Haitian Daydreamin’ with the Voodoo Vagabonds

Be nice…until it’s time, to not be nice.
Dalton, bouncer at the Double Deuce

Silence. The wall-embedded TV finally ceased the constant drone that had provided an ambiance of cerebral numbness for several hours; usurped now with low mumbling voices and clinking glasses spaced between a few tittering laughs and squeaking barstools. An ungauged silence, dispatched quickly with the rising sound of placated drunks regaining their savage inclinations behind the mountainous crescendo of the self-aware.

Once again, stencil me in the center of this putrid vortex, sitting as low key as possible at the usual cocktail table, trying to make a few careful notitas in the sketchpad. CNN had been tumbling out an excessive flow of violence and rebellion news from Haiti; seemingly for hours on end – or at least I perceived it that way; maybe it was just the “regular” CNN Barnum and Bailey-style news banter, or perhaps it was wholly psychological. It didn’t matter, the bar-talk had writhed rapidly from discussion of the what-in-the-fuck-kind-of-forgotton-meds mindset is ex-Green boy Nader a part of to who wanted to charter a twin-prop party plane for a quick jaunt to the airfield at Port-au-Prince.

…And they’re SERIOUS, I muttered to Kimble who sat leaning against the wall. These mean drunks would do it too; yellin’, screamin’ and chuggin’ whiskey even if their tiny plane took a nosedive into the friggin’ Caribbean Sea.

Hellfire man, then why in the shit ain’t we signin’ up fer a ride like that, Kimble retorted mutely while sipping a beer. We could be down there in Haiti stormin’ the gates and raisin’ some pure H-E-DOUBLE hockey sticks!I can seez it! A nation of endless Mardi Gras, all day boozin’ and boob flashin’, beads around everyone’s necks so thick all ye could see would be their eyeballs!

Wonderful, I thought. Might as well toss another drone onto the infected heap. Now he’s in cahoots with the swarm, guess I should join up too, but not without excessive “antifreeze” or maybe I should call it “sunblock”– it is the Caribbean after all… I took a hefty drink from a tall glass of George Dickel on ice and began the mental preparation. Yo!!!!, I screamed, hoarse-throated above the clamor, Anyone got any peyote!!???!!

Before I could bay out the next word a commotion at the far end of the bar reeled my attention toward an almost sobering scene. Another of the local batch of mentally unstable, known commonly as Pony Boy for reasons vague and unclear, began slinging around a large flag emblazoned with feverish streaks of cobalt blue and rust red paint. He was off the stool at this point snapping it into the faces of startled patrons and breaking into a garbled chant.

That bastard thinks he’s a one uv them voodoo priests, a houngan or something like that. He told me so once, Kimble said in a low voice from somewhere over my shoulder. Look near the stage over yonder, a few more’s gettin’ in the mood, possesed by the voodoo loa spirits.

Indeed. And for obvious reasons. There was a booming sound of drumbeat, perhaps bongo, I was unsure, but it was echoing from the speakers and I saw the jukebox cracked pouring out flashy CDs in a waterfall over the floor, glass splinters gleaming like diamond shards. Someone had smashed the juke and spun in a disc of their own – tribal tempos building up the speed of a panicked cheetah.

I kept my stool as person after person began the wild thrashings, passing it around like the scabies. They think they’re at some damn voodoo ceremony?! I wondered and assereted simultaneously. Pony Boy was doing wild 360’s near the open part of the floor; his sinister drapeau wrapped around him like a serpent. Red was behind the bar slamming down with one hand bottles of clairin, some kind of pure grain Haitian rum that’s steeped with red hot peppers, and shaking what looked like a dirty bone rattle in the other. Drunks were dancing to the bar and swigging bucket-sized shots while the bongo beat continued to mush my brains.

What felt like an elbow jabbed me hard in the spine and trounced my entire frame into the floor. Amidst the tattered napkins and mixer straws I strained to look up for the bastard that had given me the ye olde blindside. All I saw rushing past was Kimble, or who I was pretty damn sure was Kimble, but remotely Abe Lincoln. He wore a thirty inch ivory black tophat and sucked two lit cigarettes from the corner of his mouth, embers sparking the haze.

Immediately he jived and whirred to the bar, snatching up a bottle of clairin and dropping the smokes to the floor. My view from behind only allowed me to see the bottle go vertical – where he held it as the liquid level sloshed lower and lower. His arm thudded to his side and I could see it clutching an empty bottle that was quickly dropped to the floor. He turned to me, still on the ground I was, and it was obviously Kimble, his face painted with black and white paint seemed to resemble a skull – he gazed down at me with a maddening grin.

AWRIGHT Hoss, you next!!!, he laughed with maniacal ease. The crowd hit heavy into a chant of PAPA GEDE! PAPA GEDE!! over and over. Before I could even think to bolt from my grounded position a few of the minions had me pinned tight. I heard feet smacking from the sticky floor all around. The drum-beat bounced louder than ever. Kimble approached with what looked like a siphon and a bottle of clairin. Jeebus Chrikes!! I yelled. You’ll pay for this bastard. I know where you live!! Everyone laughed at my paltry futility. Kimble stooped over, siphon in hand.

Time ta join the fold bruther, time ta join..

The drum-beat raged supersonic.