Excerpt from The Passing Zone
Ingrid was afraid of Edgar. She was from Savannah Georgia, the voodoo capital of the world. Her Aunt Thorda could cast a spell that would make a flea do the jitterbug. Aunt Thorda and her friends would fling their hands in the air and say, “Let’s do voodoo on little Ingrid” when they wanted her to leave the room. Ingrid would pretend to be scared, but she’d laugh once the door slammed behind her. Then she’d sneak into Aunt Thorda’s study and read her books on voodoo. The chanting and praying she heard through the vents from the living room never scared her. But she was afraid of Edgar.
Edgar wore all black and always had a perfect unmovable mohawk. His skin was pale. He chain smoked three packs of Marlboro’s a day. Ingrid knew that he was from Metairie, a small town outside of New Orleans. That was spooky enough. But what spooked her the most was his English accent. He was a punk-rocker from New Orleans. He’d mentioned that he’d never been outside of America. She had no idea how he’d acquired the English accent.
Ingrid wished she could find one redeeming quality in Edgar. She’d known him ever since the Wicca Festival, when he’d latched on to her group of friends. They all found him strange, but they let him hang around. Perhaps it was because of his mysterious nature. Or maybe for the way he played the strange home-made instrument he always lugged around with him.
Avoiding him would be the most practical option. But she was always curious, and she wondered if he knew anything about magic. The only way she could learn his secrets was to get him alone.
She knew the perfect place to commandeer him. Her boyfriend owned The Passing Zone, her regular nightclub. Ingrid and her group of friends hung out in the basement of The Passing Zone after hours. The basement stairway was creaky, loud, and missing a few boards. One step was so soft that your foot fell through if you stepped on it too hard. The basement was mildewy, dark and dank, and reminded her of places she’d hung out at back in Savannah. Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling. Old rejected couches served as furniture.
One night she devised that she would get Edgar alone in that basement. Then she would grill him, figure out all his secrets. Why did he look like a vampire? Did he have any magic powers? Why did he hang out with her friends, when they didn’t talk to him?
Ingrid purchased three packs of Marlboro’s before she walked with Edgar into the basement. She knew he’d want to smoke. She planned it over with her boyfriend Jerry beforehand, “You guys will all come down to the basement with me and Edgar at 1:45, after the club closes. Leave around 2:30. Make sure everybody else leaves with you. I’ll pretend I’m hitting on Edgar, then I’ll grill him for information. Check on me around 4:30. Please, Jerry, please stay awake.”
“I promise you, Ingrid, I will.”
Ingrid knew that Jerry would never check on her. He didn’t believe in any of that ‘hokey’ stuff. He was a practical man, a nightclub owner. “Sure, Edgar is a strange dude, but he’s not a witch or a vampire.” Plus, Jerry would most likely be in bed with Lydia. Oh, well. She could have asked Joe to check on her. He was more trustworthy. Oh, well. She didn’t think it was worth the bother. She pulled out her pocket calendar, and wrote over the block for Friday, ‘Get Edgar alone.’
On Friday night, Ingrid sat cross-legged on the tattered red and yellow couch in the basement. Edgar sat across from her. She babbled about punk rock bands for a half hour or so. He didn’t talk much. Finally, she asked him, “Tell me about yourself, Edgar. Tell me about New Orleans.”
“There’s not much to tell,” he said in that mysterious, distant voice. His eyes never focused on her face.
“Do you know any magic tricks?”
“What do I look like, a magician?” He looked at her for a second, but his eyes didn’t darken with anger. They didn’t flare with interest. They remained empty.
“No. You’re so mysterious. You’re from New Orleans, but I know nothing about you. Are you afraid of letting anybody into your life? Is that your problem?” Ingrid placed her hand on his shoulder. She stroked it for a second and then moved it to the back of his neck. Her hand on the back of a man’s neck was her trademark trick of seduction. No man had ever withstood it. Edgar didn’t react at all.
“What’s your problem, Edgar? Don’t you like me?”
“That doesn’t matter. You don’t want me.”
“What do you think I want?” She moved her face closer to his. She kissed his neck. “What do you think I want?”
“You want to enter the other dimension. That’s what you want.”
Ingrid trembled a bit. “The other dimension?”
“The other dimension. You can get there through me.” He looked at her with his hollow black eyes. She hallucinated for a minute, thought she saw tunnels through those eyes, long tunnels going for miles and miles. “...How do I get there?”
“Grab my hands.” He took her hands in his. Holding his hands was like getting a pap smear; his hands felt like a cold speculum with only a medical purpose. “Look into my eyes.” She looked into his eyes, and recalled eye doctor examinations, machines that blow puffs of air to test for Glaucoma... She wanted to blink, she wanted to blink... “Now, dive, Ingrid, dive like you’re going to fall ten stories into a giant swimming pool. The pool is full of water. Dive through my eyes.” Though she feared water, she mustered up all of her energy, clung to his hands, and dove into the pupils of his eyes, through him. She felt herself somersaulting, and, as she catapulted through the air, she heard him say, softly, in his strange English accent, “I lied. There ain’t no water.” Then she felt a jolt, as her body hit the bottom.
She remained still for a long time.
Edgar wore all black and always had a perfect unmovable mohawk. His skin was pale. He chain smoked three packs of Marlboro’s a day. Ingrid knew that he was from Metairie, a small town outside of New Orleans. That was spooky enough. But what spooked her the most was his English accent. He was a punk-rocker from New Orleans. He’d mentioned that he’d never been outside of America. She had no idea how he’d acquired the English accent.
Ingrid wished she could find one redeeming quality in Edgar. She’d known him ever since the Wicca Festival, when he’d latched on to her group of friends. They all found him strange, but they let him hang around. Perhaps it was because of his mysterious nature. Or maybe for the way he played the strange home-made instrument he always lugged around with him.
Avoiding him would be the most practical option. But she was always curious, and she wondered if he knew anything about magic. The only way she could learn his secrets was to get him alone.
She knew the perfect place to commandeer him. Her boyfriend owned The Passing Zone, her regular nightclub. Ingrid and her group of friends hung out in the basement of The Passing Zone after hours. The basement stairway was creaky, loud, and missing a few boards. One step was so soft that your foot fell through if you stepped on it too hard. The basement was mildewy, dark and dank, and reminded her of places she’d hung out at back in Savannah. Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling. Old rejected couches served as furniture.
One night she devised that she would get Edgar alone in that basement. Then she would grill him, figure out all his secrets. Why did he look like a vampire? Did he have any magic powers? Why did he hang out with her friends, when they didn’t talk to him?
Ingrid purchased three packs of Marlboro’s before she walked with Edgar into the basement. She knew he’d want to smoke. She planned it over with her boyfriend Jerry beforehand, “You guys will all come down to the basement with me and Edgar at 1:45, after the club closes. Leave around 2:30. Make sure everybody else leaves with you. I’ll pretend I’m hitting on Edgar, then I’ll grill him for information. Check on me around 4:30. Please, Jerry, please stay awake.”
“I promise you, Ingrid, I will.”
Ingrid knew that Jerry would never check on her. He didn’t believe in any of that ‘hokey’ stuff. He was a practical man, a nightclub owner. “Sure, Edgar is a strange dude, but he’s not a witch or a vampire.” Plus, Jerry would most likely be in bed with Lydia. Oh, well. She could have asked Joe to check on her. He was more trustworthy. Oh, well. She didn’t think it was worth the bother. She pulled out her pocket calendar, and wrote over the block for Friday, ‘Get Edgar alone.’
On Friday night, Ingrid sat cross-legged on the tattered red and yellow couch in the basement. Edgar sat across from her. She babbled about punk rock bands for a half hour or so. He didn’t talk much. Finally, she asked him, “Tell me about yourself, Edgar. Tell me about New Orleans.”
“There’s not much to tell,” he said in that mysterious, distant voice. His eyes never focused on her face.
“Do you know any magic tricks?”
“What do I look like, a magician?” He looked at her for a second, but his eyes didn’t darken with anger. They didn’t flare with interest. They remained empty.
“No. You’re so mysterious. You’re from New Orleans, but I know nothing about you. Are you afraid of letting anybody into your life? Is that your problem?” Ingrid placed her hand on his shoulder. She stroked it for a second and then moved it to the back of his neck. Her hand on the back of a man’s neck was her trademark trick of seduction. No man had ever withstood it. Edgar didn’t react at all.
“What’s your problem, Edgar? Don’t you like me?”
“That doesn’t matter. You don’t want me.”
“What do you think I want?” She moved her face closer to his. She kissed his neck. “What do you think I want?”
“You want to enter the other dimension. That’s what you want.”
Ingrid trembled a bit. “The other dimension?”
“The other dimension. You can get there through me.” He looked at her with his hollow black eyes. She hallucinated for a minute, thought she saw tunnels through those eyes, long tunnels going for miles and miles. “...How do I get there?”
“Grab my hands.” He took her hands in his. Holding his hands was like getting a pap smear; his hands felt like a cold speculum with only a medical purpose. “Look into my eyes.” She looked into his eyes, and recalled eye doctor examinations, machines that blow puffs of air to test for Glaucoma... She wanted to blink, she wanted to blink... “Now, dive, Ingrid, dive like you’re going to fall ten stories into a giant swimming pool. The pool is full of water. Dive through my eyes.” Though she feared water, she mustered up all of her energy, clung to his hands, and dove into the pupils of his eyes, through him. She felt herself somersaulting, and, as she catapulted through the air, she heard him say, softly, in his strange English accent, “I lied. There ain’t no water.” Then she felt a jolt, as her body hit the bottom.
She remained still for a long time.