So, for example, turquoise. If someone’s inner glow is turquoise, it means they’re depressed. If it’s the outer nimbus, it indicates a temporary feeling of guilt. Also, the shape or quality of the outer nimbus can change based on external circumstances. Normally, it’s fairly thin and solid, but all sorts of situations can distort it. If the outline is puffed up, cloudlike and hazy, I know I’m looking at someone who’s high on a depressant.
As far as the Hump or Dump segment goes, I’ll usually vote dump if I see auras indicating narcissists, psychos, killers, that sort of thing. Some aura colors make for bad combinations. Like if the caller’s got a pink inner glow (a nurturer) and their prospective spouse is muddy green (highly selfish) or dark red (dangerous narcissist), it’s a total match made in hell. One of them will spend the entire marriage basically either playing parent to the other or being their servant.
Not cool.
Tonight’s roster of callers is pleasantly tame. I distant-see each caller while talking to them about the person they are engaged to, then try to home in on the other person, giving them clues like ‘does he or she have red hair’ or describe something about them so I know I’m reading the right person. I’d be crushed to break up a couple from reading bad vibes off the wrong person. Gotta be careful to sound reasonably generic on the air, like most other ‘entertainment’ psychics. If I start describing things too exactly to a hundred thousand listeners, I’m sure some weird branch of the government will show up and collect me for study.
I ask a caller named Jennifer if her fiancée Tamir has big puffy hair and a scar on his forehead. He’s chilling at home on a PlayStation, no warning signs in either aura, and get the sense the guy is kind with a playful streak, so I declare them a ‘hump.’
Curtis, my producer, thinks people in offices around town have betting pools going on regarding ‘humps vs dumps.’ As in for any given Wednesday show, there will be X amount of humps and Y amount of dumps. There’s even a HoD betting pool here at K-RAP, though no one who works directly with me is allowed to participate.
The next call goes great until Julia gives me the full name of the man she’s dating—Jerold (with a J) Blake. Now, not only is it a crime against the universe for two people whose names start with the same letter to marry each other (the crime is more severe if they go quirky and give any kids they have all names with the same letter) this guy is rocking a dark red aura with a gold nimbus around it. A narcissist who’s presently angry over being criticized. I dig a little deeper psychically, and get the sense he got into an argument with a medical doctor over Facebook about something he Googled and can’t handle being told he’s wrong. He’s so angry, he’s considering finding the doctor and punching him.
Yeah. Dump. Big time dump.
A commercial break gives me a chance to run down the hall to the bathroom.
Honestly, the worst part of the job as a radio personality is having to hurry things up in there. My fault for drinking a giant coffee. Curtis has it covered, though. If I’m not in my chair when the commercial slot ends, he can play another one from the mixing booth while he sends the ‘goon squad’ to hunt me down. Anyway, I make it back to the studio with twelve seconds to spare, then go through three more callers who all get ‘hump.’
And then I get one that leaves me in tears.
The last caller to sneak in before the segment ends is an older woman named Miriam, who wants to know if she should marry or dump her boyfriend, Sterling Greene. Both of them are in their seventies, but their age isn’t what gets me crying… they both have black auras—which means they’re going to die soon. The outer nimbus hasn’t turned black yet on either, so they’ve got anywhere from two weeks to a few months left.
Considering they appear to be living in the same assisted living facility, I’m sure they’re well aware of the urgency. I somehow manage to keep myself from blubbing while speaking on air.
“Yes, Miriam. Definitely… don’t waste any time.”
She chuckles. “Oh, go on, dear. Don’t let my age put ya off. Make it official. Say hump.”
Devon, my sound engineer, and Curtis, both die laughing. Fortunately, they’re in the mixing booth and the glass is thick enough they can’t be heard on the air. Those two think I’m getting misty-eyed over the ‘cuteness’ of an old couple in love. They have no idea they’re both going to die quite soon. The black aura around Sterling offers no clue what sort of man he is, but I do get the sense he loves her.
“Umm, okay. Yes. Definitely hump.” Wow, talk about awkward. I feel so wrong saying it to a frail old lady in a hospital bed.
“Thank you, dear. You’re sure?”
“Totally.” I stifle a sniffle. “In fact, you should marry him tonight.”
“Aww, that’s sweet of you. Thank you very much, young lady.”
“You’re welcome.” I sit there for three seconds of dead air—a near cardinal sin for radio.
As soon as she hangs up, I hit the button to play the pre-recorded end-of-segment track. Ten seconds to collect myself. I can break down sobbing later. Curtis sends me an instant message asking why I look upset.
One doesn’t go on a cruise and get attacked by a giant stone earthquake god without opening their mind somewhat to the paranormal world. Curtis knows I’m the real deal, so I give him the truth.
They’re both going to be dead anywhere from two weeks to three months from now, I type in our instant-messaging thing on the computer. Black auras.
He grimaces at the screen in the engineering booth.
The end of the Hump or Dump portion of my show brings me into the second half of my four-hour time slot. When I’m not doing specific gimmicky segments, I end up taking an array of callers who can be anything from ‘fortune telling’ sessions to relationship counseling to ‘should I get a new job’ to astrology. Sometimes, people call about strange stuff like aliens or ghosts. A few of my old regulars from the Psychic Hotline try to call me here, but the screeners have started trying to weed them out since those callers don’t understand the difference between radio and phone psychics. As in, they expect they can talk to me for an hour.
I won’t say the job isn’t fun, but sometimes it can turn into a numbing routine, especially when the caller has weak energy or has a relatively boring or outright strange request, like Sadie wanting me to tell her if her kitchen range is really possessed by the spirit of her dead husband.
By the way, it isn’t. But it might have an electrical problem.
A weird feeling hits me out of nowhere at 7:49 p.m., twenty-three seconds away from the end of a commercial break. It’s not quite ‘ominous doom,’ more like the sense of urgency one feels before opening an envelope containing final exam scores or a reply from a college regarding acceptance.
The ‘something important is about to happen’ feeling gets stronger when I go live again, hanging over me as I read a paragraph of ad copy for Tiki Taco. I’m not even going to get into the bizarre coincidence of a place with such a theme wanting to buy ad time on my show so soon after dealing with an angry Aztec god, but whatever. Gotta pay the bills, right. And hey, they sent the whole station a free lunch a few weeks ago. Their food is pretty good, so I don’t feel like a sellout for pushing it. I’m super finicky with Mexican/Spanish food.