“I’m tellin’ you, that man’s gotta be straight up bat shit crazy!” They all were leaving a convenience store, pulses still racing from their trip to Voodoo Village, a crazed little cul-de-sac in South Memphis. “Why else would you live like that? Crosses and statues and candles all over the place!”
They gathered around his car, each fiddling with their respective post-fright snacks.
She’d gone for the sorbet, and dug at it with one of those awkward, Popsicle stick spoons.
“No, I don’t think it’s like that.” It was the first time she’d spoken since they’d all sprinted out of Voodoo Village. “I don’t think it’s like that at all.”
She ate a bit of it, cooling her in the summer heat.
“You saw that place. You saw how those people live. None of use would last a day in that life. And so, ok, what if because of that life one day something in you breaks, breaks so bad you see God in the burning wick of a candle?
“Does that make you crazy? Or does it make you incredibly lucky because you got to see God.
“I think I would like to be that lucky.”
Voodoo Village, one of the most haunted places in Memphis, or at least that’s what the urban legends would have you believe. In reality, it was an impoverished stretch of back-road known as Boxtown that’s been shoved aside and forgotten by the rest of the city. The name came from a fenced in compound at the end of the street decorated a rather eccentric manner, but really, which one of us isn’t eccentric in our own way?