I dragged my sorry carcass into work. I had made no effort and was barely dressed within the business-casual standards of our office. At least my jeans didn’t have holes in them. There was not enough coffee in the world to fix my mood today. I promised to go on a date that I wasn’t particularly interested in participating in. I didn’t like anything in my wardrobe, and I certainly couldn’t wear what I had on. And I wanted Peter.
Everything wrong in my life came down to that. I wanted Peter and I couldn’t really have him. It felt like a stab in the gut with a flaming sword.
I cranked out my work. It wasn’t particularly interesting, another info-graphic for the same group with the boring glands. This time it was needles, and the vials the pharmaceuticals came in. We didn’t call them drugs at the university so we could differentiate between illicit substances and medicines. They were all drugs in my head, but it upset some people on the university’s board that we worked with “drugs,” so an institute-wide policy on nomenclature was in effect. I guess the expanded vocabulary didn’t hurt, making most of us sound smarter than we actually were on a daily basis.
Holly popped her head into my cube. “Are you excited about tonight?”
I groaned at her.
“Oh no.” She frowned looking at me. I was not wearing anything that could even remotely function as a work-to-evening outfit. “You feeling okay? You’re still going out tonight?” She was worried. I didn’t want to go, but I wasn’t going to bail on her. I didn’t want to let her down, she had too many people in her life do that to her. I wasn’t going to be one of them.
“Bad David morning.” She still accepted mourning my relationship with David as a reason for things to not be smooth in my life. What I wanted to say was bad Peter morning. I missed him hard.
“It’ll be okay.” She patted my shoulder.
“I know thanks. I’ll change before we go. You don’t mind swinging by my place to pick me up, do you?” I thought I could duck out a little early, run home, change, then have her swoop in and off we go.
“That will work.” She nodded.
“Do I have to be sexy tonight or can I just be okay? Wondering if this mood doesn’t lift.”
“Okay is fine, I mean they think we are coming straight from the office. I wouldn’t go with too sexy either way.”
“Sounds good.”
I spent the rest of the day barely focused on my work, and mostly focused on looking at Peter on the internet. I started with my favorite images. I tried to imagine his smiling face looking at me, and not some camera. I closed my eyes and tried to remember him from last night. His smile, his eyes, his hands. He did some amazing things with those hands and his lips.
I watched clips from his movies on YouTube. I found some outtake videos. He looked like he had been easy to work with, at least in the clips I saw. He always smiled, and if he messed up he would start cracking up, so would the crew. No one ever looked cranky on set.
Didn’t Peter remember any of this? He seemed fairly bitter regarding the turn his career took but watching him work, he seemed to really enjoy himself. So did everyone else around him.
Sure he never made big budget movies and wasn’t considered a major movie star, but he was in a lot of movies. He was a working actor. Wasn’t that really the point?
I clicked over to the “We Love Peter Keith RIP” group to see if there was anything new and interesting I should look at. There had been a lot of activity since the anniversary of his death was coming up soon. There was a lot more fan art than I had seen before: the expected portrait, and some unexpected jewelry. There were also a lot of Peter Keith tattoos. Random quotes from his movie characters. A few Trouble Trouble quotes. His character Johnny was always saying “s’up now?” I didn’t think of it exactly as tattoo fodder but to each their own. There were also quite a few portrait tattoos of him. Now I love Peter, but I do not want his face tattooed across my ass.
Some woman claiming to be his widow posted how she planned on starting a memorial blog and asked fans to send in stories. I followed the link. Currently, it only led to an under construction page for some future website.
I bookmarked the website. It might be worth checking out as a resource if I stalled out when it came to writing about Johnny Urban. Some fans posted links to articles that had been written about Peter since his death. I tagged them to come back and read later. They looked like they might be able to provide some character points for me to use as I morphed Peter Keith into Johnny Urban.
It was obsess on all things Peter day, but I also had to get some work done. I would have to postpone some of my research. Yes, I called it research instead of obsessive fangirling, which in reality it was.
I left the building like Elvis as soon as 4:45 hit. I snuck out a side door and hoped no one would see me. I quickly walked home. I secretly hoped Peter would be there. I hadn’t spoken to him all day. He was probably off pouting because I had a date and I was going on it. I picked up a dress I had worn to work earlier in the week. A cerulean, black, and white color block mod A-line. It was properly rumpled to look like I had come from the office. I put on some make-up, something I had not done that morning. I scrunched product into my hair and put in a little headband. I looked properly cute for a date. I wished Peter could see me, and appreciate how well I cleaned up.
Holly did. She giggled when I confessed I picked the dress off the floor since it was the first thing I saw.
My date did not. Actually, he didn’t appreciate anything. We were late. The restaurant was noisy. Our waitress kept messing up. The food was lousy. He complained about everything, and not in a way that could be mocked or ridiculed later for my enjoyment. No, he was a negative boring guy. He never got my name right, so I started calling him by different names. I don’t think he even noticed. On the other hand, Holly’s date was cute and very outgoing. He had a real dynamic personality. Holly spent the entire time giggling and smiling. At least one of us had a good time.
15
Hey Pete, I read some articles about you. Some guy named John Lambert is making a movie about you.
I sat in the middle of my bed, slowly tapping out the transcription of the handwritten notebooks. Peter lounged. It was a rare moment of domesticity for us. Not doing anything, but being in each other’s presence. Well, Peter being in my presence, and me having his voice in my head keeping me company. In any case, I needed this. Peter had avoided me all day after my double date with Holly. I felt lonely and abandoned. I was the bad guy with him if I went so she didn’t have to go out alone, and I was a bad guy with her if I stayed home because my ghost wanted me doing nothing instead. I couldn’t win. Fortunately, he had come around. He knew the dates meant nothing to me, but everything to Holly. I needed to be around him right now.
He hadn’t felt like working on the book, but I did. I took the advice of the crow and continued to work on my own. I hadn’t told Trina about us yet, but I knew that would happen soon. I knew better than to ignore the counsel of a crow spirit. Crow spirits were supposed to be powerful and provide insight and wisdom.
Lambert? He sounded amused. He produced and directed a bunch of the movies I made the past five years or so. He’s a good guy. What else did it say?
Nothing much, it was a recap of a press release. Just said filmmaker John Lambert was making a movie based on the life of his late friend Peter Keith. How many movies did you two make?
I think we made about ten, maybe twelve, movies together.
That’s a lot of movies. I always thought it took at least two years to make a movie. Ten to twelve movies, that's practically a lifelong career right there. Clearly, I needed to research more about Peter’s acting career. I also needed to find out more about this movie that was being made.
I returned to typing and Peter went back to whatever it was he was doing. I tried to close my eyes and look, but all I got was a sense of his presence, not an actual presence that I would see.
I continued to transcribe for hours. At some point, P
eter faded off into the ether. I really should ask him someday where he got himself off to. Finishing a full notebook was a huge sense of accomplishment for me. I really needed to improve my typing skills. If I could touch type my writing process would be so much smoother. I wasn’t planning on doing any kind of typing drills tonight. I couldn’t face the repetitive skill-building exercises, even if they were disguised as video games.
I wanted to see if I could find anything more about this movie thing. I followed a few search links to articles that were really no more than what I had already read. I tried searching for a few different keyword combinations. I ended up finding that Peter’s wife, Michelle Cruz-Keith, had, in fact, launched her blog, and John Lambert had posted as a guest blogger.
Reading Michelle’s blog created mixed emotions for me. I knew all about this woman, yet I had never known anything about her. I was still a little mad at Peter for that. It wasn’t fair of me I know. He had told me the truth all along, and somehow I convinced myself it was my imagination. What I thought I made up about Michelle Cole had been completely based on Michelle Cruz-Keith.
It was hard enough finding out her name was Michelle and that she was, in fact, a curvy Hispanic woman. But he really had picked her up at a bus stop on one rainy evening. The difference between Peter’s Michelle Cruz-Keith and Johnny’s Michelle Cole was the character I wrote did not get on the motorcycle and really didn’t know who Johnny was. Peter’s wife knew exactly who he was and apparently rode more than his motorcycle that night.
I stared numbly at the screen, not yet prepared to read the words that Michelle Cruz-Keith had written.
“It’s been almost a year since dear, sweet Peter left this mortal coil. I can’t begin to tell everyone how difficult it has been, and how much I appreciate all the outpouring of love I have received. Peter rests peacefully now, no longer in the chronic pain that plagued him in his last few years of life. Coming to grips this past year with my grief has been difficult, but I am ready to share my stories. I have asked friends and family of Peter’s to also share their stories. I am extending this offer to you, his fans, and extended family of love that I know Peter always appreciated. If you have any stories of how Peter positively touched your life or a funny interaction with him, please do share. He may have left us for now, but his memory will be with us forever.”
I was a sobbing mess by the time I finished reading the short entry paragraph. Peter really didn’t understand how much he was missed. Somehow, somewhere along the lines, he got it into his thick skull that he had disappointed his fans, let them down, and that no one missed him.
I kept reading. There were several posts. The second was a painting of Peter from one of the mock-buster movies he starred in. The caption merely read: “fan art, thank you so much for sharing your love of Peter.”
The entry after that was titled “Prankster Pete.” It was written by his older brother, the one whom he felt estranged from.
“It was hard burying my baby brother. He wasn’t that old. I always thought of him as being so strong and fit. But accidents can take anyone at any time. The past few years I don’t think Peter thought of us as being particularly close. I know I didn’t have him over for dinner, or for a beer, or to watch football as much as I should have. But to me, Peter was constantly in my life. One of his movies was almost always on one of the thousand cable channels we have these days. I swear if one of his cheese-ball monster flicks wasn’t on TV, there would be one on within a few days. I always watched his movies. So to me, it felt like I was seeing him, or hearing him all the time. But I realize now that’s not the same as actually being there. He may have been a presence in my life, but I wasn’t one in his. I will regret this for the rest of my life. Remorse, it sucks. Go be a presence in your loved one’s lives.
Now, I’m supposed to be telling you about how Peter was always playing practical jokes. We didn’t grow up surfing. But we picked it up as soon as our parents moved us out to California. Peter’s absolutely favorite thing to do was mess with my board. He would gain my trust, then offer to wax it for me. But the little bastard wouldn’t wax it, he would oil it, or glue sand on it.
If I was really lucky it was the oil. I’d carry my board out, then try to slide on and ride it out to the breakers. Keyword try. I’d slide my torso onto the board and keep on going, right off the other side. A few times I managed to not slide off until I was trying to stand up. My feet would slip on the oil-slicked surface and off I’d go with a particularly ungraceful fall. Now I say that’s lucky because the oil would clean off easily, and I’d only lose a day of good surfing. I’m ashamed to admit, he got away with oiling my board up more than once. I claim distraction by bikini in my defense. One time, I could have killed him. He glued sand or sandpaper to my board. Scrapped the hell out of my chest. He’s lucky he used white glue, so it eventually cleaned off. Almost ruined a new board.
If you didn’t keep a close eye on Peter he would get you somehow. I’m gonna miss that. No one pranked me like Peter.”
I sniffled. Peter needed to see this. He thought people weren’t mourning his death. He was so wrong. There were even more entries. A lot of fan art, clearly some pieces were reposted on the blog that had been posted in the “We Love Peter Keith RIP” group.
I continued to scroll and read. The last blog entry was written by the filmmaker John Lambert, the one who was reported to be making a movie about Peter’s life. It read like a progress report. The screenplay was still being modified, actors were hired, production was underway, filming was scheduled to begin soon. A good looking young man, with a chiseled jaw named Liam James, was cast to be Peter. The only picture they had of him showed that he had dark brown hair, but he had the right eyes. Peter’s eyes were important to his look, at least for me they were. Hair could be bleached.
I sat staring at my computer screen, the picture of Liam James dissolved into a rotating pattern of colored lights as my screen saver took over. This was going to change everything with Peter I could tell. These were the people who had been important to him, not me. I was some random person who was trying to help. I had never been an integral part of his life. The book wouldn’t magically let him transition over. It would make his ghost feel better, maybe, but it wasn’t going to help calm his spirit in anyway. Not like this blog, or the movie. I needed Peter to see this, but I also realized this was going to change the dynamic of our relationship.
I should be laughing at myself, calling what we had a relationship. It was a series of really hot wet dreams and very little else. I needed to get a grip on reality. I still had issues wrapping my head around his reality. It made me happy to think Peter liked me, and I mean really liked me. But I still had that lurking in the back of my mind this was just a fantasy I was making up.
It was and it wasn’t. Peter was real, the relationship part was the fantasy. I always knew something would come up to burst my happy delusional bubble over Peter. I had a sinking feeling this was it.
The anniversary of Peter’s death sort of snuck up on me. I knew it was fast approaching, but I didn’t realize it was the day until I logged on to the online group and there was an incredibly handsome picture of him. It momentarily took my breath away. That’s how he looked when he was with me, yet to the rest of the world, he was lost, gone. I allowed myself to be distracted with all the memorials. Mostly “We love you,” and “Miss you” posts.
When Peter came to me that night, he made no mention of it. I didn’t feel like I needed to remind him. I didn’t think it was something he necessarily wanted to remember. We made love, which was more like some wild circus acrobatic stunt act. I learned to love that I could make as much noise as I wanted or needed to when we were together. Our dream zone was completely soundproof.
Completely sated, I folded Peter into my embrace. He was so much bigger than me, but I loved holding him. He would rest his head on my chest, his warm breath on my skin. I alternated between petting his hair and tracing patterns on his shoulder. His shoulders
were freckled, minor skin damage from becoming a surfer when his family moved to California as a teenager.
“I died today Gil.” I guess the significance of the day had not escaped him.
“I know, I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. They don’t really make cards to cover this situation.” I tried to laugh. I was concerned about how well he was holding up. I couldn’t see his face, just the back of his head, I had no visual gauge to his emotions.
“It sucks, but I met you. That’s fucked up.” He pushed up to look at me. “I had to die to find you.” He shifted, pulling me into his embrace. I looked up at him. His gaze was soft as he drank in my face. His fingers softly traced along my jaw. “I never told you that Michelle and I were in the middle of getting a divorce, did I?”
“No, I think I thought you had already been divorced. Even though you never called her your ex, just your wife.”
“Yeah, I guess technically she’s my widow.” He huffed.
“What's going on in that head of yours, Pete?” I tapped him on the forehead.
“I did things all wrong, and now I can’t fix them. And somehow in the middle of all of this, there’s you.”
“Wrong person in the wrong place and the wrong time. I’ve always had impeccable timing that way,” I said.
“No, right person, right place, wrong time. I should have known you when I was alive.” He traced my lips with his finger. I bit it gently.
“Peter Keith, you big phony. You never would have looked at me twice when you were alive.”
“Probably not, but I should have. That’s what I did wrong. So much stuff like that, I was such an ass. Do you think it's possible to become a better man after death?”
I shook my head, I didn’t know.
“Regret weighs heavy on my mind tonight.” He confessed.
“Maybe this is that whole afterlife penitence. You have to reflect on your life and regret the wrongs you did and realize what the better choices would have been. When you got to the next level you get to pass go, collect two hundred dollars. If you stayed an asshole after you died, then you’re stuck until either you figure it out, or you score a get of jail free card.”
Dead Sexy: Second Endings 1 Page 13
