February 27, 2015: Hoochie Coochie and Mojo Bags

The man watches me from under the brim of his hat.
Dark eyes, shining in shadow.

I could tell right away you be a son of a gun. Makin’ all them pretty women jump and shout.

His upper lip curls in what looks like his best smile.
He tips his hat back and steps closer.

You know who I am? Everybody knows who I am.

I’m the Hoochie Coochie man.

I got what you need.

He digs through the dirty bag slung over his shoulder.

I got black cat bones.

I got some mojo, too.

I got some Johnny Conkeroo, if that floats your boat. Good stuff, strong juju.

His grin is making me uncomfortable. Dirty fingernails pointing out all of his supplies.

Ain’t no need to go down to Loosianne to get a mojo hand…I got all the gris-gris here that you could want.

His shoes are muddy and wet. There’s an old, skinny dog at his feet.
I try to pull away but he grabs my arm.

In the seventh minute of the seventh hour of the seventh day in the seventh month…

He keeps repeating it, yellowed eyes locked onto mine.
The dog wakes up and begins snarling at us.

The man shakes his head, looks at the dog and smiles at me apologetically.

Strong juju here, man. Strong juju.

He packs away his supplies, handing me a little gris-gris and, pulling his hat down over his forehead, begins to walk away, singing.

But you know I’m him
Everybody knows I’m him
Well you know I’m the, Hoochie Coochie Man
Everybody knows I’m him

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