One Ghost Per Serving (2 page)

There was one thing in the world that Eric never, ever wanted to happen again, and that was getting possessed, so attending a meeting of creatures just like Rex would be the stupidest thing he could ever do. What better way to put himself in the position to get possessed? ‘Oh, we’re out of stale donuts, may as well possess that sad-sack human over there.’

“The sun will burn out before I sit in a room full of spirits like you for an hour,” Eric said, jaw tight. “Besides, one of the cooks at Sammy’s went crazy and checked himself into a mental hospital in the Poconos. I’ve got to cover his shift.”

“SHOT BOY!”

Eric grabbed a bottle and stood up as though he’d been looking for it this whole time.

“TEQUILA!”

He held up a bottle of Patrón and the women at the table cheered. His tip was still safe, and now he could sell them top-shelf liquor.

“If you’re so afraid of it happening again, why do you still talk to me?” Rex asked. Eric poured the liquor into the glasses, back straight, shoulders and elbows up. He wanted to be free of Rex. But if he were being honest with himself, he would acknowledge that maybe he also
didn’t
want to be free of Rex, and doubted it was even possible, anyway.

Once his shift ended, Eric headed toward the back office. He passed the suits at their table and overheard them talking about what they were buying for their families. One was buying a bigger house, one an expensive refrigerator, one a vacation. Eric felt like a total failure. It could have been him, sitting at that table of douchebags, giving his family the kind of things he wanted to give them. But it wasn’t him at that table. No, he was the one wearing the short-shorts, who wasn’t doing anything for his family. With a sigh, he reached up and ripped off his antlers.

“Want another round? It’s on Nidus!” Chronograph said.

“Yeah, but we just lost the Kehoe account,” Red Hair said. “Nidus is 72% of our revenue now. We lose them, we’re screwed. Maybe we shouldn’t …”

“Dude!” Striped Tie held up his drink. “I didn’t come here to pay for my own lunch. Besides, I just bought a sailboat.”

Last Christmas, Eric had resorted to winning a goldfish and a panda bear at the carnival for Taffy, and going to the college’s fire sale of old equipment to find a gift for Willa.

Eric ducked into the tiny employees’ closet again with relief. His shift was finally over. Shutting the door didn’t stop Rex from coming in. “Do you mind? I have to change,” Eric said. Rex shrugged, then phased out the door. Not for the first time, Eric wondered what it was like to be someone who didn’t have a symbiotic, co-dependent relationship with a ghost – and who could just buy a fancy new oven like it was nothing. He’d probably never find out. He quickly changed into his battered chinos and New Balance sneakers, then pulled on a
Prevent Clostridium Perfringens Fun Run
t-shirt. He and Taffy had gone into the city to run that. It was one of his favorite well-worn memories, and he liked to wear the shirt as a talisman, which obviously didn’t work.

Rex reappeared. “My recovery meeting –”

“Not this again.”

Rex kept one arm across his chest, and gestured with the other. “My recovery meeting does not necessarily conflict with your shift at the diner. Besides, we’re flexible. I’m sure the others would be willing to change the schedule to accommodate you. Though, truth be told, we’re there most of the time.”

“I don’t think you realize how creepy that sounds.” Eric took a yogurt from the mini-fridge, peeled off the top, and licked off the yogurt from the foil lid. He tossed the foil on the desk in front of Rex, who picked it up and turned it over. There was an indecipherable glyph on the top of the foil. Rex chuckled like it was a witty one-liner and set the foil lid back down. Then, Rex flicked the edge of a photo of Eric and his family – his wife, Willa, and his daughter, Taffy – on a camping trip, and held it up to Eric. Taffy resembled Harrison Ford in
The Mosquito Coast
, her expression not proud but intense and almost threatening. She held a large bass mid-wriggle on a spear like she was threatening any bass who might be thinking of messing with her. Willa was in a chair, doing something for work.

“Your wife doesn’t look happy in this photo,” Rex pointed out.

“She hates to be anywhere that doesn’t have air conditioning.”

“Then why did you take them camping?”

“Taffy wanted to try it,” Eric said.

“I’d say that Taffy doesn’t look very happy either, but that’s how she always looks,” Rex said. “Usually without the fish.”

“You can’t realistically expect my family to look cheerful all the time,” Eric said.

There was a knock on the door. “Yeah?” Eric called out as he scraped the spoon around the inside of the yogurt container.

“It’s Mark.”

Eric opened the door.

“We’re about to take off, get back to the office,” Mark said. “You want to bowl a few frames later?”

“You bet,” Eric said.

Mark shut the door behind him.

Rex sneered. “I suppose you’re going to go to the bowling center with your tangible friend instead of my crucially important recovery meeting? Even though he
also
reminds you of something painful from your past? That sound fair to you?”

Eric put on his backpack.

“Do you want me to possess someone else?” Rex said. “It could happen.”

“That’s not funny.” Eric hooked his thumbs under the front straps.

“Not trying to be funny. Look, I have a problem, I admit it. So don’t go to the group for me. Go for the next poor bastard with low self-esteem. Because I’ve got a type.”

Eric wanted to punch Rex in the face, not for the first time. Rex tended to dematerialize when he saw a fist coming, and Eric didn’t want to fall through him. Without even looking at Rex, Eric left the small break room and locked the door behind him.

“Oh, you’re ignoring me now?” Rex phased through the door and followed Eric. “That’s right, push me away, until you decide you need my support!”

On the way out, one of the women gave Eric a wolf whistle and stuffed a piece of paper in his shorts. A phone number, he knew without looking.

Eric wished he could trade in every phone number and whistle and ass pat for something he could give Taffy so she would like him again, even for a minute.

Eric flicked up his bike’s kickstand with his foot, settled onto the seat, and inserted his earbuds with a fleeting thought to how Taffy would disapprove of him listening to music while riding his bike.
He turned on his music player to the local radio station and listened to the male broadcaster’s steady drone of a voice, which he found soothing.

“It’s two-thirty in Jamesville. Some announcements: the crowning of Miss Crayfish and the Crayfish Parade will take place next weekend. Stay tuned for an interview with the Parade Trustee of fruits and vegetables. The Elks Club fish fry is Friday at six p.m. and the Methodist Church pancake supper and book fair is Saturday starting at five p.m. Remember, deer season begins on Monday. Carol Kean saw a six point buck in her backyard.”

Eric kept one leg on the white gravel that lined the restaurant parking lot. He paused the player, then opened another yogurt. He licked off the foil top and put it in his backpack. Then he took out his cell phone and dialed the number for a faculty member of the Department of Food Science at the nearby university.

“Hello, this is Dr. Johnson. Can I help you?”

Eric didn’t respond right away. It was his ninth call to that number, and he was taken aback that the line was answered. He had pictured a lone, unattended phone in a locked, windowless room, ringing endlessly.

“I’m calling to see if you would do a talk at my daughter’s birthday party,” Eric said after a moment.

“I don’t normally do that,” Dr. Johnson said.

“I don’t normally go on vacation, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t,” Eric said.

“You do realize that I teach food safety.”

“My daughter, Taffy, has a calendar from your department, and an autographed photo of you in her room, so it would make her really happy if you would –”

A squirrel pawed at his heel. “Sonofa – !” Eric shook it off.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Eric said, checking his heel. “I’d be willing to pay for your time, of course. How about, ah, fifty dollars for one hour?” Even that much was uncomfortable, but if it would please Taffy, that was enough justification.

“Fifty dollars for one hour?” Dr. Johnson said. “Ha! To do what?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “To talk about food-borne pathogens at her birthday party.”

There was a long pause. “Did you hear what you just said?”

“I know it seems crazy, but –”

“How old is this girl?”

“She’s twelve.” Eric felt a rush of pride in Taffy and smiled. She was like the master of an alien race who deigned him and Willa to be appropriate parental beards for her plan of world domination.

“My usual speaking fee is five hundred dollars. And I’m very busy.”

The professor took Eric’s mood and scraped coarse sandpaper over it.
This jerk didn’t even care about Taffy’s poster,
Eric thought. Who did he think he was, the most popular boy band in the world? Even the most popular boy band in the world would summon up a superficial enthusiasm over someone’s daughter displaying their poster.

Eric squeezed the handlebars until his knuckles turned white.

“Why aren’t you excited to get a group of middle-schoolers enthused about food safety? That’s a perfect age to stoke their interest in science!” Taffy’s interest was already stoked, and Eric couldn’t imagine anyone except Taffy being remotely interested in food safety … and he was pretty sure it would be a bummer at a party, but still.

The professor cleared his throat. “I would consider rearranging my schedule for a speaking fee of three hundred dollars.”

Eric couldn’t afford that. Even if he could, he wouldn’t pay it. “My mistake. I thought you were an educator.” With incredible restraint, he managed to not throw the phone in the dumpster. He wanted to get this done. Time for the backup. Calling this number was the last thing he wanted to do after a shift like that, but he pictured two versions of Taffy at her birthday party: one happy with the speaker and with him; the other one sorely disappointed. He called the number. Two assistants and one confused janitor later, he reached the environmental microbiologist he had called.

“Hey Dan, it’s, ah, Eric. Eric Snackerge.”

“Eric Snackerge!” Eric pressed his eyes closed, bracing himself. “Most Likely to Be a Supreme Court Justice AND Male Pinup of 2001. Are you clerking or what?”

Eric spun a pedal with his foot. “Or what. Listen, Dan, I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

“You’re still an environmental microbiologist?” Eric knew full well he was. He had seen him on CNN talking about consulting on a movie and getting invited to Necker Island.

“Yeah, why?”

“My daughter Taffy’s birthday is coming up, and it would be great if you could make an appearance to talk about foodborne pathogens.”

Silence. He was getting used to this.

“For a birthday party? Are you sure?”

“You could talk about whatever,” Eric said. “If you don’t want to get into pathogens.”

“No, I love pathogens.” He laughed. “That came out wrong, didn’t it?”