Abbreviated Magic

  *

  Deja Voodoo

  “Oh, no, not again.”

  Charles quickly closes the front door. He begins to chant the word no repeatedly, punctuating each utterance by bouncing his forehead against the inside door jamb.

  After a few seconds he ceases the mild abuse of his brow and inhales deeply.

  “Please, don’t do this to me,” he whispers before turning the knob, easing the door open six inches, and carefully peering outside.

  Unsurprisingly, his appeal has been denied. It is happening again.

  He looks out at the lush bounty of vegetation.

  This is not his totally unremarkable semi-neglected, semi-green front yard.

  He leans forward, scans left, and locates the obscured but now familiar rough hewn granite altar stained with dark rust colors, mounted before a large carved limestone icon that looks suspiciously like John Belushi with a five day booze binge bloat and a minor to moderate case of demonic possession, seated Buddha style on the very spot where his totally unremarkable seven year old Toyota Camry (with the crumpled right rear quarter panel and extra large coffee splotch on the passenger side floorboard) should be.

  Not that the car would be of much use now, completely unsuitable for navigating the brackish waters of the river flowing languidly through the landscape where Viajes Street is supposed to be.

  This is not his totally unremarkable Southern California residential neighborhood.

  As if someone, during the night while he slept, plucked his modestly appointed, two bedroom stucco box from its preferred perch and dropped it smack dab in the middle of a tropical jungle of his non-choosing.

  Again.

  Today is the fourth time Charles has been the recipient of this unwelcome change of venue. Four times in the last three weeks.

  Location, location, location.

  He stifles the urge to scream unremarkable obscenities at Belushi, and the river, and the jungle, and all its unseen but decidedly not unheard constituent wildlife.

  But especially at Belushi.

  He’s not really sure why, but he is of the opinion that in some manner or another Belushi (the oversized icon, not the man) bears direct responsibility for his displacement.

  For the record, Charles does realize that Belushi (the man) likely would’ve had little to do with either the act of teleporting homes or his namesake’s resemblance even when he was still alive. And since then, obviously even less so.

  Charles closes the door and slumps his back against it.

  From prior experience he feels reasonably safe as long as he remains indoors. It’s only out there that jeopardy attaches and becomes the name of the game. However, in this version of the game no one supplies either answers or questions (with the possible exception of “why?”).

  Unfortunately, experience would also seem to indicate that if Charles does not go out there, out there will simply remain (in non-standard format) and wait for him to do so. How long it will wait is still up for grabs, but then so is how far he’s willing to go to test it.