all.
"I tried," I told him, stepping toward him. What could I fear from him or anyone else?
"You were the one?" he asked.
I nodded my head.
"I remember someone trying to help me."
The ghost was younger than the bag of bones that had leaned against the tree. I could see that when older people died and became a ghost they took on a younger appearance, not a final road-weary flesh. I was still learning about death.
"You had a fever," I explained. The memory of his ghost lifting from his body was etched in my mind. "I tried to help you, sir."
"Yeah, I was sick and had this fever for two days," the man explained. "But I was just tired of it all." He grumbled about people going camping and how he had been doing it for ten years. But his camping, he argued, was homelessness. He wanted to sleep in a bed. He asked my name.
"Chuy" I answered.
He munched on the inside of his lower lip as he considered my name. He was calm for being a ghost. When I was on the roof of Club Estrella and examining my body right after I died, I was tripped out by my new status as ghost. In fact, at that time, there was no fear in me, nor a sense of loss, not like now. I was suffering over the loss of Crystal and the wide expanse of the years I didn't get to live. I asked his name.
"Robert Montgomery," he answered. "Like the actor."
"What actor?"
"What do you mean, 'What actor?'
The
actor!" This Robert Montgomery, tall and lean, scratched his chin. He was puzzled that I didn't recognize the name. "I guess he might have been before your time."
We watched a cop car pass, its backseat vacant but ready to be filled because the cop, a young one, was looking for trouble. Anything to bring his nightstick like a saber from his holster. When the cruiser disappeared from sight, I braved the question. "Ain't it weird that you died and came back? That you're a ghost?"
"Nah, not really. I always felt like a ghost anyway, because people would look through me all the time."
I understood what he was saying. Because he was a homeless guy, people walked by as if he were invisible. I was not righteous, because I had walked by the homeless, too, indifferent to the chant of "spare change." My dad taught me to avoid them. He argued that they were too lazy to work.
He pointed toward the road. "You know, I saw this girl kill herself."
I jerked.
"She was really young." He seemed remorseful that he hadn't been able to help Crystal.
We drifted toward the road.
"I went up to the car," he continued, "and she was crying. She had taken something." He became silent and closed his eyes to mutter a prayer. With his eyes closed, he added, "I think she regretted what she had done, but there was nothing she could do, or I could do. The stuff was in her system."
I envisioned Crystal in the car and the pills she had gulped like breath mints. Maybe she was listening to music as she went under. Maybe she was holding a rosary or a photo of her family. I considered telling this newly dead man, this ghost, that I loved her. But I remained quiet and shut my eyes for a short prayer.
"Yeah, the cops came and they took her away and then they saw me right there." He pointed to the tree where he had rested in fever. "Saved the cops the trouble of coming back and picking me up. The city ought to give me an award!" He laughed and did a little dance. The guy, it seemed, was what my dad would call a character.
When a peacock cried a haunting scream, Robert screamed and scampered inside the tree he was standing next to.
"Robert!" I called. "That bird ain't gonna hurt you. Come on out!"
He behaved himself and came out, looking nervously about for the peacock. "Man, it's weird that we can go through things."
"You're a ghost," I told him. "You're like smoke, but better than smoke. You can go into anything you want."
"Can I fly?" He stretched out his arms and flapped them as if I didn't understand his question.
"Yeah, but you don't go very fast."
He laughed, and wagged a threatening
"I tried," I told him, stepping toward him. What could I fear from him or anyone else?
"You were the one?" he asked.
I nodded my head.
"I remember someone trying to help me."
The ghost was younger than the bag of bones that had leaned against the tree. I could see that when older people died and became a ghost they took on a younger appearance, not a final road-weary flesh. I was still learning about death.
"You had a fever," I explained. The memory of his ghost lifting from his body was etched in my mind. "I tried to help you, sir."
"Yeah, I was sick and had this fever for two days," the man explained. "But I was just tired of it all." He grumbled about people going camping and how he had been doing it for ten years. But his camping, he argued, was homelessness. He wanted to sleep in a bed. He asked my name.
"Chuy" I answered.
He munched on the inside of his lower lip as he considered my name. He was calm for being a ghost. When I was on the roof of Club Estrella and examining my body right after I died, I was tripped out by my new status as ghost. In fact, at that time, there was no fear in me, nor a sense of loss, not like now. I was suffering over the loss of Crystal and the wide expanse of the years I didn't get to live. I asked his name.
"Robert Montgomery," he answered. "Like the actor."
"What actor?"
"What do you mean, 'What actor?'
The
actor!" This Robert Montgomery, tall and lean, scratched his chin. He was puzzled that I didn't recognize the name. "I guess he might have been before your time."
We watched a cop car pass, its backseat vacant but ready to be filled because the cop, a young one, was looking for trouble. Anything to bring his nightstick like a saber from his holster. When the cruiser disappeared from sight, I braved the question. "Ain't it weird that you died and came back? That you're a ghost?"
"Nah, not really. I always felt like a ghost anyway, because people would look through me all the time."
I understood what he was saying. Because he was a homeless guy, people walked by as if he were invisible. I was not righteous, because I had walked by the homeless, too, indifferent to the chant of "spare change." My dad taught me to avoid them. He argued that they were too lazy to work.
He pointed toward the road. "You know, I saw this girl kill herself."
I jerked.
"She was really young." He seemed remorseful that he hadn't been able to help Crystal.
We drifted toward the road.
"I went up to the car," he continued, "and she was crying. She had taken something." He became silent and closed his eyes to mutter a prayer. With his eyes closed, he added, "I think she regretted what she had done, but there was nothing she could do, or I could do. The stuff was in her system."
I envisioned Crystal in the car and the pills she had gulped like breath mints. Maybe she was listening to music as she went under. Maybe she was holding a rosary or a photo of her family. I considered telling this newly dead man, this ghost, that I loved her. But I remained quiet and shut my eyes for a short prayer.
"Yeah, the cops came and they took her away and then they saw me right there." He pointed to the tree where he had rested in fever. "Saved the cops the trouble of coming back and picking me up. The city ought to give me an award!" He laughed and did a little dance. The guy, it seemed, was what my dad would call a character.
When a peacock cried a haunting scream, Robert screamed and scampered inside the tree he was standing next to.
"Robert!" I called. "That bird ain't gonna hurt you. Come on out!"
He behaved himself and came out, looking nervously about for the peacock. "Man, it's weird that we can go through things."
"You're a ghost," I told him. "You're like smoke, but better than smoke. You can go into anything you want."
"Can I fly?" He stretched out his arms and flapped them as if I didn't understand his question.
"Yeah, but you don't go very fast."
He laughed, and wagged a threatening
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