Young Charlie’s lip was bulging. He’d gotten his hands on a can of his father’s chewing tobacco. He spit, wiping the dribble with the back of his hand. Tonight was a night to be rebellious. He turned his gaze back to the creepy looking cemetery guarded by a pair of old, rusted black gates. In his other hand, he held an eggplant, of all things. He turned to his two friends, more like brothers than the jerk related to him by blood, to see if they were half as scared shitless as he was. They were, and all holding their own ridiculous contribution to what promised to be an insane experience if it worked.
“Well, we’re here. We doing this or not? It’s hot, and I need to get back home,” Charlie asked. Charlie had the whole fear thing figured out. The best way to get over your fear is to get busy doing whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing that scares the shit out of you. Soon enough, you’ll be too busy to remember you’re scared.
“I don’t know if this is right guys,” Daryl said. Daryl was a year younger than the other two boys. He was smart for his age. The kind of nerd smart that would get his ass kicked in school. That is, he would get his ass kicked if he wasn’t big enough to play high school football. Because of his size, nothing really scared him. So, Daryl being scared wasn’t doing much to settle the butterflies flapping around in Charlie’s stomach.
Charlie gave Daryl the side eye. “Well, this was your freaking idea, Daryl. I had to buy a fucking eggplant. You know how stupid I looked buying a damn eggplant? Everyone knows my old man don’t cook. You know how many looks I got walking down the street carrying this thing?”
“Man, my father’s going to kick my ass if he finds I’m not in my room,” Anthony said. He stuck out in the otherwise redneck group; he was a Black kid, dreads and everything. His dad took one of those DNA tests. Anthony got the brilliant idea to “learn more about his Nigerian ancestors.” That’s what had them out there. He did a paper on religions in Africa. Because of course he would. Specifically, the Yoruba religion of Ifa was what had the boys out that night.
During his presentation, earlier that day in school, Anthony said there were hundreds of these things called Orisha, like Christianity’s saints. Later on at the playground, Daryl called it “fake pagan beliefs.” Anthony got all butt hurt and a whole argument started about what religion is real and which one isn’t.
Anthony argued, “They only believe in one main Creator, just like Christians,” and “Just because it’s not Christian doesn’t mean there’s no truth to it.” He even went so far as to say, “Some parts of Christianity were adapted from pagan religions.”
That did it.
About three minutes, two bloody noses, and a busted lip later, Daryl and Anthony agreed the fight was stupid because neither one of them remembered the last time they went to church. It was also agreed that each of them felt the other hit like a bitch. That settled, smart ass Daryl came up with another signature dumb ass Daryl suggestion.
“Pick one of them Orisha, and let’s put it to the test,” Daryl demanded.
Well, after school, the boys sat down and looked through the big book of Orisha Anthony used for his assignment, and because they were all a bunch of barely teenage boys with commendably enough patience to get them all the way to the “O” names, they unanimously decided on an Orisha called Ọya. Apparently, she was the guardian of the crossroads between life and death and an all-around bad ass chick with a bad temper who doesn’t shy away from a fight. Also, she was half naked in the image of her in the book, so, hell yeah.
Several hours later, there they were. Outside the town’s oldest cemetery, about to do something that would, sure as hell, piss off Jesus.
“We’re supposed to set everything down outside the gates facing east,” Anthony said.
Charlie spit. “How the hell do I place an eggplant facing east?”
“Yeah, and my glass is a cylinder, really no front or back to it,” Daryl interjected. He probably wanted an award for knowing the shape of a glass.
“We set it up like a display facing east,” Anthony shrugged, with an implied “dumbass.”
Apparently, his question wasn’t communicated well enough, so Charlie rephrased it more eloquently, “Yeah, so, asshole, how the fuck do I place a fucking eggplant facing east?”
“Just put it down, man,” Anthony barked.
“Put the long side facing east. I’ll place my glass on the east side of it,” Daryl suggested.
Charlie sucked his teeth, plopping the stupid thing down. “Man, whatever. This is stupid. I’d better see a half-naked Black woman by the end of this.”
“Man, shut up. You don’t even like girls,” Anthony joked.
“Fuck you, man,” he shot back.
“No,” Anthony said, smiling at Daryl, pointing at Charlie. “See what I mean?”
Daryl laughed.
“Man, shut up,” Charlie said, pushing Daryl, but Charlie was laughing, too. He kind of walked right into that one.
Smiling, Anthony said, “I’m just messing. Let’s get to it,” Anthony said, setting down his items. He had nine pennies and a note vaguely asking Ọya to prove she was real or not.
Daryl set down his glass and filled it with water from a bottle. Charlie pulled a cigar from his pocket, one of the ones his dad called shitty and wouldn’t care was missing. He lit it and set it down amongst the offerings. It was everything the book said they needed to get her to listen.
Charlie stood and elbowed Anthony, “Okay, say something.”
“What, why me?” Anthony protested.
Charlie shrugged. “Well, she’ll probably listen to you before me.”
“Why?”
Charlie wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to actually say it out loud. He waved a hesitating hand at Anthony’s bare dark brown arm. “Well, you know.”
“Really,” Anthony said, cutting his eyes.
“This is some devil worshipping stuff,” Daryl said. It must have been getting real to him. He was prancing back and forth, like a sudden loud noise would send him tucking tail and running.
“Quit being a bitch, man,” Anthony offered as a comfort before clearing his throat. “Okay, Ọya, so, respectfully, if you are real, prove it. Do something, to show you’re real; because if you are real, it will prove we don’t know everything about everything. Again, no disrespect, just saying.”
Charlie snorted. “You’re a regular fucking Shakespeare.”
“Fuck you, man,” Anthony shot back. “Shut up and look around for something.”
The three looked around, listening, the night creatures and the far away blare of a train’s horn were the only thing to be heard other than a low rumble of thunder in the distance. When Charlie left his house, the sky was clear from horizon to horizon. Now, there was a storm close enough to give a voice to the far away lightning strikes.
Charlie spit, unsure how his father kept the tobacco in his mouth for so long. The inside of his lip was hurting, and he was starting to get light headed. This stuff was really starting to get to him. He’d gotten ahold of some before, but it never felt like this. His skin was all tingly, like electricity was flowing over it. He heard somewhere people feel that right before getting struck by lightning. His eyes went to the storm in the darkening western sky. It was too far away for him to get struck. He raised an eyebrow. Something about the lightning in the distance demanded his attention.
“Either one of you remember anything about a storm coming tonight?” he asked.
“No,” Daryl said. “And I don’t see nothing with no lady either. All she does is hang outside graveyards and do war stuff, right? What would I be looking for?”
“All it talked about was war stuff and cemeteries,” Anthony replied.
“Nah, man, it said a bunch more stuff,” Charlie groaned, managing to tear his eyes away from the distant storm. “It was your book, and you didn’t even read everything? Your Nigerian ancestors are all probably pissed you’re such an idiot. Where’s the book? Let’s see what we should be looking for.”
“You know what? Fuck you, man. Do you see a book?” Anthony shot back.
Charlie threw his hands up. “You didn’t bring it, dumbass? You had one fucking job.”
“Man, you try sneaking out a window holding a heavy ass book.”
“Boy, that storm is coming in pretty quick,” Daryl mused, a rumble of thunder punctuating his observation.
Charlie and Anthony peered off in the same direction.
“Shit, if it starts storming, my old man is going to be looking for me, in case there’s a tornado warning or something,” Anthony groaned. “He probably already knows.”
Charlie dug the dip out of his mouth and threw it on the ground, as the realization hit him that his father would likely be looking for him, too. “Yeah, we should get out of here. Nothing’s happening, anyway.”
“Told you,” Daryl said smugly.
Anthony shot him a side long glare. He opened his mouth to reply, but a strong gust of wind kicked up, strong enough to force him back a step. The old, rusted cemetery gate swung out with a groan and a jarring rattle when the chains holding them snapped taught. To that, he said, “Fuck, man, I should get home. My dad is probably pissed.”
He took off running.
Charlie smacked Daryl on the arm and pointed to the quickly advancing storm. “We should get going, too. Temperature is dropping, and that don’t look good.”
The two boys took off, catching up with Anthony who was stoppedby a slowing train. Its brakes squealed like the engineer was laying on them heavily.
Anthony looked like he was about to piss himself. “Come on, man. I hate these trains.”
“It’s almost done,” Daryl said, pointing toward the end of the line of cars in the distance.
Charlie glanced in the train’s direction of travel, going bug eyed. “Oh, shit, that a funnel?”
“Fuck,” they groaned in unison.
It was at that moment the train passed. The three boys hauled collective asses down the street headed home. Charlie was full tilt as he rounded onto the dirt road leading to his house. His family was outside calling for him.
“Charlie! Charlie! God damn it, boy!” It was his father’s voice. There was a desperate fear in it.
His brother was calling, too, with his own unique version of panic, “Charlie, you dumbass!”
He pondered, if the storm was bad enough, would his old man forget to kick his ass for sneaking off? “I’m here!” he yelled.
“Charlie!” his brother screamed, actually sounding relieved to see him, darting towards him.
“Get to the storm shelter! This thing kicked up out of nowhere,” his father yelled over the wind, which Charlie was pretty sure could be classified on the Fujita scale as, ‘pucker your ass because it’s coming.’
“Where the hell were you?” his brother demanded, gripping him by the back of his neck and pulling him off toward the shelter.
“Come on, man. That hurts. I was—”
“Shut up, dumbass.”
Yeah, that night, he had the esteemed pleasure of getting his ass kicked by both his father and his brother. It was a touching experience. It turned out his brother did actually give a shit about him.
The next day, Charlie met up with his friends at school. They were by Anthony’s locker. Anthony was holding his stupid book with the half-naked Black god people in it, wearing a goofy grin. Smartass Daryl had a dumbass look on his face, like he saw the devil in the mirror or something.
When Daryl spoke, all his inner bitch came out, like he was about to cry. “Dude, you got to see this.”
Glancing up from the page they were reading, Anthony added, “That shit was real, man.”
“Fuck are you talking about?” Charlie said as he walked up, snatching the book from Anthony.
“It’s real. We could’ve gotten somebody killed,” Daryl said, unhelpfully.
“Read that,” Anthony said, pointing to the section.
Charlie read, “…she commands winds, storms, and lightning.”
He looked up from the book, his eyes darting from Anthony’s to Daryl’s. A chill washed over him. “Nah, man. She wouldn’t listen to a bunch of dumbass kids. I just wanted to see her naked.”
“How else you gonna explain it?” Anthony asked, smiling harder.
Daryl added, “The guy on the news was saying it came up out of nowhere.”
Charlie considered that for a moment. His dad had said the same thing, and if the weatherman and his dad were saying the same thing, it must be true.
A shit eating grin lifted Charlie’s cheeks. He started flipping through the pages, gazing at all the images of the Orishas. He had an ingeniously stupid moment ofinspiration. Anyone introduced in a news story that began with the words, ‘A Florida man…’ would be proud of him. He said, “If we got her to make a tornado with a stupid eggplant, what else can we get them to do?”
About the Author
A born and raised Chicago Southsider, I served eight years in the Marine Corps, affording me the opportunity to travel the world. The geek in me is happy to say I now have more than fifteen years in Information Technology. I have been writing stories since my young fingers learned how to hold a pencil, and tablets were fantasy devices unique to Star Trek The Next Generation. I’m happily married and a proud father to four girls and a son. As a father to five children, I want to weave together stories that introduce them to interesting, underrepresented cultures I experienced in my travels, occasionally sprinkling in my love for Sci-Fi.
