Uri Rogoza - Hannah, a Witch

Uri Rogoza

Hannah, a Witch

Vince Sherman had always been an idiot. But tonight he out did himself.

Un-fucking-believable! he blurted out again for the umpteenth time, spilling his whisky on his expensive designer suit. No, really, a witch, I swear! Looked like a scarecrow- skinny as a rail, dark eyes, dressed in tatters And the main thing is I dont even know what made me do it! I was driving on I-95 when, like an asshole, I decided to take a short cut. But then, if I didnt I wouldnt have seen what I saw! And Im telling you Un-fucking-believable!

The party was just beginning, so it was no wonder that the crowd gathering around Vince, who arrived either already drunk or stoned, and mostly likely both, was quite large. They all had their smug faces, haughty smiles, and impeccable suits I knew some of the people standing around him, some I did not. As usual.

I was at the antique gallery of Richard Mills (who was the type who couldnt stand it when anybody called him Dick or Richie), a thin blond gay man with sad eyes who moved to New York from London four years ago, and having opened his gallery immediately decided to use it to organize a Mens Club, as he called it. Once a month he gathered the glitterati from show-biz, artists, gallery owners, and wealthy playboys, who never knew what to do with themselves. Her Majestys loyal subject dreamt of creating a comfortable homosexual haven for himself, but instead he had to endure crowds of boorish drunken men, who at the end of the evening, having had their fill of free booze and good times, would start calling their wives, girlfriends and mistresses to continue the fun.

And you, Steve, what are you doing here? I would have asked myself any other time. But tonight I knew exactly what I was doing at Richard Mills soiree. Everything was perfect. Everything was happening exactly as it was supposed to. Life had taken a wonderful a turn. The world was magical. It was an unfamiliar feeling, one of joyous trepidation.

Id barely warmed a glass of rich whisky in my palm, and was putting it back on the tray when I first heard the words of the drunken, laughing Vince Sherman. Because so many people were not listening to his story, it was clear that it was really intended for only one person in the world. Me.

I had to hear it again, before Vince either became completely incoherent, or switched to his favorite subject- the joys of sex with hermaphroditic prostitutes.

Thankfully this hadnt happened yet, and Vince was basking in the ironic attention of the other guests, still regaling them with his adventure. Once again. For the fifth or sixth time. I had already gotten the gist, as had everyone else standing around with drinks in their hands. Basically, Vince was on his way back to Manhattan from parts unknown when he decided to take a shortcut, exited I-95, and while driving through some little backwater town (Dont forget the name! Dont forget the name! I repeated to myself like a mantra) he crashed his Mercedes full speed into a pile of metal from some old tractor blade or something.

Son of bitch! It was right in the middle of the road! Vince explained to his listeners, his eyes bright with enthusiasm A nasty pile of rusted metal! No, seriously! Right. In. The. Middle. Of. The. Road! And I was going 60! Un-fucking-believable!

Whistleroad Town, if you believed Vince, was one armpit of a town. He had fallen into complete despair that he was forced to wait until morning to get help, when, for a few bucks, some local wino introduced him to the towns only point of interest (I already knew I would never forget the name) the local freak who could supposedly make miracles.

The shack she lived in Uncle Toms cabin had nothing on this place! Jesus Christ, what a dump! Vince took a long swallow of whisky and his eyes glistened, but not in a good way- he had definitely taken something else besides alcohol tonight. I went in. She apparently wasnt sleeping, although it was 4 oclock in the morning. Hoooweee, was she ugly! Beaten something fierce with the ugly stick! And how old maybe 20, maybe 40, who the hell knows? And her name, fantastic Han-nah!! I shat a brick when I heard it! So we spent a couple of hours together.

So what tricks can you do, Miracle Lady? I asked her. She said nothing. Then it dawned on me. I said, Can you turn ten bucks into a hundred? Here take this So I go to take a ten out of my wallet, and she doesnt even touch it, and I look again a C note! A real 100 dollar bill! What the hell are you all laughing at? Im telling you, it was unbelievable So then, Im telling you, listen to this, my wallet is black, right? Can you make it turn green? I take it out again and it is green

The crowd, already warmed-up from the free booze, laughed raucously and derisively. Im telling you! protested Vince, dropping his glass which shattered into a spray of sharp fragments. He awkwardly pulled a big worn and disgustingly green wallet out of his back pocket. Look! I swear to Christ!

But the other guests laughed even louder, for a moment drowning out the live music; in the depths of the studio a string trio invited by the aesthete Richard was performing something understated and beautiful.

Fine, screw you, then! If you dont believe me, then dont! an offended Vince grabbed another glass of whisky off a tray. Morons! And do you know how it ended? Well, listen! Fine, so I say, Thats enough. Thanks. But maybe you can conjure up a tow truck right now, cause in this shitty Podunk town my cell doesnt even work. So she just sits there for a second then says, You dont need a tow truck. I fixed your car. So I look outside- and Ill be damned! Theres my baby- all in one piece, good as new. And whats more- that fucking plow blade, the one I crashed into, is standing right there a couple of feet away, and it hadnt even moved. So right there I started believing in her miracles Big Time I even got a little scared

Time to lay off the drugs, Vince, my friend. No, no kidding. If you start having these bad trips, theyre not a good sign, suggested someone I couldnt see.

You dont believe me? asked Sherman, but he already had calmed down, and took another swig of whisky. Well, I guess thats to be expected. I wouldnt have believed it myself either.

And whats she doing living in that shithole, anyway, this Hannah of yours? Huh? If she can do anything? asked a flushed pig-faced man standing next to me, Something here doesnt add up?

You wont believe it, but I asked her that myself! She lowered her eyes and spoke so softly, I cant ask for anything for myself. It is not allowed. I can only ask for others Or else the gift will disappear So at the end of the night I gave her a fiver. I thought she might make a fuss, say that it was too little, but she just lowered her eyes and said Thank you. I woke her up in the middle of the night, made her do some magic tricks, got a new car and for only five bucks! And all she said was a pathetic Thank you.

The crowd of listeners began to break up. Some were laughing; the majority already discussing something else, already having forgotten about the nonsense of Vince Sherman.

Except for me. I believed every word. I came here expecting a miracle, about which I had been forewarned. And it happened I heard it, as soon as I entered the cozy, dimly-lit gallery. I had not even had time to take a sip of whisky. And now, I am going to keep it all to myself- it had been too long since Id had any miracles in my life. Especially the good kind.