Kerchack saw dead people before it was cool to see dead people. He saw them all over the place, but it wasn't anything like that stupid movie. The dead weren't spooky. More annoying than anything else, but not any more than the living.
There were a lot of restless spirits in Rockwood. Something about the place kept a substantial population of the departed from moving on. As a boy, he'd assumed that the dead were everywhere, but he realized this wasn't true after taking his first trip outside town when he was ten. There were hardly any spirits across the county line. He didn't know why. Something just kept the dead in Rockwood, and that was just the way it was. Might've always been that way.
He wouldn't have been surprised to discover that the entire town was built on a Native American burial ground or an old forgotten spaceship had crashed a few thousand years ago and now lay under their feet, emitting strange fifth-dimensional radiation. He always meant to do some checking but never gotten around to it. In the end, Kerchack didn't mind the dead, and he even counted a few among his friends, family, and coworkers.
Clark had been Kerchack's partner in the Thunderdome Comic Shop enterprise from the beginning. His death two years ago hadn't changed that.
The chubby specter in the Green Lantern costume sighed. "Oh, come on. You're tellin' me that you think Batman could beat Superman? For real?"
Kerchack absently thumbed through a comic without reading it, just to give his hands something to do.
"The guy with no superpowers who runs around Gotham dressed like a bat," said Clark, "versus The Man of Steel. Invulnerable. Superstrong. Flies. Heat vision."
Kerchack nodded. "Mmm hmm."
Clark brushed his long hair from his eyes. Ghosts were like that, Kerchack had realized long ago, still burdened with the things they dealt with while living. Clark had it even worse, having died while at a costume party. He didn't really have the physique for tights, and now he was stuck with them for eternity. He was also always sweaty and out of breath. Stupid for a ghost to have asthma, thought Kerchack. He even pointed out that it all must be in Clark's head. Even read him the definition for "psychosomatic" out of the dictionary. Didn't make a difference.
Someone had eulogized with a level of honesty rarely displayed at funerals that Clark had died as he lived: gasping for breath, face down in a plate of nachos. A spot of ectoplasmic cheese sauce still remained on his cheeks. He could wipe it away, but it always came back.
He took a moment to take a puff on his spectral inhaler. "I suppose if Batman had some kryptonite."
"Fuck kryptonite," said Kerchack. "Kryptonite can't beat Superman. I mean, it's all over the planet. Every villain in the world has a chunk of it. None of them has killed Superman yet."
"But Batman doesn't have any powers," countered Clark.
"Yes, he does."
"No, he doesn't."
"Yes, he does."
"No, he doesn't."
"Yes, he does," Kerchack said in a sing-song voice. He very slowly turned the page. "Batman is the coolest sumbitch on the planet."
"Well, if he's so cool, how would he do it?" Clark smiled smugly.
"I don't know," replied Kerchack. "I'm not Batman. But he'd find a way."
He went to the door and flipped the 'open' sign to 'closed'.
"It's early," said Clark.
Kerchack glanced to the clock on the wall. The Dome wasn't supposed to close for another twenty minutes, but he didn't see what difference it made. Most business came on the weekends, when all the collectors in the surrounding counties made the drive for their weekly subscription picks. Really, Kerchack didn't need to come in at all on the weekdays, but he was paying rent on the place. It seemed a waste to just leave it locked up five days a week. Plus, Clark never left the store. Kerchack didn't know for sure if Clark was bound to the location, or just had no reason to leave. The 'Dome, for better or worse, was Clark's heaven. If there was a real heaven somewhere out there that didn't get the latest issue of Justice League, then Clark just wasn't interested in it.
"Want to play something?" asked Clark.
"Not tonight. I've got something I have to do."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
"Nothing. Why don't you do some stuff online? I bought that computer for you, didn't I?"
"You ever try typing with immaterial fingers? It's tiring."
"You're dead. You shouldn't get tired anymore."
"Yeah, and I shouldn't have asthma. But I do." Clark took another puff on his inhaler. "Plus the connection sucks. I hate dial up. What do you have to do that's so important?"
Kerchack sighed. He really didn't want to say, but it was just easier.
"I've got a date."
Clark's eyes went wide. "A date? Like with a girl?"
"Yeah."
"Who?"
Kerchack almost lied and said it was no one Clark would know, but everyone knew everyone in Rockwood, even if only by reputation.
"Denise."
"Denise? You aren't talking about Denise Calhoun, are you?" Clark leered and imitated cupping a pair of imaginary breasts in his hands. Although he had a B cup himself, making pretending unnecessary. "Denise with the tits," he added as if the gesture was not clear enough.
Kerchack nodded.
"I hear she's a total slut," Clark said. "I heard she used to give Jerry Russo a handjob for every touchdown he scored in his senior year."
"That was just a high school rumor," said Kerchack.
"All I know is that Jerry couldn't catch a football covered in superglue, then he started dating Denise and he carried us to State all by himself."
"That doesn't prove anything."
"Yeah, but it's strong circumstantial evidence."
"High school was a long time ago, Clark."
"Maybe for you." The ghost went to the racks and pulled out an assortment of comics he'd already read several times.
In a town like Rockwood, everyone knew everyone. They might not have shared more than a few words over the years, maybe just a nod or a smile to acknowledge the other's existence while passing in the crowded aisles of Rockwood General Supply or waiting in line at the post office.
Kerchack knew Denise better than that. When your entire high school consisted of one-hundred and fifty students, there weren't many cliques. There'd been the cool kids, the dorks, and the unclassified kids. The unclassified kids were above the dorks, but never were they deemed worthy of being cool. Kerchack had been among the unclassified.
Denise Calhoun had been cool though. It wasn't that she did anything particularly spectacular. But she was pretty, and she'd developed early. That was enough. He'd talked to her occasionally, but they'd never hung out. Like all the dorks and unclassifieds, he'd contented himself to admire her from afar.
Things changed. A chance encounter in line at the Second Bank of Rockwood (the First Bank had closed down before he'd been born) opened the first opportunity to talk to her since graduation. He couldn't remember what he'd said. All he could remember was concentrating hard to keep from glance at her breasts because he figured she had to be sick of guys doing that by now.
"We should get together sometime, 'Chack," she'd said, seemingly out of the blue. "Catch up, y'know."
"Yeah, we should."
Although, of course, she hadn't meant it. It was just something people said. A polite turn of phrase that meant nothing.
"Are you doing anything this Wednesday?" she'd asked.
He was too stunned to reply, and before his thoughts could reorganize, the teller called him over.
"You're up," said Denise.
Kerchack ran to the teller, threw the deposit at him, and tried to run nonchalantly back to Denise.
"Uh, yeah, I'm free," he said, st
ruggling to spit the words out of his drying throat. "I mean, if you want to do something or whatever." He grimaced inwardly. Then he realized that it was pretty much impossible to grimace inwardly, which meant he must've grimaced outwardly and Denise must've noticed.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and lowered his gaze. It strayed to her chest, but that was purely coincidental.
"Uh, yeah," he replied. "Something or whatever, if you want."
"Cool." She put her hand on his arm. That was supposed to be a good sign, wasn't it? "Why don't you come by the house around seven?"
He'd agreed in a flash and quickly collected his deposit slip and dashed from the bank before she could think about it and change her mind.
Some things had changed since high school. Some hadn't. Denise was still a hot property. Since graduation, most everyone in his class had gotten hitched. It was just the way it worked in Rockwood. Most everyone married their high school sweetheart, usually because they didn't have any better ideas. Kerchack had watched the pool of available women shrink slowly around him and resigned himself to picking from the leftovers. And then, out of the blue . . .
Denise Calhoun.
He was determined not to blow it.
He picked Denise up at her house. She still lived with her parents. About half the adult population of Rockwood did. Kerchack wanted to make a good impression, so he'd gone home and changed into some slacks and his only shirt with a collar. He'd picked up some plastic flowers. Real ones might've been better but were hard to come by. He pulled into Denise's gravel driveway and checked his hair in the rearview.
The passenger door was thrown open, and Denise jumped into the bucket seat. "Hi, 'Chack."
Caught with his fingers wrapped around a cowlick, Kerchack tried to smoothly segue into adjusting the rearview.
She picked up the flowers. "Hey, are these for me?"
"Yeah."
"Cool." She held them to her nose and inhaled their sweet, artificial scent. "Are you ready?" she asked.
"Sure." He glanced to the house. While it was nice to not have to meet the parents, it also made this seem like less of a real date now.
He glanced at her. She was wearing a red t-shirt and torn jeans. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. The only makeup she wore was some soft pink lipstick. He felt self-conscious in his collar and slacks.
"You look real nice, 'Chack." She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Are you hungry? I'm starving."
"Sure. Gil's sound alright?" he asked, as if there were any other choices. On Fridays and Saturdays, there were a few restaurants that stayed open late, but even the Dairy Queen closed at six otherwise.
Officially, Gil's All Night Diner was now Loretta's Place, but no one ever called it that. Even after the place had been practically demolished and rebuilt and a new sign installed in place of the old, it was still Gil's. Probably always would be. Rockwood had a long and stubborn memory.
The place was packed, meaning it had four cars in its spacious parking lot. No one had really liked Gil's when it'd opened, but after the renovations, everyone agreed it just seemed friendlier. There was still an air to the place, a sort of crackle. It'd always put Kerchack on edge. The entire building felt like one giant malevolent spirit. Still did. Now though the unease seemed muted, almost tamed. He wasn't exactly fond of the place, but it was the only choice in the county. He didn't feel like blowing the gas money to go all the way to Leeburn. Especially since he wasn't certain this was a date, and even if it was, he wasn't at all certain he'd be getting anything out of it.
Kerchack picked a booth by the door. The diner was big, cavernous except for the low ceiling, so they weren't near any of the other customers. Loretta, the giant proprietress and sole employee, lumbered over. She took their soda order, then left. Kerchack and Denise shared an awkward silence. He said something about the weather. She mentioned he looked nice again. Loretta returned with the drinks, took their food order, then left them to sit there quietly.
He struggled to find something to say, to find something in common. It shouldn't have been that hard.
She made a sound.
"What?" he asked.
"I was just clearing my throat." She patted her chest with her fist. "Sorry."
"No, that's alright."
More quiet. Kerchack struggled for a topic. The only one that came to mind was how dreadfully long they could go just half-smiling at each other and not saying anything. Morbidly, he began counting the seconds, and while it wasn't helpful, he couldn't stop himself. When he hit thirteen seconds, he noticed Denise was staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles, he assumed.
He noticed she'd gained a few pounds since high school, but she was fortunate enough to have a body that took the extra weight and put it in the right places. No longer in control of anything, he found his eyes fixed on her tight t-shirt. The rhythmic rise and fall of her bosoms transfixed him. He couldn't look away.He wasn't even that into tits. He was more of an ass man. Yet her chest, the most famous in three counties, refused to release him. And sure, there were bigger breasts in Rockwood, but none so pert and round and —
She was saying something.
He shook off her hypnotic breasts and raised his head. "Uh, what?"
"So why'd you ask me out?" she asked.
"Uh, I didn't. You asked me out."
Denise narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure?"
He nodded.
She made a strange noise which could not be translated via the most creative onomatopoeia. It was impossible to interpret, but Kerchack took it to mean that she was now wondering what had possessed her.
How could two people who'd grown up in the same boring patch of desert have nothing in common, he wondered. No longer self-conscious at all, he'd gone onto acceptance. Some things just weren't meant to happen, and Denise was obviously one of those things for him.
"Y'know, I always liked you, 'Chack," she said, throwing him for a loop. "Most the guys in this town are assholes. Like Jerry." She sneered. "God, what a prick."
"Uh, yeah."
"And Bobby, man, that guy was such a douche. Lousy lay, too."
"Uh, yeah." Grasping for any conversational strand, he went against his better judgment. "Bobby Reynolds or Bobby Simpson or Bobby Hanson?"
"Take your pick," she replied. "Although Bobby Hanson at least always bought me diner, so he was kind of cool." Idly, she began swishing the salt shaker back and forth across the table. "I'll tell you something, 'Chack. I haven't met a lousy screw yet who didn't think he was Casanova. And believe me, I've met a lot of lousy screws."
Unsure of the proper response, he elected to nod.
She grinned. "Wow, 'Chack. It's real easy to talk to you. Most guys, they hear this stuff, they start freakin' out. Not you. You're cool." She leaned across the booth and flicked his nose with her finger. "You're the kind of guy I need."
"I am?"
"Sure. Why not? I tried all the cool guys. And a couple of the dorks. But none of them were like you. Y'know what I mean?"
He had no idea what she meant, but he smiled and nodded.
Things went much better after that. Denise's revelations of the past dispelled the awkwardness between them. It also told Kerchack that this was in fact, an honest-to-God date which put him in solid ground, and he was fairly certain he'd score tonight since Denise had apparently been working her way through the county, and his number had finally come up. He wasn't complaining.
Denise was funny and laid back, and she seemed to think Kerchack was funny, too. She did most the talking, which was also fine by him. His conversational skills had never been very sharp, and having a comic book-obsessed ghost for a best friend had done little to improve them over the years.
After they'd finished their burgers, she checked her watch. "Damn, look at the time. I have to get up early tomorrow. It's my turn to open the garage. Plus, there's this carburetor I have to rebuild by noon. We better get going."
Kerchack's hopes fell. He'd seen the 'Getting
up early' tactic before. She'd appeared to be having a good time, but he must've done something wrong. Desperately, his memory searched for the fumble. He couldn't find it. Which meant he couldn't correct it.
He might have not done anything wrong. Denise might have just decided it was time to be a "good girl." His timing, as always, was impeccable.
She dug in her purse. "So how much is my half?"
His heart sank. Paying half the check was the deathblow to this date and his hopeful libido.
"Shit!" Denise snapped her fingers. "I forgot to bring a change of clothes. Well, fuck it. I'll just wear these tomorrow."
The Cranky Dead Page 1