Ahh, blissful sleep. Mrs. Murphy and I (finally) had a moment to sleep late and enjoy the sweet summer slumber of a New Orleans morning. With one last cup of cafe au lait, we headed out to practice a little New Orleans magic on the Brougham.
Magic?
Yes, indeed. If you’ve been following the blog regularly, you know that I’ve encountered some, er, mechanical difficulties. Now, some of those difficulties were my fault. The burned-up coil in West Virginia. That was me. The fried coil in Wisconsin. Also me. I take full responsibility.
Some of the difficulties I’ve encountered along the way have to do with our modern gasoline. The plugged fuel filters and carburetors in Sicklerville, New Jersey. The gas gauge and low fuel light giving up the ghost in Nebraska, for instance. Old cars do not like gas with alcohol.
Yet some of our problems just seemed . . . well, very strange. The wheel coming apart in Boston and the generator dying (not once, but twice) in Texas and then again in Idaho. These are not your run-of-the-mill problems. Of course, I’m pushing this Brougham. If something is going to break–it’s going to break here, on this trip. Most collectors, who maybe drive their cars once or twice a month, would never encounter metal fatigue.
But just to be on the safe side, I decided to call in some professional help. Now I’m not talking mechanics. I’ve used the best and brightest auto mechanics in this country. I’ve been to specialists of every sort: engine mechanics, electrical engineers, restoration enthusiasts, and historical preservationists. More knowledgeable Brougham people have touched this car than perhaps any other Brougham in the history of Cadillac motordom. And that’s a fact.
But hey, we’re in New Orleans. And this town has some specialists of another variety. Which is why I payed a visit to Priestess Miriam.
Priestess Miriam owns the Voodoo Spiritual Temple and “cultural center” in New Orleans. If you need some major voodoo mojo, she’s your gal. So Mrs. Murphy and I went to her lair on the edge of the French Quarter.
While Mrs. Murphy browsed for incense, prayer beads, and voodoo stick figures, I talked to Priestess Miriam. I explained Heavy’s ailments. I told her about my road trip. I carefully painted a picture of Heavy, emphasizing the mysterious.
She told me I needed a mechanic.
After some cajoling, I managed the get the priestess to look at Heavy. That did the trick. She is an enchanting pile of metal. Priestess Miriam asked me some questions about Heavy. How long I’ve owned her. What symptoms did she have? Any signs of unclean spirits?
Then Priestess Miriam talked to the car. She mumbled about and chanted and sang a little song. She lit what appeared to be a giant doobie and waved it about. While it didn’t exactly stink, it didn’t smell to great, either. As for her chants, I didn’t catch any of what she said, but it sounded impressive. After her initial visit, she motioned for me to go back with her into her room of ingredients. I’m sure it has a better name than “room of ingredients,” but I’ve never seen so many lotions and potions in my life. Scads of them.
She busied herself combining the ingredients in a frying pan, which she set fire to and began to walk around Heavy with the pan. More muttering, chanting, and incantations ensued. Smoke is an integral part of voodoo magic, evidently.
Priestess Miriam came back into the shop and shook her head. “There was something in that car for sure. It’s gone now, but I will make you a protective satchel just in case.” With that, she pulled out a small leather pouch and began to furiously fill it with dragon’s blood, basil, salt, pepper, and Worcestershire Sauce (for all I knew). As she was filling the bag, she began telling me about the original owner, “He loved this car and wants to know that it’s being taken care of. You need to regularly put some whiskey and cigars into Heavy as an offering.”
Suddenly, out on the street, there was a huge bang. It sounded as if someone fired a shot. Mrs. Murphy came running in and said, “A black car just drove by and the precise moment that it passed Heavy, it’s front tire blew out.”
Hmm. Maybe the bad mojo had left the car. I “donated” $50 to Princess Miriam for her time, stuffed the bag of ingredients into the passenger ashtray, and Amy and I headed out for lunch.