Chicky Ortiz (chickybanana) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2022-01-10 23:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | chicky ortiz, michael |
WHO Chicky and Michael
WHEN Sunday afternoon, 9 January
WHERE Papa Leo’s botánica, Bushwick
WHAT A guardian angel!
WARNINGS Some racist/sexist jerkboys
Papa Leo had remedies against curses and evil eye, bad luck and sickness of the spirit. Chicky knew her sisters thought it was a load of bunk. Rosario said it was all psychological, like the placebo effect or something. But she’d only say it quietly, and when Abuela was out of hearing. For as long as Chicky could remember, her grandmother had lit candles and set out flowers for the lwa. Their bathroom always smelled faintly of ruda soap (it was lucky, Abuela said, and who couldn’t use a little extra luck?), and anytime Chicky was sick as a kid, Abuela would smooth her hair back and massage oil from a hand-labelled jar into her forehead. Chicky wasn’t sure if it made her get better any faster, but the sweet warm scent and the firm pressure of her grandmother’s fingers had always made her feel better, just like it made her feel better to think that Papa Legba and Belie Belcan and the other lwa were looking out for her family. Rosario would probably say that proved her point, but… it still helped, right? And how could you say for sure that wasn’t magic? Chicky couldn’t, so she kept her mind open. Unfortunately, there was no magical remedy against dust. Chicky had to deal with that herself, nose twitching and itching as she skimmed an anti-static cloth over the shelves. Wiping the clinging grey fuzz from the faces of the oversized religious statues that clamoured at the end of each row of shelves, Chicky felt like nothing so much as a put-upon babysitter inspecting a rowdy bunch of kids. Papa Candelo, just look at the state of your clothes! You’re a mess! No, hold still, if you don’t like having your face scrubbed, you shouldn’ta gone rolling round in the dirt. And just what do you think you’re doing tryna sneak back in, Saint Lazarus? You’ve been smoking cigars with Baron Samedi again, haven’t you? Don’t try to deny it, you have ash in your halo! And as for you, Santa Muerte… um. Nice… nice scythe, um, ma’am. Real pointy. You don’t mind if I just… yeah? Cool, cool cool cool. Aha! I see you there, Saint Michael. Dust all over your wings! Are you an angel or a feather duster, hmm? She was grinning just a little, amused by herself, when the jangle of the door chimes yanked her focus. The three white boys swaggered right on past without a glance in Chicky’s direction, caught up in their own snickering conversation. They looked like they might be seniors, maybe even from her school, though she didn’t recognise any of ‘em. “—nah nah, trust me—” “—fuckin’ dumb shit, Levi—” “I’m saying trust me—” Their voices faded as they disappeared between the aisles, and Chicky turned back to Saint Michael. It was kind of a dopey-looking one. Some of the Michaels in stock looked super badass, dressed in gold and silver Roman centurion armour with wings unfurled and a red cape winding and billowing majestically. They crushed Satan under their heels, swords poised to strike. This poor Michael’s sword looked like a kid’s toy, short and chunky, with rounded edges, not even sharp enough to cut butter. The red cape didn’t billow, but sort of floomped half-heartedly, and the wings were little fluffy-looking things that woulda been more at home on a Valentine’s Day card. Chicky ran her cloth over the stumpy wings and gave the statue a twisted smile of sympathy. Yeah, man, it be like that sometimes. A harsh eruption of laughter from the aisles. “—why none’a them have jobs, right?” “Get rich quick soap? Yo, get me some’a that.” “You actually smell this shit, though? You smell like this, I’d pay you to stay the fuck away.” “Ahaha, how it works!” The hoots of ugly laughter went right to Chicky’s stomach, twisting it tight. She took a couple careful steps into the closest aisle and leaned forward to peer through the gap in the shelves. The three boys were pawing over the soaps, wearing wide vulture-grins. “Oh, no fucking way. Fuckin’ love potion!” “Get it for Reggie, maybe it’ll get him outta the friend zone with Krista.” “Bitch, you think I need Mexican roofies to get some?” “Nah man, all you need is this.” Coughing and spluttering. “The fuck, Levi?!” “It says it’s Attraction Cologne. Brings in the ladies.” “In my face?” Hey! You haven’t paid for that. In her head, Chicky snapped out the words sharp as the crack of a whip. In the real world, they stayed bunched up anxiously at the base of her throat. The boys seemed to take up the whole store with their cackling voices and their easy swagger. She hovered unhappily in the aisle, still clutching the goofy Saint Michael statue. Papa Leo had remedies against every kinda spiritual nastiness. The regular human ones, though… The boys rumbled up the the counter. One of them slapped down a couple bars of money-drawing soap and a little jar of shut-up oil (she’d had to listen to them laughing about the name and how they were gonna use it on their girlfriends). Chicky drifted over reluctantly. She had to say something now. Otherwise she was just letting ‘em steal from Papa Leo. She had to say it. She tried to channel Abuela’s stubbornness, Rosario’s stony glare. But what came out, in a small uncertain voice, was, “Um… the cologne?” Three pairs of eyes stared back at her. “No, I just want these.” “No, you, I mean you used the cologne? You have to pay for it?” She didn’t mean it to be the question, but her inflection curled up and around on itself under the pressure of those stares. “No we didn’t.” The guy said it with a straight face, even with the smell of the spray clinging to his clothes. “I saw you, though?” The boys’ patience was gone. Suddenly all three of ‘em were talking at once, irritation slamming into Chicky in a barrage— some bullshit! and trying to scam us?! and where’s your manager?, a storm of overlapping voices. Cam or Rosario woulda been able to stare ‘em down. They woulda come down on these boys like the decent Saint Michael statues, swords flashing and capes billowing with holy righteousness. Chicky felt more like Goofy Michael, waving around a plastic child’s sword, tiny wings flailing uselessly. The air thickened. Chicky clung tighter to the statue. |