The Witch Doctor's Roommate

The Witch Doctor’s Roommate
By
Bear Trap
Harris Brandon sat hunched over his desk late into the night. A drawing lamp clamped to the upturned edge provided the only light in the room. Colored pencils were strewn about Harris’ work area and he was gripping a freshly-dipped ink pen tightly between his fingers. He hadn’t written a word or drawn a line in half an hour and was growing frustrated. Artists sometimes complain about a lack of inspiration, while writers tend to fear writer’s block. Harris was dealing with both of these issues simultaneously and it was taking its toll. Despite the excessive use of the air conditioning unit in the office, small beads of sweat were forming on the crown of Harris’ balding head. The thin strands of black hair that he allowed to grow long so he could comb them over were gradually being weighed down and were on the verge of resting lazily on Harris’ scalp.
Harris felt that his destiny was to become a famous writer or artist ever since he was a child. He was born with a knack for weaving tales and drawing with intricate detail. Like many aspiring artists however, Harris lacked the consistent drive necessary to create anything consistently. After dropping out of three different art institutes in his early twenties, he gave up chasing his dreams and studied philosophy at Louisiana Lafeyette. He failed to finish his schooling there but remained in Louisiana. While at the university, he befriended a defensive end on the football team named Magloire Eyedema, an immigrant from Togo. Magloire claimed he was an illegitimate child of the president of Togo, Gnassingbe Eyedema and that his deceased mother was one of hundreds of dancing girls in the ruler’s harem. Magloire entered the NFL draft but was not selected by any team. He eventually signed on with the New Orleans Saints as an unheralded rookie who was a good story for the newspapers due to his exotic background and his ties to a local school. He invited Harris to live with him in New Orleans because he didn’t want to adjust to living in a large city alone.
Over the course of the following three years, Magloire established himself as an elite defender in the NFL and became a rags-to-riches story. Magloire liked having Harris around because Harris was frugal with money and helped keep Magloire’s spending under control. Harris lived free of expenses in exchange for his companionship. This situation gave him the freedom to create something as an artist. That something turned out to be a comic book super hero. The hero’s name was Lagore the Conjuror, a vigilante who used hoodoo magic to battle the criminal underworld in New Orleans. Harris obtained some knowledge of hoodoo from Magloire, whose mother was a practitioner of sorts before her death. Magloire did not believe in it himself. “Nonsense! I believe in reality!” he would say, although he did enjoy the fact that his nickname on the gridiron was the Witch Doctor. Harris independently published several volumes before the series was picked up by a major label.
Recently, a Hollywood studio expressed an interest in developing a film based on the comic. Harris hired a manager to handle the negotiations, an accountant of his parents named Eddie McCune. Eddie’s wife and son died in an apartment fire seven years back, and he changed his life as a result. He moved from Louisiana to California, changed his last name to Archer, and recreated himself as an agent for aspiring screen writers. He became successful in a short amount of time. The studio wanted to hire professional screen writers, whom Eddie happened to represent, to handle the scripting duties. Harris found himself battling Eddie on a daily basis over the phone over creative control of the film adaptation of his creation. This of course, caused Harris a great deal of stress, which led to another problem.
Harris was a self-diagnosed schizophrenic. He knew that there was a problem with his mind when, as an eight year old boy, he first met Alain Thibodeaux. Alain stood six and a half feet tall. He was thin, with wispy black hair with strands that poked out here and there like spider legs. His skin was tanned and leathery, his mustache thin and messy. His voice was low and resonate. As a boy, Harris was initially afraid of Alain until he discovered that his towering friend was an imaginative and exciting play mate. Alain usually suggested they play games that were dangerous, such as lighting fires or roller skating down steep hills. As a teenager, any mischief Harris found himself in, whether it were petty shoplifting, trying cigarettes and beer, or peeking in through the bedroom windows of curvy classmates, was without question instigated by a suggestion from Alain. He made mention of Alain to his parents once, and was punished for lying. Since their first encounter, it didn’t take long for Harris to realize that he was the only person in the world who could see Alain. The stress Harris was experiencing from the movie negotiations invited Alain into Harris’ life on a constant basis.
Harris was interrupted from his trance by his cell phone, which began vibrating incessantly on the window sill. He got up from behind his desk, stretched his weary back and shoulders with a gaping yawn, and answered the phone. It was Eddie.
“Harry boy! Glad you’re still awake. I’ve been doing some back and forth with the studio and they are willing to let you sit in with the writers as a consultant. Now you’ll have direct input into the scripting process.” Eddie said.
“I’m the creator of the universe Lagore lives in.” Harris said. “I think I deserve to be more than some asshole consultant who sits in the corner and gets ignored!”
Alain stepped out of the shadows from the corner of the room and whispered into Harris’ ear. “Use the word ‘fucking’ more.”
“Harry, my man, don’t be that way.” Eddie said. “The studio wants you to be involved, but your background is in writing the comics. Movies flow differently. It’s an entirely different beast.”
“My background is in creating original fucking characters that become pop culture fucking icons Eddie!” Harris said. “I’ll be damned if I sit around and let some limp-dick Hollywood hacks fucking ruin my creation. This film demands to be great and I can make it great so why won’t they give me a fucking chance?”
“Four uses.” Alain said. “Very nice. You should call him McCune now. He’ll hate that.”
“I’m waiting for an answer McCune!” Harris shouted.
“I’m thinking I caught you at a bad time.” Eddie said. “That doesn’t give you the right to use that name however. You can call me Eddie, but if that doesn’t work for you, I am Mr. Archer. I hope we have an understanding on that. Tell you what, I’ll call you back in the morning once you’ve had some time to think it over.”
Harris hung up the phone and retired to the sofa in the expansive living room. He and Magloire lived in a French mansion Magloire purchased with his signing bonus he’d received from the Saints the previous spring. Alain sat down beside him. Magloire was fully reclined on a black leather chair, watching ESPN on the television. He had recorded three sacks against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers the previous Sunday and it was Magloire’s habit to watch ESPN as much as possible after impressive performances so he could see his highlights time and time again.
“Eddie is being an asshole about those screenwriters still.” Harris said.
“I would not worry.” Magloire said without turning his gaze from the television.
“I’m a worrier.” Harris said. “You should know that by now.”
“Life is a very funny thing.” Magloire said. “Look at us. We live in a palace and what do we do? I play a little boy’s game for millions of people to see. It does no one any good, but they still want to see it. You make cartoons of a make-believe person, who practices make-believe things. People are trying to make a movie, where people pretend to be the fake people that you created. Millions of people will see it and it also does no one any good but they still want to see it.”
“So you’re saying that our contributions to society are meaningless then?” Harris said.
“I am saying that we live in a very strange and funny world.” Magloire said.
“I never liked this guy.” Alain said. “Why do you put up with him? He’s arrogant, immigrant scum.”
“Shut up.” Harris said without thinking.
“What?” Magloire was surprised. “Oh. You are talking to the invisible man again?”
Magloire began to laugh. His laugh was a high-pitched, shrill squawk that echoed throughout the walls of the house. He got up from his recliner and walked to the mini bar where he poured a Guinness into a chilled mug. He walked over to the couch where he believed Alain was sitting and acted as though he were patting Alain on the head. Alain was actually on the other side of the couch. He sat and glared at Magloire.
“You need to be quiet now Mr. Thibodeaux.” Magloire was still chuckling. “My friend here cannot hear himself worry with you talking all over the place.”
“Idiot doesn’t even realize where I’m at.” Alain hissed. “You’re so much cleverer Harris.”
“Please don’t make fun Magloire.” Harris said. “I’m on edge right now. Not only do I have the film problems, but I haven’t gotten anywhere on the new issue yet. I liked it better when I was publishing independently. These deadlines are killing my creativity.”
“You should go and be creative now.” Magloire said. “We are going to a party at my teammate’s house. There will be many women there. Finish with your creative things so you can be like me and enjoy!”
Harris walked back into his office with Alain close behind. He turned on the desk lamp again leaving the rest of the room dark. He picked up his pen and began to draw on a fresh sheet of paper.
“All this work you do Harris.” Alain said. “It’s too much. You should forget the comic. You should forget the movie. It’s all so troublesome.”
“That’s what you told me in art school.” Harris said. “I dropped out. That’s what you told me at the university. I dropped out. Look at the decisions you cause me to make.”
“Look where those decisions have gotten you Harris.” Alain said. “You live in a mansion for free. Granted it would be better without that moron in it, but it’s a very fortunate situation regardless. You tasted your first beer because of me. You moved out of your parents’ basement because of me. You saw so many beautiful breasts and lost your virginity because of me! I was there, telling you what to do and what to say and now look at you. You’re doing fine Harris Brandon.”
“I won’t give up on everything I worked for now that things are so close to going my way.” Harris said.
“If you have decided that you aren’t taking my advice anymore, then your life won’t be worth spit.” Alain opened up a dresser drawer and pulled out a handgun. It was registered in Harris name. Alain handed the gun to Harris. “Go ahead and do it then.”
“What am I supposed to do with this? Kill myself or kill you?” Harris said.
At that moment, Harris heard the heavy footsteps of his roommate approaching from the hall. He hurried to tuck the gun into his jacket pocket before Magloire barged in.
“Get your phone and keys Harris.” Magloire said. “You’re driving tonight. I will guide you as we go.”
Magloire’s teammate lived somewhere outside of New Orleans and Magloire said that the trip would take forty-five minutes to an hour. Harris felt as though the trip would never end as Magloire was constantly talking about how many women he had slept with that month or how foolish American politicians were. It wasn’t anything Harris hadn’t heard many times before, but that was the point. He had a crisis to deal with. He wondered if he was better off taking the advice of a man who by all accounts, did not exist. While all of Alain’s advice throughout the years had been self-defeating and destructive, it did tend to put Harris in a position where he was failing upward in life. Magloire stopped talking for a moment and looked at Harris, who was focused intently on the road in front of him.
“Is the invisible man in here right now?” Magloire asked.
“Yes.” Harris said. “He’s in the back seat; right behind you.”
Magloire paused. “Is he wearing his seat belt?” Magloire burst into his shrill laughter again. Harris couldn’t help but smile a bit. Moments later, Magloire motioned for Harris to exit off of the highway. He had forgotten to bring condoms with him so they pulled into a service station and exited the car. Upon entering, they found that aside from the clerk, they were the only people in the store. Magloire asked where the condoms were and the clerk directed him to the men’s room where he could buy them out of a machine.
Harris browsed around not looking for anything in particular. He received a text message from Eddie. He rolled his eyes as he was sure that any message from Eddie was bound to be more upsetting news about the script of his film. Harris was surprised when he read the text: Whiskey makes me miss my family. Why do I do this to myself? I am trying my best….
Harris wondered why Eddie would send him this outside of the fact that he was obviously hammered. Alain hovered over Harris’ shoulder reading the text.
“Sounds like Eddie could use a change of scenery also.” Alain said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Quiet. I can’t talk to you in here.” Harris whispered. “That attendant will think I’m a crazy person talking to myself.”
“You are a crazy person talking to yourself.” Alain whispered into Harris’ ear.
At that moment, a man in a hooded sweat shirt burst in through the door with a gun drawn. The clerk immediately raised his hands above his head. The burglar was demanding that the clerk empty the cash register out into a bag that he threw across the counter. Harris was positioned in the far corner of the store and was short enough that he wasn’t easily spotted behind the shelves of snacks and motor oil.
“What would Lagore do?” Alain said.
Harris didn’t take time to think about what he was doing but rather, sprung into action like the heroic, merciless vigilante he had written about. He stepped out into the open, drew the handgun that he was still carrying in his jacket, and opened fire on the burglar, killing him with two shots to the chest. The clerk was splattered with blood and stood frozen behind the counter, staring at the body. Harris couldn’t move either. He felt as powerful and noble as he had ever felt at any point in his life. Behind him, he heard the sound of slow, deliberate clapping. Alain stood there with a broad smile on his face.
“You aren’t finished yet.” Alain said.
Harris raised his weapon again, closed his eyes and fired the last of his bullets at Alain. When he opened his eyes, he saw Magloire slumped against the bathroom door. He was bleeding all over the floor. He wasn’t breathing. Harris turned back to the clerk and handed him his gun.
“I think I need to leave now.” Harris said. “You should call the police.”
The next morning in Los Angeles, Eddie awoke with a hangover. He slowly made his way out of his bedroom and into his kitchen where he poured himself a bowl of cereal and a glass of grapefruit juice. He turned on his television positioned next to his kitchen table and saw a national news report about the shooting death of NFL star Magloire “Witch Doctor” Eyedema and the arrest of his roommate Harris Brandon, the creator of the popular Lagore the Conjuror comic book series.
“When asked for details about the events of last night,” the anchorman said. “Brandon replied: ‘you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’”
“How the hell do you like that?” Eddie said to himself. “I wonder if we can still do the movie without him? Shit, I should send his folks my condolences.”
As Eddie began to rummage through some drawers for stationary, his cell phone vibrated on the kitchen table. Eddie found that he had received a text from Harris. It read: Doing things my way now. Forget about the movie. I’m done with it. Don’t call to bother me about it but if you need to reach me for anything else, you can call me Mr. Thibodeaux.