The Witches Closet

"Mister Russell, look, I got these fine clothes for sale."

"Yes indeed, mighty fine, how much you need?" Russell shifted his considerable weight, barely looking over his crooked reading glasses from daily count of murder and mayhem in the Times-Picayune.

The skinny old man was sheepish in stance, refusing to look anyone in the eye, thin arms forever scratching, either from the bedbugs from his Treme flophouse or symptoms of the dope, didn't much matter the cause, cuz' it's an itch and ya gotta scratch.

"Well here now, Floyd, I have five dollars for ya." Leaning back in the old wooden swivel chair, the Grand PoohBah of Saint Phillipe Street dug in the faded black jeans adding "You be good, ya hear."

"Yes'm" and he was gone.

"Why do you always do that?" I was aggravated to no end, for every one paying customer there were two coming in looking for a handout.

I spent my days waiting for customers to magically appear so I could read their tarot cards, those few souls who were curious enough to enter the dusty doorway in search of the "Real New Orleans." All who entered were looking for something, in my case I was looking for an apartment and wound up with a job.

The Witches Closet felt like an unfinished set for a horror movie, black walls, Spanish moss tacked to the ceiling a few decades ago covered in cobwebs, mostly empty ancient apothecary jars with labels of obscure herbs and gris gris bags, few candles in the prerequisite shapes and a basket of souvenir voodoo dolls that my 8 month old daughter used in lieu of teething rings.

"Well, Floyd there is a junkie and let's just say I saved some poor tourist from being mugged so he can get his next bag."