Post by Radrook Admin on Jun 21, 2019 13:45:04 GMT -5
Man With the Bottled Spirits
As my parents' eviction date from the apartment approached, they became desperate and went to see this vaunted spiritist who confidently guaranteed that the eviction would be magically canceled if they followed his advice and paid the service fee that kept him in business. They had made a special effort to keep the appointment, even braving a snowstorm with high winds and freezing temperatures. We had been forced to park several blocks away and walking the rest of the distance to his residence. I recall my fathers black straight hair whipping in all directions and his narrow pug nose as red as a cherry and my mother's comments about it.
In contrast my mother, who could have passed for an Alaskan Eskimo, seemed totally unfazed by wind, cold and snow.
"Is this where he lives?" my father asked as we finally reached the dilapidated row-house building with the house number we were provided with.
"What did you expect a palace?" my mom responded. Nevertheless we proceeded reverently inside and my father knocked on the apartment door. Well, the first thing that caught my parents' and my attention as we walked into his tiny, cramped, living room was the many shelves with labeled bottles all along the walls.
"What are those?" my father asked the short, dark-skinned, skinny, high-strung fellow.
"Ah, those? Those are the spirits that I have trapped and will release to do my bidding."
"Si?"
"Si!" he responded confidently.
Upon noticing one very large purple bottle and moving closer to inspect it, my father asked him:
"How about this one?"
"Are you willing to pay a hundred dollars?" the fellow shot back.
"We don't have that kind of money" my father responded sadly.
"Then you can't benefit from that spirit's service! It is a pity since it is very efficient in solving problems. But I have another one in this bottle right here that I can turn lose for you for twenty-five dollars and is almost just as good.”
"Can the other one really get the job done?"
"Yes, of course. A very simple matter. That other expensive one is for really big things anyway. But what you have is a simplicity that these other lesser spirits can easily handle!"
After the required consultation with my mother for domestic tranquility’s sake, my father paid the man the twenty-five bucks, tucked the bottle under his arm and headed back towards the car. That's when the controversial comments began.
“Did you see all those spirits that guy has in those bottles?" my father said reverently.
"The spirits he says and wants you to believe he has in those bottles!" my mother replied and the cold wind kicked up snow from a nearby drift as she said it and sprayed it on my father's face.
“If that’s the way you felt, then why did you agree for me to give him twenty-five dollars just now?” he responded while wiping away the drizzle for his forehead.
"No no! I’m just saying for the sake of saying.”
“But what you are saying bothers me!” he uttered as he stopped walking towards the car.
“Well we shouldn’t just condemn the man before giving the poor infeliz a chance.”
“Why do you call him an infeliz? [poor devil]” my father asked nervously.
"Didn't you notice that he hasn’t lain down to die because he lacks an adequate bed to do so?”
“Well he is poor. That’s true!”
“If he’s as powerful as he claims, then why is he so poor? Haven’t you asked yourself that yet Hipolito?”
“That’s a good point. Maybe we should ask for our money back” my father made as if he was going to turn back.
“You are going back and do what you just said?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes! Ask for our money back!”
“Muchacho! Are you crazy?”
“Why am I crazy for asking for my money back?”
“You give that infeliz twenty-five dollars and you expect him to peacefully give it back? Mira muchacho! You enter that apartment now after he is celebrating having taken those twenty-five dollars from you and ask for refund, and he is liable to hit you over the head with one of those bottles. Probably that large, purple, thick bottle he says he has that expensive spirit in. Maybe he has that one there specifically for persons like you who ask for their money back.”
“In other words what you are telling me is that I am screwed again right?”
“No, not at all. You have to have faith-chico- you have to have faith. Let’s give it two weeks at least and see what happens.”
“After what you did in that rental office all we can have is faith. Otherwise we are screwed!”
“Don’t start again Hipolito!”
Two weeks, later despite the use of the bottled spirit, the eviction notice stood in full force.
“Two weeks of having faith and nada! Nothing.” my father fumed.
“Maybe that spiritist is a charlatan!” my mother said tongue in cheek.
“Charlatan huh!”
“Yeah, you know, those wise little guys who make an extra buck now and then preying on gullible sanganos like us.”
“Well he was very strongly recommended.”
“Strongly recommended by whom? Eh? How do you know who that person who recommended him is? Do you know who he is ?”
“A fellow worker,” my father reluctantly responded feeling himself being skillfully maneuvered into a corner of blame as usual.
“Which means absolutely nothing!” My mother began her usual pontification as a wise woman and victim of my father’s bad decisions. Never mind that she had brought everything down on his head.
“Maybe after he took our money,” she continued, "he gave his partner in crime, maybe his brother or cousin, who knows? a good percentage. You know, a commission!”
“In other words, what you are telling me is that I paid that son of a great harlot twenty- five dollars that I earned working like an animal every day killing myself in that factory with the sweat of my brow for nothing, right?"
“I told you that time would tell! Didn’t I?”
“I wonder what the SOB will say if I confront him eh?"
“Sure confront him. After all, you paid that money. Business is a matter of giving and receiving. We gave but we didn’t receive and he owes us. If he is an honest man he knows he owes us and should give us our money back ! Call him on the phone!"
After being told over the phone of their dissatisfaction the spiritist seemed honestly perplexed.
"Strange," the guy said, "that spirit works OK with everyone else. So there must be something powerful in your apartment blocking its way. “
“Blocking the way?”
“Yes! Something that needs to be removed before the spirit can get to work unhindered. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I personally go inspect your apartment to see what's going on?"
Awestruck by the otherworldly tone, my father agreed to have him inspect the apartment for bad influences.
“Did you ask him for a refund?” my mothers asked.
“I told him what happened.”
“And you expected him to offer the refund himself?”
“He said he’d come over and remove the bad influences that stopped the spirit himself.”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
“And you believe him?”
“I think we should give him a chance. I mean, no one gets that reputation without getting results right?”
An hour later there was a knock on the door and the high strung chap comes in. As soon as he steps in his eyes widen and he says: crashed through all this but that twenty-five-dollar one was unable."
“What is it? What is it?" my father frantically asked as the man walked solemnly looking at thin air as if he were seeing something dreadfully fascinating.
“Strings!" he mysteriously intoned.
"Strings?" my father responded in a tone of profound awe.
"Yes! Yes! What you people have here are strings."
"Strings?"
"Yes. The apartment is full of strings that prevented the unbottled spirit from doing his job properly."
"You see?" my father says to my mother. “Didn't I tell you there was something wrong with this apartment as soon as we moved in? Too many things going bad since we moved here."
"Yes but don't worry! Don't worry! Everything will now turn out for the best."" the fellow put in, " This is a problem that I can take care of myself with this!" the nervous little man produced a pair of scissors from his trouser pocket. Then he began making as if he was cutting strings in mid air. First the living room, then kitchen, then bedroom and bathroom. All were effectively de stringed according to him. My parents observed the antics with awed expressions on their faces. The man would pause, kneel to supposedly reach strings close to the floor. He’d wedge himself into closets and snip away at corners under the beds. Then as suddenly as he had started he stopped
"There, that does it!" he wiped the profuse sweat off his tan, tropical face with a white handkerchief.
"So now the problem is gone right?"
"Yes but the strings tend to grow back. "
"They grow back?" my father asked with a frown showing deep concern.
"But don't worry. You can use these special scissors that cost only three dollars. This book that I have here will also prove helpful in keeping the strings at bay.” He suddenly produced this white-covered book with the photo of this black-bearded Svengali-like man staring intensely from the cover.
The whole transaction which cost another twenty-five dollars plus the book and scissors brought the total up to thirty five dollars. My father thanked him for his help.
"You see! There were strings . . ."
"That's what he tells you....."my mother responded and then berated him for having fallen for the same trick twice. Three weeks later, at the exact time specified in the notice, we were unceremoniously evicted.