Looking for a Little Head

The Quest for an Authentic Ceremonial Shrunken Head

Eleven-thirty at night, on an empty Lower East Side street, two guys (one sweating Aqua Velva) sit on the hood of a car...

This had to be the only block of NYC’s Lower East Side to have eluded the jaws of real estate speculators. The corner bodega had not been transformed into a Starbucks, and none of the crumbling five-floor walkups had been converted into luxury condos.

As Bill and I walked down the street, virtually every doorway appeared a safe haven for a drug transaction. It was close to 10:30 PM, yet children ran through the street as if it were a Saturday afternoon. I passed a cherubic little girl and smiled at her. She responded by calling me a “careculo,” – which I later found out means’ ass face’.

Bill’s calm demeanor in the face of the frenetic activity going on around us surprised me. He didn’t really fit into this environment. He was a middle-class, thirty-something from Bergen County, New Jersey; dressed in khakis and topsiders, smelling of Aqua Velva. He placed his hand inside his sports jacket – checking his wallet. I guessed he had to be carrying a few grand.

Bill was new to the macabre collecting scene and came to me about a month ago looking for an authentic Tzantza shrunken head. In the world of shrunken head collections, a Tzantza from the South American Jivaro

Indian tribe is the crown jewel. Unlike other “regular heads,” the Tzantza “…is created to paralyze the spirit of the enemy attached to the head so that it cannot escape and take revenge upon the killer. This also prevents the spirit or soul from continuing into the afterlife, where it could harm dead ancestors. When the warrior kills his enemy, he is not only after the victim’s life, but more importantly, he seeks to possess the victim’s soul.”

Across the street, I caught sight of what looked like a gun deal about to go down when I told Bill, “Here we are.” We climbed five filthy flights of stairs before coming upon our destination — apartment 5-C. I knocked. No response. I knocked again, this time harder. The door to the apartment swung open, and Nicholas ceremoniously motioned for us to enter.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Nicholas said, gesturing toward a comfortable-looking couch. Nicholas was a strange-looking dude – think Dracula meets Ralph Kramden. I knew (as well as anyone could know) Nicholas for about 5years. He was a dealer in oddities, and despite his bizarre look and eccentric personality, he was a trusted and respected dealer when it came to the pieces he bought and sold.

I made the introductions and explained to Nicholas that Bill was the collector who was looking for the Tzantza. Nicholas beckoned Bill over. They began mumbling to one another. Bill handed over the money, and the pair disappeared into a bedroom off the kitchen. The door closed behind them, and I adjusted to a slightly more comfortable position on the couch. My eyes roamed the living room and concluded it was decorated just as one would expect from a dealer in the…BAM!

The bedroom door burst open, and Bill was being strong-armed out by Nicholas, who had a gun pointed at Bill’s head. “Holy Shit!” was all I could say as I hopped up from the couch, not knowing what to do next. Nicholas continued pressing the barrel roughly against his temple, and the two of them shuffled across the floor like a pair of homicidal Siamese twins.

After several heart-stopping moments, Nicholas’ expression went from maniacal to playful. He dropped the gun to his side and began laughing. Bill quickly put as much distance between himself and Nicholas as he could and stood beside me, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Cool it, guys. C’mon! I was just kidding!” Nicholas said as he put the gun up to his own temple and pulled the trigger. “See? It’s empty. What?! Do ya think I am crazy?” Neither of us answered, which ruffled Nicholas’ feathers. “Okay, you guys obviously can’t take a joke, so …” Nicholas went back into the bedroom, returning swiftly with a small box, which he tossed to Bill. “…here! Take this and get the fuck outta here! And Paul, do me a favor and never bring this guy back here again!”

We slowly made our way to the door without turning our backs on Nicholas. As soon as we passed the threshold, we bolted. We ran down the stairs, out the door, around the punks, through the maze of kids, and past the junkies. We didn’t stop until we’d reached Bill’s car, where we both collapsed on the hood, gasping for air.

Bill opened the box, and his expression quickly reflected a calm euphoria. “It’s real,” uttered Bill as he lifted the contents out of the box. “This was definitely worth almost getting killed for.”

So there it was. Eleven thirty at night, on a street in the Lower East Side, two guys (one sweating Aqua Velva) sitting on the hood of a car, ogling an authentic, South American, shrunken human head.

Since that initial purchase eight years ago, Bill has bought and sold countless shrunken heads — albeit none of the transactions have been as dramatic as that first one.