One Ghost Per Serving
"Nina Post, author of paranormal comedy
The Last Condo Board of the Apocalypse
, returns to form, bringing another slice of her trademark humor, this time with added ghost. Hilarious and ridiculous, it's amazing how many obstacles Eric needs to crawl over to get his family back - being possessed really IS the least of his problems."
- Verity Linden
For Jeremy
And for Mom
“SHOT BOY!”
Eric Snackerge could easily disregard the warm hand sliding up his chest, but ignoring the ghost who ruined his life was far more difficult.
He set his tray on an unoccupied table and retied the vest that one of the women had yanked open. The two shreds of fabric barely covered his nipples, and connected across his chest with looped suede laces. Eric’s dark brown hair, cut short but bordering on floppy, dampened against milky skin and curled around a broad forehead, under his ear lobes, and into the down of his neck. From the front, his face resembled a traffic arrow, the square lines of his cheekbones jutting into the point of his square chin. Big eyes the color of a Pennsylvania quarry pool blazed with grim determination and a tinge of desperation under dark, gently curved eyebrows.
“Get back here, sexy.” A bangled arm extended, hand clutching like one of those carnival claws closing on a stuffed animal, then beckoning like an invitation to a kung-fu fight, which was what his job often resembled. Eric retied the laces on his matching brown suede short-shorts, which exposed the top edges of his hip bones and approximately 97% of his legs. He suspected his manager deliberately used laces that couldn’t actually be tied, and wondered exactly how much work time was lost over the constant retying.
He saw the ghost in his peripheral vision as he took the tray back to the bar and rolled his eyes.
The ghost, who liked to go by “Rex,” would be average weight if he took on a substantive form. He was a few inches shorter than Eric’s six-foot-two height, and was wearing his usual long-sleeved, frayed-collar shirt over a t-shirt, jeans, and Chukka boots. His hair was longish and almost reached his shoulders. Only Eric had the dubious honor of seeing him, though even to Eric, Rex had the faded, oddly monochromatic look of an instant photo from the seventies that was left out in the sun.
“Hey, what are you doing later?” Rex said.
“Let me finish my shift,” Eric said through clenched jaws in a practiced whisper. The table of girls’ weekend “girls” whooped and hooted at his return.
“What else can I get you, ladies?” Eric said with a coy smile, hating himself.
“I’ll tell you what you can get me,” Cheetah Blouse – with cheetah purse and two pairs of sunglasses on the top of her head – said.
“Where do I start?” Big Hair asked.
“More of you,” Blonde Helmet said in a purr as she reached up for Eric’s brown plush deer antlers.
“Round of kamikazes!” Sequin Tank said.
“Keep ‘em comin’,” Tired Eyes said.
Eric grabbed the tray and did a little spin by the table, which was met with much fanfare. If his dignity were a battery icon, it would be a sliver of red. He felt more and more disconnected from himself with every shift he worked at the overpriced hunting lodge-style restaurant called The Buckhead. Maybe he should get another grill cook job like he had at Sammy’s, but this one paid too well in tips to stop right now.
Eric let out a long breath as he ducked into the tiny office by the kitchen and shut the door. He opened his laptop, logged in, maximized an open file, and wrote one more sentence in the family Christmas newsletter:
Eric continues to work in the paralegal field and to row with the Bluefin Rowing Club.
Lies.
Rex phased through the door, leaned over, and squinted at the screen. “That’s sad in so many ways. And your family doesn’t deserve a newsletter.”
“It goes to Willa’s family, too.” Eric heard the women shouting for him, but they could wait a few more minutes. He typed,
Willa is the most popular HVAC instructor at Wallstown Technical College and is pursuing the title of Certified Master HVACR Educator, her field’s highest credential.
True.
“True enough,” Rex said. “Wish I could say the same for the previous entry.”
“Why are you in here?” Eric said.
From the dining area, Eric could hear “SHOT BOY!”
Rex straightened and crossed his arms. “Why do you put up with this?”
Eric flipped open his wallet and a waterfall of plastic-covered wallet photos cascaded down. “For them.”
“Great. That would stop a bullet from embedding in your ass. What else is it good for?” Rex said. “You’re working so much that the people in those photos are going to turn into abstract concepts. But at least you’re not in roller skates, right?”
Eric turned back to his laptop and in a standing position typed,
Our Taffy is at the top of her seventh grade class and intends to be the world’s foremost expert in epidemiology and bicycle repair
. True.
“What the hell do you know about it,
ghost
?” Eric said. Rex hated it when Eric called him ‘ghost.’ He thought it was condescending and dismissive, which was why Eric used it. “Everything I do is for them, including wearing these antlers.”
“WE WANT KAMIKAZES!” At the table-pounding, Eric closed his laptop. He walked past Rex and went behind the bar to pour another round of shots.
The women huddled up at the table, leaning in close, eyes darting to the bar.
“He is
delicious
. Those long legs that go on forever –”
“Those long
lashes
–”
“That tight ass –”
They tittered and took furtive glances.
“He’s married,” Blonde Helmet said with authority.
“No!” A chorus.
“Little blonde with all the height and charm of Napoleon,” Blonde Helmet added. “Teaches air conditioning or some such thing.”
“He’s got a daughter, too,” Cheetah Blouse said. “Her mother’s daughter.” Her brow arched and she dropped her voice. “Meaning, a bad attitude. My son had a skirmish with her in the hobby store over their last jar of candy-red waterproof enamel paint, and he was lucky to escape without a broken bone –”
They fell relatively quiet as Eric approached.
“By your command, my ladies.” Eric set the shots down in a line. They were snatched away and put back empty in seconds.
“Jell-O shots this time,” Sequin Tank said, her voice slurring. “And faster.”
Eric saluted her with a sly smile and a wink. He took the tray back to the bar.
“Oh, my heart,” she said with a sigh, and fell back in her seat. Big Teeth grabbed her arm and they laughed.
Rex had taken a seat on one of the tall stools at the bar. Eric started to prepare the new round of shots. The front door opened with a bell jingle and a group of well-groomed men in suits waited to be seated.
“Great. That’s exactly what I need right now,” Eric said, pained.
Rex looked over his shoulder. “The suits?”
“Lawyers at the firm where I used to work.”
“Oh,
that
one?” Rex said, eyes widening.
“Yeah. That one.”
“It’s your lucky day.” Rex turned back around to the bar. “They’re coming over here. Feel free to projectile vomit.”
The suits clustered around the bar and ordered drinks. One of them, the alpha of the group, raised his chin at Eric in greeting. The other suits took a few seconds longer to recognize Eric.
“Look who it is, Mark,” Striped Tie said to the alpha. “Our paralegal.”
“Former paralegal,” Chronograph Watch said. “Been a while.”
“
This
is what you’re doing now?” Striped Tie said to Eric.
“JELL-O SHOTS! JELL-O SHOTS!”
“Yoohoo, shot boy!”
Eric’s smile didn’t reach his eyes and he felt every inch of his antlers. They did not feel good. “Yep.” He filled a shot glass. “This is what I’m doing now.”
“Good for you,” Chronograph Watch said. “It looks really …” He shot a derisive glance at the girls’ weekend table. “Fulfilling.”
Eric kept smiling, a tight half-smile that was more like a wince. He thought of a movie he had watched with Taffy about a dancer with red shoes who had to keep dancing. He was a waiter/bartender with a slutty outfit who had to keep serving.
Rex stood behind Chronograph and probed his ear with a fingertip. Chronograph scrunched up his face. Rex did it again. The lawyer rubbed at his ear.
Eric took the tray of shots from behind the bar and served the women. When he came back to the bar, Striped Tie stopped him with a hand. “What happened to you, man?” He gestured at Eric’s outfit: his laced vest, his shorts, his deer antlers.
“Hey, be our waiter,” Thin Nose said.
Mark Bollworm, the alpha of the suits, maneuvered the other lawyers toward the dining area of the overpriced hunting lodge restaurant. “He’s got a private party,” Mark said. One of the lawyers smacked Eric on the ass. “Awesome career change, buddy. Really strategic.”
Mark cocked a finger at Eric. “Catch you later.” Eric nodded.
When the lawyers were gone, Eric slumped to the floor behind the bar. His girls’ weekend table was busy regaling a complicated tale about how certain people knew one another.
The ghost knelt down next to him. “Come to my meeting tonight.”
Eric held his head in his hands. “What meeting?” His voice was muffled.
“My recovery meeting at the junior/senior school,” Rex said. “It’s a support group for ghosts, spirits, apparitions, what-have-you, who want to get the courage to stop possessing. It would mean a lot to me if you were there. As my sponsor.”
Eric opened a jar of maraschino cherries, stabbed two with a green plastic cocktail sword, and aggressively tore them off with his teeth.
Rex tried again. “You, of all people, should want to support my recovery.”
“SHOT BOY!”
Eric screwed the top back on the cherries and sighed. “No way.”
“Why not?”
“I have to help Taffy with her science fair project.”
Rex laughed. “Taffy could go into space tomorrow without anyone’s help, least of all yours.”
