In the late 1980s, a young man named Taliesin found himself answering phones at Psychics-R-Us, a psychic hotline that operated as an information service during the decade when such telephone services first emerged across North America. What began as an alternative to smelly kitchen work turned into a surreal journey through the world of paid psychic readings, lottery number predictions, and the occasional curse removal request.
The Unlikely Path to Psychic Employment
Fresh from college arts writing and tired of traditional service jobs, the author discovered that his casual tarot card reading skill could actually earn him money. The job paid $4 per minute, with the first five minutes offered free to entice callers. After failing his first audition due to inexperience reading strangers, he practiced and returned weeks later to successfully demonstrate his ability to convincingly discuss personal problems.
Manager Cassandra saw great potential in the young psychic, praising his natural abilities and predicting he would become increasingly powerful with age. The reality, however, was far from the spiritual calling it appeared to be. Most calls centered on lottery numbers, inspired by advertisements featuring winners who supposedly obtained their lucky numbers from psychics like him.
The Daily Reality of Psychic Work
The office itself was decidedly unmagical—an ordinary office building with acoustic ceiling tiles and fluorescent lighting, though each room had themed decorations like The Golden Obelisk Room and The Sage Garden Room. Employees received specific training on how to maximize call times, including sitting in silence to "tune into energy" and using tarot cards to generate lottery numbers.
Despite the cynical approach to keeping callers on the line, the service did provide some genuine help. Callers with serious issues like domestic abuse or suicidal thoughts were directed to appropriate resources, with binders of emergency numbers available in every room. For many callers without access to universal healthcare, the psychic hotline served as an affordable alternative to therapy.
Some calls provided comic relief, like the professional who needed reassurance that smoking pot was acceptable, or the elderly woman who spent 20 minutes denouncing multiple psychics in Jesus's name. Then there was the memorable caller who interrupted a reading about her boyfriend to proudly announce she was "doing him right now" before hanging up.
The Curse of Dwayne and Office Absurdities
One particular call stood out—Dwayne needed help removing a curse placed on him by a woman. Unsure how to handle such a request, the author turned to more experienced colleagues, eventually consulting Oswyn, the office's resident druid who possessed encyclopedic occult knowledge. Oswyn confidently provided Dwayne with a detailed ritual involving candles and mirrors, resulting in a lucrative 25-minute call.
The office culture blended true believers with cynical former phone sex workers who had no illusions about the operation. Manager Cassandra maintained the mystical atmosphere by claiming the ordinary office park sat at the center of a powerful psychic vortex and recommending employees keep corn chips in their cars to stay "grounded." Her trip to Egypt yielded supposedly powerful scarabs that turned out to be poorly glazed clay lumps resembling pinkie toes.
The Moral Awakening and Eventual Firing
The author's disillusionment grew after working an in-person psychic fair organized by co-worker Florence and her husband Bill, a former carny who expertly identified potential customers. Watching Florence separate people from their limited funds during face-to-face readings proved sobering. The experience highlighted the ethical dilemma of taking money from vulnerable people who saw psychics as their only hope.
Back at the hotline, the job lost its appeal. The author began volunteering for night shifts when call volume was low, often lying on the floor with lights off while supposedly meditating. His performance declined, and he was eventually fired after less than a year of employment.
Reflecting on the experience, the author recognized the psychological phenomenon behind seemingly accurate readings—the Barnum effect, where vague statements feel personally meaningful when presented as tailored insights. What began as an easy alternative to kitchen work became a lesson in the complex ethics of selling hope to the desperate, all while working in an office where managers cleaned auras and believed in psychic vortices hidden in plain sight between interstate highways.
