The Lunatics 2: Push Tumble & Fall

Saturday 4:44 p.m.

When I made it to Les Artistes Cafe, the line was long with the late Saturday afternoon rush. But it didn't make a difference to me because I wasn't there for the coffee or the cake.

The fortune teller woman sat right outside the cafe. I'd seen her a million times and never thought two times about it because black magic was bad magic.

She sat at her makeshift sidewalk office: crate chair, pop-up table, tarot cards, and a sign displaying: Readings $5.00.

"I know that seems cheap," DeaDorian had said to me when I first landed in New Orleans. "That's because it's their hook. Once the money is exchanged with the Darkness, the damage cannot be undone. They will eat your brain, they will, with complex nonsense on how someone is after you or you have a curse only they can lift. Like a chicken, they will pluck all your feathers; they will."

Tellers, witches, and priests were the masters of instilling fear. And once they had a willing human, in enough pain to be manipulated, they'd inject doubt and brainwash them. It was by preaching doubt and fear that the tellers, witches, and priests managed the masses of people in the Quarter.

They held a lot of fabricated power. But I wasn't afraid of their kind. I knew their game. But even then, there was a small part of me that was hoping this would work, so I was going to try. I had nothing else to lose.

I had given up on a fight I was no longer interested in defending. I was ready to let go of the twisted joy I felt, ready to let go of the reminiscing, ready to let go of the heartbreak that in a very profound and sick way, fed my soul.

"I need you to help me," I said to the Fortune Teller Woman.

Her stretched black skin was shiny from the heat. When she spoke, it sounded like a lazy-like-lullaby. "There's a spell for yous, sister childs. There's a spells right nows to takes him twice and beats him out. The spells will takes him outs."

"You know why I'm here?" I asked.

She closed her eyes and smiled white. She circled her head around in slow motion. Then she opened her eyes quickly and extended her arms, palms up, towards me.

"I don't know what yous ares," said the Fortune Teller Woman. "But Oshun is standing next to yous and she is off her horse, which tells me. You different sister child. Oshun tolds me you were somethings different. Oshun says I need to help you. She says do whatyou want me to dos. I must obey Oshun."

"What does Oshun say?" I asked.

But instead of using words she merely laid her palm on her heart.

So, I let her have her way with me.

I sank into her dark power like if she were a holy savior.

Because to me, she was. She had to be.

I let my hand fall onto the white of her palm. She stood up leaving her belongings behind, knowing well that no one would touch a teller's tools. What she was going to do for me she couldn't do in public. She walked in front of me, and like a slave with no say, I followed. As if my will had been taken from me; I followed.

The street musicians' horns faded as we crossed Bourbon Street. The cobblestones below our feet led the way. The smell of freshly made gumbo danced around my head as we neared the teller's house. Never letting my hand go, she stopped at a small black door in between Big Pizza Parlor and Last Call Bar (which ironically enough was open 24 hours).

She pushed the door open, and we made it up the dark wood staircase. Her hips were so full that they were no longer shapely. With each step she took, the stairs squeaked loudly. When we got to the top, she led me into her place and sat me down at her whitewashed kitchen table. On my right was a beat-up black leather couch that must have been from somewhere in the 80s because the color and style looked a lot like DeaDorian's room.