1949 Coronado (Garden Voodoo)

I’m not sure who it is, but one of my neighbors likes to complain to the community association about my garden. This person has an issue with my weeds. So now I get constant reminders from the association to tend to my weeds. That is what they say - can I please tend to them. Turns out, that doesn’t mean they want me to water them.

I have someone whom I pay to take care of my garden. I’m sure there is a way to say that which wouldn’t make me sound like a dick. This person is not a very good gardener. Again, don’t want to sound like a dick. He is a portly man who is originally from Haiti. He wears a big floppy hat. Now I’m sure a lot of people from Haiti are good gardeners. But Phillipe is just not one of them. That’s his name. Phillipe ‘Big Jean’ Lecouche. I don’t know how he gets Big Jean from Phillipe, but he insists I call him Big Jean. The thing is, I don’t really care about my garden and would not even mention it if not for the complaints. When I told him about the weeds he said, “Mr. Ron, you know, I was not a gardener in Haiti. I was a doctor.” Which, of course, is sad and heartbreaking and made me feel like shit. Until I found out he was actually a witch doctor. Which is still sad and heart breaking and made me feel like shit. But also - dick alert number three - a little bit funny.

Big Jean will sometimes come into the house for a drink and some air conditioning. He likes my radios. I have offered him the pick of the litter but he says, “Mr. Ron, I don’t need a radio to hear the music.”

I tell him, “Big Jean, that’s beautiful. I’m going to use that in a story one day.”

Big Jean hints that he has great powers he has yet to unleash. I don’t know anything about voodoo, but he has picked the winner of eight basketball games in a row. Witch doctor indeed.

Now, 11:30pm to 12:30am is a bit of a witching hour for me. That’s the time I search for radios online. And the time I put a lot of radios in my cart. In the morning, I remove 99% of them. That’s also the time I put in bids for radios I probably don’t want. In the early days of my collection addiction, I would get really upset when another collector, using what is called ‘sniping software’ would outbid me at the final second. Over time, that would change to me actually pumping my fist in the air and yelling out, “yes!” upon receiving an email from eBay informing me I had been outbid. It’s like finding out your root canal has been cancelled.

One morning, I receive a box but am not really sure what radio it is. Both eBay and Etsy send notifications when items are delivered but I have received nothing. I have a few radios on the way but none that are marked as having been delivered. When I unbox the package, I pull out what I recognize as a Coronado. A Coronado I have absolutely no recollection of having bought. It is not on any of my purchased lists. I email my assistant, who sometimes facilitates the purchase of a radio, and ask if she had bought it. She says no.

The thing is. I don’t like this radio. I have seen it many times and not bought it. I’m not a fan of this radio.

I email one of my dealers, Retro Radio Farm, and ask if they maybe shipped it by mistake. They say no. He sends me a copy of my email ordering it.

Even better, he has an email of me asking him to upgrade it to Bluetooth.

Ok then.

I look at the time stamp of my email. 1:15am. Now it makes sense.

Big Jean arrives late in the afternoon the next day. I have texted him and told him that we need to take care of the weeds. He has outfitted himself with all the implements of destruction. His truck, which is decorated in what can only be described as nouveau voodoo bumper stickers, is packed to the hilt. I help him unload a couple of jugs of liquid marked, in Road Runner fashion, with a big red X. Big Jean is either going to attack my weeds or is planning for an exorcism.

Possibly both.

It is a hot southern Florida day and he is already sweating profusely. I ask if he wants to come in for a drink. He beats me into the house.

He drinks his bottle of water in one big, noiseless gulp. Then, eyeing the Coronado, he says, “new radio Mr. Ron?”

The Coronado is no longer sitting alone on my kitchen table. Although I don’t really like it, I have diligently put it on a shelf. I have hundreds of radios, and Big Jean picks it out right away.

“Yes,” I say, “but I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No.”

“So why did you buy it?”

So, I tell him about the witching hour. He says, “Mr. Ron, are you making fun of me?” But he laughs when he says it. He looks at the radio and asks, “is it old?”

“1949,” I reply.

“I am older,” he says with another laugh. He runs his hand over the radio.

“Does it play?”

I plug it into my long extension cord and set it to Bluetooth. I tell Big Jean to pair it with his phone and then play a song.

“Anything?” he asks.

I say, “sure.”

“I will play you a song from my home.”

He then proceeds to play me an entire album. I don’t mind. The music is hauntingly beautiful. I guess the words are in Creole. I don’t speak Creole, but I understand every word. That’s the thing about music.

Big Jean and I don’t speak for an hour.

We just listen to the music.

I may have poured a glass or two of scotch.

It is dark outside when the last song ends.

I ask him if he wants the radio. He surprises me by saying yes. “I like this radio,” he says. He looks outside.

“Too dark for weeds Mr. Ron,” he says.

“Ok,” I say.

The next day, I get up early to take out the recycling. Those guys come early. As I am dragging out the blue boxes, I look at my front lawn.

The weeds have all disappeared.

Vanished.

Just like that.

As I’m standing there, befuddled in my boxers, Maria from the association drives up.

“Mr. Zevy,” she says, “it looks like my little reminders are working. I see that all the weeds are gone.”

I nod my head. She hands me the notice she had planned to drop off in my mailbox.

Apparently, my roof now needs to be cleaned in order to meet the Association standards.

I’ll have to get Big Jean another radio.

The End