Gas Station Sushi

Don’t believe what the horror movies tell you. Ghosts can’t do anything. They can’t make things levitate. They can’t appear before you as some ghoulish apparition. And they certainly can’t flicker the lights or change the channel on the TV. Believe me, I’ve tried. Instead, ghosts are subjected to a mundane existence that I can only correlate to the life of a pet. Except, even pets have the privilege of being interacted with every once in a while. While we are on the subject, pets also are not aware of anything supernatural. No spiritual radar whatsoever. Or at least cats aren’t. Maybe one day a dog will move in and someone will finally acknowledge me. I wonder if man’s best friend applies to dead men as well? Sorry, I’m rambling. It’s a habit I developed in late life.

My name is Dave. Nice to meet you, figment of my imagination! I created you for the purpose of having someone to share my thoughts with. Someone I can vent to so I don’t go crazy.

And yes, I hear you. “Dave, talking to a figment of your imagination to avoid insanity sounds a bit like a catch twenty-two.”

To that I say… look I’m doing the best I can with the given circumstances. I died about three years ago. And no, it wasn’t from anything dramatic or exciting. It was food poisoning.

“Wow, what a bummer! Was it something exotic?”

You could say that. Gas station sushi.

“…”

Look don’t judge me too harshly, okay? I was a broke college kid who wanted a taste of the sea without breaking the bank. Turns out it broke me instead. Felt a little woozy going to bed that night but figured I’d pick up some Pepto in the morning. Unfortunately, I never made it that far. And that’s how I came to be stuck here. And by here, I do not mean a college campus dorm full of a rotating cast of unique individuals and unhinged entertainment. I mean here, Apartment 105.

“An apartment as a college kid? Rich parents?”

Not quite. Gas station sushi, remember? In fact, I was so broke that I was willing to cat-sit for my parent’s realtor-turned-friend Martha, and where does Martha live? You guessed it! Apartment 105. And the real kicker is that-

“Wait?! You died while cat-sitting? Did Martha make it back in time to save the cat?”

Seriously? Out of all the things we’ve talked about so far, that’s what you’re focused on? Not ‘Did you leave anyone behind that you cared for?’ Or ‘Did the cat start to eat your body?’ Good to know where your priorities lie. For the record, yes. The cat, Thomas, was fine. I put out plenty of food for him before going to bed that night and Martha came back home two days later to a very vocal feline. The only thing he was starved for at that point was attention.

“Whew, what a relief. Anyways, you were saying something about a fighter?”

A fighter? What?

“You mentioned kicking.”

… You know Figment, for being a part of my own imagination, you are rather unlikeable. Okay, deep breaths. As I was saying, the real KICKER about Apartment 105 is that it’s in a freshly constructed building. Everything is brand new from the appliances to the tenants.

“Well that doesn’t sound so bad. At least you aren’t stuck haunting a dilapidated building.”

That’s where you’re wrong actually. Because you know what else is new in Apartment 105? Death. Yup, I’m officially the first, and so far, only, person to die in the building. That means that it’s just me here as far as representatives for the other side go. I would die (again) to be a part of the dilapidated building crowd. At least they have someone to talk to. Before you, all I’ve had for the last three years is Martha to talk AT. But she can’t hear or see me. You could say it’s a one-sided relationship.

Martha isn’t all bad though. She’s got good taste in television. Now she’s on the older side, so occasionally we’ll go down the black-and-white rabbit hole but she’s also not a nostalgia maniac who refuses to accept that things can progress. Needless to say, we’ve got a wide variety of ongoing shows at the moment.

Martha is also quick with the wit. Her friend Cheryl calls her all the time and sometimes Martha will put the phone on speaker while folding her laundry.

“Martha,” Cheryl will say, “my grandson refuses to come over and see me no matter how many times I invite him. I’ll admit it, I’m officially offended!”

“Cheryl,” Martha will reply, “I’ve been your best friend for forty years and I don’t want to come over and see you. Just because you pinch different cheeks on me it doesn’t make it any more pleasant.”

And then the girls will laugh and laugh, going back and forth at each other like that for hours. Those are the good times in old 105, but I’ll admit, sometimes it’s hard to stay focused on the positive.

“I can imagine. Did you leave anyone behind that you cared for?”

Sure, lots of people in fact. My parents I miss most of all though.

“What were their names?”

Jon and Dani. Real good people. Did everything right just to have it all undone by a bit of bad fish. I had all these dreams of how I would make them proud one day. That was probably the hardest part of dying. Accepting that all your hopes, goals, and dreams… they’re just over. There’s no more preparing or building towards anything. It’s all very final.

“I’m sorry that happened to you Dave.”

Me too… But enough about all that. Too depressing! Besides, we haven’t even talked about the real enemy of the afterlife yet. Boredom.

“You never go explore the rest of the building? See what the other tenants are up to?”

Good question Figment. Unfortunately, the zoning laws of the afterlife are ironclad. I couldn’t leave this place if my life depended on it. Or, more accurately, I can’t leave this place because my life ended in it. I’ve tried to make a break for it when the front door is open but it’s like running into a bouncy castle wall. Just shoves you right back in. Although now that I think about it, I guess I should count my blessings that I wasn’t confined to just the specific room I died in.

“Why did you have to wait for the door to be open? Can’t you just like, you know, ghost through stuff?”

Only a bit. Like I’ve been telling you from the start, being a ghost is highly overrated. I can pass through walls and other objects within the apartment if I want but any wall that would lead outside of the apartment is solid to me no matter how hard I try.

“Jeez, that’s brutal. So then… what do you do with yourself all day?”

Oh Figment, I’ve been asking myself that question every day for the last three years.

1 YEAR LATER

Martha sits at her coffee table, a chess board in front of her, a game against herself underway. This has become a regular occurrence on account of her nephew going through a chess phase. Unbeknownst to Martha, I sit at the other end of the board.

Hmm. Knight to F7.

“Knight to F7? That’s a terrible move.”

Well Fig, it would be if I was actually playing chess in its elementary form, but the game I’m playing is one far more sophisticated. One of intense psychological profiling and statistical analysis that you could never hope to comprehend.

“You’re just guessing where she’ll move next?”

I’m just guessing where she’ll move next, yes.

Martha continues to ponder the board. “Like hell I’ll lose to an eight-year-old again,” she says as she slides her queen into position and checks the king.

Dang. Well, I have to admit. She’s getting better.

***

One of Martha and I’s favorites is on. Some telenovela where the main guy is trying to figure out who murdered his brother.

Cheryl called us in a tizzy earlier today saying that Martha absolutely had to catch up so they could talk about it together.

“It has to be the sister-in-law,” Martha theorizes. “She found out that Javier slept with Isabella and now she wants revenge.”

The sister-in-law? Martha, it’s so obviously Javier’s son! That inheritance check he’s set up to receive is something he’s just way too excited about.

A loud bang from the television interrupts our debate. The protagonist has cornered the would-be murderer, a hood hiding their identity from the audience. Martha and I both move to the edge of the couch.

With a trembling hand and an oath of vengeance on his lips, our hero pulls the hood back to reveal… Javier!

“HE’S ALIVE?!”

***

I watch with envy as Martha moves through the kitchen, preparing what I can only describe as the greatest looking sandwich of all time. A ham and cheese.

“A ham and cheese is the greatest sandwich of all time?”

You wouldn’t understand Fig, you’re still relatively new to all of this. For me, every sandwich, every meal, looks like the greatest. Hell, there are some days where I think I might miss eating more than I even miss being alive.

The phone rings and Martha wanders off to answer it while I continue to admire her culinary work.

“Dani?” I hear Martha ask, genuine surprise in her voice.

Mom?! Wait what?!

Now if you remember, Martha was originally my parents’ realtor who became a friend of the family after a few years. But in all the time I’ve been gone they have never called Martha. I guess I just always assumed that the pain of their son passing away in her apartment was enough to fracture the casual friendship.

But she’s on the phone right now! It’s the closest I’ve been to my mother in four years. I run over to Martha, hanging on her every word.

“I’ve been good! Doing my best to stay busy. How about you and Jon?” Martha asks.

I strain to hear my mother’s voice but it’s no good. The volume on the phone is just too low and Martha apparently doesn’t want to put this one on speaker.

“I’m so glad to hear that,” she replies to whatever my mother has told her, “and I agree, it’s been far too long. I would love to catch up tonight. Would you guys like to come over here?”

Now over the years, I’ve grown pretty fond of Martha, but I swear, I’ve never loved her more than I do right now. I might actually get to see my parents tonight! Something I never thought could be possible again!

“Oh… Yes. No, of course,” Martha stammers. “No, no, it was foolish of me to suggest it I apologize. How about that diner on Fifth?”

What? No! It has to be here! In Apartment 105! MOM! I CAN’T GO ANYWHERE ELSE!

“Okay, sounds good Dani! See you in twenty!” And with that, Martha hangs up the phone and begins collecting her items to leave.

Martha! Wait, it’s not too late. You can call her back. You have to call her back and convince her to come over!

Despite all my shouting, Martha finishes gathering her stuff, walks straight through me, and out the door, closing it shut firmly behind her. As she does, I feel the hope drain out of me like the air from an untied balloon.

What happened? Why didn’t they want to come here? To come see me?

“It’s because of you that they didn’t want to come here.”

What the hell are you talking about Fig? How could you possibly put this on me?

“I’m not putting anything on you, I swear. It’s just too painful for them. They don’t know that you’re still here. They just see this as the place where you died.”

… You’re not helping! Just leave me alone!

“Dave… Look, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to- “

Just shut up! You’re not even real! You’re just a voice in my head so be quiet and leave me alone!

And suddenly, it’s quiet. The quietest it’s been in a long time. I stand there, not knowing what to do.

Fig?

But it’s no use. I admitted it was all in my head. Fig couldn’t survive that. Now I’m alone again. Truly alone. After all, imaginary friends don’t become ghosts when they go.

***

Martha and I sit in our usual spots on the couch. Something is playing on the television but I’m not paying it any attention. Instead, I confine myself to staring at the wall.

Martha chuckles at something funny on the screen, but it’s forced. She sighs, almost as if she can feel the bleakness in the air. The television flickers off as Martha ascends from the couch and wanders into the other room. I don’t bother to follow. What’s the point?

That’s when the quiet is completely shattered by a scream that would have scared me to death if I was still alive. Before I have a chance to react, music begins to blare through the apartment. I spin around and see Martha standing at her record player, which is peculiar due to the fact that she’s never once used it since I’ve been here. James Brown’s I Feel Good blasts through the speakers, and Martha… Martha is dancing? No. Not just dancing. She’s downright boogying. I mean full on dancing her heart out, busting out moves from every decade, dancing like no one is watching.

At first, I’m too stunned to react. Then I begin to smile. That smile becomes a laugh, a deep, genuine laugh that I haven’t had in years. Before I know it, I’m dancing too. We dance until the record ends. She sits down, glistening with sweat, a triumphant smile upon her face. She can’t see me, but I smile back at her.

Thank you, Martha.

10 YEARS LATER

Martha lies in her hospice bed, surrounded by her family. I don’t recognize many of them. Cheryl is there too. It’s by her I choose to stand vigil with.

I’m not sure how to feel. When Martha became ill, I had convinced myself that she would pass away in a hospital somewhere and that I would never see her again. When she was made comfortable at home however, it dawned on me that soon, I wouldn’t be the only ghost in Apartment 105. The thought still fills me with a mix of emotions. First and foremost, I’m sad for my friend. I don’t want her to have to face the finality of it all yet. She still has so much to give to the world and the world would be lucky to receive it.

I’m also nervous about her… arrival. What is she going to think once she learns that I’ve been watching over her all this time? What if she’s scared when she gets here? In truth, I have no idea how she’ll react.

It’s Cheryl’s turn to say her goodbyes now. “Told you I’d outlive you,” she goads Martha, tears in her eyes.

But Martha is just as quick as ever. “Oh Cheryl, I’m only dying to get away from all your yapping.” The two friends hold hands.

“I’ll take the best care of Thomas,” Cheryl says. “I promise.”

“I know you will love.” Martha smiles and pats her friend’s hand. “Thank you.”

The family continues to mingle amongst themselves as goodbyes are said. I listen as Cheryl tells stories of Martha from their teenage years.

“Dave?”

I turn and see Martha, out of bed, and staring right at me. I look back to the hospice bed and also see what appears to be Martha sleeping, and I know she’s passed. Despite knowing it was coming, I can’t help but begin to cry.

Oh Martha, I’m so sorry.

But Martha just smiles and walks over to me. “It’s okay,” she says, looking at her family, “it was my time.” She returns her attention to me. “You’ve been here all this time?”

I’m unable to speak, overcome with the emotion of Martha’s passing and finally having someone to interact with, so I nod.

“I always suspected. There were times where I thought I could feel someone there.” She reaches towards me and places her hand on my shoulder.

There’s a flash. I see memories from a life I never led. Martha’s memories. I see my parents gifting me a bike on my eighth birthday. I see them through Martha’s eyes as well as she closes the deal on my childhood home. I see my time as a ghost and I see Martha’s final days as she struggles to hide her pain from her family.

And then it’s over, and Martha looks at me with tears in her eyes. I know then that I won’t need to explain anything. She already knows.

“Oh, Dave. You’ve been alone for so long. I’m so sorry.” She pulls me in and hugs me tightly, and I can actually feel it.

It’s okay Martha. I had you to keep me company.

I hug her back. For the record, I still believe that the horror movies shouldn’t be believed. Ghosts are highly limited in what they can do. They still can’t make things levitate, they can’t appear as ghoulish apparitions, and they can’t change the channel on the TV. But as Martha and I begin to talk about our lives and who might move in next, I begin to wonder, maybe ghosts can live.