Ghost Shouter
Created | Updated Dec 6, 2009
Ghost Shouter
My name is Jim Holly. I see dead people. Way too many dead people. Seeing dead people is not as much fun as the television would have you believe.
No, I don't work in the morgue. Actually, I run a used bookshop. I see dead people because I have what some people call a Gift. Bah, some gift - I'd like to know where the returns department is.
Ghosts are a pain where aspirin won't help.
I don't see all the dead people, mind - oh, no, just the 'earthbound spirits'. Do you know what earthbound spirits are? They're idiots who died and are too befogged, befuddled, or just plain stupid to follow the Light and go on to their eternal reward. In that case, they hang around annoying the living with their 'unfinished business'. In particular, they annoy me, because I can see them. And hear them. Most of them won't shut up.
Now, I don't mind the elderly ghosts. I've always enjoyed the company of old folks, even when I was a kid, and when some old duffer or sweet granny still has the touch of Old Timer's Disease and has a bit of trouble finding the door, I point them to it. They're usually very considerate, showing up at the shop during my coffee break, or walking me home after closing, careful to keep in the shadows so I don't get caught talking to myself. They usually tell me their stories before they move on. I appreciate that - I think of it as a perk of the job, so to speak.
What I hate are the arrogant younger ghosts - the ones that are so outraged that their oh-so-promising lives were cut short. You'd think they expected the world to stop spinning just because they kicked the bucket. And they always have 'unfinished business'. This usually means demands on my time, my patience, and my credibility with their relatives. If I'm lucky. They often want me to break the laws of man and physics. I've had it with them, anyway.
I was explaining this to my psychiatrist last week. My court-ordered psychiatrist. I acquired this millstone around my neck when I was arrested for causing a major disturbance at the scene of a fire a few blocks from the shop.
Of course I appeared to be yelling at empty air. What would you expect? I was calling the lame-brained arsonist who had just managed to get caught in his own fire the fourteen kinds of fool he really was, while six cats and four kittens milled around my ankles, wondering why I didn't pick them up, and the fire department overheard more than was good for me.
Yes, yes, cats go to heaven, too. I don't know much about what's on the other side of that Light, but I know that. You ailurophobes will just have to find a pet-free zone over there. All God's creatures get to go - think about that the next time your mousetrap snaps shut.
Anyway, court-ordered psychiatry is a pill, but I have less trouble with Dr Jenkins than you'd expect. That's because I've made a believer out of him. His mother had been hanging around for years and interfering with the electricals in his house. When I helped him find the keepsake doily in the attic she was dying (you will pardon the expression) to give her eldest grandchild, the old nag obligingly went away. I am too professional to comment further on the irony of a Freudian with mother problems. Be that as it may, Jenkins does try to help.
'What do they want, mostly?' he always asks. (I suspect him of morbid curiosity.)
'Mostly somebody to whine to,' I reply. 'Oh, and that I tell their loved ones all is well, they miss them, they'll see them in heaven, etc. All of which the loved ones probably already know. Waste of time.'
At this point Jenkins usually chews thoughtfully on his spectacles. (His shrink should talk to him about his oral issues.) 'Is it so very unreasonable that they ask you to convey this to their relatives?'
At which point I explode. 'Yes, it is, dammit. 'Imagine the conversation: 'Hi, I'm Jim Holly, the highly credentialled used-book dealer. You don't know me from Adam's housecat, but I have a message from the Great Beyond from your nephew Otis. He wants you to know he's happy now, and forgives you for burning the Thanksgiving turkey last year. Yes, I have secret knowledge. No, I can't tell you the winning lottery numbers. And no, I don't want any money from you. And please don't call the police or the local newspapers. I'll let myself out.''
At this juncture Jenkins usually proposes a drink. I usually accept.
Last week, over a nice double malt (the courts pay him well, your tax dollars at work), I explained to Jenkins what was so infuriating about ghosts.
'They burst in on you anytime, day or night,' I groused. 'They expect you to get all excited. They expect you to drop everything and go solve their problem. They don't have a problem. Being dead is not a problem. Being dead is - as far as I can tell, and I'm at 1500 ghosts and counting - a ticket to a better place, not to mention the best cure for credit card debt I have ever seen.'
Jenkins chuckled - at least he gets my jokes. 'Have you considered suggesting to these ghosts that they do some of the work themselves?' He asked.
My eyes widened. 'Jenkins, my man, I think you may be onto something there. I'm tired of being patient with them - I'm going to tell them to pull up their socks.' We shook hands on it, even.
Two days later I had my first chance to put Jenkins' advice into practice. I was awakened at the ungodly hour of 5 ack emma by a tugging at my bedclothes. I sat up, opening bleary eyes to a skinny vision in crop-top and low-rise jeans. In between was a (to me) unappetisingly pierced belly button. I lifted my gaze to the gum-chewing visage. She pushed her fringe out of her eyes and demanded, 'You're the ghost whisperer? But you're old, like, forty. And ugly, too.'
I sighed as I reached for my glasses. The room swam into view - unfortunately, the only thing in focus without my spectacles is the ghost. 'Sorry to disappoint you,' I said ironically - though irony is wasted on teenagers, who think they are the only ones who have mastered it. I waited while the spectre mall rat digested the let-down of not being helped by a petite young thing with soulful eyes, surgically-enhanced breasts, and a killer wardrobe.
'I'm the only one around who can see you,' I remarked. 'Since you've disturbed my beauty sleep, I assume you want something.'
Well, duh,' replied little Miss I-Don't-Talk-Unless-You-Wear-Armani. 'It's, like, just awful. I drowned in the swimming pool yesterday, my mom's picked out the most ghastly outfit for me to be buried in, I'm missing the prom, and my boyfriend doesn't know I know he's been seeing the head cheerleader.'
'How utterly tragic,' I remarked as I felt for my slippers and shuffled off in the direction of the bathroom. 'I suppose you expect me to go sort it all out? With what for a calling card, may I ask?' There are certain things to be done in bathrooms in the morning. I prepared to do them.
'Eww! Gross! You aren't going to...do that in front of me, are you?' She actually held her hands before her eyes.
I laughed shortly. 'You are dead. You invade my home with no more sense of my privacy than if I were a dog. Of course I shall go ahead with my morning routine.' I chuckled evilly. 'I may even shave. And floss.'
As I proceeded to do so, I explained the ground rules. 'I am not going to talk to your parents. They will accuse me of intruding on their grief, and suspect I want money. By the way, travelling around visiting the relatives of the dead actually costs money. And in case you haven't noticed, you've lost your credit card privileges and can't reimburse me for gas.' This further evidence of the perfidy of the universe caused my unwanted visitor to begin wailing.
'This so totally sucks! My whole future is just wasted! I can't go to the prom, I can't even break up with my boyfriend like he deserves, the creep, and I was looking forward to the new Johnny Depp movie.'
I put down my toothbrush and regarded Brittany, or Tiffany, or whatever her name was with scorn. 'Suck it up, Mabel,' I said. 'I doubt you were going to win the Nobel Prize.' Ignoring her interjection of 'the what?' I soldiered on, gesturing at the bathroom mirror.
'If you don't like the dress your mother picked out, elementary telekinesis will allow you to move it around in the closet. Just keep pulling out the outfit you like. Your mom will get the point, and be touched as well - old people are like that. You can satisfy your Deppomania - you're invisible, remember? You don't even need to buy a ticket. And I'll bet you could find a way to get through to that horrible Lothario - it means 'creep who plays around' - if you put that razor-sharp mind to it.' I winked at her as I reached for the shower nozzle. 'Now go away before you see any more of me.'
The rest of the day was blissfully peaceful. I sat in the park at lunchtime, chatting amiably with Mrs Bledsoe, who had passed on at 90 but wanted one more day to feed the squirrels. I helped her with that - she and the squirrels were appreciative. My mood was so mellow by evening that I checked out the obituaries in the local rag (that paper is right-wing, and fit only to wrap fish in and inform us of life-changing events such as weddings and funerals). Just as I thought. I smiled to myself.
There was a small crowd at the cemetery - relatives, a few friends from school, including one young man in an ill-fitting suit who looked both abashed and terrified. No sign of cheerleaders, but I suppose they don't attend graveside services in uniform.
I walked up to Tiffany Renee's mother and offered my condolences. She smiled at me tearfully. 'I don't believe we've met?' she said in that way that makes it a question. I cleared my throat and held out the bag in my hand.
'Tiffany Renee was a customer at my bookshop,' I offered. 'She had a truly inquiring mind. She ordered this book just a short while ago, and, well, I thought she would have wanted you to have it.' I watched as the Mrs Bryant took the coffee-table volume out of the bag and studied the cover rather wonderingly. She thanked me and I walked away.
Only to find Tiffany Renee Bryant standing beside me, looking rather attractive, I thought, in a very nice black lace dress and silver pendant. 'You had good taste,' I smiled. To my surprise, she smiled back - rather a nice smile, at that.
'Thanks,' she said. 'You were right, Mom just cried over this dress. And I took care of Justin and his skanky gf, too. But look at you - wow, you clean up good, for an old guy.' And I swear the little hussy blushed. 'Thanks for the book.' She held up the otherworld twin to the volume I had given her mother, Pirates of the Caribbean: A Collector's Edition. Her eyes shone. 'I'll treasure it.'
I waved my hand. 'Just a bit of a going-away present,' I muttered. 'You are going into the Light, aren't you?
She nodded. 'The funeral was great, and all, but these Jimmie Choos are made for walkin'...' She looked suddenly shy. 'They aren't really Jimmie Choos, just knock-offs.'
'Nobody would know,' I assured her. 'Good luck over there, and have fun.' She nodded and leaned so close to me I could smell her cologne.
And - I swear - she winked at me as she bounced into the Light, just a teenage girl off on a new adventure.
As I sat in Jenkins' comfortable chair with a good drink in my hand, I reflected, 'The Immature Ghost Self-Help Campaign is going pretty well so far.'
Jenkins nodded. 'You are still out the wholesale price of that book,' he pointed out.
I shrugged. 'Some overhead is to be expected.'
Jenkins scratched his head. 'Overhead, yes. But what did you get in return besides a warm, fuzzy feeling that you are keeping up with your television avatar?'
I grinned. 'A phantom kiss from a very nice young ghost,' I said.
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