Mammy Yoko Oubliette’s Merry-Go-Round And Her Omni-Sexual Boyfriend:
Short Fiction from Prairie Death Tales Volume 3
by Courtland Wade*
Dine City has certainly had its share of unusual characters, none more interesting than Queen Mammy Yoko Oubliette (Cajun fortune teller, Voodoo Mambo priestess, animal rights crusader) and her partner Bautista Langtry (Creole, Voodoo priest, self-styled omni-sexual)
Round 1: Ze Carrousel
Queen Mammy Yoko Oubliette arrived in Dine City, Oklahoma, in April, accompanied by her “coonass boyfriend” (as she frequently introduced him.) Her flyers and business cards described her as “one of the most respected, and indeed most feared, fortune tellers in the city of New Orleans.”
The term “coonass” she flourished about as a badge of pride. Just as gay people happily refer to themselves with the once pejorative label “queer,” some Cajuns have co-opted a term of derision, making it their own. Thus, her boy-friend Bautista Langtry smiled indulgently whenever she designated him as a “Registered Louisiana Coonass,” negative racial connotations be damned!
They rented a small shop on Grand Avenue across from the courthouse. While Mammy tidied up and stocked the shelves, Bautista painted the glass frontage:
QUEEN MAMMY YOKO’S HOUSE OF VOODOO
Readings — Majick — Crystals — Healing
Voodoo Supplies
The timing was perfect. Hundreds of buses rolled into town. Hotels filled with 12,000 youngsters, musicians, marchers and twirlers, from Oklahoma, Kansas and Missouri — descending on Dine City’s 37th Annual Tri-State Music Festival.
Half a block from the voodoo shop, the street between the courthouse and the post office was closed off. Carnival rides were being erected and booths selling hot dogs, cotton candy and novelties set up.
Bautista and Mammy went over to have a look. They found a formidable looking Tilt-A-Whirl, a Ferris Wheel, and an ornate merry-go-round with gold-painted horses and a calliope. Mammy immediately loved it, and when it opened, she rode it three times, smiling in euphoria.
The carnival filled the square with kids, who quickly made the exotic voodoo shop a must-see attraction. They crowded in, wide-eyed, buying dolls and trinkets and gazing crystals. Mammy Yoko engaged them all warmly. “You must ride ze carrousel,” she urged. “Ze gentle spinning of ze life force opens ze doors of psychic perception.”
The dollars rolled in.
Round 2: The Vice Man Cometh
Complaints rolled in as well. Several church leaders, appalled by the Voodoo shop’s open display of sin, demanded action.
The first cop to arrive was auxiliary patrolman Garland Puckett. He halted in the middle of the shop, gazing around angrily.
What,” he demanded, “is all this shit?”
It wasn’t a new experience for Mammy Yoko. She’d been quite successful in New Orleans, less so in a few smaller towns where the police had suggested they pack up and move on. Mustering a patience alien to her nature, she moved forward.
“Welcome, Officer,” she said. “These are the spiritual instruments of our religion, Voodoo. We share….”
“Religion? Voodoo? Not around here, lady! Where do you go to church? Over at First Voodoo, I suppose, between First Methodist and First Baptist?”
“We worship everywhere,” said Mammy. “And yes, Voodoo is a religion, not an evil superstition. A spiritual tradition, vast, varied and probably the most misunderstood religion on the planet.”
“Horseshit!” Puckett said. “This is…you can’t…it’s against the law — God’s law!”
Bautista, always calm, saw that Mammy Yoko was losing patience. He moved slowly from behind the counter.
“Yes, religion!” Mammy confirmed. “As in freedom of. Did you ever hear of the First Amendment? Maybe you worry so much about the Second Amendment you forgot all about the First.”
Puckett’s face was red. “You worship demons!” he spat.
“Oh, for God’s sake! We believe in God, you idiot!” Mammy was riled now. Her Cajun English yielded to a much broader Southern accent. “Voodoo’s a combination of Catholic, African and Native American traditions. It’s about healing….”
“Killing chickens! Slaughtering animals!” Puckett trembled with rage.
“Listen, cracker-boy, we take animal life with reverence and ceremony,” she said. “We cook the meat and eat it, same as you. As long as hunting and the slaughter of animals for meat….or sport… is allowed in this country, any taking of animal life must be respected! Particularly so, when it is a question of freedom of religioun.”
Puckett took a step towards her as the door opened.
Vice Squad Sergeant Aisenberg eyed the scene. “Puckett!” he barked. “Stand down. Wait for me outside. I need to ask these nice folks a few questions.”
Puckett glared back at them as he left. Aisenberg politely conducted a brief interview, thanked them and went back to write his report.
Mammy was shaking as Bautista embraced her.
“Made an enemy,” he said, smiling a little ruefully.
“Just more harassment,” she said. “Same old thing…”
The District Attorney groaned as she read Aisenberg’s report.
“She’s right about Voodoo, of course — it’s protected. ‘Majick,’ whatever the hell that means, maybe. The two that worry me are ‘readings’ and ‘healing.’ Did she explain those?”
“Not really,” Aisenberg replied. “She’s pretty cagey, been through this before, I’d guess. Said she listens to people, tries to help, gives advice, that sort of stuff.”
The D.A. sat back and sighed. “If her ‘healing’ constitutes practicing medicine without a license, that’s a felony,” she said. “And if ‘readings’ are fortune-telling, that falls under the necromancy statute. It’s illegal in Okieland. This is over my pay grade — I’m gonna let a judge decide. Go shut ’em down.”
Three hours later, fresh warrant in hand, Aisenberg and two uniforms escorted Mammy and Bautista from the shop and padlocked the door.
Mammy and her coonass lover stood on the sidewalk, blinking at the afternoon sun.
Mammy pointed to the nearest law office, two doors down. “You got cash? We gonna get us a shyster.”
Round 3: Protesting Animal Cruelty
Back in their apartment, Mammy Yoko sat brooding.
“These folks need to understand that Voodooists are the ‘good guys,’ she said. “that we love animals. They need to understand that food is one of the many offerings we give to the Spirits, and that afterward we share it as a communal meal.”
“You don’t need to tell me that, Queenie, but, Christ, where Voodoo is concerned, Americans don’t understand nothin’. At least let the dust die down before you….”
But the door slammed shut on his words. Mammy Yoko was off to organize an animal rights protest.
The moment proved ripe for approaching the local SPCA. Their kennels were filled with emaciated dogs seized from a local woman rancher, who had also starved a dozen horses to death. The tiny fine and suspended sentence she’d received had outraged area animal lovers.
The SPCA team thought Mammy’s idea for a rally an excellent idea, though Mammy had not mentioned the Voodoo angle. After Saturday’s big parade, the kids and carnival would decamp. Organizers selected the Saturday for the protest on the courthouse lawn, making appropriate announcements to the local press. Calls were made, protesters volunteered.
The demonstration attracted a small crowd: interested listeners, gawkers, hecklers, six cops to preserve order and a lone counter protester, Garland Puckett. The newspaper got some of it wrong but ran it in the Sunday paper. On learning of Mammy’s religion, the SPCA repudiated all association with her. Mammy Yoko’s only disappointment was that her choice of chant was rejected as too esoteric:
“The brute` creation` are often` endangered`.”
Round 4: “Beautiful Nebraska, peaceful prairie land”
Out of business while awaiting their August trial date in Dine City, Bautista and Mammy received a welcome invitation: the city of Bellevue, a large suburb of Omaha, was holding a three-day New Orleans Festival, just south of town in Falconwood Park. Two old New Orleans friends, Baby Claudine and her husband Chickenman would be there. It would feature Creole and Cajun food, music and dancing. Mammy Yoko could tell fortunes — legally — and Bautista was invited to give a presentation on Voodoo.
“Queen Mammy Yoko, bona fide soothsayer by appointment only” read the sign on the tent set up for Mammy. A steady stream of customers brought in some much needed revenue, and she was pleased to note the more generous acceptance of her work compared to the sterner folk of Okieland. She wondered if such attitudes might be explained as remnant cultural effects of Okie Dust Bowl days. All the adventurous people jumped into their decrepit vehicles and fled.
At the end of the day, Mammy was exhausted. She apologized to Bautista for not staying on for his lecture and for the music, but she felt she couldn’t stay on for another moment. All the same, she watched as Bautista disappeared back into the crowd.
A tall, bony, and well muscled man, Bautista moved with the grace of a leopard. His beauty was immediately accessible to men, to women, and to every gender between and beyond. His age was utterly indeterminate, not less than 35 nor older than 50; his skin was between clear amber and dark honey. He always told people, when asked, that he was half-Spanish, half-French, half-Choctaw, and fully creole, born in New Orleans.
Mammy Yoko was his love, his only love, and nothing but his love … but his sex was for everyone; omni-sexual was the only adequate adjectival refinement one might consider. Mammy loved him equally well, but rejoiced that she alone did not have to bear the burden of servicing his hyper-sexuality. At the same time, he was the man who had taught her the true meaning of ecstasy in both the physical and the religious senses of the word.
Soon after Mammy had returned to the motel, Bautista found himself comfortably ensconced on the stage facing the small but enthusiastic crowd that had come to hear him. His talk focused on several great misunderstandings of Voodoo, widespread around the world. Spirit Possession, he suggested was the greatest misunderstanding of all.
Bautista finished answering questions at the end of his lecture, noting the particular enthusiasm of one young man. Then, he wandered out into the nearby parkland ambling slowly towards a great clump of shrubs and bushes. He glanced briefly in the direction of the young man, who had seemed to follow him, before turning abruptly into the bushes.
Bautista stopped when joined by the other man at a spot entirely hidden from view. The young man looked up at the taller man who smiled and asked: “What’s your name.”
“Bill” he answered, voice slightly trembling, “I enjoyed your talk, but have a few more questions.”
“Fire away with the questions” returned Bautista “or perhaps, if you would rather, just sink to your knees.”
With a relieved smile, Bill began to comply. And to his surprise, Bautista sank with him, slowly enfolding him in his arms while murmuring gentle reassurances into his ear. When Bill’s body had ceased its slight quivering and his breath had returned to normal, Bautista rose again to his full height, his arms stretched upward as if to welcome nearby spirits to join in. Bautista seemed almost to leave the earth with its soft cover of leaves. Both felt totally overwhelmed, transported by joy, enraptured by physical pleasure, invaded by love for each other and for the moment.
Shedding his jacket on this cool Summer evening, Bill fell onto his back on the soft earth, he felt the older man’s muscular tongue begin to move over his body, exploring its hard and soft places.
“Give me everything”, Bill breathed, his voice an urgent whisper. And Bautista did.
*Courtland Wade is the pen name for a writing collaboration of Court Atchinson and Wade Chambers.
Have you discovered Volume 3 of Prairie Death Tales? Five stories have already been published in Prism and Pen. Click on the links below for another short story.
