Reflections Of A Ghost and Me

I ran into a ghost on the river. I set out fishing like my old man taught me. The trees swayed, some mosquitos buzzed near the water, and I saw a small boy like he was straight out of the 60s in the reflection of the water as it rippled. He couldn’t have been older than ten, but he also couldn't be seen with my own eyes plainly. I could tell he never wanted to be here anyway, and frankly neither did I. The only reason I was here was to clear my head.

My grandma had the only clue I was ever going to get about why they are the way they are. Not even God or the Devil wants them for being so miserable for all the right reasons. Her old house always smelled of our grandfather's goulash until she passed away. She never made that and when she passed on that smell was gone. It was only my grandfather that made that stuff, which is what made it peculiar. It's that kind of stuff that makes ghosts hard and strange to talk to.

I asked the boy “What are you doing here?” and he had no way of talking back of course. There's no way a ghost could answer a complex question, of course everyone that ever ran into one knows that, but this was my first time. I figured there was a way to chat with him by playing 20 questions or something close to it. I told him to throw one in the water if it was yes and at met feet if it was no.

I was about to find out that, ghosts don’t like where they haunt. If they did, everyone would want to die and the tourism industry would explode. Then again, maybe there's something they like about the places they hate. Maybe a psychologist can unpack the Stockholm Syndrome that ghosts have some day.

I asked if he died peacefully; he of course a rock was at my feet.

I asked if he drowned; a rock was dropped in the river carelessly.

I asked if he at least liked it; there was nothing.

I confessed. “Truth be told I didn’t want to be here either. There’s something about the woods that unsettles me. I guess that’s the point of it. But to die here? That must be terrible.” I sat on a large rock by the riverbed letting the bait drag. The boy was there pouting. "My dad and I would always come here fishing for trout and bass. I hated the man at the time, but he was the only dad I was getting."

I asked the boy if him and his dad went fishing here; another splash.

I yammered on saying that I caught one the size of my forearm. I was having some fun with him, of course. I doubt he had much of a sense of humor about this because the rocks scattered to my feet. The reflection in the river was looking grumpy. I said to him, “If it makes you feel better, my father slapped me upside the head and never took me fishing again. Not even for a contest. Something about his ego maybe got him since he ran a Bass Pro Shop.”

The boy was staring in disbelief. I asked him if his dad was like that and a rock went crashing into the water like a meteor.

I asked him if there was at least a part of the place he liked here; something peculiar about his response was the rock skipped to my feet this time. I couldn’t blame him. There’s no aliens, gnomes, dwarves, goblins or fun things to look at in the woods after the first time you see a bear or something.

I said to him, “If I was a ghost, I’d make sure I had a love-hate relationship with my surroundings to make sure things wouldn’t get boring. Like my in-law's house. It’d be a hell just for me,” The boy laughed in the reflection of the water soundlessly. I was shocked he liked my try at boomer-humor.

I asked if there was anything I could do to get him to heaven. The rock scattered to my shins.

I asked if there were angels visited him. That rock hurt...

I told him, “My father and I ran a nice business. Sometimes he was like a demon on some days and others just my dad. He was never the same man on the same day. Neither was I to be fair. But rest assured there are demons in flesh here already dragging us to hell slowly and steadily. Some are family, some are friends, some are strangers. A man has to figure it all out.”

I asked him if his dad more of a demon like mine; some rocks splashed beside his big stone.

I asked him if he or his dad were buried here; he refused to answer. I looked at the reflection and he was angrier than ever. Truth be told, I never was more scared of a child. I looked at myself, and I realized something.

I asked him if he hated his old man; the water splashed.

“I did too,” I said to him. “I ran away from him by going to school, football practice, or work. I went to be a policeman in the next county over. Got to climb my way up and catch bad guys, good guys, all the ugly guys in between. I had my own adventures and I was ready to tell him all about them. He was never around to hear them and he didn't seem to care. I came back to my mom to tell them about getting promoted one day to find my dad passed away. I knew he was goner than gone because the shop he ran could be sold. I remember working the cash register and getting told how terrible I was even though the customers liked me. I made sure to never have a son because I was just like him. Worst thing I could do is repeat the same mistakes and shove him into being a policeman, especially now. I would rather raise a carpenter, but then again, he'd be following me and I'd have to correct him. He'd hate me for it and I'd hate him for screwing it up. But I don't think he ever hated me. He was harsh. He hated what I did. Especially how I would play video games or find ways to solve a problem he couldn’t. I knew him best and I’m sure he hated that the most about me. ”

I asked him if his dad was a good man to others; and he didn’t say anything at all.

“I knew my dad was inside a good man,” I said to the boy, “He was always kind to others though because he didn’t really know them in and out like me. I think that's where it all started. He could forgive the biggest drunken hillbilly in the world if they at least apologized. I never got that luxury."

I asked the boy if his father knew him well; the rock hit grazed my ankle and boy was it a fast one...

"He probably knew too much about me. I used to think that's where it stemmed from." I said "Keep your friends close, enemies closer, I think is how it goes. He knew how much I liked talking about fishing rods and the newest contests coming up. My old man and I didn’t go fishing together though. We never got to get a trophy. The one quest I liked in RuneScape was Fishing Contest, and although I could pretend it was my dad doing all those shenanigans to win a trophy, it was never going to be the real deal. Every account I made and sold had that quest done, just so I could see it over and over again. He said, 'If anything, you'd toss stones in the fish like the bastard you are.' Worst part is, he did that too, so I heard. Even worse, I would do the same. Could you blame us? A new rod is a good one. Men can be good, but there are no good men. Fortunately for you, that was a lesson he never had to learn.”

I asked the boy if he would talk to his dad someday. He sat there sad, no rocks, no replies. He sat perched like a great horn owl, staring at me.

I said to him, “Men just try their best. They get to confront decisions and people that make them do evil things but do what works for over thousands of years. Men get to go off on grand adventures and slay dragons only to have the damn things come to roost on the house you wanted to get back to! I’m glad you never needed to learn that lesson like I did."

I asked him if he would have fished with me if I died here. I looked at the reflection, and he was holding up a rainbow fish.

"This place would have been my heaven if my father didn’t nearly drown me here. It's kind of too bad. We would have played with makeshift hatchets and reenacted the whole Gary Paulsen book to boot, like I learned at Alton Jones. Unfortunately, that can’t stay, like Robert Frost said. It’s funny how we learn so much as children, yet have to throw it aside when push comes to shove."

I’m sure the boy saw it I’m sure he’s more pissed I never joined him to play in the woods. The boy’s reflection rippled away pondering and tense at me because we both probably knew that. So I asked him if his dad tried to drown him or if it was an accident. No rocks. He simply let his fist ball up and shake next to the rainbow fish.

I said, "Our fathers were trying his best this world. After all, Time is Truth’s father. It’s the way men work. Time doesn’t mean to be cruel, he just needs things to get moving. Truth will tell all about what Time does as a honest and close narrator, no matter how cruel it sounds. They work hand-in-hand to make life happen and show us how it works.”

I asked him, if his dad killed him; I think I knew the answer. The boy sat down puzzled in disagreement with me. His cheeks were jammed up in his knees, just staring at me.

“To be plain, He didn’t mean it,” I said to him.

Like that the boy was gone and there was a bite on my rod. A part of me was gone too. I think that boy also didn’t mean it in his own way, after all he was a boy. There’s plenty of ways I don’t understand him, but he let me say what I needed to say. That conversation made me want to try for a son again, but of course that never worked out.

It’s like the Restless Ghost RuneScape quest but more boring, in a good way. I don’t want to fight a skeleton. It never sat well with me having to wrestle with the dead, let alone Death itself. Thankfully, I didn’t even have to arm wrestle with Death this time. If anything it was a firm handshake. I will meet that boy when I die though to shake his hand the same way after I meet my father. I want to show both of them that rainbow fish I caught that day.