The Daily Hoodoo

That Hoodoo That You Do…

Living on the backside of Boston’s Beacon Hill in the sixties offered a view of life that was more than unconventional. It was wide open, diverse, and often kooky. And yes, there were some who proclaimed that they were legitimate practitioners of occult arts. There was one guy near the foot of Grove Street who specialized in cleansing rituals. For five bucks, he’d show up with his salt, candles, crystals, and other paraphernalia to rid your apartment of the spiritual detritus of the previous tenants. Out would go their bad intentions, and the waste products of sinful ways.

One Saturday, I was invited to one of his ceremonies at a friend’s new apartment on Joy Street. The gentleman walked in, started setting up, and then turned shades of purple and went white. He returned the fiver, packed his stuff, and proclained that there was nothing he could do. Whatever taint was on the apartment was beyond his ability. After several unquiet days and nights in the apartment, my friend persuaded a priest to offer a “blessing”. Things seemed to quiet down.

There was more. Dead chickens on the subway tracks, strange processions at 2 in the morning with chants and many baggies of sacred stuff to scare away whatever might irritate you. I won’t even bother you with the readings, occasional seances, expulsions of evil, and the like. In general, it was a smorgasbord of the occult.

The residents of the Folkie Palace, my residence on Grove Street, were pretty immune to these doings and goings on. We had our own resident holy man in the former monastic named the Monk. Additionally, we had a coterie of expelled students from Jesuit schools, and on occasion, the anti-hoodoo of them all, our almost-friend John. John had never met a scam that he didn’t like, but drew the line at the superstitious and supernatural.

With all this anti- supernatural belief, you’d think that there was a no-hoodoo zone at our apartment. Well, yes, except for the leaseholder on the apartment, The Teahead of the August Moon. Despite hearing John describe in detail how lotteries, pools, and games of chance could be fixed, the Teahead had a weak spot for them and attempted to increase his odds by doing small rituals that supposedly gave you luck. So the Teahead had a rabbit’s foot on his keyring, danced widdershins around a tree in the Boston Common on the Feast of Saint Blais, and liberally laid lines of coarse salt across thresholds. The salt was the worst; it crunched underfoot.

One night, we all decided to pull one over on the Teahead. Well into our third or fourth pitcher of beer, I began to rattle on about a foolproof ritual to make your girlfriend love you, which was to dance nude in Central Park on Saint Patrick’s Day. Getting up, I demonstrated some of the steps. Patrice, our waitress who was in on the gag, walked by and pinched my butt while winking, ” See you later, Wes?” I humbly blushed. At this point, John drunkenly proclaimed that that had been how his wife, Marie, had been inveigled into their loving relationship. But it had been in the Boston Public Gardens. Other testimonials followed.

A Cure for the Lovelorn

The Monk with Solomonic gravity proclaimed, “Generally, I am against these profane, unchristian services. But my boy! This may truly be a miraculous aid to thee, in your dire state of need!” The Teahead had been unsuccessfully trying to persuade his girlfriend Marnie to move in with him, but she refused until he kicked out all his scabrous and scandalous roommates…us

It being now just struck midnight on Saint Patrick’s Day, the Teahead decided to go perform the dance at the Public Gardens. We all trooped off to watch. I had to come to demonstrate the dance steps.

All went well with John taking Polaroid photos of the ceremony, until the Teahead jumped up onto the fountain and began improvising steps. Someone in a building across from the Gardens must have called the cops because they descended on us soon after. We all scattered, but the Teahead blissfully gyrating ignored it all until the cuffs were locked onto his wrists.

A Strange Sort of Fulfillment

The next day after bailing the Teahead out, we were all evicted. Over beer at the Harvard Gardens ( our local bar) we chortled over the polaroids and toasted our cleverness. All of us had relocated to other “crash pads” in either Boston or Cambridge.

In the week following, Marnie moved in with the Teahead, since all his roomies were gone. He crowed about this at the bar one night, and claimed that the ancient ritual had worked…in a mysterious manner.

The love nest didn’t last; Marnie found his housekeeping to be barbaric, and departed to join some female roommates who wanted to share an apartment in Brookline. Being lonely for ribald company, we were one by one invited back.

There were, however, no more discussions of ancient rituals, superstitions, or any salt across thresholds.