybe acrylic. Acrylic would take a long, vigorous scrubbing to get off though.”

I can tell Chris has given it some thought too when she suggests, “Maybe he used food coloring. That would be a safer option, especially if he hopes to have sex tonight.” Chris’ body shivers as though someone’s just walked over her grave.

—   —   —

Eager to engage our minds in other fodder besides painted pee pees, we climb several steps and arrive on the front porch of an old, white, three-story house whose architecture I can’t identify.

We are not the first to arrive. We join six other people standing on the porch of 429 Caroline Street. My first impression is that everyone looks fairly normal. That’s a relief. I’d hardly want to be in a séance with someone looking like a zombie. We all seem to be paired with one other individual. Chris and I are the only two-girl couple. Everyone probably thinks we’re a lesbian couple like last night at the time-share presentation. No matter.

There is no welcoming “Come on in!” signage so we’re all standing awkwardly as though we’re wondering if we’re in the right place. I then spot a placard on the wall next to the front door that reads, “The Séance Theatre.” We’re in the right place.

A few more minutes pass before one of us – not Chris and not me – is finally brave enough to actually open the front door. All of us pile in after the first couple and now we’re all standing awkwardly in the foyer of this old mansion.

Almost immediately, as though our entrance has been viewed on a surveillance camera, a dark-haired man, probably in his thirties, enters the foyer from a darkened hallway. He introduces himself as Magic Tim, and escorts us through a beautiful set of pocket doors into a drawing room where he invites us to take a seat.

None of the seats looks comfortable, even in the dim light. There’s an over-stuffed Victorian sofa, some stray hard-backed chairs and a large easy chair with matching ottoman that may have been comfortable if they weren’t so low. In any event, every seating surface appears tinier than the space my bum requires to be comfortable. Chris and I make a beeline for the sofa before anyone else can claim it.

Everyone sits. Magic Tim shuts the set of pocket doors that separate us from the foyer and that’s when I notice there’s a second set of pocket doors on my right. Magic Tim and his assistant – I’m going to call her Betty, but I don’t think Magic Tim actually introduced her — hand everyone a clipboard with paper and a pencil. He asks all of us to write three questions that we would like the spirits to answer for us tonight. “It can be about love, money, your job, anything,” he says. He instructs us to keep our questions to ourselves and not to share them with anyone, including the person we’re here with. When he sees that we’re all done writing – but before I’ve actually thought of a third question – we’re told to take the paper we’ve written the questions on, fold it and keep folding it until we can’t fold it anymore.

I scramble to think of a third question and quickly jot it down.

Chris, who is shooting me these, “this is so fake” looks, acquiesces with Magic Tim ’s request along with everyone else. Then Magic Tim walks around the room with some sort of urn. He asks each of us to drop our folded list of questions into the urn. Betty follows close behind Magic Tim, collecting all of the clipboards and pencils.

I have to admit, so far, this has not been what I was expecting. I thought they would have asked us for the names of three dead people we’d like to talk to not three questions we’d like to ask some unknown dead person. And really, why would some random dead person even know the answers to my questions? And, moreover, how do I know that the random dead person isn’t a flat-out liar? Why should I believe what a dead stranger tells me? And finally, if it’s not advisable to talk to strangers in life, isn’t it unwise to listen to them in death? Questions, questions! Here, just a few minutes ago, I struggled to come up with three questions; now I have a whole slew of them.

After everything is collected, Magic Tim, holding the urn reverently in his hands, turns to face us and says, “I promise you, that by the end of the evening, each of you will have at least one of your questions answered by the spirits.” He pauses and signals to Betty. She stands next to him with a book of matches. “And now,” Magic Tim announces in a magician’s voice, “To assure you that no one on staff will be looking at the questions, we will burn them!” He nods at Betty who strikes a match and drops the flame into the urn.

I look for any sign that they have been playing us, but I see none.

Magic Tim leaves the room momentarily and, when he returns, he is no longer holding the urn.

I sneak a peek at Chris who has chiseled a scowl on her forehead. I think we’re having the same thought: He sure left with that urn pretty fast…maybe fast enough to stop any of the papers from actually burning.

Betty walks around the room handing each of us a two-foot length of white string. This time, Magic Tim follows closely behind her, giving each of us a quarter-sized washer. He directs everyone on how to thread the string through the washer and to tie it to look like a pendant necklace. A very cheap pendant necklace. I’m happy because I had no idea the séance I paid for also included an arts and crafts project.

All of us finish our tasks.

“Okay,” Magic Tim begins. “We’re going to do an exercise to demonstrate the psychic power that each of you holds. Everyone has a natural ability to influence their surroundings. Tonight, in preparation for the séance, I’m going to help you train your minds to move your washer.”

Chris and I exchange glances but don’t speak.

“Now,” he continues. “Hold your string in front of you, above your head, so that the washer hangs at your eye level.”

Everyone complies.

“Okay. Now I want you to concentrate all of your attention on the washer in front of you. Focus. Visualize the washer turning in a clockwise direction. Now, will the washer to move in a clockwise direction.”

I stare at my washer. In my mind I am demanding it to swing in a circular, clockwise motion. I am careful not to move my right hand, the one holding the string. I imagine we all look like we’re trying to hypnotize ourselves. But wait! I can’t be thinking of anything but moving my washer! Focus, girl!

Circle around. Circle around. Circle around.

And there! Right before my eyes, my washer starts making clockwise circles in the air. I did it! What an influential and remarkable mind I have!

Everyone in the room, including suspicious Chris, is having similar success.

Magic Tim tells everyone to now switch directions. This time he wants us to concentrate on having our washers move in a counterclockwise direction.

This, of course, will require two feats. First, I’ll need to stop the washer’s current movement and then start it again in the opposite direction.

And I nail it! My mind is all powerful! Today, it’s a washer. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe I’ll use my newly honed telepathic skills to get my board president to sign off on a salary increase for me! Yippee!

Magic Tim, satisfied that we have all harnessed our psychic abilities, asks us to stand up and follow him through the second set of pocket doors. It’s time for the séance.

I steal a glance at Chris. She meets my eyes, rolls her own eyes and shakes her head. She knows something…

—   —   —

A large round table takes up most of this new room. We’re asked to take a seat.

With the dim lighting, the atmosphere is already charged with foreboding. I think we’re all filled with trepidation – all except Chris, of course.

Magic Tim assures us that, while the candle flame may flicker and the table may move, there’s nothing to be concerned about. The spirits don’t communicate in conventional ways. He stresses that we should remain quiet and calm.

“It’s important,” he says, “that you use your psychic abilities to concentrate on communicating with the spirits, to erase your minds of all other thoughts besides the questions you want answered. If you’re thinking of other things besides the séance,” he cautions, “your thoughts will act as background noise making it difficult for me to understand what the spirits are telling us.”

Betty reaches between two people and lights a candle sitting in the center of the table.

“Okay,” Magic Tim continues, “Before we turn off the lights, I’d like each of you to place both of your hands on the table…Now I’d like you to clasp the hand of the person on your left and the person on your right. This is necessary to harness our collective psychic energy and make our connection to the spirit world stronger.“

Okay, Chris I know. She’s on my left. I don’t know who this guy is on my right, but he doesn’t seem scary or dirty so…I’m game. I put my hand on top of his.

Magic Tim explains again how the spirit that we talk to – I note that he’s talking about a singular spirit now instead of multiple spirits – will be communicating in signs. Magic Tim, of course, is able to interpret what the signs mean, and he will translate the messages for us. He won’t know the question and he won’t know who the spirit is answering, but hopefully, he says, we’ll know when the answer is meant for us.

In some cases, the answer may be a response to questions that more than one of us has asked.

By this time, of course, I think all of us know that Magic Tim has actually read our questions and already knows how the “spirit” will respond. So, let’s get on with it; I’m hungry.

During the course of the séance, the table shakes, the candle goes out, the temperature grows cold – you know, all amateur haunted house stuff. I’m growing impatient. At first, Magic Tim reports, “You would be wise to accept the job offer.” Nope, not mine. Then, “It’s better to forgive.” Nope, not mine. Three or more “answers” are communicated through Magic Tim and my mind is starting to wander, so much so that I nearly miss the answer to one of my questions.

As it is, I just catch the last part of what Magic Tim says, “…and continue writing.” Oh, for shit’s sake! My question had been: Will I become a best-selling author? Even though I know this whole séance is a bunch of baloney, I am so, so mad at myself! I sure hope Chris heard it.

— — —

Of course, Chris didn’t hear it either.

We’re seated on the balcony of a nearby restaurant. We’ve just ordered our dinner and we’re prepared to begin our critique of the séance.

During the séance, Chris had been busy listening for the answer to one of her questions. As soon as Magic Tim had said something about writing, she had tuned him out, knowing he wasn’t answering one of her questions. It wasn’t until it was too late that she thought it might be the answer to one of mine.

Chris doesn’t think the “spirits” answered any of her questions. Of course, one of her questions might have been, “Don’t you guys feel guilty cheating money out of people with this bullshit?” And what spirit would want to answer that?

“Well, even though they obviously pulled a fast one when they collected and supposedly burnt our questions,” I say, “I’m impressed that I was able to move my washer with my mind.”

Chris looks at me with disdain. As though I’m the most gullible person in the world. “Jill,” she says, shaking her head. She takes a drink of water.

“What? How could they have moved them? You mean we weren’t moving the washers with our minds?” I’m shocked.

“Jill, did you notice the ceiling fan in the room?”

“No.”

“There was a ceiling fan and instead of willing my washer to rotate, I watched the fan. When the guy told us to move the washer clockwise, the fan started up, moving clockwise. Then it stopped and started again, going counterclockwise when he asked us to move our washers in that direction.”

I’m deflated. Chris has just told me Santa Claus is not real. Of course! It makes perfect sense now – change the direction of the fan, change the motion of everyone’s washer. I’m an idiot.

And now there is no hope that my once-powerful-now-lame psyche will ever be able influence anyone to sign off on a salary increase! Damn it!

— — —

The Séance Theatre was located on the left side of the first floor, of the historic Porter House, located at 429 Caroline Street in Key West. Caroline street is one of the oldest roads on the island. It is lined with many old houses, inns, and historic landmarks. The Porter House is on the corner of Caroline and Duval, just across the street from the painted penis bar Chris and I went to on Duval.

The Porter House was built in 1839 but was named after one of its most well-known inhabitants, Doctor Joseph Yates Porter, whose father bought the house in 1845. Doctor Porter lived in the mansion for eighty years, dying in the same room in which he was born.

James Porter was Florida’s first public health officer. He was among the first physicians to recognize yellow fever as transmissible by mosquitoes and he was instrumental in controlling the disease, reforming sanitation and quarantine practices. Before the reforms, the most common practice to rid communities of the disease was the use of quarantines. Ships would be detained in port – like the current situation in San Francisco Bay with the coronavirus — and whole communities would be restricted from traveling to neighboring towns. Another practice was to burn all the belongings of those inflicted with yellow fever. (If I get the coronavirus, don’t let them burn my stuff.) Doctor Porter and his colleagues put an end to those practices.

The Porter House is considered one of the top ten most-haunted places in Key West – which infers that the island has more than ten haunted places. It is believed to be haunted by the friendly ghosts of Doctor Porter and an unknown African-American girl.