author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

Notes from the author:

The writing prompt was, “write a futuristic story about a vain shaman who puts a curse on the land.” That made me cringe a little, especially given that it came out of the Scholastic Story Starter, which is aimed at children from kindergarten through sixth grade, without the least mention of the word’s problematic history. In any case, I didn’t want to go there. But cogitating on it led me to the phrase “plastic shaman,” which, despite knowing its real use as a pejorative for a fraudulent medicine worker, my brain insisted on taking literally. And that’s how we ended up with a story about a doll whisperer.

The mascot was about twenty feet tall, cheaply made, and uglier than sin. That’s the literal truth. Even a giant monument to racism in sportsball can be well-made and attractively decorated (although why would you) but this thing was just horrendous. From the injection-molded plastic of its construction to the garish colors of its war paint and feather bonnet, from its cartoonish expression to its caricatured features, everything about the mascot said tawdry, offensive, and tacky.

The dude standing next to me had bought it second hand. I just want you to sit with that for a moment. He looked at this monstrosity, and he said, “Hot damn, that’s exactly how I want to represent my football team.” That tells you more or less all you need to know about Roger Nelson, captain of the North Wangeschau Warriors, and possibly about his team, too.

Still staring up at the mascot, I asked him, “What was the name of the team you bought this from? Before they changed it, I mean.”

He startled, big time. Even out the corner of my eye, I could see that. “How did you know? Nevermind. Of course you do.” I bit down on the urge to sigh and roll my eyes. He wasn’t the first of my clients to assume I could find out everything about an object by holding it in my hand, staring into its plastic eyes, or, in the case of a twenty-foot-tall atrocity like this one, standing in its shadow. And while yes, I can pick up emotional traces on the item if they’re strong enough, my work relies first on plain old solid detective work such as is available to any old schmoe without an ounce of psychometric sensitivity in them. But I suppose it’s my fault in the first place for hanging out a shingle that said DOLL WHISPERER.

Dolls, though. That’s what I’m used to. Toys. Small things. Grandma’s old Raggedy Ann doll makes your toddler cry? That new Hot Wheels set transforms your sweet little second-grade kid into a diabolical terror? Call the Doll Whisperer. I’ll figure things out and, if they turn out to be fixable, I’ll fix ‘em. But. The word “doll” does not typically encompass gigantic second-hand football mascots which you suspect of being cursed. Lost every game since you bought the ugly thing? Maybe you should stow the superstition and review your training curriculum.

But Nelson had some wild stories about how his team had lost. No injuries, thankfully. But even I had to admit it’s not usual for a passing red-tailed hawk to intercept your quarterback. Or for your veteran running back’s shoes to spontaneously melt off his feet. If a hollow plastic statue could do things like that to your team, I kind of wanted to find out how.

By the way, I’m not going to write down the answer Nelson gave me. About the previous owner’s original team name, I mean. You know that slur that the Washington Football Team was using? Worse than that. And no, I’m not going to play “I’m not racist, I’m just quoting a racist” because that’s a stupid game with really stupid prizes.

Meanwhile, the answer to “How did you know?”—not that I was going to say it out loud, I am capable of occasionally exercising tact and diplomacy—was “Because I can see past the tip of my own nose.” I mean, look, even Atlanta’s finally considering changing the name of their MLB team. Even the captain of an amateur team in a forgettable rec league out at the back end of nowhere could tell which way the wind was blowing.

Exception: This fucking guy. “They’re calling themselves the Painted Jaguars now,” Nelson said. “Sold us Big Chief Plastic here for pennies. Their loss, huh?” I noted the scoffing disapproval in his tone and resolved to add a few line items to his invoice. Maybe I couldn’t get away with “The wear and tear on my soul caused by having to deal with your colonial attitude,” but he probably wouldn’t question “travel expenses” and “labor fees.”

I reached out at last to touch the effigy’s plastic hide. I didn’t really know what to expect. Maybe its previous team’s disappointment at a losing record? The psychic damage done over the length of a season by a terrible, bullying coach? Objects don’t have the sort of sentience to react to mistreatment with emotions of their own, not as far as I’ve ever been able to see, but they do soak up the emotions and experiences of the humans that own and use them. That Raggedy Ann doll? Imprinted deeply with its original owner’s childhood trauma. I was able to perform a psychic cleansing on it so that it would stop giving the toddler nightmares. (As for the Hot Wheels, they were just handy for the kid to play-act the car chases from a gangster movie his parents had let him watch recently. I suppose I should have refunded them my fee, but if you reward stupidity then no one ever learns anything.)

But what I got was a tsunami wave of HATE - RAGE - FEAR - DISGUST - HATE that knocked me off my feet and onto my butt. I blinked stupidly for a moment, then picked myself up (ignoring Nelson’s sudden concern and outstretched hand) and dusted myself off. It was like the mascot was a repository for, like, fifteen times the xenophobia of a single H. P. Lovecraft. Maybe twenty times. It was bad. “Yep,” I said to my client, “this thing is cursed.”

“How will you fix it?” he demanded.

You, I noted. Not I or we. I mentally upgraded “labor fees” to “excess labor fees.” I waved away the question and asked one of my own. “What was the win-loss record of the team you bought it from? Before they acquired it, and then after?”

Nelson made some hemming-and-hawing noises while he pulled out his phone. Half a minute later he had the answer I’d suspected. A reasonable enough record the season prior—eight wins, five losses, nothing spectacular but enough to feel proud of. Then they bought the mascot and displayed it at every game the following season. During which they lost 12 games out of 13, some of them in spectacular ways. The 13th game they’d had to bow out of entirely because their practice facility had burned down with all their uniforms, safety gear, and other equipment inside.

We dug deeper. This season, the newly renamed Painted Jaguars had a record that wasn’t exactly stellar, but it wasn’t supernaturally bad. They were rebuilding, after all. But at least they could rebuild.

“Look. Mr. Nelson. The way I see it, you have two choices. You can do like the Painted Jaguars did: sell off the mascot or even destroy it, then change your name and logo. I mean—” I held up my hands and spoke louder as he started to sputter— “you don’t have to. Not if you don’t mind the curse finding you again. But you want to shake it off your tail, you do like a witness protection program. You change your identity.”

Nelson made a growling sound at the bottom of his throat. “You said I have two choices. What’s the other?”

“You hire me to perform a ritual cleansing on the object and remove the curse entirely.”

“Isn’t that what I already hired you to do?”

I smiled thinly. “No, you hired me for a consultation and diagnosis. My invoice for that will be in your email tomorrow.”

He threw up his hands. “Fine. How much extra for the cleansing.”

I was very, very good. I did not smirk as I gave him the quote. And the quote was only three times what I charged for cleansing the Raggedy Ann, not five times as I was tempted to do.

Well. He said he’d think about it and be in touch, and I said, “You do that,” and I didn’t hear a peep out of him again. I mean, other than his payment for the consultation. Which I had to email him three reminders about. Which tells you all you really need to know about Roger Nelson, captain of the North Wangeschau Wolverines.

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