Talking to the Dead

Talking to the dead is generally frustrating and sometimes enough to drive you mad.

They don’t remember anything, see. Well, no, they do remember their lives. Of course they remember their lives. If they didn’t remember their lives I don’t think they’d hang around as much as they tend to do. They’d wander. Haunt whatever home or hotel or, I don’t know, Bed Bath and Beyond they managed to drift into. Never knowing why. Never knowing they weren’t supposed to be there. Just, boo! Towels in aisle twelve.

The dead remember their lives but they don’t remember their deaths and they don’t remember whatever comes after it and that’s why getting them to pass is so damn hard. It’s like talking to that blue fish from that one kids movie, the one with all the fish. You’ve got to tell them, over and over and over, and hope they see the sails before everything washes away again. And it will wash away again.

Met this ghost in a brownstone in Queens. He’d been dead seventy-two years. Died in his sleep, in his recliner, in the middle of the summer in the years before air conditioning was even a dream. Heart couldn’t take the heat. Old geezer. Skin and bones. I must have talked to him for hours. All night, yes, all night, the sun was coming up before anything finally stuck.

“You’re dead, Otto.”

“Funny joke, sonny.”

“No joke. You died. Too hot.”

“If I’m dead, how am I here talking to you?”

“You missed the Styx Express, I’m afraid. It’s okay. It happens all the time.

“Bah. You’re crazy.”

“You’re crazy. And dead. What year do you think it is?”

“Nineteen-”

“Wrong. You’re already wrong. And dead. You’re crazy, and wrong, and dead.”

“If I’m dead, how did I die?”

“I already told you.”

“Told me what?”

“How you died?”

“Bah. Dead? You’re crazy.”

And on. And on. And on.

Sometimes I think these ghosts pass on just to get away from me. Fine. That works, too. It’s results. One less drifter.

I worry, of course, of course I worry. What if it happens to me? But then I think, no, no way. It won’t happen to me because I know. Most of the ghosts I meet died without knowing they died. You ever wonder why cancer wards aren’t haunted? Because they see it coming. Don’t matter if they make their peace or not, they know it’s coming. They die, they remember they died, and then the boat comes and they know to get on the boat.

The problems are the ones who don’t see it coming. Because they were asleep, like good old Otto, or it was sudden. Once had to talk to a ghost all while staring at the giant exit wound where her left eye had been. She’d been shopping in a bad neighborhood. The bullet hadn’t even been for her. Death had not been on her radar, and had come for her from behind, so she wasn’t ready. She kept telling me she needed to find a dress for her mother’s second wedding. She was so excited about getting her hair and makeup done, and the whole time I’m trying to tell her she could get a discount on account of only having half a face left. Wouldn’t believe me, some people guess, but that’s not it. Couldn’t believe it. Literally couldn’t. Because she couldn’t remember, forever. Finally told her they did nails on the boat.

I worry, of course, of course I worry that it could happen to me. But it won’t because I know. I’ve known about death since I was a kid. First one, then the other, and then years with nothing and then three foster siblings in under a year. Death kept catching up with me until finally I saw the career opportunity. People pay boo-koo bucks to get their dead relatives out of their house. For the dead, of course, I have it on good authority that the other side of that boat ride is a pretty sweet deal, and for themselves, too. Imagine losing someone and being stuck with the undying, un-remembering spirit of them for eternity.

Crazy is catching, kids. Remember that.

Remember it all, or you might not remember anything. Remember death. You have to, or it’ll haunt you. You’ll haunt it. You won’t remember to go.

I worry, of course, of course I worry that it could happen to me, but it won’t because I’ve been waiting for it my whole life. I won’t miss it. I’ll be ready.

I’ll remember. I’ll know when it happens, I will, I have to, and I’ll remember after it happens, and I’ll get on that boat. I’ll go over. I won’t get stuck here, forgetting, forgetting, forgetting. Waiting. Waiting for someone to talk to.

Talking to the dead is generally frustrating and sometimes enough to drive you mad.

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