She promised to select a past life that I would enjoy. : Tom, the Running Indian

Prior to meeting Kathleen Robinson, I assumed that a psychic in Burbank was anyone who could remember that tomorrow is Tuesday and this is planet Earth.

However, after a session in past-life regression, I have grown in my respect for the astral arts.

I mean, actually I feel I was a running Indian in another life and that my name could have been Tom-Tom.

Let me explain.

I received a letter a week or so ago from one John Robinson of Burbank who said I ought to talk to his wife, who is a terrific psychic.

Even though John went on to tell me a joke I didn’t understand at all, I was intrigued by the man’s husbandly pride in Kathleen’s . . . uh . . . cosmic abilities.

I said to myself, maybe the joke was only meant to be understood by Burbank people, and the fact that it had no discernible punch line could hardly be held against the guy. Burbank people, it is said, like jokes like that.

So I went down to see Kathleen, whose office is in a neat brick building not far down the street from Chili John’s and Bob’s Mugs, two of the major industries in Burbank.

She is an attractive lady in her mid-30s who realized in childhood that she had a special gift. She didn’t cause sofas to float through the air or anything like that, she just knew things others didn’t.

At one point, she was so puzzled and frightened by her gift that she thought she was a witch.

Kathleen developed her psychic skills over the years, partially because she was raised in Lawton, Okla., and there isn’t much else to do in a place like that.

Then in 1984, encouraged by Shirley MacLaine’s revelation that she could communicate with trees and literary agents, Kathleen turned pro, specializing in psychic counseling, hypnotherapy, voice dialogue and past-life regression.

It was the past-life regression that intrigued me, so I asked if she could dig up a past life for me, and she said she could.

She invited me into her small, pleasant office, borrowed my ring and began to rub it.

She appeared to be making some kind of psychic contact with the ring, but later admitted that she didn’t really need it at all. She used a prop only because skeptical people needed a show.

“I’d rather do without it,” Kathleen said. “I’m no carnival.”

She had me close my eyes so I could feel what she was saying and then she began to concentrate, promising to select a past life that I would enjoy. I naturally preferred not knowing if I had been a banana slug or a darter snail.

“I see an Indian village,” she said. “A small settlement of tents. I see an Indian boy of 17. He’s running.” Pause. “Can you feel anything?”

“Nope,” I said.

“His name is Tom . . . or Tom-Tom . . . Tomday . . . “

“How would you spell that?” I asked, trying to give my voice the same hushed quality hers possessed.

“Never mind that now,” she said, “just concentrate.”

That was OK with me. Taking notes with my eyes closed has never been a strong point anyhow.

“To continue,” she said, “you were maybe a chief’s son. I sense berries and herbs. But especially I sense the running. Do you feel something now?”

“Not yet.”

“Well then,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice, “can you visualize anything?”

“Oh, sure. Anyone can visualize a running Indian.”

“It really doesn’t matter,” she said with a sigh. “Your soul remembers.”

“Fine,” I whispered.

“I see you wrestling. You are wrestling with bears.”

My eyes popped open. “Bears?”

“Close your eyes.”

I closed them.

“I don’t know why you wrestled bears,” she said. “But don’t worry about it.” Pause. “I see you running again. You were celibate.”

“It was all that damned running.”

“It was because the village was small and the women were your sisters or your cousins. You didn’t like that.”

“I’m no pervert.”

“You died lonely in a cave with knowledge that you were never able to share. The frustration has crossed over into this life. Does your stomach hurt?”

“Right now?”

“Generally, boy, generally. Do you have a bad stomach?

“Well . . . I guess.”

“It’s the frustration from your past life,” she said, pleased. “Drink clear liquids and a little diluted fruit juice.”

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Of course.”

When I opened my eyes, Kathleen was chewing gum.

“Why did I do all that running?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I smelled smoke at one point. I had the feeling you might have used opium.”

“That explains it.”

Later she suggested that I may have psychic ability myself, but I doubt it. When I left her office, a man in the lobby said he was selling genuine Polo shirts and wondered if I would be interested.

I closed my eyes.

“I sense $12,” I said.

“Sense fifteen,” he said.

Something inside said Pass, so I didn’t buy the shirt.

But I couldn’t resist the urge to run to my car. It felt, well, familiar.