By Mark Abdon
Ghosts fall into three categories. Frightening. Friendly. Mischievous. My ghost isn’t any of these. I’m stuck with a boring ghost. That might sound humorous to you. Trust me – it’s not.
Say I come home from the grocery store.
“Did you pick up a box of instant mashed potatoes?”
“What?” I manage, as I heft four paper grocery bags onto the dining room table, just before the handles break. He does not offer to help.
“Instant mashed potatoes,” my ghost insists, hopeful eyes now peering up from his crossword puzzle.
“No. What? No. Was it on the list?”
“No.”
“Then how would I know to – wait, do you even eat food?”
“No.”
“Then why – ugh. You make no sense.” I regret it as soon as I say it. My ghost’s face grows long, like it might droop to the floor. Then, without another word, he sulks down the hall. I hear the click of the guest bedroom door, his usual haunt.
Or say I come home from a job interview.
I toss my keys on the dining room table. They slide with cool grace right to the edge without falling to the floor. Right in front of my ghost. But he’s buried in the newspaper.
“Fire down on 79th yesterday.”
“I think I nailed this one.”
“Lots of people died.”
“Said they’d call me back by the end of the week.”
“They’re investigating for arson.”
“Said I seemed like a good cultural fit.”
“Wonder if any of them will be stuck here? Ghosts like me.” He still doesn’t look up.
I yank down the paper, crushing the middle into a ‘V’ with an impatient right hand.
“Hey, did you hear what I said? Do you even care about my life?”
“Do you even care about my death?” he wails, splayed hand on his chest, like he’s reciting The Pledge of Allegiance.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
But before I know it, he’s sagging back down the hallway, a deflated parade blimp.
I don’t know why he showed up in the first place. I don’t know how to get rid of him. I’m not really good at this whole thing – having a ghost. A selfish ghost with poor conflict resolution skills.
One thing I do know. I’m not moving. That’s what all my friends suggest. But I’m too competitive. I can’t let him win.
We eat our meals in silence. Or I eat. He just sits there, pouring tomato soup from a lofted spoon through a translucent hand. It all lands back in the bowl. His one parlor trick.
I don’t know how to climb out of these worn grooves.
Then it comes to me.
I’ll say We need to talk.
And then, when his cow-eyes fill with wonder and dread, I won’t meet them. I’ll look straight through him and fix on our refrigerator magnet from that trip to Mackinac Island. Then I’ll say This isn’t working.
But look. Look what I’ve said. Our refrigerator magnet.
Hailing from Indianapolis, Indiana, Mark Abdon is fairly new to the publication scene. His stories are popping up in places like The Pinch Journal, Catamaran, X-R-A-Y, Chautauqua and others. He is a Professor of English/Writing at Indiana Wesleyan University and reads for Harvard Review. Connect on socials: @markabdonwrites.
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