Baba Yaga and the discoportapotty

Baba Yaga 
and the discoportapotty

by hilarityjane

Dressed in all-black, vendetta hat, silk scarves to hold it on, with the Baba Yaga glamour on, she intends on walking out there. From her Burning Man camp at the corner of 5:30, she will walk IronGiant to 4:30, make a left and then walking out towards The)’(Man, she is sure to find the house on chicken legs. Walking past camp after darkened camp, empty or asleep. Another empty camp, nothing to see here, keep walking, walking-man, workingman . .  her canteen full of water, she drinks some down, ahh.. yes, perhaps a little pop in.

Here are lights, a quiet bar with lots of cozy couches, she sees a few neighbors gathered on one of them.

There are dozens of kick-standed bikes surrounding the place — fluttering her black scarves over the bikes — approaching she calls to them “where are all the people?”

“—the party is over lady, no more party.” 

…oh. she says  …so, no more party for  ..Baba Yaga? 

“Oh, Baba Yaga, please, come, sit  —champagne please! for Baba Yaga.” Wonderful thank you yes, such a beautiful space, yes heading to the house, thank you, she accepts a glass as she finishes the rest of her water, thank you yes such nice veuveclic, twelve cold ounces to go. hugs and cheers as she stands to leave, a good night bid to all.

Now back on the street walking, everything is dark and she is struggling to find the meaning. She questions where she's heading, then she sees them sitting side by side. Cozy beside a miniature log cabin “Our storage tent!” they are on their honeymoon. She tells them she’d imagined they were playing camp-out, roasting marshmallows for smores. The honeymooners give her a remembrance. 

She shares some champagne cheers with them.

Waving goodbye to the blissful newlyweds she walks on, dark streets seem to go on forever. Mostly just the backs of massive RVs for company, and here is another club with the DJ playing all alone in a beautiful space. Walking in she begins moving around the abandoned dance floor, swaying amongst a hundred strands of brightly colored pompoms hanging from the ceiling. A dozen four inch pompoms and big tassels, strung on each string. A woman appears from the back “take one, please choose one if you'd like, I brought them here. Do you like it?” she puts it on like a scarf “perfect”  “it is, thank you.” 

Back out walking on the street, she notices a posable wooden artist’s figurine is caught up in her skirts, she takes it up and hangs her lantern off of it. 

Nothing to see here, just Baba Yaga walking home for her friday night vigil. Walking to Baba Yaga’s house, where there’s a porch that she will sweep, a chair to sit and rock in, just takes so long to get there walking past so much nothing. 

There is nothing here except the wind turning a whirly-gig weathervane, perched on the top of a partially opened easy-up frame. The little man is frantically turning the starter on the front of an old fashioned car. “Best use of an easy-up-ever!” she says out loud, and a man answers “We totally agree!” We, turns out to be another wonderfully sorted-out couple “The Rats” their box truck is so dialed in. Their living space, desert dwelling perfection and such a nice chat with inspiring travelers. She walks away smiling.

Approaching the corner of 4:30 and IronGiant, her smile quickly fades. Well hydrated, she now is faced with negotiating the portos here.. “If they are as bad as the ones back at camp..” The portos near her camp have been horrific all week, the worst she’s ever seen at any venue she has ever been to. “It’s as if they arrived awful.” Besides the usual porto floor and seating area horrors.. every single lock is broken, every one. There are loops of twine on some, long enough to hook around the paper holder..

She looks down at her voluminous skirts, ninja pants, layers and layers of black fabric. wide brimmed black hat, a giant silk bow piled up under her chin and now a five-foot string of four-inch pompoms hanging round her neck.. layers and layers and layers..   she opens the door.

—horrific— 

Even the walls are covered in playa and piss. 

Stepping back she cries out, “I cant do it!  Absolutely not feasible. I don't have enough energy or hands..  I should just walk back to camp and go to bed.” But instead she remains there, quietly breathing, hearing the sounds of the playa. Out there, somewhere between here and The)’(Man, is Baba Yaga’s house. Now she is listening for the clucking, but what she hears is a muffled thumping.

A disco beat from somewhere near. Looking across the horizon line of portos the roof of one of them is lit up. Walking to the door, the music is louder, the lock says occupied. After a bit she knocks “just to be certain” there is no answer. Trying the door, it is locked. “Yes, ha ha so funny, friday night disco-party in a portapotty and I cant even get in.” and suddenly the door flies open— 

“Oh wow sorry, I didn't mean to rush anyone.. I guess, I just, didn’t know who was having a disco party in a portapotty” the exiting woman makes Tony Monera’s disco dance genuflect, pointing up then down diagonally twice across her own chest, and then points forward saying

 “You are.” 

She gathers her skirts and steps inside.

It’s clean, the lid is closed, air freshener, hand sanitizer.

Wrangling her layers, she locks the door behind her.

The place is wallpapered with glossy pictures of disco days and nights, Studio54, Diana Ross, The Bee Gees, an actual mirrored disco ball turning slowly, the flashing lights, everything is perfect. sitting down on the clean seat, the disco music is playing and here is, picture perfect, disco dance genuflecting in his white suit, Tony Monera, life sized on the door in front of her. 

“I can do this.” she is thinking about her mission, her self imposed Burning Man, workingman position. Spending her one night off..   HaHa! 
“No,  thank YOU discoportapotty steward(s) you beautiful Burning Man citizenry!” Our Burning Man, our working man in deed. Thinking now about how “Some one out there, is fucking their Burn, stewarding this disco-portaloo for you.” Then the music changes, and the song that’s playing now.. like someone had arranged it —

“I will survive! I will survive! Hey hey!” 

For a moment she contemplates taking a picture, but decides it’ll never capture the magic or parable here. Closing the lid before she exits, wrangling her layers, she steps out saying WOW aloud. 

A couple outside asks if she has seen the Mr. Rogers portapotty yet.
 “No, but I sure hope to some other time.”

Walking fast she is bound and determined, now taking a bee-line out onto the playa. Her destination is the witches cottage on chicken legs, somewhere out there between here and The)’(Man. Just when she thinks she’s missed it, she sees it from a distance “Is that a dragon curled up under it?”

It is late, the house looks dark inside. What she swore was a dragon curled up under the cottage, are only a couple of bicycles and the chicken legs lit-up underneath. She wrestles her phone out, snaps two pictures and puts it away again. The bicycles are ridden off into the night. 

Gathering her skirts she climbs the stairs, it is very quiet.

The house is dark, there is no one here but Baba Yaga.

~~  Baba Yaga’s House  ~~

The wind pulls at my scarves, I walk to the door, take up the broom from the corner and begin to sweep. I sweep the threshold, I sweep the porch for a long time. Friday night has turned into Saturday. I return the broom and step inside. Looking out a window, Black Rock City seems very far away. I walk around checking shelves and flip through a spell book. Eventually I sit in the rocking chair, just listening and breathing. The house soundtrack plays a baby crying and I look down and chuckle softly at the artists figurine in my hand .. “heh heh kinda creepy” 

I lay the wooden figure in my lap and begin rocking. The chair starts to creak, the house begins creaking too, with the weight of visitors beginning to arrive. Soon the house is filled, most of them enter silently and begin to wander, “Let’s go up.” ..some of them have decided to explore. There is ladder directly in front of me, that accesses the second floor of the house. Each time someone reaches the third wrung, I stomp one of my feet hard, my boot thumping loudly on the floor boards. I do this each time someone reaches that third step, it’s unnerving, it also serves as a warning, letting those up there to make room, more visitors are coming. Visitors come and go, I remain.

I continue chuckling softly, rocking and creaking my chair back and forth like a heart-beat. Some one bends down and asks me,
“Who is Baba Yaga?” 

I smile “Baba Yaga is the house, the house is Baba Yaga.” 

text and pictures by wendethompson2019 respectauthorship creativecommons