Reasons to Live

I perch my intangible butt on the edge of the chair at Dopey’s dining room table. At my own home, I would always sit on a corner of the table, where there was enough support beneath me that I could tell my mother that her table wouldn’t break. Here I feel it would be disrespectful, even though I’m pretty sure my rear wouldn’t contaminate their food. Not that anyone ever eats off their tables anyway—that’s what plates are for.

So pretty much this guy had shown up and started yelling at Dopey for what I assume was talking with a ghost on somebody’s front lawn in the middle of the night (even though I’m pretty sure this guy was louder than Dopey and I combined), and then, unhearing or unheeding of Dopey’s whispered protests, whisked us here. Sitting in the car, I pieced together a few quick assumptions. Firstly, this guy could see me. Secondly, based upon the first fact, and the little tidbit of information given by Dopey about the Vision or whatever the hell it was, this guy was probably Dopey’s father. Trippy, right? So the thirdly makes sense, in that it seemed Mr. Dopey wasn’t really listening to his son. I mean, what parent really and truly listens to their kids?

Granted, some try. I don’t think Dopey’s dad is the type for that, though.

So now Mr. Dopey and son went to have secret ghostbuster-ninja meetings in another room, leaving me to sit here and click my heels together.

Their house is nice. Not particularly large, but nice, with furniture that invites without intimidating, and a rug that seems to welcome the same in cats, for there is a little black and white cat curled up on it, fast asleep. Further observation reveals to me that this cat is in grave danger, for a little calico kitten was under the coffee table looking intently at her elder, her little kitten tail lashing back and forth in kitten excitement. I straighten from my chair and drift without walking over to the living room to watch more closely, but the adult cat immediately lifts its head with alarm and stands, hissing, at my approach. The kitten charges from beneath her hiding place at the hissing animal, then suddenly leaps into the air and scrambles behind an ottoman, watching me with wide eyes.

“Cats can sense you,” Mr. Dopey says from behind me, making me jump; I was so intent on watching the felines that I didn’t hear his approach.

“I guess so,” I reply, still watching the black and white glare at me with its ears flat against its head, fluffed out to about twice its size. The effect is too reminiscent of my idea of a pufferfish, though, so any desired effect on the cat’s part is totally lost.

“Mitch says you think you’re murdered.” I wait for him to continue, and it’s a few seconds before I realize that the statement was something that was open for some sort of comment.

“I am—was, murdered,” I say slowly. “One of the girls in my school.”

“It’s not your school anymore.”

“I know.” I take a moment to regather my thoughts, which he had scattered like a border collie running at sheep. “One of the girls in my class—”

“It’s not your class anymore.”

“I know—I get that,” I retort, a little impatient now. “Anyway, a girl in the class that is no longer my class got her brother to dismantle the brakes on my car so that I went off at McCall and D.” To illustrate my point, I put my fists together and spread them in an M sprouting from the center, waving them like jazz hands. “Boom.”

“And how would you know if she disabled your brakes?” he says, his tone so accusing I flinch. “Don’t give my son excuses about how you were murdered by your boy’s girlfriend. I’ve been in this for longer than he has, and I know that your death might seem embarrassing to you, but you have to tell us the truth about it, or we can’t help you. Much more lying and we won’t help you. Is that clear?”

I deliberately relax my shoulders, taking deep (though surely ineffective) breaths. Usually it takes much longer for a person to upset me like this, but after listening to him use a number of inaccurate accusations on his son all the way here, I’m out of patience. And it truly is saying something when I think his put downs were too extreme for a guy like Dopey.

When I believe I can speak without making a fool of myself, I say “I would like to talk to D—your son, please.”

“No. He’s not experienced enough to deal with a ghost like you.”

“Then allow me to give him that experience, sir,” I say, my voice surprisingly level. “You are a jerk, and I have no doubts that you would sooner send me to Hell than Heaven. I would rather deal with a dick who knows how I died than a dick like you.”

“I can’t believe you said that to my dad.”

Dopey’s room is remarkably bare for that of a teenage boy, I think, though it’s not like I’m any expert. There’s some kind of truck calendar above his desk, but other than that, nothing decorates the walls. Opposite his bed (which, by the way, is covered with a bunch of blankets that were never meant to go together) is a TV with some sort of video game hooked up beneath, with their cords snarled in a heap on the ground. His closet is the kind with the sliding doors, and it leaks some manner of clothing all over the floor from an over-encumbered burgundy laundry basket. I have no idea if any of the fabric is clean.

I sit on the rug after deciding that, whether the black-brown color mixture is intended or not, it won’t hurt me either way. “Me neither, actually,” I admit. After a bit of thinking, I decide that however much of an ass he is, there is some manner of cause and effect involved in how Dopey ended up the way he is. Not that he’s any more charming for it. “So what now?” I ask.

“Well, we find a way to get that little skank off Pine,” he says. We smile the smile of conspirators. Perhaps a team of ghost and ghostbuster won’t be such a bad combination after all.

All I can hope for is that the ghostbuster will develop a tolerance for his new codename.