My Life Across the Table (5 page)

I have never believed that people meet by accident or coincidence, and that everyone comes into our lives for a purpose. Whether they are there for five minutes or a lifetime, and whether you are momentarily placed in someone’s path to make their day better, or for them to change your life forever, people are always brought together for a reason. This story is about one of those fateful meetings. It was a meeting that became a lifelong education through friendship, to help me grow and understand the nature of my work, and to find peace within it, a meeting that changed my life.

She knew and accepted that I was psychic even before I did, and though I was a good student that went to school every day she understood that I was going to be giving readings to clients either at home or in her store after school, and before I did my homework.

I met Ken in the spring of 1969 when he was sent to me as a client, I was sixteen years old, and had only been giving readings professionally for a little over two years. Ken was a twenty-seven year old New Yorker, not terribly tall, and more round than lean, with a thick mop of jet-black hair that tumbled across his forehead. He had strikingly light green eyes that sparkled when he felt passionate about anything.

He was smart, funny, sharp witted, and highly opinionated about everything that mattered to him. Without fail, his highly observant, edgy take on things always made me laugh. Though I was very young, and he was quite the character, there was an instant connection, he was one of the older brothers that I never had, and a long and lovely friendship developed between us.

Ken owned a film storage vault. He was entrusted with highly prized film collections of rare, and some not-sorare collections that were all very precious to their owners. He lovingly kept track of, and cared for these films as though they were his own.

The vaults were pretty sophisticated for their time. They were air tight, temperature controlled, light monitored, and guarded like Fort Knox. He explained to me that all of those precautions were taken to insure the continued quality of the films, some of which were original prints, or the only copies in existence.

As all of this happened many years before the introduction of digital applications in the film business, everything was shot, and stored on 16mm, 35mm, or 70mm film. Ken’s dedication to insuring their survival for future generations, and his vast knowledge of films in general was a fascinating world, far removed from my own.

My mother grew up working alongside her father in the flower business in New York. My grandfather owned six full-service flower shops in Manhattan, so my mother grew up surrounded by everything having to do with flowers.

After being a florist for many years, she was ready to do something different. The natural progression from flowers into the giftware business felt like the perfect fit. She found a beautiful corner store in Sherman Oaks, California, and in the late sixties opened “The Imperial Bed, Bath and Closet Shop” on Ventura Boulevard.

It was a beautiful store with mirrored cabinets, glass shelves, and two big display windows that we changed every couple of weeks.

She stocked the store with unusual gift selections from all over the world, always seeking out the unique and rare. Everywhere the eye could see was filled with beautiful things for the home. From delicate porcelain figurines, made in a family-owned factory in Italy, lavishly embroidered towels and custom colored lucite bathroom accessories that were highly innovative concepts in the late sixties, to the one-of-a-kind purple, gold, or red crystal decanter sets from Romania. The more exotic something was, the better she liked it. Word spread fast in the design business, and since there was nothing like my mother’s store anywhere else in the country, she became the person to see.

My mother was initially a little cautious when I told her about Ken, but they hit it off instantly, as I knew they would, and soon he became like family. The three of us shared a deep unspoken comfort and trust. For a while, he got in the habit of stopping by the store two or three days a week to have lunch with us. It was time we all looked forward to, as the air was always filled with interesting conversation, and lots of laughter.

He generously shared his world with us, and in return, we taught him about trust, and about being open to his unrecognized spirituality.

Ken and I were always going somewhere together, even if he came by the store to pick me up, just to run film business errands with him. There was always something to do, pick-ups and deliveries, paperwork, trips to the post-office to send film off to a client. Whatever it was, I loved spending time with Ken.

On this particular day he came by the store earlier than usual to have lunch with us. We bantered back and forth, wading through the same stack of take-out menus as always, debating the merits of each one, until finally deciding the day’s fare. Our roles in this “dance of the luncheon ritual” were clearly defined.

Once our decisions were final, and often without a word, my mother would take the chosen menu, dramatically dialing the number as we watched. She would carefully recite our order, and once done, replace the phone in the cradle with great flourish. That was our cue to head for the door, with strict orders, and a wink, not to return without lunch in hand.

As always, Ken opened the car door for me. As I slid into the seat, he casually asked, “After lunch I have to stop by a client’s house. Want to come with me?”

I was always up for running errands with Ken, and I was with him so often that he started telling his clients that I was his assistant. Keeping him company was about the extent of my “assistant” duties, so for a “job that wasn’t really a job,” it was a pretty easy assignment.

I was quite conscious that they were his clients, and rarely spoke after being introduced. The opportunity to go with Ken while he worked was a wonderful and educational experience for me. Ken knew that I would always honor our friendship, and respect his relationships with his clients.

My working for Ken, in any way, became our little joke, “Of course, boss,” now feigning an exaggerated bow, “I am your ever ready assistant, remember?”

Starting the car, without so much as a glance in my direction, the slightest smile crossed his lips, “Good, I think you’ll find this man very interesting.”

It was an odd statement, because he knew that I found most of his clients pretty interesting. I had met some lovely people while picking up and delivering films with Ken, so it never entered my mind that this day, and this client would be any different.

Ken instinctively knew that taking me to meet this particular client would change my life forever.
We chatted as we picked up the food, returning to my mother’s store to complete our mission. As was part of our “lunch dates with Ken,” she had set plates, folded napkins and silverware in our usual places, wrapping around one corner of her desk.
We took our seats as Ken placed his hand in the bag, announcing everything he pulled out. With his usual dramatic flair, he waved the item around until a hand came up to claim it, ever so gently placing the prized item on its designated plate.
Sometimes our elaborate lunch plans resulted in cheese sandwiches on a Kaiser roll from across the street, but when Ken was there, it always turned into a special event.
Our leisurely lunch was littered with quick conversation and outbursts of laughter. I was usually the scorekeeper, and got great pleasure watching the interaction between Ken and my mother. They clearly knew how to playfully wind each other up, and when they got on the topic of their respective businesses, they were hilarious together.
Ken would share his dilemmas with employees, and storage details, and my mother shared funny stories about the occasional drama with her sometimes, incredibly high maintenance clients. To say the least, they were very entertaining together.
We finished lunch, and when I walked out the back door to dispose of our accumulated trash, Ken asked my mother if I could accompany him on his afternoon errands. She knew Ken was a trustworthy person, and that he would make sure I was safe, but out of respect, he always asked her permission. It didn’t matter that I had already consented to go. He wasn’t taking me anywhere, ever, without my mother’s approval.
I grabbed my purse, kissed my mother, and told her I would be back in an hour or so. Stepping around me, Ken leaned down and lovingly delivered a warm hug and a peck on her cheek.
For the second time that day Ken had that same little smile on his lips. I knew he had a secret, and I took the bait, knowing he wanted me to ask, “Okay, what have you been smiling about all day? I know you’re dying to tell me.”
Ken’s smile got bigger, and the telltale twinkle in his eyes went on high. His entire energy shifted as he alternated between watching the road, and looking at me, “Aren’t you the least bit curious about whom we are going to see?”
Now, this was really was unusual. When calling on a client, his normal demeanor was very professional, somewhat laid back, and usually relaxed, “Have I ever asked you who we were going to see before?”
I could see him turning it over in his mind. Slowing the car, he looked directly at me, “Well, no, you have never asked, but this client is different, he is someone, I have a feeling you are supposed to know.”
Ken glanced back and forth, between the road, and my reaction, “I know this is going to sound funny, but last week when I was at his house, all I could think of was introducing you to him, and when he called yesterday, I told him I was bringing someone with me that he needed to meet. I think you’ll have a lot in common.”
Well, this was certainly a very curious first. This time, I turned in my seat to face him, “You mean you told him you were bringing your assistant?” Now, I was really confused, “I thought this was a business errand Ken, and what is it exactly that you think we’ll have in common?”
Staring straight ahead, his left hand tapping the wheel, “What is it you always say? Wait, you’ll see. I told him your name, but I didn’t tell him you were my assistant.”
Now he was hedging, “and it is about business, but this is different, Karen. He’s different, and I can’t tell him that you’re my assistant, because he would know I was lying.” Softer now, almost to himself, “and I can never lie to him.”
Now, I really did want to know, “Okay, now I’m asking. Who is this man you think I should know that you think I’ll have a lot in common with?”
I had been so fixated on Ken’s face during our trip that I didn’t realize how slowly he had been moving. I barely noticed he had slipped into a parking space, and silenced the engine. Almost seamlessly, he removed the key from the ignition with his right hand, while pushing the car door open with his left. With one foot out in the street, ready to exit the car, he twisted around, to look directly in my eyes, “It’s Peter Hurkos, Karen,” lifting himself out of the car, slamming his door on my words.
“Oh, my God.! Peter Hurkos!” Suddenly a peaceful feeling of deja’ vu, mixed with an unfamiliar case of nerves welled up within me. Like I was visiting someone I had known all my life, but hadn’t seen in many years. Though it felt like we had been driving for half an hour, in reality, Ken must have been driving at a crawl, because we were in Studio City, only ten minutes from my mother’s store.
Looking up to the right I saw a beautifully landscaped house on a knoll, set up from the street. Appearing at my door, Ken offered his hand to help me out. Face-to-face now, we just looked at each other, silently turning to walk toward the house.
I instinctively knew this house. I intimately knew the layout of the rooms, and the warm, dark woods of the furniture, the tiles in the kitchen, and the glass doors, overlooking a lovely backyard. I could see it, before ever stepping foot in the front door.
Standing on the porch, I was calm on the outside, and trembling on the inside. With his finger poised on the doorbell, Ken turned to look at me, with a sudden softness in his eyes, “Now you understand.”
The sound of bells began chiming somewhere deep within the house, as though to underscore his words. I was still nodding softly as the front door opened, and there, standing squarely in the doorway, was the world famous psychic, Peter Hurkos, a man that I had heard about since I was a child.
Our smiles must have been contagious, as Peter wore one, too. He nodded as he looked past Ken, fixing directly on me. Though we had never met, when he looked into my eyes, I felt as though I had known him my entire life, and the familiar kindness in his eyes, said that he knew me, too.
Without a word, Peter reached past Ken, offering his hand to lead me into his home. It all seemed so natural, delicately leading me up the single, small step into rooms so familiar to my soul. I inhaled, realizing I knew the smells of this house. The subtle aroma of furniture polish and spices that went along with the larger-than-life man living there.
Ken trailed behind as Peter led me into a rectangular dining room featuring wall-to-wall glass doors, overlooking a beautifully manicured backyard. The sun lit, glistening surfaces of the rich dark woods, made me selfconscious about leaving fingerprints on the table.
Peter pulled a chair out, gently releasing my hand, while guiding me into the seat. Ken walked around the rectangular table, taking the chair facing mine.
Leaning over my left shoulder, Peter moved in close to my face, his deeply accented voice now filling my head, “Are you comfortable? Can I get you something to drink?” His warm, mellow voice, sounded like it had been aged in wood.
Covering the few steps to the kitchen, he turned, anticipating my answer, “Yes, thank you. Some ice water, please.”
My eyes must have been as big as saucers when I looked across the table at Ken, and in the silent language of friends, the look between us said it all. He knew how much meeting Peter meant to me.
In that small moment Peter reappeared holding two frosty glasses. With one swift, but graceful move he brought both glasses down in place, an iced tea for Ken, and a glass of iced water for me. Before I could even utter a word of thanks, he had disappeared back into the kitchen. I took a deep breath, silently watching water drops form on the highly polished surface.
With iced water in hand, Peter was back in the doorway, quickly looking back and forth between Ken’s iced tea, and my water. Satisfied that he had gotten everything right, he casually slid into the seat next to me. I carefully studied him as he leaned forward, taking a sip from the glass, before placing it on the table next to mine.
Ken and Peter leapt into conversation, as though they had just been interrupted in the middle of a sentence. They were finishing up the details about movies he wanted Ken to bring next, and what he wanted him to take back to storage.
I occasionally took a sip from my glass, consciously trying to place it in exactly the same wet circle on the table every time. Peter was completely oblivious about my concerns over fingerprints and water rings on the furniture, he didn’t care. I watched him repeatedly, pick up his glass and take a drink, putting it down wherever it landed, making an ever widening pattern, of wet rings on the table in front of us.
I just watched and listened to them talk, as they clearly enjoyed each other’s company. Their conversation was a combination of serious business, and good-natured chuckles, effortlessly weaving both elements into a single sentence. The words moved rapidly between them, bouncing from one thing to another, without a single note being taken.
Though I hadn’t moved, and had been sitting there like a statue the entire time, a mysterious shift had taken place between them. As hard as I tried, I realized that all of a sudden I couldn’t understand a thing they were saying. Sitting next to Peter, I felt like I was being let in on a secret, or was hearing a rarely spoken foreign language for the first time.
I carefully followed the changes of tone in their voices, but it became increasingly obvious that it was some kind of verbal shorthand. Over the years they had developed a language all their own. One that was clearly only meant to be spoken, and understood by them, a language from their hearts that took me many years to understand.
Peter’s warmth of spirit filled the room. I didn’t belong, nor was I invited, to participate in their conversation. Yet in some unspoken way, Peter made me feel very welcome in his home, like he was glad I was there. His highly animated way of communicating, talking with his hands occasionally waving in the air along with his words, provided me with an oddly familiar comfort.
I had accompanied Ken to many of his client’s homes, but this felt distinctly different. His other clients were strictly business, nothing personal. They were unfailingly nice to Ken, but it was always kept short and to the point. As expected, I was unimportant to them, so was usually treated like a piece of furniture. I knew these people were Ken’s clients, but never felt they were his friends. Peter was definitely his friend.
Their business took about an hour to complete, but never once during that time, did I ever feel like a piece of furniture. Even when they mysteriously disappeared into another room to deal with something, they politely excused themselves.
Though my nervousness didn’t go away, it was clear that Peter and I had a powerful connection. We knew each other before a word was ever spoken between us. It was strange, because I never get nervous, under any circumstances, so it was a little confusing to have this reaction to meeting Peter. I had to figure it out, and was happy to have a few quiet minutes, to close my eyes and meditate. Sitting for less than five minutes, I cleared my mind, focusing only on this unusual situation. By the time I opened my eyes, my confusion had given way to a deep sense of peace within me, and I understood quite clearly, what had triggered this unfamiliar feeling.
I laughed when I realized what it was. It was the “little girl from Los Angeles” that still lives within me. The part of me that grew up hearing stories about the incredible psychic gifts of Peter Hurkos. I was simply “star struck!”
I was in complete awe that I was actually sitting here with Peter Hurkos’, making water circles on his dining room table. The spiritual comfort between us came from a very different place. Our souls had recognized each other. We were kindred spirits, sharing the warmth of instant recognition, and familiarity. This was the place where our connection lived.
Peter and Ken had, what appeared to be, impeccable timing. I had barely finished having my “Aha!” moment, when they slipped back into their chairs. I was happy they were back.
Peter twisted his large frame sideways in his chair, he wanted to face me. His knees were little more than an inch away, with his left arm perched on the high back of his chair. His right hand casually holding the dripping glass of iced water. He began sliding it around in the water rings, making one big wet spot on the table in front of us, his purposeful, playful way of telling me not to worry about unimportant things, and that we were one. He had a big smile on his face, and mischief in his eyes, “Were we gone long enough?”
My case of nerves had vanished, and I was completely comfortable now, “Absolutely, your timing was perfect.”
His voice was soft, “I thought you might need a minute alone.”
I reached for the glass in front of me, “Thank you I did, but I’m fine now.” I took a small sip, setting it down amidst the ever-spreading water rings.
Putting his hand on my arm, like old friends do, “Can I get you some more water, Karen?”
The caring tone in Peter’s voice made me want to hug him, but instead I just turned my head, and looked at him, “No, really I’m fine.”
He slowly moved his hand up my arm, like he was reaching for the water glass I was holding. I released it, but his hand kept moving toward my wrist, and instead of picking up the glass, he gently took my hand.
I had been trying gracefully, to get out of his way, but we were sitting pretty close, so my arm was practically in mid-air, when his big hand enveloped mine. He had very subtly, been leaning in closer to me since he came back into the room, and we were practically touching at this point.
I looked down at my little hand, being held ever so gently by his great big hand. It was such a lovely moment. Peter brought my hand closer, suddenly fascinated by the ring I was wearing, “What is that ring? What kind of stone is it?”
Now we were both looking at my ring, as I answered, “My mother had it made for me when she went to Mexico several years ago, it’s a smoky topaz. I really love it.”
I was looking at Peter, but he was still taken with my ring, “It’s lovely. Do you wear it all the time?”
Looking to me for an answer, I said, “Yes, it’s my favorite ring, I wear it every day.”
He had his other hand out now, palm up, wanting to see my ring up close “May I see it?”
I couldn’t move my hand, but answered with, “Oh, of course, let me take it off.”
Peter didn’t move, except to look over at Ken, “You’ve been awful quiet over there,” suddenly realizing that I couldn’t give him my ring, if he didn’t let go of my hand. Leaning back a little in his chair, he reluctantly let go, sliding his hand across the table in front of him.