The roller coaster strung
across the tabletop
like the rubble of tumbled arches,
graceful arcs broken to skew
into peaks and valleys.
An apparatus built of wire
with tracks formed
for a magic glass eyeball
to careen up, down, and around.
As the tracks for the orb
of the oracle,
it provided the launching pad
to divine the future
with the precision
of a bobsled team
hurtling toward destiny
like twins of intent,
swerving with each curve
and loop-de-doop
to see tomorrow today.
Seattle,Winter Solstice 2025
The Bijou Hotel’s reputation preceded it. This art deco onion-domed palace, with its pink neon sign surrounded by flashing yellow lights towered before me in its grubby splendor with all the surreal aspects of Aladdin’s castle. I’d heard about it while dancing the club circuit in L.A.
The Bijou’s art scene was part of the bubbling changes in Burlesque. This Post-Modern poly-gendered cultural movement reinterpreting striptease with wit, artistry and flair was well past the old bump-and-grind. Burlesque was trending, though not to the point of roller disco, or karaoke. I was approaching ground zero.
The Uber driver dropped me on the sidewalk. I stopped short while gathering my luggage-on-wheels, and read the marquee: Madame Dodi’s Memorial. A breeze colder than a corpse’s hand brushed the back of my neck. I popped the collar of my peacoat to chase the chill. I mention this because everything in my life changed after that.
But it wasn’t Madame Dodi (who I’d never met), or even the Bijou that drew me there. It was my new husband, Bigalow Love (hunk, upcoming entertainer, part-owner of the Bijou) that lured me. We were in our starry-eyed period after our Las Vegas wedding two weeks prior. I’d had to return to L.A. after our impromptu wedding to put my affairs in order. Now I was here. Don’t judge us because we met online. Curious, I had clicked through to his profile. I went for the dream on the other side of the internet. Lots of people do. So what? I did what I felt drawn to do.
He’d texted me that the fortune teller was murdered three days ago. She’d operated a booth at the hotel’s Sunday afternoon flea market. Her fortune-telling skills using her magic eyeball had ensured a steady stream of clients at one hundred dollars a pop. She foretold that Bigalow and I would marry. Romantic, now horrifying that she’s dead. Being oversensitive all my life, my natural inclination was to distance myself from worrying too much about it. If I allowed myself, I could overthink anything disturbing. If I let it get to me.
Could her unknown killer strike again nearby? Possibly. I shivered and looked over my shoulder down Broadway, and thought what if they chose me? I pulled my luggage through a crowd of mourners. I reminded myself of a starlet in a 60’s Italian black and white film pushing her way through a crowded airport. She had a plane to catch. Her expression was happy and worried at the same time.
The people in front of the hotel smoked and chattered nearby Pop Art posters advertising upcoming sideshow oddities. Many dressed in funeral finery. Mingling with them were a group with day-glow hair hanging over loose androgynous clothing. Others were more Bohemian in aspect, with vintage jackets and hats. A few who dressed as animals (the Furries) sat in a small circle. A mound of flowers grew on the sidewalk inside a ring of black votive candles.
I forgot about that when I caught sight of the Blue Velveteen Dormouse leaning against the cream-tiled wall. I stretched and perked up my stride. They called the mascot a dormouse because it was a mouse that worked the door—a bad pun. Unlike the dumpy Chuck E. Cheese uniform, this stretchy outfit set off my husband’s six-foot-two frame. The long tail emerged from its britches where it naturally should, just above his well-developed butt.
I hurried up and gave Bigalow a big hug.
“Hello,” he said from inside the mascot. “So good to see you! Sorry, Jonathan, you’ll have to wait with the rest.”
His voice was deep, like a soul singer. Just the sound of it could melt most people. It melted me, that’s for certain.
“Pain in the ass. I know,” he said. I held him tight for a long moment before our embrace vanished into the air.
All during my flight, I had looked forward to wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. Our room was waiting for us. I was annoyed at being marooned in the cold. Did we have to stick to the rules? “No worries. I’ll hang here with you,” I said.
“Feel free. I’m glad for the company. I’ll make sure your bags make it to our room. Here’s the key.” He handed me one for room 519, and turned his attention to the guestbook on the podium.
That was it? After two weeks of being apart? He’d warned me ahead of time that he had work to do. Usually, I’m okay with delays, but my body was torturing me. I needed a hot shower. I did what I always did. I shut down the part of my brain that was feeling pain, and tuned into my other senses. The smell of marijuana filled the air.
“I can’t wait to see you with that mask off. I missed you,” I said. It just seemed one more wall between us at a time we should be together.
Bigalow adjusted his ornate blue frock coat. One of the sequins popped off his chest. Conversations fluttered to the sidewalk with the shiny little disc.
“Madame Dodi’s toenails were lacquered deep green the night they found her body,” a girl said as she poked her fingers through her cobweb shawl. “The coroner’s report said her legs were tattooed with storks and sea life.”
“Tortured screams triggered her neighbor’s 911 call,” someone wearing a spiked collar added.
A man dressed as a Steampunk scientist spoke up. “They bashed in her face with a blunt object and cut out her tongue.”
I recoiled while picturing all that blood. It hurt like hell whenever I bit my tongue. A little vomit caught in my throat at the thought. I’m not usually that squeamish, but nobody deserved to go that way.
A Bijou worker wearing a red vest over a shirt and tie came and took my luggage. “Put it in the honeymoon suite,” Bigalow said.
Despite the dark storm brewing, the memorial continued to attract curiosity seekers in small waves. I stepped aside while Bigalow hooked the velvet rope behind him. I found it endearing when, as the dormouse, he strutted among the fans. He went out to offer hugs, pat them on the shoulder, or pose with them for selfies. Sometimes, he pointed his palms upwards, or he scratched his head as if confused. He did a triple backflip then returned to the podium.
“The private ceremony is over. You can all go in now,” he said. The sun set while the wind picked up.
I followed him through the revolving glass doors into the smell of fresh-buttered popcorn. A techno remix of The Beatles’ Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite! began to play. Calliopes echoed through the hall. Guests headed toward the bar. Some stayed by the theater doors in the grand lobby. A few went for shrimp cocktails in the twenty-four-hour diner.
I knew Bigalow had taken years to restore the rose-quartz lobby. That raised my admiration of him. According to a display by the door, the great balconied hall had served as a center for underground culture. It invited visitors to a realm of sultans, promising a million-dollar fantasy for a single dime.
The Bijou had decked the space with huge glamour shots captioned Madame Dodi R.I.P. One banner showcased her in a gown with a constellation of sapphire sequins. She looked like a celestial being draped in satin the shade of octopus ink. Her long lashes seemed to pop off the poster.
My lover walked bandy-legged as he toted off the podium. Someone in a red-vest gestured toward him. "We need you hosting cocktails," they said.
“On it,” Bigalow answered. He swaggered away with his mouse tail swishing behind him. On his way out of the lobby he pulled a bag of garbage from the trash and replaced it with an empty. I watched him move out of my orbit like a comet leaving the solar system.
I knew well ahead of time that Bigalow performed as the dormouse; I’d seen videos on TikTok. His routine in the costume had received millions of hits. But I didn’t know about the additional labor the man evidently spent inside a head with mouse ears and whiskers. Maybe being a burlesque owner was way more work than I’d realized? I watched him disappear behind one of the Byzantine columns.
###
After freshening up in our suite, which seemed decorated for Jean Harlow in cream satin, I went to look for Bigalow in the grand theater. I loved the three-story-tall, red-velvet-curtained stage. To one side, light gleamed on the polished brass pipes of a Wurlitzer organ. As a ballet dancer and acrobat, I saw it as a world unto itself. My mind filled with spectacles we could mount with me and Bigalow center stage.
I was at my happiest when performing. I had played the prince in Cinderella and Snow White, as well as Romeo in school productions. Back then, my dream was to dance the role of the black swan in an all-male production of Swan Lake. I spent a lot of time making up routines. At times when nobody was looking, I would try out their steps. Or I would sing a few notes from a song I was writing.
I pondered my luck at going from working in L.A. while seeking an agent, to being here. I was a recent dance school graduate who was told I had a bright future as an actor/singer/model. In L.A., they reviewed my training and advised me to move to New York to pursue ballet.
I knew it would take time to feel at home in this new city. It was a different energy from L.A., colder weather. Certainly, Seattle was not Hollywood. Nor was it New York. Seattle was more known as a place where artists developed. I had a single-minded purpose: my choreography. Bigalow held the door open for work on-stage and in videos.
“You must be Jonathan.”
I twirled around when I heard the New Orleans drawl behind me.
“That stage served as the setting for Dodi’s final rites. She always chose to view it from the box on the left, second floor.”
The old dude seemed taller on the slanting aisle. He looked fit for an older gentleman, but with narrow shoulders. Grizzled dreadlocks crowned his head over a worn, debonair face. He had an eyepatch. His remaining eye stared at me. He looked like a coyote wearing a black frock coat. A crow perched on his shoulder.
“I’m afraid you caught me off-guard,” I said. We sized each other up. I liked his theatricality, but didn’t find him particularly approachable, more like some sort of whacked out B-movie character.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” I looked at the crow warily.
“I’m Eduardo the Impresario, Bigalow’s business partner. This is my familiar Charlie the Crow.”
“Pleased to meet you. Other than being locked out of our room during the ceremony, everything’s been beautiful. Thank you. I regret I was not on the guest list.” I hoped I seemed gracious because I was leery of the crow.
The man waved his hands in the air. “Of course, of course, my boy. Out of my control, unfortunately. I hope Bigalow’s havin’ to work won’t ruin your evenin’,” he said.
“No worries. We had our honeymoon in Vegas. I’m excited just to be here.” I forced a smile. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him calling me, “my boy.” I wasn’t his boy at all. I was old enough to drink and get married.
“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” He acted like he smelled smoke and darted off.
“See ya!” Charlie the Crow cawed as they hurried out the swinging doors.
I knew crows could be trained to talk. I’d need more proof than that to believe Charlie was Eduardo’s actual familiar.
###
I entered the two-story ballroom tavern from the south end of the lobby. Waitstaff in red vests and black ties welcomed me as I joined the mourners who filled the barstools. The atmosphere had a subdued but lively energy. Fairies with gossamer wings clamored for the bartender’s attention. Whiskey and ale seemed the order of the day. I edged around the dance floor and sat at the far corner of the long bar.
“What will you have,” a bartender asked.
“A gin tonic.” The Anomalies played over the sound system, one of my favorite bands. I imagined dance moves to the song as I lit a Lucky Strike. It was taboo for dancers to smoke. But many did. Famous choreographer Bob Fosse smoked.
The music stopped. Eduardo the Impresario climbed onto the stage. "I must express my gratitude to such a grand assembly gathered today to pay homage to our departed colleague, Madame Dodi. She was an unparalleled legend who possessed the remarkable ability to unveil our future with her mystical eyeball. Can you conceive of anyone else who could show you your future on TV?”
Future on television? Bigalow hadn’t mentioned that.
The impresario paced the floor. He paused for effect and gestured. “We express our sincerest apologies for the locked doors. Before open admission, the Sect of Dionysus undertook a ceremonial ritual on her behalf.”
As a newcomer, I obviously couldn’t attend. I wasn’t sure about Bigalow. I was intrigued by the idea of a ceremonial ritual and thought it a great inspiration for a dance. Beyond that, I didn’t understand the need to close off the entire building.
Eduardo took a deep breath. "Madame Dodi’s murder represents an assault on our blessed magical community. Worse still, her magic eyeball and little roller coaster were stolen the night of her murder."
A buzz went through the audience. This was news. I figured Madame Dodi must have been killed and robbed for the items. I scratched my ear wondering what role the little roller coaster played.
A passing waiter brandished a tray of drinks. Eduardo snagged a whiskey. "A toast to Madame Dodi! She instilled in us a belief in our destinies. May her magical essence endure, and justice triumph in her name."
###
I noticed all the tables and barstools were claimed. The dance floor began to fill with awkward elbow-y people. Still dressed as the Blue Velveteen Dormouse, my husband hopped on the bar and began dancing to the pulsating rhythms of "Human Behavior" by Björk.
I felt proud watching him undulate to the drum beats. Bigalow unbuttoned his spangled jacket to reveal his sculpted caramel torso and tight abs. He dropped his shoulder and pulled off a sleeve, revealing a bulging bicep. The other sleeve followed. His body was like a titan’s.
As Bigalow stripped, a vivid spectacle unfolded above. Suspended high in the air, a woman with shoulder-length scarlet hair swung her body in an ever-widening arc. Clad in a matching tutu, leotard, and slippers, two lengths of crimson silk cradled her as she somersaulted. Petite and delicate, her ruby lips curled into a dazzling smile, while her nose added fox-like charm. She never allowed her head to droop or shoulders to sag. Billed as Red Ballerina, in my mind, she resembled a tiny automaton.
In another corner of the bar, a juggler tossed blazing batons in high spinning arcs. The fire dancer caught the torches with ease, then spit fire from his mouth. In these moments, their performances seemed part of a larger production. A sort of sublime tension soaked the room. Spotlights bounced around, occasionally intersecting. Their beams cast shadows of the dancers on a distant wall.
Caught up in the rhythm of Bigalow’s act, I didn’t notice the policemen until one grabbed his ankle. I saw my husband nearly topple and fall off the front of the bar, then bounce back on his toes. The flashlight seemed to momentarily blind him. Bigalow’s perfect physique stood tippy-toe as he squinted, his stomach impossibly small.
“What the?” I thought.
A policeman with a white Afro and mustache stood next to the bar, signaling for him to come down. The music stopped. Bigalow did a backflip off the counter. He landed barefoot in his blue Speedo at his feet.
The policeman pursed his lips, his dark eyes brimming with suspicion. “We’re taking you to the precinct station for questioning.”
I was stunned. This came from nowhere.
Bigalow took his dormouse head off, revealing the beautiful, blue-eyed African-American I’d fallen in love with. “For what?” he asked as he stood tall and looked around. Light bounced off his shaved head.
“It’s regarding the death of Madame Dodi," the policeman answered.
“No way. This is outrageous!” Bigalow said as he crossed an arm over his face. The cops approached like sharks as he pulled on his pants.
“We have an eyewitness who places you in this costume at the scene of the crime,” the policeman with the white-afro said.
The room hushed. My brain couldn’t fully register it. At first, I thought it might be a prank by Bigalow’s friends on us newlyweds. But once the policeman mentioned murder, it took on a luster of realness. Every hair and thread seemed clear to me as I pushed through the crowd to be nearer my husband.
Bigalow was a local idol; the bystanders backed him one hundred percent as they began murmuring in protest. Some jeered at the police, their allegiance to the Bijou on display.
I felt grateful when a man yelled, “He’s not Madame Dodi’s killer. You pig-faced idiots!”
“I’m innocent. I swear it,” Bigalow shouted as he pulled on his blue-spangled jacket.
"Don’t worry, Bigalow, I believe you," I yelled. A policeman held me back as I fought to reach him.
“You are being arrested for suspicion of the murder of Madame Dodi. You have the right to an attorney. Everything you say may be used against you in a court of law,” an officer told him.
“Bigalow no!” I yelled. The crowd booed as my thoughts spun like water in a toilet bowl. How could they be arresting the man I love?
My husband tried to shrug away two officers who grabbed his arms and marched him out the door. The taller of the two carried the dormouse’s head as if it had been chopped off in an execution.
I followed to the sidewalk beneath the marquee. Fierce winter wind clawed at us. Bigalow bowed his head while the rain sheeted down, his blue eyes caught in the flashing lights.
“Jonathan,” he cried. “Wait for my call!”
I started to chase the patrol car as it pulled away. My husband’s coat sparkled in the cruiser’s back window. I ran full-tilt after him halfway down the block. But the car sped off in the pouring rain. I forced myself to stop as the adrenaline wore off. Tears blurred my vision.
###
I felt like a ghost returning to the Bijou’s honeymoon suite. I took off my dripping coat. Damn! Arrested for murdering a fortune teller? I poured myself a tumbler of gin and took a big sip. I lit a Lucky Strike. It wasn’t as though he had abandoned me. There was no way he deserved to be sent to jail. No way at al I called the police, but it wasn’t an emergency. Then they put me on voicemail. The mailbox was full.
I flipped TikTok on to a Heckle and Jeckle cartoon. The animated crows seemed to escape the confines of the screen and speak directly to me. “Oh, c’mon, old sport!” they said. “Buck up.”
Fuck off, I thought as I started a Google search on what to do if your husband is arrested. It said get a lawyer. Not likely to happen this time of night. I caught my reflection above the minibar. The mirror framed the room like a painting: Portrait of a Lost Husband. I slammed my fist into it because it laughed at me. It became a fractured, cubist composition, shards of my dream.
Falling backwards onto the bed, I inspected my hand. Tiny cuts stung my knuckles. I rinsed the trickle of blood with cold water and wrapped it in a washcloth. I grabbed a fresh towel and dried my long hair.
I took off my sneakers and sighed. My feet were sore—a mess of calluses and blisters—a sort of badge of honor for ballet dancers who use toe shoes. I rubbed them, then lay back on the four-poster bed.
I fumed and worriedly searched my mind about Bigalow’s arrest as I unbuttoned my dress shirt. I had been trained since a toddler in dance class to stay strong, bottle emotion, use it later in performance. Don’t act out. It was like being a distillery. It wasn’t like me to lose control or panic. But having your partner arrested was not normal.
It wasn’t my first time on this roller coaster. The euphoric peaks of our infrequent visits over the year had been interrupted by long troughs of longing, only partially offset by video chats. Yearning for him was its own special pain. It drew my heart into a black depression, made me try to use desire to speed up time like a junkie waiting for a fix. As if I wished hard enough, my dream lover would materialize. Unless you’ve been obsessed with someone, you could never understand it. Bigalow only had to be ten minutes late for a video chat, and it would spin me into a vortex of anxiety. It was always a wish fulfilled when we reunited in our full glory. Sweet relief.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t had boyfriends before. But this charismatic older man had pushed all the right buttons. Intelligent, strong, handsome, talented, exceedingly virile, and ready to steer my career. I hoped to plant my feet on the ground, and together we would build a new life.
As opportunistic as our pairing may appear, there was genuine affection between us. We were on the same intellectual level. We could discuss art, movies, fashion, music, and especially dance. I recognized a creative spirit in Bigalow and loved him for it. He became my best friend. But there was more to it, even than that. It was as though I found a piece of myself when I met him. A piece I didn’t even know was missing.
On our first night together, Bigalow’s eyes had burned into me as he pulled the satin comforter off the bed. I melted into him. We were the same height, but he had thirty more pounds of muscle on me. Against him, my dancer’s body was supple and flexible. Together we formed a Yin-Yang.
We panted and gasped for breath, expending pent-up energy until we came in salty ocean waves. Afterward, I rested my head in the small of his chest. I felt happy to nuzzle indefinitely, smelling the musk of his tightly woven armpit air. I felt completely and utterly loved. We cuddled like two clams in a shell for the rest of the night. We didn’t leave the room for the following three days, feasting on our passion and room service.
Now with Bigalow’s arrest, I wished I could call my mother. But she and my stepfather had disowned me when I announced my marriage. They said I was going too fast. They said it was puppy love. Damn it. Why couldn’t they just be happy for me? They found our age difference predatory. They disapproved of burlesque. The entire ballet world seemed to look down on burlesque. People. . . I was tired of tradition.
It had been a messy phone call, made unbearable by my mother’s crying. I’d shouted at her, “I have the right to make up my own damn mind,” in such volume it blacked out the line. Calling her now would be admitting I’d made a mistake.
Bigalow orbited in his absence, pulling at the void in my chest. I was clueless as to which jail he might be in. My friends on social media were the last ones I wanted to know about the arrest. Their well-wishes for our marriage had been few.
###
The next morning, after unpacking my luggage, I went for coffee and a donut in the downstairs 1920s diner. Then I went up the marble staircase to the mezzanine level. I knocked on the door stenciled with "Manager" on frosted glass.
“What is it?” Eduardo the Impresario called from inside.
I hesitated and poked my way through towers of boxes and promotional material strewn everywhere. Evidently, the impresario had hoarded CDs, posters, t-shirts and other swag from acts hoping to play the Bijou. I spied the top of a billboard showing a city rendered in Legos. The black-and-white mural loomed over the rubble blocking the back wall. It read Plastic Skyscrapers.
“It’s a bit disorganized,” Eduardo said from his rolltop desk. His dreadlocked head was framed by the window. It struck me that he offered no condolences, or show of support for Bigalow’s arrest. Not even feigned concern. The impresario’s crow perched by the window, his black feathers gleaming in the sun.
“Have you heard anything? What have they done with him?” I asked. Demanded, really.
“Don’t worry. I got him the best defense attorney money can buy. D’Arby Jackson.”
“Thank God.” I cleared the seat of a chair and sat down. I scrunched my nose at the smell of cigarettes, incense, and stale take-out.
Charlie the Crow squawked and swooped to the curtain rod over the French doors leading to the terrace. A knock came at the door. Eduardo called across the room. “Yes?”
“Your morning coffee, Impresario,” a voice answered.
“Enter.” The server rolled in a chrome cart.
“Coffee?” Eduardo asked.
“No thanks. I’m a little jittery.” Which was true. I squirmed at the thought I might appear rude, then decided I was being silly.
Eduardo fixed himself a cup with extra cream and sugar. His spoon clanked against porcelain for a few seconds. He held up the Herald-Examiner and showed me the headline: Bigalow Love Arrested for Murder.
A lump lodged in my throat. “I hadn’t seen it yet. Everything’s a nightmare. You don’t think he did it, do you?” I scratched my hand with worry.
“Of course he didn’t do it. He’ll be proven innocent, I’m sure. Scandals come and go. We’ll overcome the publicity. . .”
“What’s this all about?”
Eduardo took a sip of coffee. “Don’t worry. Nobody knows for sure Bigalow was in that costume the night of the murder.”
“Really?”
“There’s lots of possibilities. Oh, by the way. You might as well know I’m his ex.”
I squinted at him. Seriously? I couldn’t picture them together. “Bigalow didn’t mention it.”
“Our romance was over years and years ago. Now I’m just his business partner.”
A burst of sunlight caused streaks through the dust caught midair. I looked down and played with the button on my shirt. I was thirsty to know more. “Do you and Bigalow get along?”
Eduardo shrugged. “We maintain a working relationship. It’s about keepin’ the Bijou going. . . People expect it. How long will you be stayin’ in the honeymoon suite?”
“I have no idea. Bigalow made all the arrangements. Perhaps I could move into his quarters?” I had no job. Other than going back to L.A., or moving in with my mother and stepfather, there was no place to go.
“His suite is sealed off with police tape. We’ll have to get you another room. It won’t be as fancy, but I trust it’ll be adequate.”
A pang of guilt made me confess, “I broke a mirror in our suite. Hope it’s no problem.”
“Shit happens. Thanks for fessin’ up.”
“Seven years bad luck,” Charlie the Crow chortled.
I found the bird’s response uncanny. I wasn’t sure, with Bigalow in jail, what my position at the Bijou was. I didn’t want to mess with it just this moment. “How long have you been here, Eduardo?” I decided to ask.
“Since the turn of the century,” the impresario replied.
“Which one?” It came out without thinking. He shot me a look that made me flinch.
“Very funny, young man. The most recent one, for the record.” He pursed his lips and sipped his coffee.
I leaned back until my elbow struck a rolled-up poster. The pile of stacked objects and boxes encroached from behind like a stuffed rhino. I decided to see if I could get more information. “Right. Sorry. How did you meet Bigalow?”
“He came with the building.” Eduardo leaned back and gave a thin smile.
I mulled over what Eduardo just shared. It was troubling that I didn’t know about their past relationship. Was I a little jealous? No, not exactly. Just perplexed Bigalow hadn’t told me already. "So, from before the year 2,000. What are you going to do, now that Bigalow is behind bars?” I asked.
“We’ll have to soldier on, of course. The Bijou won’t be the same without the Blue Velveteen Dormouse. It’s a tradition."
“What do you know about the costume Bigalow wore?” I asked, trying to play Columbo.
“Does it matter? That’s his schtick.”
“But the policeman said. . .”
“Oh, Bigalow’s been wearin’ that thing for years. It’s obviously a mixup.”
I sat to my full height. “So many things about this are weird. For instance, what exactly was Bigalow’s deal with wearing that costume while not performing?”
“The Bijou demands all sorts of things from him—dancer, doorman, bartender, maintenance engineer, being a sparkling addition to the party. Bigalow just liked being the dormouse.”
“Was he good in that role?” I pressed.
“The best,” Eduardo said.
“Can you provide an alibi for Bigalow? Did you see him the night of the murder?” I asked.
“Oh, I saw him alright,” Eduardo answered. “But you have to realize how Friday nights are. I just caught glimpses of the Blue Velveteen Dormouse running here and there, entertaining.”
Charlie the Crow hopped in place and spoke. "That stupid man. How many times have I told him not to be wearing that mascot suit off-duty? God! That thing stank. I gave him twenty bucks many a time to have it dry cleaned. Stupid man!”
I jumped in my seat. Pretty complicated statement for a bird.
The crow’s wings fluttered like fans as it took flight to a perch in the corner.
“You’ll have to forgive Charlie. He can be rather outspoken,” Eduardo said.
###
Charlie the Crow came from Eduardo’s tumultuous past thirty-years ago when the impresario began exploring the occult. His relationship with the avian creature started innocently enough on a vibrant autumn afternoon in the heart of New York’s Central Park. Amidst the splendorous foliage of a colossal oak tree, a crow had cawed persistently. Eddy Knudson, as he was known back then, had tossed a Cheeto a short distance away. The crow swooped down. It snatched the fluorescent-orange snack in its beak, playfully tossed it into the air, and hastened to consume it. This ritual continued for several weeks. Each time, the crow would swoop down, graciously accept the corn puff, and return to increasingly desolate branches.
One rainy day, he realized that the crow had begun to follow him. Day by day, the crow ventured closer to his apartment in Greenwich Village. One evening, he peered out his window to find it peering back at him in his derelict kitchen. Without hesitation, he opened the window and extended a fresh Cheeto. The winged creature snatched it from his hand. From then on, he would leave the treat on the windowsill, bypassing the journey to Central Park altogether.
He soon became consumed by a fascination with crows. He delved into their lore and legends. He devoured every book he could find in the Central Library on the subject. He immersed himself in the arcane symbolism and distinguishing characteristics of jackdaws, ravens, and crows. In an occult bookstore, he stumbled upon a thin volume of incantations and spells known as The Sorcerer’s Handbook, published in 1923. Within its pages, he unearthed a spell that purportedly transformed a crow into a familiar. It required a crow’s feather, a drop of his own blood, a tallow candle, and a vial of holy water.
To make the dark-feathered crow mind
One must a crow’s feather find
In mindful degrees tallow wax
Incinerate to degrees Maximus
Holy Water must reach full boil
with a drop of the master’s blood
In a goblet of precious metal roil.
The steam be caught and distilled
An oath of allegiance fulfilled
To The Dark Lord sworn
As feathered slave serves his master new,
a favor to the Horned One does come due.
To seal the pact and change fate quicker
Drink nineteen drops of this elixir
Unable to resist the allure of power, Eduardo made the fateful decision to pilfer holy water during a midnight mass held at St. James Cathedral. He acquired the tallow candle from an apothecary specializing in items sought by practitioners of the arcane arts. He found a silver goblet at an antiquarian shop.
The final ingredient required to complete the spell lay resting on his windowsill—a solitary black crow’s feather. It felt like a gift, a prophetic sign, a green light to proceed. He drew his blood and heated it in the silver goblet with the holy water. No sooner than he performed the incantation, did the crow knock on his window.
Charlie the Crow said, "Hey Eddy, I’m here, at your beak and caw. How can I be of assistance, dude?” followed by raucous laughter.
With Charlie the Crow’s help, he ascended from an unemployed student to entertainment mogul. Charlie excelled at forging connections within the rock-and-roll scene, granting him exclusive tips to identify emerging talent. His various collaborations with captivating individuals were featured in publications such as Rolling Stone and Vanity Fair. Through these connections, he discovered and produced a rock band named Plastic Skyscrapers.
After he traded his humble flat in Greenwich Village for a townhouse in Manhattan, Eduardo uncovered the true nature of the secret societies that extended their invitations. Accidentally offending powerful witches and warlocks proved bad for his health. The loss of his eye, swiftly taken by a dagger thrown during a bar brawl, testified to the dark forces that bore him ill will. His eyeball clung to the blade’s tip, reminiscent of a Tootsie Pop as it whirley-gigged through the air. Shortly thereafter, he decided to leave New York. He and Charlie the Crow made a fresh start in the Pacific Northwest.