Legends of the Midnight Gallery

Joe Klimazawa knew the secrets of the Midnight Gallery. He knew what happened when the clock struck midnight.  He knew because he had been the night watchman for over ten months.  While the De Young Museum was the most popular in the city, Zaroff’s Museum of the Occult attracted many patrons who were curious and fascinated with the bizarre displays of ornamentation from all over the world such as head hunters’ trophies and voodoo dolls left dangling from the rafters of the Dark Arts Wing.

Joe knew that strange things happened at midnight three hours after he locked the doors. 

He knew.  When he tendered his resignation he refused to answer the question, “reason for leaving,” because no one would believe him.  He would leave without ever revealing the secrets of the Midnight Gallery.

“Sorry to see you go, Joe.” Mr. Bainbridge shook his head as he issued Joe his final check.

“Thank you, sir for your letter of recommendation.” Joe nodded as he put his check into his shirt pocket. 

“I got some college kid.  Won’t be the same without you.” Mr. Bainbridge sighed.

“Can I take a final walk through?” He asked.

“Of course.  Take your time.” 

Joe walked to the Bumba Room that was filled with African Art, much of which was stolen from various places on the Dark Continent.  Standing in the door, Joe remembered when all of the items in the room began to shake as he walked into the room while he was on shift the previous week.  

When he arrived for his shift that evening, nothing seemed out of place or unusual.  He went into the janitor’s closet and his broom.  He usually finished sweeping the floors in three hours and he would sit in the control room and watch movies and shows for the rest of his shift.  

But when he entered the place called Bumba Land at midnight,  everything on display began to shake if the inanimate items had suddenly come to life.

“Who is doin’ that?” He swallowed hard and began to shake like everything in the room. “Stop doing that!” 

Since he had lived in California all his life, he had experienced small  earthquakes, but recognized that this was not an earthquake since the building was not moving.  It was just the stuff on display moving by their own volition perhaps by an unseen force.  The counselor warned him about symptoms connected to his detoxification treatment, but this did seem like that either.  

Then he heard the war chants of the former owners like the Watusi or the bushmen who populated the Serengeti.  

“Stop that!” Even his voice was shaking as he raised his voice to be heard over the din. 

“Do not be afraid.” A voice rose above the commotion. 

“Who’s there?” He held up his broom like a weapon. 

“Just me, your local witch doctor.” The dark skinned man dressed in a wild animal skin smiled as he sat on the throne of a tribal king.  “Sumbali is my name.” 

“Sum-who?” Joe stood frozen like one of the displays.

“Sumbali.” He smiled and bowed his head in reverence, “Witch doctor”

“My medication is sure playing tricks on me again.” Joe muttered as he shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

“No my friend, I am real.” He assured Joe.  He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder.  Joe instinctively pulled away with a jerk. “You mustn’t fear me.  I come in peace.”

“I am the midnight watchman here.” Joe raised an eyebrow still very much suspicious of the strangely dressed stranger claiming to be a witch doctor. “What does a witch doctor do?” 

“We heal the sick and do magic.” He shrugged, but his broad smile never waivered or left his face. “All of these things here once belonged to my people.” 

“They have been here since I started.” Joe looked around Bumba Land.

“Some of my people were taken away by the white traders.” He tilted his head. “I heard their cries as they were put into cages and taken away.

“I am just the watchman here.  You have to speak to Mr. Bainbridge about those things.” Joe put his broom back on the floor.

“Why did he take our sacred things?” The witch doctor’s smile dropped as his head looked around the room. 

“Mister, I don’t know, like I said…”

“I know, I know, you are just the watchman.” He shrugged.

“I can’t let you take any of these things.” Joe explained, “I could get canned.” 

“We wouldn’t want that.” He agreed.

“No.” Joe sighed.  He did not want to tell the stranger about his drug rehabilitation program or his current probation conditions. It took government intervention to obtain this job and a promise to stay sober. “I got to sweep and clean the next room.” 

Joe walked away from the witch doctor as he viewed some of the dark display cases that held ceremonial knives used in animal sacrifices or so he was told.  The blades were rusty and no longer appeared as though they could cut through much of anything anymore. 

“Welcome to Rada.” A voice greeted him as he turned on the light to sweep the tiled floors as he had done every night since he started working. Joe jumped upon hearing the boisterous greeting. 

“You too?” He held his broom like he did when the witch doctor spoke to him in the other room. “Rada?” 

“Means happy spirit to all followers of Voodoo.” His skin was nearly as dark as Sumbali in the other room, but his clothes were made for a much hotter climate with a lot of worn holes in the threadbare fabric, “Me name is Barbosa and dis here is my partner, high priestess Sumatra.”

“Please to meecha.” She held out her hand and Joe noticed her long blood red nails. With a momentary hesitation, Joe shook her hand.

“What are you folks doing here?” He asked, “I never seen nobody in here after hours, except me, the midnight man.” 

“We have been here quite a while, haven’t we, Sumatra?” He grinned as he gently caressed her hand. 

“Yes we has.” Sumatra winked at Barbosa. 

“I just need to sweep this here floor and I’ll be on my way so you can do…whatever it is you do.” Joe nodded, but neither of them would step aside so he could do his job.

“The souls of our people linger here.” Barbosa sniffed.  Joe noticed his loose fitting shirt was not really a shirt, but rather a wrap-around piece of cloth with a gold cross hanging from a thick chain. “From me chains I was able to forge this cross to remind me of the suffering of another man.”

“Nice piece of work.” Joe smiled.

“It is to remind me.  It is heavy, non?” 

“It is heavy, yes.” Joe nodded emphatically. 

“You a good man, non?” Barbosa grinned, showing off several gleaming gold teeth in his mouth. 

“We should have a black mass in his honor.” Sumatra smiled and she too had several gold capped teeth.

“No, you folks don’t have to go to any trouble.  As soon as I sweep up, I will be on my way.” Joe waved them both off as he pushed his broom through the wide aisle. 

“You father, Yoshima took your family to an internment camp in 1942.” Barbosa called out.  Joe froze in his tracks.  Joe wondered “How did he know?”

In 1942 the two soldiers from the United States Army came to their home a few blocks from the Mission District.  With rifles waving, the soldiers marched his family onto a green bus.  The bus stopped in a town call Eureka where there was a Japanese internment camp with a lot of other Japanese American families watching through the wire as the bus pulled into the camp.  Joe and his family would spend the next three years here, but their father would not survive.  As Joe recalled, his father Yoshima died of a broken heart.  He was born in San Francisco with his three brothers after their father fled Edo, Nippon during a political uprising.  

He stopped sweeping the floor and sighed deeply as his shoulders slumped. “How do you know that?” 

“I read the lines on your face, Jockimo.” Sumatra answered.

“You changed your name after you left Manzanar Camp.” Her voice had softened.

“I never wanted to hear the name of that place again as long as I was alive.” He sneered. 

“Your father is buried there, non?” Barbosa asked.

“He is.” Joe bowed his head. “Memories of that horrible place still haunt my dreams when I sleep.”

“He misses seeing you.” Barbosa said with a profound sadness in his voice. 

He could feel tears ripping at the corners of his eyes, his Japanese eyes. It was his eyes the soldiers seemed to hate.  Both of them prodded the family on with their rifles calling them “Japs” and “slant eyes.” 

Wiping his eyes, he turned to look at the pair, but was startled to see his father Yoshima standing between them.  His figure was shiny.

“Jockhima.” He said softly.  His father was wearing his suit, white shirt and tie just like he wore every day on his way into the office.  Just like he did on the day he died.

“Father.” Joe fell to his knees.  Stepping forward, Yoshima put his hands on his son’s head.  While his hands bore no weight, Joe could feel the warmth of his touch. “I have missed you so much.”

“And I you.” His voice was soothing and warm just like his touch. 

The light faded in the room and when he looked up, Joe was alone.  Both Barbosa and Sumatra had also vanished. Joe came to his feet and brushed away his tears from the tile with his broom. 

When he left Rada, there was a well dressed man standing in the hallway.  By now Joe was not at all startled by the presence of other worldly beings.

“Harry Houdini, pleased to meet you.” He held out his meat hook hand. “Do you know who I am?” 

“Yes, Mr. Houdini, you were famous when my father was a boy.” Joe answered. 

“I’m glad someone remembers.” He smiled, “I came here to Zaroff’s Museum of the Occult when I was touring with my show back in 1925.  We stopped in here on a blustery afternoon, but then it’s always blustery in San Francisco, eh?  That mad old Russian, Ivan Zaroff, was alive back then.  He managed to escape after the Bolshevik  Revolution, you know. Yeah, he dressed up like Anastasia.  Can you imagine? Ho! Ho! I would have paid to see that, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t Mr. Houdini.” Joe leaned on his broom as Harry Houdini continued with his story.

“Yes, I had heard he was the real deal.” Harry laughed, “And so I had to find out.  I came for a seance and by willikers, he delivered even if he just spoke in broken English. I was able to speak to my dead mother as if she was standing right here in this room.  Amazing.  He certainly was amazing.” 

“So I have heard.” Joe shrugged.

“Did you ever meet him?” Harry raised an eyebrow and put his hand to his chin.

“No, I can’t say I have.” Joe shook his head.

“Too bad, he was a helluva guy.  Was good buddies with Rasputin.” He walked through the wall as he lit a cigarette.

Joe Klimazawa needed to sit down.  He did so at a bench near where Houdini had just disappeared through the wall.

On August 14, 1945, one year after his father passed away, Joe was given a bus ride from Manzana back to San Francisco.  His mother and brothers were issued rooms at one of the local shelters.  A month later Tishma suffered a fatal stroke and the brothers buried their mother in an inexpensive local cemetery.  His brothers decided to find their fortunes elsewhere and Joe never saw any of them after that.  There were occasions when Joe would pick up the phone, but he would lose his nerve and place the phone back into its cradle.

He was arrested in 1983 and sentenced to prison for possession.  Released a couple of years later, he wound up back in the legal system where the prosecuting attorney called him a junkie.  The label stuck and Joe Klimazawa’s record showed that he was indeed a junkie.  After that conviction he was now labeled a habitual criminal.  Joe would have that label to drag around with him like an anchor as well.  

During a stint at Folsom Prison, Joe noticed how many of the inmates were people of color and how many were just like him, locked up for criminal possession.  During the War on Drugs, Joe had become a casualty.  He wondered if his brothers were suffering the same fate.

“Joe Klimazawa.” Ruth Wrangle called out.

Hearing his name, Joe stood up and walked to Ruth’s desk.

“Mr. Klimazawa?” She smiled, which Joe figured was part of her job.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Have a seat.” She pointed to the empty chair next to her clunky looking wooden desk.  Joe did as he was told and sat in the chair.  She put a manilla folder on her desk bearing his name.  She opened it, “Let’s see…hmpt, looks like you have quite a record.”

“Yeah.” He coughed into his hand.

“Are you currently drug free?” She looked at him with her emerald eyes. 

“Define drug free.” His voice was nearly a growl.  He was tired of all the bureaucratic bullshit.

“Have you used this week?” She tilted her head.

“Yeah.” 

“In the last three days?” 

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Klimazawa, in order to receive services, you must be remanded to rehab.” She was quite frank which irritated him even further.

“No dice.” He shook his head.

“Then you have a good day, Mr. Klimazawa.” She smiled as she closed his folder.

“Wait.” He put his hand on his folder. 

“Yes?”

“What if I go?” He sniffed.

“Then we can work out a plan.” She nodded encouragingly.

“I am sick of park benches and cops who have nothing better to do that rouse me from a good night’s sleep.” He looked away.

“Let me make a call.” She smiled again.

As it turned out the call wound up saving his life.  While he stayed drug free, there were moments when the urge would come back.

“Joe, remember me?” A lanky figure sat next to him on the bench.

“Yeah, Sid.” 

“Long time no see.” He laughed and reached into his long coat and pulled out an ounce. “Remember this stuff?” 

“Sure, sure.” 

“I know you want some.  Free bag, but then you have to start paying me again.  Working for me again.” Sid’s laugh was sardonic as he dangled the bag in front of Joe, “We had a beautiful friendship at one time, eh?” 

“Leave me, Sid.” Joe put his hands and head between his knees as Sid hovered over him.

“Hey, what the heck has gotten into you?  Are you too good for me?” He sneered. “I live right there.” 

Sid pointed to the restroom that Joe still had to clean. 

“Every time you think you are free of me, I come around.” He elbowed Joe.

“Leave me alone, Sid.” 

“Never.” His laugh echoed in Joe’s ears for several minutes.

When Joe had the courage to look up, he was alone.  He stared at the door labeled “Men’s Room” in front of the bench where he was sitting.  He realized, even though Sid had died from an overdose a few years ago, he would always be haunted by his overpowering presence.  

He rose from the bench, shaking at the Bumba Land had earlier in his shift, but he knew if he left he could hide out until Sid found him again.  He went to the breakroom and wrote his resignation letter that he would present to his boss the following morning.  

Now that Mr. Bainbridge had Joe’s resignation letter, he would leave into the early morning sun on his way to a small coffee shop where he would have a cup before exiting on a Greyhound Bus in his effort to escape Sid.  But as he walked past the room, Sumbali stepped in front of Joe.

He had spent most of his life in a cage and he wanted to be done with it once and for all.  He knew that one day Sid would track him down, but in the meantime, he would put some distance between him and Sid.  

“Where da ya think ya goin’?” The witch doctor asked.

“I have to get away from Sid.” He answered, but the witch doctor would not let him pass.

“You know he will find you.” The large man crossed his arms over his chest.

“He always does.” Joe grimaced.

“We got magic in this place.” He smiled.

“Magic won’t stop him.” Joe sighed.  

“Have faith.” He held out his arm.  

There was a single sound of distress and then silence except for the running water.

“He is no more.” Sumbali shrugged. “You stay.” 

“Why?” Joe held out his arms.

“Cause we like you, Joe.” Sumbali laughed.

“What about my resignation letter?” Joe asked.

“What letter?” Sumbali nodded to Barbosa and Sumatra.

“His magic be powerful.” Sumatra shook her head.

And this is how you become a legend of the midnight gallery. And if you have any doubts, just ask Joe Klimazawa.  He will tell you straight.