Carrie Robbins channels a Revolutionary War Soldier
(Photos by Bald Punk – I took them(see below) on Wall St when we went to see Carrie)
My lady friend(LF) and I along with the pizza and Chinese delivery guys, wanted to find out more about Max Beckley. He’s a homeless man I met once that we’ve since learned may be a reincarnated Revolutionary War soldier . . .
The way my LF spoke of Carrie Robbins’ psychic abilities, I was prepared to meet an old hippie, who would stare into my eyes like she was trying to see my toes. Yet she was barely thirty years old, more of a friendly, girl-next-door type than a world-renowned medium. And instead of living in a bohemian pad that reeked of incense and petiole oil–where we’d have to pass through a maze of hanging beads and scarves with cats rubbing at our ankles, she lived in a sparse apartment just off Wall Street. The only decoration of note was an abstract painting over the couch that added a calming element.
There were finely carved doors throughout, and mahogany cabinets in the kitchen. All the woodwork gave the well-lit place a rustic smell.
The four of us were there for about twenty minutes, chatting with Carrie in the living room, before the mysterious Mr. Clack arrived. Carrie also calls him “Mr. Clack,” like we do. He has a distinguished, gentlemanly way, that even if we became close friends, I probably still would call him by his surname.
It was clear Carrie knew him, but by the way she gripped the door, she seemed hesitant to let him in. Like my LF had on our first meeting with Clack, Carrie must have also noticed the mark of evil in his eyes.
A minute or two after Clack arrived, Carrie looked up to her boyfriend Mark. He was going through the mail in the kitchen. In a leisure suit, he had a rough-around-the-edges look, closer to a gang-banger than a collegiac-type. Carrie smiled at him. He winked back and then headed out the door with hardly a word.
When it occurred to me that the Carrie was the one footing the hefty rent bill for the apartment, not a second later, the medium turned to me and said, “I’m very lucky, he’s a good man.”
It seemed she had read my thoughts, and that irked me. Plenty of people seem to be able to–and since everything I do is “loud,” I wondered if maybe I “think loud”, too.
Carrie went right to business. Her only preparation was to rub the fingers of her right hand into her left palm. “I know Max very well,” she said of the man who we were there to learn about. “He’s one of the reasons I live here.” She smiled disjointedly, showing white front teeth with crooked incisors. “His soul is imbued in the Seaport area. I can usually feel his presence when I walk South Street.” Her eyes grew distant as she whispered. “I can see him . . .
“Max,” Carrie said like a mother to a child. Her gaze wound just over our heads. “Speak to these people. They are curious. They want to know you like I do.” She seemed to listen a moment. “They will pray for you, Max.” She smiled at us. “You will, right.”
We all nodded and said we would. So did Clack.
“I will only tell them what you want me to,” Carrie said after what seemed a short private talk with Max. She nodded and looked up and to the right. Her voice grew deeper as she relayed Max’s words. “’I was born in Baltimore, Maryland, in the year 1758. My sisters, Ann and Abby, both had blond hair. I’m standing in front of our house on a tree-lined road that winds to the harbor, and I can see their heads bobbing in the windows of the garret as I sneak off to swim. I hear my mother’s voice calling for them to come down. Floorboards are creaking under their tiny feet, and I want to go home. That’s all I want, that’s all I want. I want to take them swimming with me.’”
“You loved your sisters with all your heart,” Carrie said, her pitch rising. “Don’t be afraid to reach for their love even now. It still burns for you.”
“‘I’m going for a swim’,” Carrie said tremulously, relaying Max’s words. “‘I want to wrap my arms around my little sisters. I can see my broken body on the day I died in the Battle of Brooklyn. There is no way I can ever go home. You paved a road next to me, erected a cemetery over me, and now you put buildings upon me. There’s a bright white store that sells paper. Lots of paper.’” She laughed. . . He laughed.
Carrie’s head rose and her eyes opened wide. “Max is alive!” she blurted and gave a heaving sigh. She buried her head in her hands. “His presence is gone.”
“Is he in the Village?” my LF asked.
Carrie looked off and her head shook a little.
“Is he alive and living in Greenwich Village?” my LF asked.
Carrie glared at my LF. “Max said he is alive, and that he’s a teenager now. But he knows he will die soon, and then he will go back–to them.”
“I thought I heard him say he lives on Borrow or Barrow Street,” my LF added.
“Don’t go looking for him,” Carrie said, the corner of her lip rising to a sneer.
“Why?” I asked, and Clack blinked as if to say ‘shut up’ in a polite way.
I turned to the pizza and Chinese delivery guys who looked like astronauts-that didn’t-want-to-be-astronauts. I’m sorry, but that’s how they looked. They’re whacked.
“You can’t help him,” Carrie said, looking at me. “He knows that. No one can help him. He’s died more than 50 times–all for them. They have his soul, and they will not let go.” Her head leveled and she stared vacantly. “And no, I don’t know who they are. Some type of demon, I guess.”
“’There lie’s a road,’” I began to say, the words rolling off my tongue as if someone whispered to me, and my LF spoke with me–
“–a road we don’t want to take.”
Carrie bowed her head.
“The Max Beckley I met a few years ago was an old homeless man,” I said. “Now he’s supposedly alive, and a teenager. I’m confused?”
To that, Carrie looked angrily at Clack and said, “I knew tonight was going to be a mistake.”
Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Seventeen – September 2009