Hey! I’m on Tv!
In retrospect, Richard felt kind of bad about how close the plate had come to Martha’s head. In life he hadn’t been short-tempered. He’d always been able to take consolation in the fact that today’s frustrations could be turned into next week’s stand-up comedy.
But his current situation didn’t strike him as particularly funny.
He took a shower to wash away the grime of the kitchen floor, although the grime of the shower tiles prevented him from feeling clean. It made him wonder again just how long he’d been dead. Veronica had been such a neat freak. The shower tiles used to sparkle. How long would it take to build up so many layers of soap scum and mildew?
He got out of the shower and toweled himself dry. He thought he heard something like footsteps in the hall. Had Martha come back? They sounded too heavy for Martha.
A voice called out, “Anybody here?”
“Yes!” said Richard, bounding out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around him.
Two police officers stood in the door of the bedroom. The first one, a middle-aged black man, crept into the room cautiously, seemingly oblivious to Richard. He was followed by a young Hispanic woman who seemed much more relaxed.
“Search the closet,” the man said, pulling out his flashlight and lowering himself to his knees. He clicked the light on and looked under the bed.
The woman shrugged and went to the open closet door. She half-heartedly pushed the clothes around with her flashlight.
“Look at the size of these pants,” she said. “Whoever lives here must be a real lard-bucket.”
“I don’t suppose you can see me,” Richard said, waving his hand in front of the woman’s face. She turned from the closet and walked through him.
“Just testing,” he said.
“Why are we wasting our time with this?” the woman asked.
“It’s our job,” said the man, sounding annoyed.
From outside, there was the sound of squealing tires, followed quickly by a slamming car door.
“Martha,” Henry screamed, bursting through the front door.
The older cop stepped into the hallway, his gun drawn. “Freeze!” he shouted.
“Don’t shoot!” Henry cried out from the hallway. “I live here! What’s happened to my wife?”
“She’s OK,” said the woman, cautiously slipping past her partner. “Just stay calm. I believe that you live here, but we’re going to need to see some ID.”
Richard followed to watch events unfold, toweling his hair dry. No one seemed to see a towel floating in mid-air. He wished he understood the rules of this ghost business a little better. This bit about being able to touch stuff unless someone was looking at it…
Was that it? Was it as simple as that?
He stepped back into the bedroom and turned on the light. Then, just for the hell of it, he picked up the lamp on the nightstand and threw it against the wall.
The cops were in the room in seconds, guns drawn. “Come on out!” the male cop shouted.
“With your hands up!” the woman added. “We know you’re in here! Give up!”
“I’m trying, OK?” said Richard.
They swiveled around, placing their backs together, studying the entire room.
Richard went to the lamp. He couldn’t budge it. He could feel it, but it seemed made of lead. With a grunt, he tried harder. Once more either he or the lamp seemed no longer solid. His hand passed right through.
“Curious,” he said.
Then, just for the heck of it, he threw his towel into the air.
It fell to the bed. The woman cop jumped, and looked in his direction.
“You see that?” she said.
“What?” the guy asked.
“That towel on the bed. It wasn’t there a second ago.” She reached out and picked it up.
“It’s damp,” she said.
“You sure?” the guy asked.
“Yes, it’s damp,” she said.
“No. I mean, maybe it was there. I think I saw it there earlier.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It . . . I don’t know what I saw. It was like it moved.”
Suddenly, the male cop relaxed. “OK. OK. Whoever you are, I know you can hear me. So far, you haven’t hurt anybody. I don’t think you want to hurt anybody. I think this is all a joke to you. Come out right now, before I change my mind about how serious this is.”
“It’s breaking and entering,” said Henry, from the hall.
“Sir, it’s probably safer if you go next door with your wife,” said the woman.
Richard stepped through all three of them on his way into the hallway. Martha and Henry could go next door. Could he?
He opened the back door and stepped into the sunlight, leaving the door open.
He stretched his arms over his head, luxuriating in the warmth on his naked skin. He walked a little further into the backyard. The lawn had really gone to hell. But it really didn’t matter. Why had he wasted even one Saturday morning mowing it? What did an unmown lawn matter in the grand scheme of things? Then he noticed that his feet itched, and he worried that he might have stepped on something bad in the tall grass. So, OK, maybe his life hadn’t been a complete waste.
Before he had time to further ruminate on the cosmic significance of his life, the cops followed him out the door.
“Told you I heard the door open,” the woman said, with a smug tone that indicated she’d won some small argument.
“Gloat later,” the guy said, sprinting around the edge of the house. The woman raced in the opposite direction. Henry came out onto the back deck, and Martha called out to him from the neighbor’s yard.
Richard decided to go back inside. He wasn’t used to being barefoot. Maybe Henry had some sandals that would fit.
A few minutes later, he joined the crowd that had gathered in the front yard. He was dressed in Martha’s pink silk robe with Henry’s neon green flip-flops. No one paid him any attention.
The lady cop was on the radio, reporting back to the dispatcher. “Whoever it was got away. Ray thinks it might have been a runaway kid hiding out. We’re pretty sure he slipped out the back door and is long gone.”
“So, you’re not going to do anything?” Henry asked the male cop.
“We did do something,” the cop answered. “We searched the house. Nobody’s in there. All we can do now is keep an eye on the place.”
Martha looked wild-eyed, half-afraid, half-angry. “I can’t go back in there,” she said. “What if he’s still inside? Maybe he just opened the door, then went back into hiding.”
“Ma’am,” said the male cop, “if anyone’s hiding in that house, they’re either the size of a rat or invisible. We searched everywhere.”
“Well, he must be invisible then,” Martha said. “Because, I swear, there’s someone in that house!”
“Sorry lady,” said the cop with a shrug. “Invisible people aren’t really a police matter. Maybe you should call a priest.”
Richard woke up feeling wonderful. He’d had the most awful dream. Then he looked around the room and realized he was still in Henry and Martha’s bed. He owed his good night’s sleep only to exhaustion and the fact that Martha had insisted on sleeping in a hotel.
“So, you’re not going to wake up from this,” he said. “This is real, Richard, deal with it.”
First, he wanted to deal with some coffee. He wandered into the kitchen and found a coffeemaker. Unfortunately, he didn’t find any coffee.
So he grabbed a beer.
He went into the living room and stretched out on the couch, then clicked on the TV with the remote.
Somehow, he had imagined the afterlife would provide a sharper contrast with life. Was he really going to spend the rest of eternity wandering around the house in a bathrobe, drinking beer, and watching TV? Was death like a Saturday morning that would never end? If so, was that heaven, or hell?
“I’m getting real tired of this,” he said, casting
his eyes toward the ceiling. “I mean, shouldn’t I be here for a reason? To avenge some injustice or something?”
It occurred to him that this would probably make for a pretty good Jerry Springer show. “My boyfriend don’t do nothing with his afterlife but keep his ass glued to the couch,” he said in his best redneck woman voice.
But instead of finding Jerry Springer as he flipped through the channels, he found a local news show with a picture of his house on the screen.
“Police say the strange occurrences could have been caused by a runaway child. But the owners of the house have another theory.”
Martha’s wrinkled visage suddenly flashed on screen. “Poltergeist,” she said. “I’ve learned all about haunted houses on the Travel Channel. Our home has been possessed by an unquiet spirit.”
The camera cut to home video of the crowd gathered in front of the house the day before. And there, plain as day, was Richard in his pink robe.
“Hey!” he said, sitting up. “I’m on TV!”
The report ended with the news that Martha and Henry planned to contact a priest.
“OK,” Richard said. “OK, OK, OK. I was on TV. The camera saw me, even if no one else did. OK. OK. So what does that mean? I mean… I mean… what does this mean? What on earth?”
He got up and paced around the room, running his fingers through his hair.
“I can touch things, I can’t touch things. I can’t be seen, but I can be filmed. I can’t be heard on the phone, but…” He noticed something out the living room window. There was a paper on Mrs. Green’s sidewalk. At least now he could know once and for all how long he’d been dead.
Standing on the sidewalk, he unfurled the front page of the paper. July 9. He’d played the comedy club open mike on July 7.
He wasn’t dead.
At least, being dead didn’t add up. There wasn’t enough time for him to be buried, for Veronica to sell the house. There wasn’t enough time for the grime on the kitchen floor. So he wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t dreaming.
Insanity began to climb pretty high up the list.
Only, he wasn’t insane, either. He was certain of it. As crazy as his situation was, it was the situation that was screwed up, not him.
He went back into the house. Maybe Martha had a video camera or at least a tape recorder. Maybe there was some way he could send a message. Especially if a priest really was coming, maybe a priest would have some clue as to Richard’s condition.
He tore apart the front hall closet.
He scattered the contents of the kitchen hither and yon. He pulled out all the bedroom drawers and emptied their contents on the floor.
Nothing. Not even a camera.
Then he noticed the tube of lipstick on the dresser. He looked at the mirror.
He uncapped the tube, and wrote as calmly and legibly as he could on the mirror. “My name is Richard Rogers. I’m trapped in this house, like a ghost, but I’m not dead. Help me.”
Richard liked the priest.
Father Leibowitz was a young man, but one accustomed to the authority and respect due his position. He took command of the situation from the moment he stepped in the door. Henry and Martha didn’t have time to introduce themselves before Father Leibowitz gave his first order.
“The mirror,” he said. “Show me.”
“I apologize that the place is such a mess,” Martha said, leading him down the hall. “What with all—”
“Unimportant,” Leibowitz said with a dismissive wave. He drew up in front of the mirror, and read its message. He pulled out a cell phone and punched a button.
“April,” he said. “I’ve got some names for you to do a search on. Our ghost says his name is Richard Rogers, and his wife’s name is Veronica Rogers. If you find her, get her on the phone for me. Also, he says his parents are named Bill and Florence Rogers, and they live in Salem, Virginia. He has even been obliging enough to give us a phone number, but do a search to see what you come up with. I don’t want to call this number until we get a little more information.”
Richard received this news with a bit of frustration. He had already dialed the number, and had the heartbreaking experience of hearing his mother’s voice but being unable to speak to her. Still, Father Leibowitz seemed confident and professional. Richard took a seat on the bed and decided to be patient.
“Richard?” asked Father Leibowitz. “Can you hear me?”
“Sure,” said Richard.
“Richard, if you can hear me, give me some sign.”
Richard got up and went to the mirror. He reached for the lipstick. It slipped through his ghostly fingers.
“Figures,” he said. But, he wasn’t beaten yet. He walked past the priest and went to the kitchen, picked up two pots and banged them together, twice.
“How ’bout twice for yes, once for no?” Richard called out.
But then Father Leibowitz stepped into the kitchen and the pots slipped through Richard’s fingers, clattering on the floor. Richard thought this was strange. Normally things he was holding, like the towel, stayed solid to him and invisible to everyone else until he let go of them.
“April,” Father Leibowitz said into the phone. “I think we can definitely rule out a hoax. I just saw two pots levitating, no doubt in response to my request.”
Richard realized this was a perfect opportunity to move back into the bedroom and add to his message on the mirror, to let them know that he would cooperate however he could.
But as he stepped into the hall, he stopped when he heard Father Leibowitz’s words.
“Right,” said Leibowitz, in response to April. “No record of a Richard and Veronica Rogers in this city. I’m not surprised.”
Richard decided that April wasn’t very good at her job. He went back to the mirror, smeared away a clean surface with one of Henry’s undershirts, and wrote down his Social Security Number, his work phone number, and his birth date. Then, he had a clever idea. He ran the lipstick along his fingertips and left a perfect set of fingerprints on the mirror.
“That should make it easier,” he said. “Assuming Father Leibowitz has a fingerprint lab in the trunk of his car. But what the hell.” Then he banged his fist against the wall several times, until Leibowitz came running, and his fist went through the wall without leaving a mark.
“April,” said Leibowitz. “Let’s try again. I’ve got some more—what? You do have a listing in Salem for Bill Rogers? Yes. Yes, that’s a match. No, don’t call yet. Check out this Social Security Number first.”
Richard smacked his forehead. “Look, just call my folks, OK?”
Then he thought about it. Call and say what? Your son is invisible and intangible and we were hoping you might help? What good would a phone call to them do?
“Maybe April could look up Stephen Hawking’s phone number,” Richard suggested.
Instead, April was giving Father Leibowitz the results of the Social Security search.
“Yes. Yes that is a strange coincidence,” said Leibowitz.
“What,” said Henry.
“The Social Security Number belongs to an Alan Leibowitz in New Jersey,” Leibowitz said with a shrug. “Could be a cousin.”
Richard took another look at the mirror. That was his number. He was sure of it.
The priest addressed Henry and Martha. “This is only a minor setback. This sort of confusion isn’t uncommon among the dead.”
“Father,” said Martha.
“Yes?”
“Can I ask a personal question?”
“Go.”
“Isn’t Leibowitz a, um, Jewish name?”
“I’m asked that all the time,” said Leibowitz. “I think it’s time to call the parents. It’s the only information our ghost has given that April’s been able to get a confirmation on.”
“Finally,” said Richard. He started to bite his nails, until he realized he had lipstick under them. Just what would Leibowitz say to his parents?
“Is this Bill Rogers?” Leibowitz ask
ed, as April set up a three-way call.
“Mr. Rogers, my name is Father Leibowitz, and I’m call—yes. No problem. I’m asked that all the time. But, let me get directly to the point of my call. Do you have a son named Richard? I see. Second question: Does the date March 9, 1969, have any meaning to you? I see. No, not a joke. No. No, you’ve been very helpful. Sorry to have disturbed you. Have a nice day.”
“Well,” said Henry.
“They don’t have a son,” Father Leibowitz said.
“What?” said Richard.
“We’re left with only one possibility,” said Father Leibowitz.
Richard’s knees grew weak. He braced his back against the wall and slowly slid down into a crouch. “This can’t be real,” he whispered.
“The spirit that haunts this house is quite likely a fallen angel,” Father Leibowitz explained. “From time to time, the damned delude themselves into thinking they are something they are not. In this case, the demon has made up elaborate details about a former human life, in an effort to strengthen his delusion. But, as we’ve just determined, all of these details are lies.”
“Lies,” Richard said. “Oh God, this can’t be. This can’t be. My name is Richard Rogers. I’m real. I have a life. I have a wife. Her name is Veronica. I . . . can’t believe this!”
“No doubt, the demon is listening even now,” said Father Leibowitz. “It’s important, no matter what happens, that the two of you keep faith. God watches over us. No demon can touch you.”
“I’m not a demon!” Richard screamed. He wanted to grab the priest by the throat. He stalked from the bedroom, back to the kitchen, flung open the cabinets and started throwing pots and pans around the room. He wasn’t sure why this seemed like a good idea, but his present state left him few options for venting his frustration.
“Stop this now!” Father Leibowitz shouted as he entered the kitchen.
“Screw you,” said Richard.
Martha peeked her head into the kitchen, and shrieked.
“What?” asked Father Leibowitz.
“I see it!” she cried.
Richard raised his eyebrows. Throwing pots and pans might work out for him after all.
“It’s right there,” said Martha, pointing to where Richard stood. “It’s like… like a pink haze.”
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