Midnight Merchandisers

I’ve been dead for fifty-six years, but I’ll tell you the truth: nothing in the afterlife prepared me for the chaos of a poorly arranged thrift store. When the last customer shuffles out, and the staff clicks off the lights, I rise through the linoleum floor, like an avenging retail superhero, minus the detestable spandex, of course, and get straight to work.

Sweaters and tops need to be sorted by color, not size; coffee mugs need to be arranged by season. It's nearly Christmas now, so snowflake and Santa cups will be front and center. Shoes lined up according to what they do: keep feet dry, take you dancing, or those job shoes, all huddled together, hoping to be thrown into a cart, for future work.

Honestly, if I don’t do it, who will? I didn’t ask to become a ghost, but I absolutely refuse to haunt a store that looks like a rummage sale! You’d think being dead would cure me of snobbery, but no, even now I recoil at the sight of a Target tag. The living seem determined to throw everything into bins as if they’re angry at the concept of “aesthetic harmony.” If I could roll my eyes, I would. If the staff ever wondered why the display mannequins keep striking better poses overnight, well… some mysteries are best left unsolved. Haunting this place with Gucci, Calvin Klein, and Ralph Lauren pride, that’s my motto!

Everything unravels the night a brand-new employee named Katrina shows up for the overnight shift and starts undoing all my perfect displays.

I almost fainted like a Victorian widow; tragically, the nearest sofa had been sold, and in its place was a mere armchair, not suitable for dramatic collapses.

Did I ask for help? No, I certainly did not! Anyone with an ounce of fashion sense would see I make this place extraordinary every night! I worked it out long ago: This was my calling; clearly, the powers that be noticed my exquisite fashion sense and assigned me to this dismal place so I could elevate it for the community. So, why they thought I needed human assistance was beyond me!

I can’t tell you who was more surprised that first night. This Katrina came in, flipping on lights, and surveying the handiwork I had already completed. Then she tisked, actually tisked, at my work, rolling her eyes with her full-on pink painted lips, pursed in judgment!

I glanced at my Ellie, my main mannequin in the storefront window, where she proudly sported a Calvin Klein jogging suit with the best running shoes I could dig out of the bins, New Balance. A perfectly respectable choice, seeing no fault whatsoever.

Katrina said louder than necessary, “Girl, whatchu got on, that looks ridiculous given it's practically snowing outside!” A glance out the window verified that remark. “Hmm,” I admitted to myself, smoothing down my mustache and twirling it up at its curled ends. “Perhaps, checking the weather should go on my nightly checklist.”

Then she pulled Ellie down, stared into her plastic eyes, and started suggesting different outfits. They were all wrapped up in that warm, animated “girl talk,” while I reeled with the understanding that I was being replaced.

I heard Katrina conspiratorially whisper “What you need is a party outfit, girl. It's holiday season, time to party! Who wants to think about exercise!”

I really try not to be petty, I really do, but I couldn’t help glancing at Katrina’s backside, and I thought she could use a little exercise herself. But trying to be a gentleman, I kept that to myself.

Slowly, I trailed after them, my ghost eyes wide, curious, and mortified.

“Oh no, honey. We’re not putting Calvin Klein on a mannequin when it’s freezing outside. She’ll catch a chill and sue us.” Katrina had easily hefted Ellie off the display, strolling toward the changing area like she owned the place. Then, most shocking of all, she glanced right over her shoulder at me. At me. Seeing me plain as day.

With a curve of those pink painted lips, she said, “You might as well come along and watch a professional work.” She quirked up one of her big arched brows and gave her head a tiny shake, sending her gold hoops wiggling.

Oh, where was a fainting couch when one needed one these days? How could this woman see me?

I followed along in their wake, not knowing what else to do.

“You’d know I was hired,” she continued, “if you’d have bothered to show up at the staff meeting. Manager announced they’ve hired a professional. That's me,” she tapped her chest with confidence. “A professional overnight merchandiser, because someone kept messing up with the displays.” Her voice rose an octave or two as she stared directly at me.

Momentarily speechless, astounded she could actually see and speak to me. I twirled my mustache in shock. If I had had an actual heartbeat, it would have stopped right then. Instead, I stood there, gaping, while she stripped poor Ellie and dug through bins for new outfits.

“Ahem,” I managed, clearing a throat I no longer possessed. “Good evening, I…clearly wasn’t expecting help.” I stammered. “I have an excellent fashion profile and am very experienced at what I do.”

She stared with that eyebrow cocked, less impressed than amused.

I turned politely away when she took off Ellie’s underthings. “I always leave those on,” I scolded. “That’s a professional move.” In truth, it was simply my gentlemanly upbringing.

“Funny,” Katrina mused, pulling out a positively ghastly purple gown. “Most ghosts start by asking why I can see them. You’re the first one who chooses to scold me instead.”

“Oh no, not purple!” I practically shouted. “Ellie is a blonde; she needs something in pastels, emerald, green, or bright red, certainly not purple.” I hurried to the dress rack, pulling out a short red party dress with great authority.

Those pink lips gave a sideways twist, “Relax. I was just testing you,” she declared, then nodding approvingly at the dress.

“Look, you’ve got talent,” she said, softer now. “You just need someone else to balance out your nonsense.”

I stiffened at the word nonsense.

“Most of the stuff you do around here is not so bad, I do admit,” she nodded, adding softly, “But you really need to look at the weather and a few other things that women pay attention to.”

That’s when she looked me up and down, and clearly found what I had on wanting.

“Not everybody is concerned about wearing high fashion clothing,” she informed me. “Sometimes folks come here for clothes they can destroy at work. Seriously, would you go do yard work in that get-up?” she quipped, waving her hand up and down at my outfit. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a snob.”

I put my hand to my forehead, completely overwhelmed. I couldn’t take another stitch of it. I vanished on the spot.

Katrina laughed. She actually laughed. I hovered in the ether, not sure whether I was shocked, offended, or, dare I admit it, just a tad worried.

Above me, I could hear her bursting into song, full volume, as she switched on the radio and carried on her merry way, utterly unfazed by my dramatic exit.

That was when I realized that hiding out in the ether was not improving my standing with Katrina. Straightening down my vest, twirling my mustache, and taking a breath I didn’t need, I rose again, hoping to sort this problem.

I spied her over at the sweater racks, busy taking apart all the work I had just done to color coordinate them.

“Katrina,” I sputtered, “I just sorted that rack. Sweaters should be sorted by color!”

“Oh, there you are,” she exclaimed, “Done being lazy and decided to come back to work?”

She winked this time.

I manfully ignored her dig. “I don’t understand,” I sputtered, floating up to her. “How can you see me? Touch things? Change my displays? Are you…some kind of medium?”

“Boy, please,” she drawled, pulling long syllables out on each word and blinking long black lashes at me. She had used the word “boy” to describe me! This was insufferable!

And with that, she walked straight through the stockroom wall.

I nearly died all over again.

There she reappeared on the other side, arms folded, golden hoops swinging.

“I’ve been a ghost in this town for five years,” she confided. “I didn’t get promoted in life, so I figured I’d take this team job in death.” She glanced at the sweater rack, “One thing you need to know about women. We don’t have time to waste. We need to find our size first. So, now if you want to color coordinate within sizes, I could work with that! Now move it, Gucci boy, we’ve got work to do.”

So, what else could I do? I learned a taste of humility from a woman who could out-merchandise me, out-size me, and apparently out-ghost me. We’ve worked out a way to run the store together. She keeps me practical, and I keep her stylish. It’s a team arrangement that works.

Mostly.

Except when she tries to put purple on Ellie. Sometimes it’s satisfying, how petty a ghost can be, and a lot can go on in the dark of the night!