by Rob Rosen
“Max,” Clark said. “Max lived here. Before me. Before he—”
“Died.” Voltan closed his eyes, put his index fingers to his temples. “Yes, he is here. He is not alone. There is another, another who has died far too young. He is the one who seeks your help.”
I whooshed to Voltan, my face in front of his. “Can you hear me? My name is Nord. I was murdered yesterday. I need Clark’s help to break into my work computer, to retrieve a document.”
Voltan blinked. Voltan had eyes the color of emeralds. Voltan smiled. Somewhere there was an orthodontist with a rather large trophy case. And, yet, he didn’t reply.
I looked back at Max. “I don’t think he can hear me.”
Voltan shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way, spirit. The connection is not tangible. It is not as it was when you were alive.”
Max flew to my side. “Meaning, we can’t talk to him. Our voices can’t reach his ears.”
“But he knows we’re here,” I said. “He knows we need his help, Clark’s help.”
Voltan nodded. “I sense you,” he said, as if in reply. “I feel your pain. I feel your need. I feel your desperation.”
Clark’s eyes were still wide. Clark’s knee was madly bouncing. “What is it?” he asked. “What are they saying?”
Voltan shrugged. “They’re bright spirits,” he said with a smile. “They can figure it out.”
I snapped my fingers. Or tried to. “Whoopi,” I said.
“Whoopi,” Max said.
“Whoopi,” Voltan said.
“What?” Clark said, just as I whooshed again, this time into Voltan’s body, much like Patrick Swayze’s character had whooshed into Whoopi’s character in Ghost.
BOOM!
That’s the sound that one soul makes when it slams into another soul, and then both souls are jammed and crammed and packed into one human body. It’s like when stars collide.
I was looking through Voltan’s eyes. I felt alive again. Crowded, but alive. I wiggled Voltan’s hands, his toes. I felt his knee. It seemed my soul had overpowered his, supplanted it in a way, as if the body could only have one master. Though I could feel him trying to push me out, evict me, as it were, and so my time was apparently limited.
“Clark,” I said, the voice sounding odd, what with it not being mine, and all.
He blinked. He knew it wasn’t Voltan speaking anymore. You could see it in his eyes, the fear, the disbelief, the curiosity. And then I told him the whole short, tragic story, ending it with my desperate need for help, plus my work log-in and password. Well, actually, I ended it when I said, “And stop jacking off so much. Go on a date. Meet people. Life is short. Life can be made even shorter. Trust me; I knoooow.” I drew out the last word, making it sound all spooky-like for effect. Because even the dead can be overly dramatic.
POP!
That’s the sound that’s made when a soul leaves a body. Or at least that’s what I heard.
I whooshed to Max’s side. Voltan blinked and shook like a dog coming out of the rain. “Well,” he said, “that was…interesting.”
Clark also blinked. That’s about all Clark did. Clark was clearly still in shock. The dead had spoken to him. The dead were asking him for his help. The dead were watching him jack-off. Shock was probably a gross understatement.
Clark opened his mouth. Clark closed his mouth. Clark finally spoke. “Was that…was that for real?”
Voltan nodded. “He seems desperate.” Max and I nodded in sync with him. “Can you help? Will you help?”
Clark rose. Clark paced. Clark was wasting valuable time.
“Hurry!” I shouted.
“Hurry!” Max shouted.
Voltan stared our way, then Clark’s. He again seemed to sense our desperation. You could see it in his face. “It’s dangerous,” he said to Clark. “A man was murdered. A man you don’t even know.” He stood. He walked over to Clark. Their eyes locked. “I’ll help, Clark. You don’t have to do this alone.” He reached out and took Clark’s hand in his. “But you have to hurry. Every second counts here.”
“Every!” I shouted.
“Every!” Max echoed.
Because there was one of those gross understatements again. The grossest, in fact. I mean, for all we knew, my work computer had already been confiscated by the police, or the file removed, my one clue gone forever, my murder left unsolved, my poof nowhere in sight.
“Okay,” Clark said.
“Really?” Voltan, Max, and I all said in unison, dumbfounded minds clearly thinking alike.
“Provided…” added Clark.
Max and I whooshed closer in. Provided? I was murdered, and this guy was cutting deals?
“Provided?” Voltan, Max, and I all said in unison, the second-hand ticking all too fast on my hurry-the-fuck-up watch.
Clark looked nervous but managed a grin. “Um, provided you go on a date with me.”
I rolled my eyes. Sure, I was the one who told him to date, but I didn’t mean right at that very moment. That is to say, find my fucking killer first, then pop open a nice bottle of zin and light a romantic candle or two. Geez. In any case, I was waiting for an answer on bated breath—had I been able to breathe, or bate for that matter, but still.
Voltan smiled. “It’s the turban, right? Gets ‘em every time.”
Max looked my way. “Is no one understanding the urgency here?”
I nodded and moved in two more feet, then punched my hand through Voltan’s chest. FYI, he more than flinched. FYI, someone cried like a little baby.
“Fine!” the medium shouted as he winced. “Fine! Stop that.” He rubbed his chest. “I’ll go on a date with you, Clark. Just, please, try and access the dead guy’s computer.”
I didn’t like being called the dead guy, but I allowed it, just so long as we were moving things forward. As for Clark, that grin of his grew quite a bit brighter. Score one for me. Too bad I was still a few hundred points in the hole. Too bad I was too, or soon would be.
We watched as our newfound friend and hopeful savior raced to his computer, then typed fast as lightning, his fingers a blur atop the keyboard. I stared, eyes wide. It was good I no longer had a heart because it would’ve burst in anticipation.
“I’m in,” he said, a minute later.
He was smiling, then he wasn’t. I was smiling, then I wasn’t. The file, last I’d seen it, was on the screen. Now the screen was on the screen, a stock photo of a beach I’d never get to see there instead. Clark knew the name of the file. I’d told it to him when I was doing the whole medium possession schtick. He was clearly looking for it, moving folder to folder.
“Where is it?” Voltan asked.
I pointed my translucent finger his way, wagging it as I did so. “Yeah, what he said.”
Clark turned in my direction. “They copied it and deleted it. All of Nord’s files are gone.”
I gulped. Or tried. I’d have to learn to stop trying; it was fairly depressing.
Voltan moved his face closer to the screen. “But the computer wasn’t put back to the factory setting.” He pointed to the icons, to the folders, all now empty. “So…”
Clark turned his face to the side. The two men were eye to eye. I’d seen that look before, the look moving back and forth between them, knowingly, eager for the next look, and the look after that. PS, now was so not the time for it. “So,” said Clark, “the files were deleted, but perhaps not irrevocably.” His smile returned as he tickled Voltan’s chinny-chin-chin. “Smart and pretty.”
A slight blush rose up the side of Voltan’s neck. “And don’t forget clairvoyant.” The look lingered, got volleyed back. “And ditto.” And my hand again poked through the medium’s arm. “Ow!” shouted the pretty and smart clairvoyant. “Okay, okay.” He pointed at the screen again. “Can you retrieve what’s been deleted?”
Clark turned back to the screen and nodded. “Yeah, I think so. Nothing really ever gets deleted. Pretty much everything is retrievable.”
; I thought of me. I thought of Max. Nothing really ever gets deleted. Give me a break. In any case, Clark’s fingers were again a blur as three faces pressed in tight around him.
“There!” I shouted, many minutes later. “There it is!”
I poked Voltan. He grimaced. “I see it,” he said, rubbing his arm. “Please stop doing that.”
Clark again looked his way. “The dead are restless?”
Voltan sighed. “The dead are annoying.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “you try getting shot in the back, then we’ll talk.”
My face moved in. It was directly in front of the screen. I could see my file. It was down the line of a long list. I could see when it was created.”
“Yup,” I said.
“What’s yup?” said Max.
I looked his way. “Just as I remembered, the document was created two years ago. So, again, why is someone so interested in it now, enough to kill over it?”
Chapter 3
We were back at Arby’s before we could say another word.
Max looked at me and grabbed my hand. “The Energizer Bunny we are not.”
When I was in Voltan, I was hooked into his power supply, but outside, nope, nothing. Then it was just a constant, steady drain. In any case, I shook my head. It kept on shaking. For the life of me, and the death, I couldn’t remember creating that financial document. Then again, I’d created hundreds of documents over the years; that one might have taken me all of thirty minutes: twenty to collect the data, ten to populate the file. But what did I do with it next? And was it even me who created it in the first place?
“Do you think Clark could be in danger now?” he asked. “I mean, he accessed the document that got you…um…you know.”
I did know. God, how I knew. “The document was deleted. The murderer wouldn’t know Clark accessed a deleted file or couldn’t trace said file back to Clark’s computer.”
He nodded. “Probably, but still…”
My nod mirrored his. He was right, of course, but the risk seemed low. “On the bright side, our lonely and oh-so-frequent solo-masturbator now has a date.”
“With a diminutive man in a turban.”
I grinned. “He’s cute, though. And surprisingly legit. I would’ve bet they were all scammers. Funny how you have to die to prove otherwise.” Though not funny in any sort of way I might have enjoyed. “In any case, we have a financial document that I can’t remember creating or receiving, and have no idea how it could’ve got me killed. And I doubt a computer whizz and a medium-sized medium, cute or not, could figure out the why any better than we could—or couldn’t.”
He was suddenly grinning. Then again, that was pretty much the norm in Arby’s. “Not like we don’t have other options.” He pointed all around. FYI, all around was literally all eternity. “Maybe someone else can help.”
Max had been the only person/spirit I’d talked to. Then again, I’d only been sort of dead for barely a day, and had been, to be put it mildly, sort of busy. “You want to ask for help?”
He shrugged. “Not like anyone here has that much else to do.”
“Worth a shot.” I winced. All things considered, not the best choice of words. In any case, I cupped my hands over my mouth and hollered, “Did anyone have an accounting or financial degree when they were alive? We need some help!”
Max also cupped his hands over his mouth. “In the last ten years!” He again glanced my way. “Some of these people have been dead as far back as the abacus.”
All heads looked our way. Well, not all. I mean, our voices only travelled so far, but enough, enough people’s heads turned our way, as well as a vast number of hooded pee-pees and bushes of every size and shape and color. Or, um, every size of triangle and every shade of red, blonde, black, and brown, but still.
A few people headed our way. Not surprisingly, they were smiling. I supposed it was unusual to be needed in Arby’s, which might have caused the smiles, but, then again, everyone was already smiling, so it was more likely that. Still, the three eagerly moved in our direction.
“Hi,” said the first person to reach us. She was a pretty woman, very Julia Roberts looking. It was the closest to a naked woman I’d been since, well, since I was born. I’d come out of a vagina; I’d met my quota. “I had an MBA from Harvard Business School and had my own accounting firm.”
A man reached us a few seconds later. He was skinny, nebishy. He looked like an accountant, if an account had a look. Considering he was indeed an accountant, it seemed accountants did have a look, namely his. “I was the head of the accounting department of a Fortune 500 company. I also solved math problems in my spare time.” See, nebishy. I mean, a stereotype has to come from somewhere.
The third man was standing in front of us before we could reply to the first two. He was tall. Like New York Knicks tall. He was broad. Like San Francisco 49ers broad. He was handsome. Like Hollywood actor handsome. And he was hung like if you took a New York Knick, a San Francisco 49er, and a Hollywood actor and you combined all their tall, broad, handsome dicks into one. Somewhere there was a rather large horse whinnying in jealousy.
“I did the books for a gay porn company.”
I shook his hand. “You’re hired.”
“Shallow much?” said Max out of the corner of his mouth.
I nodded. “I never learned how to swim.” And now I never would. Sad. So sad. “The shallow end is easier not to drown in, by the way.” Well, at least that’s not how I died. Glass half full—if I had something to fill it with, that is.
The other two momentarily stopped smiling, but only momentarily. I guessed they realized that work was still work and that hanging out in Arby’s was probably better than whatever we actually needed help with.
Our almost friends left. The behemoth stayed. I shook his hand. I stared at his dick until Max elbowed me in what would’ve been my ribs, had I still had any. “Suddenly,” I said, “I know what a moth feels like when it encounters a flame.”
The giant giggled. It seemed out of place. Like a semi-truck making a tricycle noise when it beeped. I had a feeling he was stared at a lot in life; why should the next act in his play be any different?
“Bruce,” he said.
A gay muscle-guy named Bruce who giggled. See, there’s that stereotype conundrum again. Turned out, he was from near where I lived, the same age, too. Seemed fate was having some fun with us. Anyway, I told him about our other conundrum, namely my death and the document that held the clue to said death.
“Can you help?” I asked him.
He cocked his head. He cocked his cock. Somewhere there was a whale missing an appendage. Poor whale. Lucky us. “From here? Do they have Internet? Did I miss the memo? Would’ve been nice to know; I only had three more levels of Candy Crush to go before…”
I knew of before. Mainly because my before had barely been a white-hot-minute earlier. And so I also told him about Clark and the diminutive medium who looked like the certain movie star.
“I thought that was all a bunch of hokum,” he said. “Mediums, I mean.”
I shrugged. “Maybe all you need is a turban.” I held Max’s hand. I held Bruce’s. Bruce’s was twice the size of mine. Bruce was twice the size of everything. Everywhere. I bet Bruce never fell down in life, mainly because he had a built-in kickstand. “Want to come see for yourself?”
He nodded. That’s all it took. One moment Arby’s, the next, Earth.
“Whoa,” Bruce said. “I thought I could only go to my old haunts.” He giggled again. The sound was growing on me. “Hey, look how that word works now. Haunts. Who knew?”
Yeah, who knew? I sighed. Or once again tried to. Voltan and Clark were on the couch. Voltan seemed to hear my attempted sigh. Or at least felt our presence.
“There are three now,” he proclaimed, very theatrically, index finger aimed upward.
Bruce looked my way. “Hey, he can see us!”
I shook my head. “Feel only.” Now it my turn to giggle. I
floated over to the psychic and poked him in the arm. Voltan jumped. “See,” I added.
Voltan hopped off the couch. “You will need to stop doing that.” I poked him again. “Please.” He turned to Clark. “They brought a third. The third can possibly make sense of the document you retrieved.”
Clark grinned. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk like Alexa.”
Voltan blinked. “Really?”
Clark nodded. “It’s kind of sexy. Adds gravitas to the situation.”
“Gravitas!” I shouted. “I was fucking murdered, you moron. How much more gravitas do you fucking need, fuckwad?!”
Voltan looked my way. “The recently dead are pissed.”
“Duh,” duhed I, then pushed the medium to the chair in front of the computer, the computer with my file on it, the file that held the clue to my murder, the murder that was making me PISSED! Again, duh.
“I believe,” said Voltan, “I need to scroll through the document so that that third spirit can review it.” I poked him. Max poked him. Bruce poked him. An arm was rubbed, namely Voltan’s. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Clark looked around. “Can you guys do that poking thing to me, too?”
I grinned. “Doubtful, but I’ll try.” I whooshed over to him. I poked him. Nothing happened. Max repeated the gesture and got the same result.
“No,” said the medium. “You must be in-tune with the dead.”
Clark grinned. “There’s that Alexa thing again.”
Voltan shrugged. “Helps with the Yelp reviews.” He turned for a moment and nodded in our general direction. “To explain, I died in infancy. One of those freak accidents. My mom turned away for only a second. I fell. I was blue. I maybe had a second left to spare before I came back. Best guess, that’s what did it, the in-tune thing.”
“Your poor mother,” said Clark.
Voltan shrugged and again stared at the screen. “She made the turban. She takes credit for this gift of mine. She’s been trying to get me on TV for years. So, trust me, she’s not fretting over it.”