Columbus Daze
October 22, 1999

It was Columbus Day. A national holiday. Some people find a cause to celebrate and take off work. Here at the Starkansaw Tribune we don't celebrate the arrival of the Europeans and the genocide of the First People. Nope, nothing save a hurricane, would keep this day from being business as usual.

I'd been playing guitar all night at Alligator Andy's and was feeling a little bit red-eyed when I plopped down at my desk. Something touched on my foot. I noticed what looked like a mess of sawdust or pencil shavings sprinkled in piles under my desk. I looked to the right in my office cubicle, and I saw an Einstein Bros. Bagel brown paper bag with the label "barf bag" attached to it. A picture of my girlfriend - Lowella - was stuffed inside like a flat five-grain poppyseed bagel.

I started itching. I cricked my neck and it made a sound so loud the Princess came out of the Production Room to see what was wrong. "Nothing," I told her, feeling a headache coming on. "Somethin' ain't right girl. Some kind of mojo is workin' against me."

As I drove home from work later that day, I hit a bump, and all of the sudden my car radio starts working for the first time since I bought this used Dodge van 14 years ago. I hear chooglin' guitar, bass and drums in concert with the rhythm of the ol' slant six, beneath a wailing harmonica. For a minute this was way too cool, but then I heard the unmistakable voice of the late Muddy Waters bellowing an endless loop of call and response:

"I've got my mojo workin'

(I've got my mojo workin')

I've got my mojo workin'

(I've got my mojo workin')

I've got my brrrrrrrr . . ."

Strange, I thought. After about ten minutes of this, the music died down and I found myself approaching an intersection. I saw the traffic light turn to yellow. Now, normally Raiford Starke would have taken his chances and put his foot clear to the radiator grill to beat the ensuing red light, but an eerie feeling came over me.

I slowed down.

As soon as I came to a complete stop at the intersection, the light turned red and a Grand Marquis comes barreling along my right side and into the intersection trying to beat the light. The Marquis slammed into a Ford Windstar minivan apparently trying to make a left hand turn from the opposing lane. The Windstar started rolling over and didn't stop until it landed upside down on the hood of another car stopped at the intersection from the cross street on the right.

Whoa doggie! I roared out of my vehicle and ran towards the minivan expecting a scene right out of Faces of Death. Fortunately, the driver appeared more stunned than seriously injured. Soon the cops and rescue vehicles arrived and all other drivers and passengers involved in the accident were (thank God!) fine.

Was it dumb luck or Dennis Devine intervention that I narrowly escaped such a freak accident? I don't know.

All I know is that an ominous chill came over me.

I got back in my van and started heading down the road. All of the sudden the music comes on again, singing the same old tune:

"I've got my mojo workin' . . ."

I tried to turn the radio down, but the music kept getting louder and louder:

"I've got my mojo workin' . . ."

I pulled in my driveway and the music died down again. As soon as I walked in the door, I saw my cat in the litter box screaming bloody murder. Something told me that this was like . . . maybe . . . serious. I rushed Little Bundy to the animal hospital and they found a urinary blockage. They told me I would have to leave him over for the next few days and that it wouldn't cost much more than $500 bucks. I had lucked out, they said. If I had waited much longer my kitty would have been a goner.

I was frostbitten.

The anxiety was starting to build up. It was now night-time and I'm home alone wondering what catastrophe or near-catastrophe was going to happen next. I couldn't get to sleep. I needed something to comfort me. I looked around for my Louie DePalma Beanie Baby. Suddenly, I hear the doorbell ring. "Who is it?" I asked.

"Domino's," came the reply.

I opened up the front door and there stood a pizza deliverer with 20 boxes of Supreme pizza, extra anchovies, stacked at either side. "I got 20 pies for a Mr. Colin Kenny."

"But I'm not Colin Kenny, my name is Raiford Starke and I did not order any pizza!"

The pizza deliverer showed me a slip. It had my address, phone number and that strange name. I stammered: "There must be some kind of mis-tay . . .," when I noticed a strange, vacuous look in his eyes.

I don't know what came over me, but I reached for my wallet and forked over my rent money just to get the pizza man out of my life for good. I brought the pizzas inside and began to chow down. I was in the middle of the fourth or fifth box when my eyelids started getting heavy. I laid down and started to drift into the twilight between consciousness and sleep.

My eyes were startled open by the music. That same song was coming from somewhere inside the house. I grabbed Beanie Baby Louie and started feeling around the darkness. Could this possibly get any creepier? So, instead of simply reaching for the light switch, I lit a candle for the sake of ambience and started slowly making my way down the hallway towards the living room. The music was getting louder . . . and louder.

By the time I was in the living room, the music was roaring:

"I've got my mojo workin' . . ."

As soon as I approached the kitchen the music mysteriously died down. There was a deafening silence. A strange gurgling sound could be heard in the sink drain. I clutched on my Beanie Baby even tighter. The gurgling stopped. I noticed a pale moonlight "shining" through the window, eerily reflecting off the gas range. Suddenly one of the front burners lights up full blast. My fingers were tearing the stuffing out of poor Louie. At the very tip of the flame was an apparition of a strange, kind of sinister looking, bearded human face - kind of like Sebastian Cabot after a five-day drunk through a phish-eye lens.

"Rai-ford Starke," the apparition said.

I was quaking in my PJs. "Wh-who are y-you?"

"I am Omlik, minion of Atsap, Spirit of Columbus Days gone by. I have come to tell you, Raiford Starke, that someone has put a curse on you. Worse than the Double Whammy or the Evil Eye."

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"You have been warned . . .The Great Omlik has spoken . . . This concludes this announcement from the Emergency Broadcast System . . .And now we will return to our regularly scheduled programming . . . "

The apparition faded, and the flame went out.

As epiphanies go, this sure was disappointing. I mean, I wish the apparition could have told me who's behind all this and how I could break this spell.

So here I am, Raiford Starke, wondering who's after me, when I walk outside and I see two cops with flashlights. "Can I help you officers?" I asked.

"Hands against the wall, and spread 'em!" one of them yelled. They started frisking me.

"Whoa, wait a minute, I live here. What's the problem?" I said.

"We got a couple of noise complaints, and a call that there was a burglary in progress at this address," one of the officers said.

"But my name is Raiford Starke, and I live here!"

"The computer says that a guy named Colin Kenny lives at this address, which means you are trespassing and we're hauling you in!"

So now here I still am, Raiford Starke, in the clink, officially charged with the heinous crime of trespassing on Columbus Day, staring out a barred window at the endless rows of razor wire, wondering who the heck is Colin Kenny.

The judge was in a real Columbus mood, too. Maximum Sentence: 500 years to life.

They say there's no statute of limitations on this one. Just a vicious cycle of justice. It seems that somebody, maybe some Voodoo woman, done rubbed the black cat bone and put the Mojo all over Raiford Starke. I'd sure like to know who it was, or what I did to bring this on. I never tried to hurt no one. All I ever tried to do is my job. And if that's what I'm here for . . . then I plead guilty . . .Your Honor . . . to the crime . . . of being . . . Raiford Starke.

-- Raiford Starke is from Virginia and plays guitar in the Chief Jim Billie band.

© October 22, 1999, The Seminole Tribune