{"id":31209,"date":"2012-05-09T12:17:56","date_gmt":"2012-05-09T16:17:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=31209"},"modified":"2012-05-09T13:16:00","modified_gmt":"2012-05-09T17:16:00","slug":"the-man-who-saw-tomorrow","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/05\/09\/the-man-who-saw-tomorrow\/","title":{"rendered":"The Man Who Saw Tomorrow"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

For a while after college, one of my husband Joe\u2019s best friends worked at a used books\u2013and-CDs store in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where we all grew up. It was called McKay but everyone called it McKay\u2019s\u2014a tiny but somehow crucial distinction\u2014and it was a wonderland of dog-eared pages and scratched ninety-two-cent discs and ineffable smells of humanity. Michael was always bringing home strange treasures that he\u2019d eventually sell back for the exact amount he\u2019d paid, but sometimes things would be too good not to hold onto. One summer Joe\u2019s birthday merited a particularly special gift: a slim black paperback with a creased cover bearing a photo of a goateed man staring out from the center of a pink orb. Flaming rainbows flanked him on either side, and rays of light shot out from underneath his likeness. If anyone ever warranted such a wonder of post-midcentury graphic design, it was surely this man, Doc Anderson, who was, as his book cover proclaimed in yellow caps, THE MAN WHO SEES TOMORROW<\/em>.<\/p>\n

The book was published in 1970, its spine proclaiming it a \u201cPaperback Library Occult Original\u201d (retail price: seventy-five cents). It\u2019s part biography and part defensive exegesis of Anderson\u2019s psychic pronouncements, all researched and compiled by Robert E. Smith, which seems to be a pseudonym for one Warren B. Smith, who penned dozens of books on paranormal and cryptozoological subjects during his decades-long career. (A sampling from his bibliography: Let’s Face Facts About Flying Saucers<\/em>, 1967; Strange Abominable Snowmen<\/em>, 1970, Lost Cities of the Ancients\u2014Unearthed!<\/em>, 1976; and, inexplicably, The Sensual Male<\/em>, 1971.)<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Doc Anderson didn\u2019t just see tomorrow; he saw next week, next month, years into the future. Sometimes he also saw the past, disconcerting strangers with his ability to pinpoint obscure facts about their lives. He grew up in Iowa, then traveled the country as a vaudeville strongman and, later, a semi-professonal boxer and bullfighter, before giving himself over to full-time psych icing.\u00a0Smith hamfists his way through the first two-thirds of the book, trying to place Anderson among some pantheon of \u201ctrue\u201d prophets (\u201cSince the first sabertooth tiger howled in the darkness beyond the caveman\u2019s campfire, mankind has sought to lift the veil on the future\u2026\u201d). The real treasure is the catalog of Anderson\u2019s predictions for the seventies and beyond.<\/p>\n

His foresights are as much a product of his time as Smith\u2019s unflinching use of terms like Negros<\/em> and the Orient<\/em>; there\u2019s vague stuff about the looming threats of Russia and \u201cRed China,\u201d political scandals, rising divorce rates, increasing tolerance of sex and violence in media. Anderson foresees the invention of a lunar dune buggy, the development of an \u201cartificial woman\u201d (\u201cLonely men will purchase their \u2018dream girl\u2019 just as our children buy a doll in a store\u201d), and the widespread acceptance of some garment called \u201cthe body stocking.\u201d He also foretells in vitro fertilization and the democratization of the USSR and the rise of the personal computer, but his successes seem to be a matter of statistics: record enough \u201cvisions,\u201d hazard enough guesses, and something\u2019s bound to come true once in a while.<\/p>\n

The final section of the book is all predictions split up by state. For Alabama, he determines \u201cthat the little known community of Muscle Shoals will become the rock-and-roll capital of the world within the next decade.\u201d (This happened, kind of: Aretha Franklin and the Rolling Stones had recently cut tracks in the tiny Tennessee River town, and its reputation continued to swell in the seventies and eighties, though it hardly reached \u201ccapital\u201d status.) He foresaw Washington, D.C., getting sacked by angry residents and the U.S. capital relocating to the Midwest. (This has not happened.) Along the way, he winds up declaring that most states are poised for racial tensions and general dissatisfaction with the government. (This has never not happened.)<\/p>\n

Anderson\u2019s predictions for Wyoming are by far the most salacious and display his tendency to punctuate especially juicy visions with an exclamation point: \u201cA President of the United States will be divorced before the end of this decade and his wife will marry the bachelor governor of Wyoming! \u2026 Law enforcement officers [will] raid a motel in Wyoming and find a cluster of cottages where husbands take their wives to have them murdered!\u201d The book\u2019s final prediction may be the most relevant to our modern cultural discourse, though it seems only fractionally more likely now than it did in 1970: \u201cI predict that as a method of raising tax funds for their state, it will be legal for ministers in Wyoming to perform marriages between homosexuals.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t realize this until recently, when I found Joe\u2019s copy of the book while packing for a move, but Anderson was actually in the business of seeing tomorrow from his office in Chattanooga: for a while he had a studio in Rossville, Georgia, then relocated just over the state line to the St. Elmo neighborhood, where he worked until his death. A regular hometown psychic\u2014I never knew. In 1980, a local news station did a multipart series on psychics and the spotty science of ESP, in which he figured heavily. A young reporter sat with Anderson in his office, which vaguely resembled a typical workspace but for the thronelike chair in which the huge guy slumped. It was a high-backed thing with red velvet upholstered back pad and armrests (although, according to Smith, Anderson did his most intense \u201cseeing\u201d while reclined on a nearby couch). He spoke in a drawl he picked up who knows where between Iowa and Tennessee. His voice, his general self, seemed a bit shaky. He was seventy-two years old.<\/p>\n

A few weeks after the series ran, unexpected events necessitated another. That March, Chattanooga got doused with a few days of heavy rain that sent low walls of flash floods rolling through the city. Anderson was out driving around town when his car stalled out in a patch of high water. He was just a few blocks from his office. He got out of his car and waded a few steps before the current pulled him down and away. After his body was recovered\u2014days later; there were follow-up news reports all week\u2014there was a big Catholic funeral down in Rossville, the church altar exploding with flowers. It was standing room only, news crews staked out in the parking lot. \u201cGuess he didn\u2019t see that one coming\u201d was and remains the punch line; of all things, shouldn\u2019t a psychic know the facts of his own death and avoid those circumstances at all costs? But Anderson had planned to fly out of town the next day for one last go-round at a Mexican bullfighting championship\u2014and, yes, he got out of that car, waded into the rushing water, like it was nothing\u2014so maybe he had no idea how he\u2019d meet his end. Or maybe he did, maybe he thought he knew, had studied all the colors and contours of the day he would die, had let the vision wash over him, but what he saw was some other day, some other tragedy, some other moment of his life suddenly going all dark. Maybe he didn\u2019t not know; maybe he was just wrong. It wouldn\u2019t have been the first time.<\/p>\n

Rachael Maddux<\/a> is a writer and editor living in Decatur, Georgia.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

For a while after college, one of my husband Joe\u2019s best friends worked at a used books\u2013and-CDs store in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where we all grew up. It was called McKay but everyone called it McKay\u2019s\u2014a tiny but somehow crucial distinction\u2014and it was a wonderland of dog-eared pages and scratched ninety-two-cent discs and ineffable smells of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":103,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7032],"tags":[7457,7455,7456,7454],"class_list":["post-31209","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-out-of-print","tag-doc-anderson","tag-occult","tag-paranormal","tag-psychics"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Man Who Saw Tomorrow by Rachael Maddux<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"May 9, 2012 \u2013 For a while after college, one of my husband Joe\u2019s best friends worked at a used books\u2013and-CDs store in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where we all grew up. 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