It starts with an organ, a four-note loop, a psychedelic prelude to a bad acid trip. Then comes the conga drums. Manic yet martial. The beat of a primitive ritual. When the guitar comes in, heavy with reverb, I start to sweat. For most people the opening to “Black Magic Woman” is a showcase for Carlos Santana’s innocuous noodling, but for me it’s the soundtrack to domestic violence.I was living in a rathole efficiency apartment in Flagstaff, Arizona. One of those converted motel numbers, a prefab flophouse. Four walls a bed and a bathroom. 700 South Blackbird Roost. Apartment 13. Nothing good can come from an address like that; the place was ordained for trouble.

I had no money, no car, and nothing to keep me entertained on those remorseless winter nights but the antics of my upstairs neighbor. He was a short, slight Navajo Indian who worked for the railroad during the day and took classes at night. Something to do with engineering. He was friendly, but serious, at least until the night everything changed.

Got a black magic woman
Got a black magic woman

Of course, there’s a woman in this story. A white woman built like a field hockey goalie. She was ten years younger and several inches taller than my neighbor. Heavier, too, and by no small margin. They seemed happy together, but this may have been part of the act that unusual couples put on for those who suspect there’s something not quite right about their relationship.

When he came home from work I could hear each step as he climbed the stairs. I listened to him slam the cabinets shut as he picked out something to eat. I could even hear the mattress sigh, or at least I imagined I could, as he sat on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots and let them drop to the floor with a heavy thud.

It was obvious they were drunk. The sudden laughter, the awkward movements. “Black Magic Woman” was on the CD player, stuck on repeat. It played over and over again, like a joke told in a bar that has to be repeated to everyone who walks through the door. The music kept on getting louder and louder and louder. Then something set him off.

Don’t turn your back on me baby
Don’t turn your back on me baby

He yelled at her. She shouted something back. There was a quick scuffle and one of them jacked up the volume, accidentally or on purpose, I couldn’t tell. Maybe she bumped into the stereo. Maybe he turned it up on purpose, like he knew what was coming and didn’t want me to hear it. “Black Magic Woman” filled the room, a space that felt only slightly larger than my head. The blows showered down like tiny thunderclaps and the shouts turned into sobs.

I threw on my coat and pushed out into the cold. I walked along the railroad tracks, my hands fumbling with tobacco and cigarette paper as the snow gusted all around. I went to a bar where the same people always sat on the same stools and drank until I was numb. When I came home, everything was quiet.

The next day my neighbor came back from work sporting a shiner. He apologized for the noise, but wouldn’t look me in the eye. He seemed desperate, slightly crazed. Both of us knew she was gone and never coming back, but it didn’t stop the madness upstairs. It only made things worse.

Got your spell on me baby
Got your spell on me baby

He didn’t handle it well. He dropped out of school, drank all the time, lost his job. He’d get liquored up, turn on the stereo, and Carlos Santana would come pulsing through the ceiling. I called the cops nearly every night, sometimes more than once, but there was little they could do. He was riding that downward spiral all the way to the bottom.

One night I watched three Navajo men climb the stairs to his apartment. One of them had a liter of Jack Daniels; another carried a heavy walking stick. The next time they brought a woman with them. She stayed out on the porch, calling out to me to come up so she could make things right. I didn’t want to make things right. I wanted sleep, possibly revenge. I didn’t know what was worse: facing another sleepless night or the reprisal I feared was sure to come, like waiting for that other shoe to drop. I was afraid to come home at night.

After he was evicted, the cops told me he’d broken all the furniture and was sleeping on a filthy mattress. The water and power had been off for a while and the carpets stank of piss. All because he started some shit with his woman that he couldn’t finish and got his ass handed to him. I don’t blame them or their bad judgment: I blame the song.