One Ghost Per Serving

by Nina Post

  DZ stood and stretched. He was wearing a pair of silk boxer-briefs, probably designer and more expensive than Nathan’s entire outfit put together. Nathan rolled his eyes and turned toward the window, which faced into a dentist office. A patient was undergoing a procedure under a bright light.

  “Cyril, get me into my racing silks!”

  Cyril snapped into action. He handed DZ a pair of white pants, red racing silks, a helmet and red cloth cover, and then a pair of shiny black boots.

  “I’ll be in my dressing stall if you need to speak with me,” DZ told Nathan. He pulled on the pants then stepped into a plywood stall accessorized with a worn plush eagle, an Atari 2600 Super Cobra cartridge, and a pinkish photo of a stout, stern woman in an apron who was holding up a whisk as though threatening to beat the photographer with it.

  “Your mother?” Nathan asked, peering over DZ’s shoulder.

  DZ laughed to the point where Nathan thought he and Cyril would have to take him to the hospital. It had happened once before.

  “No, that’s not my mother.” DZ’s laugh trailed off into a giggle. “Cyril recommended that I decorate my dressing stall with items of personal significance.”

  Nathan supposed he would have to deal with DZ dressed like he was about to go out on a horse that was named something like Protestant Wind.

  “DZ, the game period is almost over for the Amass-and-Win.” Nathan pointed out.

  “I know! The sales have skyrocketed 344% since launch!” DZ donned his helmet – for what actual purpose, Nathan had no idea, but it was better than the time he had his spaghetti western phase.

  “Isn’t that awesome?” DZ stretched out his lips to look closely at his teeth, then looked up his nose. “We’re gonna make Quantal Foods the number one organic dairy company in the US. Probably the world. And we’re going to be right there with them.” He turned from the mirror to give Nathan a reproachful look. “Nathan, I know you masochistically force yourself to live a joyless, Spartan existence –”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “ – But not for long.” DZ wagged his finger as he looked over his shoulder to admire his backside in the panel mirror. “You’ll be driving a McLaren and drinking 30-year Macallan.”

  Nathan pressed his lips together in a strained smile. “Sounds great. Listen, I need to confirm some details with you about the product sampling events. I’ve coordinated with the on-site management and promotion staff, but –”

  DZ took two steps toward him and put his hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “Nathan, I don’t want to hear any negativity today. These special event and high-traffic sample promotions are key to Phase 2.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. However –”

  DZ put his other hand on Nathan’s other shoulder. “Nathan, this is going to go without a hitch. We launch Phase 3 immediately after.” He released Nathan after giving him a couple of firm shakes. DZ tapped a pencil on his shoulder, then scratched around the top of his ear, then dug his pencil, eraser-side, in his ear. Nathan left, intending to reorder food for the office, but seconds later, when he heard “Nathan!” he trudged back.

  “I think I have an eraser stuck in my ear.” DZ held up the pencil, which was missing an eraser. “Can you get it out?”

  “Shouldn’t you go to a medical clinic and get a professional to do it?”

  “Here.” DZ got tweezers from his desk drawer, then set his helmet down in the cabinet.

  “Fine.” Nathan took the tweezers and sanitized them using his pocket sanitizer.

  “I’d like to look into incorporating nanomaterials in peel-off labels,” DZ said, as Nathan carefully positioned the tweezers in his ear. “On-pack and in-pack product sampling. Hey, remember that recent E. coli outbreak? The big one?”

  “Sure.” Nathan almost had the eraser, but he didn’t want to push it in any further.

  “It took weeks before any public health agency knew what the cause was. Just like it’ll be a long time before anyone at a health agency realizes that there is an outbreak. And if they do, then they won’t even be able to track it because they don’t have tests to detect the pathogen. Then it’ll be too late, and we’ll be rich!”

  “You’re already rich, in case you haven’t noticed.” Nathan gave up on the tweezers. “I’ll be right back.” Nathan did a slow-motion run to his desk, where he kept a sewing kit. He jogged back, then sanitized the pin.

  “So you’ll be rich and I’ll be even richer. On my terms,” DZ said through clenched teeth. “No strings attached. So,” he said, cheery now, “we’ll both be rich and I’ll be free.”

  Nathan focused on the eraser. “Hold very still.” It was like playing Operation. He tried getting the pin between the edge of the eraser and the ear, which proved impossible. Then he tried sticking it, but again, he was afraid of pushing the eraser in.

  DZ tapped a few keys without moving his head. “Have you seen my Eric Snackerge array? On this screen I’ve got behavioral biometrics, analyzing Snackerge’s emotional states. And here, the aerial surveillance, from the drone. And here,” he tapped a key, “time-delayed nanopackaging. You’ll love these. It’s going to be neat. It’s too bad the discount card thing didn’t work out. Apparently Snackerge has some friends.”

  Nathan exhaled. “It’s almost like he’s a good person who’s nice to people.” Then he jogged off again, this time to the kitchen, where he got a paper-wrapped straw.

  DZ snorted. “I know. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

  Nathan unwrapped the straw. “I’m going to try to suck it out.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Nathan put the straw up to the eraser and inhaled sharply. The straw made a feeble whistling noise. “Sorry, you’re going to have to get this removed by a professional. And by professional, I mean a doctor.”

  “Dammit. Cyril, ready the horses.”

  Without any change in expression, the compact and wiry man left the room, presumably to go to the car. DZ put his riding helmet back on, and Nathan suppressed a laugh.

  “While I’m gone,” DZ said, adjusting his helmet, “you can deploy the allergen sensors. When we see Snackerge walk up to a display, we can release the pollen from the packaging. It won’t completely disable him, but it’ll be fun. We can watch it together later.”

  “Sure thing.” Nathan put up a hand when DZ left, knowing that he wouldn’t be back for hours. To relieve the anxiety of a medical procedure, DZ would have to go buy something.

  Nathan was relieved to be alone. Now he could finally finish reordering food, and then go through the past six months of bank statements to figure out where that $0.49 discrepancy was hiding.

  Eric had found the key to the distribution infrastructure of the two closest stores that carried Quantal Organic Yogurt. It was the most triumphant moment he enjoyed in a long time. Mrowman’s Grocery placed its product orders by phone or fax to the distribution center. Argosy Foods, on the other hand, placed its product orders directly from the manufacturer, who would then bring the product to an Argosy distribution center, where delivery trucks left to resupply local stores on a daily basis.

  Eric came in right behind the delivery truck to the Argosy store, parked, and loitered while the driver hopped out then opened the truck.

  “What’s goin’ on, Snackerge?” One of the stock guys came out to unload. He had a receding hairline, a prominent nose, and a ready smile.

  “Hey Jimmy. How’d the rest of your set go last night? I had to start a shift at Sammy’s.” Eric knew was holding onto that job by his nails only because Sammy had a big heart. He took pallets out of the truck and handed them to Jimmy who carried them to another guy at the door.

  “No problem, man, it was great that you stopped by,” Jimmy said. “Did you notice the new material?”

  “I did. I like how you do it 80/20, that you keep some of the older material and mix in the new stuff.”

  “Thanks, man. I’ve been workshopping it for a couple of weeks.”

  “That bit about your mom, w
as that –”

  “Based on reality? Yep.”

  Eric handed him a box. “Sorry to hear that. Family can be like a bee attack.”

  Jimmy laughed. “You’re right about that. Okay, let’s get your yogurt. By the way, did you see the new article in the Trib?”

  Eric almost dropped the box he was holding. “What new article?”

  Jerry’s ad shop had made six atmospheric web videos of Eric Snackerge. In all of them Eric was eating Quantal Organic Yogurt, in one of them he was shirtless, and in all of them he had the “sexy factor.” Wherever Eric went, there was always at least one guy who posed in an exaggeratedly sexy way and pretended to eat yogurt in the most suggestive way possible. Eric tried valiantly to keep his reactions subtle and good-natured.

  But another piece had come out in the paper, to Eric’s chagrin. Rex read it to Eric outside of the support group meeting in the portable classroom.

  “The Sexy Factor, by Larson Hark,” Rex read.

  Eric clenched his jaw and stirred raisins around in his container of yogurt like an angry witch using a mortar and pestle to grind down a difficult substance, like vulture beak. “Son of a –”

  “Wait. Believe it or not, there’s more.” Rex held up a finger.

  “Oh, it doesn’t end there?” Eric said, anger-eating sporkfuls of raisin-laden yogurt.

  “Blah blah blah … .” Rex held the paper with one hand and folded the other across his waist.

  “The quality of journalism I would expect from Hark.” Eric paced and shook his head, then noticed out of his peripheral vision the talon scratching on the inside of the window.

  Rex quoted, “‘I found someone who could tell me about Eric Snackerge’s missing year.’“

  “WHAT?” Eric stopped pacing and tried to grab the paper. Rex moved it out of his reach and glanced up, indicating that Eric should let him continue. “‘When Snackerge disappeared in September of 2000, no one – not his fiancee, not his family, not his fellow students – knew where he had gone. But Jules Worminghaus in Mossy Plains, California –”

  “Who?” Eric said.

  “‘ – told me that Snackerge managed his peacock ranch for 10 months. But that still didn’t account for the remaining eight months. Investigators –”

  “He put investigators on me? Why don’t they all just draw and quarter me in the town square? And I never managed a peacock ranch.” Eric gestured for Rex to hurry up. “Give me the rest of it.”

  “Shush. ‘Investigators uncovered that Snackerge worked as a private household cook for a wealthy and eccentric couple in Reno, Nevada.’“

  “None of this is familiar to me,” Eric said eyes wide. “And who the heck is a private household cook? Even He Who Cleans House can’t be described like that. This was all you.” He glared at Rex. “You managed a peacock ranch. You were a household cook. In my body!”

  “You would remember if you tried,” Rex said. “You were there too.”

  “You think so?” Eric packed his words with sarcasm.

  A knock on the window caused both of them to turn and look at the window. He Who Cleans House waved, then held up his arm and pointed to an imaginary watch.

  “It was like you were on auto-pilot.” Rex nodded to the sprite and briefly put up a finger to indicate they wouldn’t be much longer. “But you were still there. Don’t you think I’d know?”

  Eric held on to the yogurt and pressed his wristbone against his forehead, then made a circling motion. “Keep reading.”

  “The important thing is to keep your focus.”

  Eric ate more of his yogurt. “No, this is bad. Willa and Taffy don’t need me to embarrass them again.”

  “Willa and Taffy are impervious to embarrassment,” Rex said with a scoff. “Find me anyone who cares less what other people think than those two. Maybe someone who’s dead.”

  Eric tossed the container. “I know, but even if they aren’t, they deserve to read about their husband and dad doing something great, not what he did during his eighteen-month blackout period.” He made a frustrated groan when he realized he had thrown out the foil lid. He peered into then rummaged through the garbage can. “Let’s not forget that someone’s been rolling boulders between me and this contest, or have you forgotten about how I was nearly taken in by federal agents, almost mowed down by a helicopter –”

  “So derivative of North by Northwest,” Rex shook his head in disapproval. “I would have went with A Fish Called Wanda, with the really slow bulldozer.”

  “I was attacked by other customers,” Eric continued, “taunted by a spy plane, and who knows what else that I don’t even know about? For what, trying to win this contest? Working to help support my family? Making web videos? Obviously I’m some kind of monster that should be run out of town with fire sticks.”

  “You know what?” Rex smiled. “I’m gonna take you out tonight.”

  Eric angled up out of the trash bin, holding the foil lid. “So you can take over my body again? You’d probably do a better job than I would anyway.”

  “I’m gonna get you out of this downward spiral,” Rex clapping and rubbing his hands together. “Remember what He Who Cleans House said at the meeting?”

  There was a long pause as Eric went over in his mind what the sprite said. “Uh, that you can be the most thoughtful, conscientious household sprite in the world and still operate in an uncaring, ungrateful environment?”

  “No.”

  “That you can help with dinner and do crisp hospital corners but all you get in return is a lot of screaming?”

  “No.”

  “That we have a karaoke assignment?” Eric said in a quiet voice.

  Rex put up a hand in a high-five. It wasn’t returned.

  Chapter Nineteen

  While Nathan worked on boring financial stuff that DZ didn’t want to touch with a lion-taming pole, DZ wrote his speech to graduates of his alma mater. He had transferred there after spending his freshman and sophomore year studying Comity and Diplomacy through Snorkeling at the Université de Monte-Carlo.

  DZ was especially enthused about the section dealing with his senior year, when he began working on increasing food sales by imbuing commerce spirits into beverage containers. That summer at the promotional agency inspired him with the unexploited possibilities, and finding ways to promote foods and beverages was in his blood, after all.

  He met his first enchanter at the campus Snorkelers Society.

  DZ and the enchanter worked on the spirit-imbuing process together, but the process was unstable. They were only able to get the occasional spirit in the occasional bottle, and incidences of both were random. DZ wanted a consistent, reliable way of imbuing one of the same type of commerce spirit in every single bottle. But he got so bored with overseeing the damn thing that he went out Jet Skiing while the enchanters worked in the lab. He sat back and took a moment to reflect on how much fun he had and wondered whether he could get a deep-water Jet Ski moat installed around the house. Maybe he could pay a few retired Japanese freestyle champs to teach him aerial tricks. They could stay at the house for a summer. But he would have to put it on his personal card and not the corporate one or Nathan would burst a vessel.

  In his first test run, DZ handed out free samples of a new drink called POUNCE! outside of the law library of his school. The nanoparticles would bind and absorb the spirit and carry it into the organism, like a virus vector. According to the enchanters, one of the POUNCE! bottles contained an encapsulated spirit, but it wasn’t the type of commerce spirit they had hoped for.

  DZ oversaw the process himself, and could have sworn he heard something coming from the bottle as the enchanters finished imbuing. He thought he heard someone say, “Hey, this vessel doesn’t feel like the most bankable action movie star in the world. And it tastes like lemon-flavored soda.” Apparently, the vessel was an unpleasant surprise to whatever spirit the enchanters worked with, but DZ marveled that the enchanter, whose name he didn’t catch, was able to imbue a spiri
t of this age and power into a bottle of carbonated beverage.

  DZ saved the draft copy of his speech. He wondered which of the unlucky bastards who took a sample ended up drinking that spirit. Whoever it was, he or she was probably destroyed within minutes. No human could absorb a spirit like that and live, at least not as anything but a carrot.

  Eric’s legs felt like cast-iron as they pumped the pedals of his bike on the way from Jamesville Tech to the back lot of the Fireworks Superstore & Convenience Center. He could have been wearing a 1940s-era dive helmet for how heavy and weighed down he felt. He was putting all of his effort into getting back to the Princess, because the slower he went, the more he wanted to stop and sleep by the side of the road in a fetal position – maybe behind that plastic zebra, he thought as he passed it.

  Eric was barely able to get across that empty back parking lot, open the door to the Princess, and put his bike on the hanger inside, but he was operating automatically from the time he turned into the front lot. It was a little like being possessed: his body was functioning just as it normally would, but he wasn’t really there. His phone rang while he was raiding the fridge.

  “Hello?” he said through a mouthful of yogurt and granola.

  “It’s Donald from Anon-o-Boxes, Jamesville’s Premier Private Mailboxes and Pet Cleaning Service. That overnight letter you mentioned just arrived.”

  Eric caught some granola in his throat and coughed. He held the phone at arm’s length while he grabbed a ginger ale and drank until he could talk again. “Seriously?”

  He stashed the yogurt back in the fridge, looked around the bus while he breathed hard and ran his hands through his hair. “Wow,” he whispered, then grabbed his bike off the bus.

  “Eric. Eric. Eric. Eric. Eric. Er –”

  Eric flailed, arms slapping away whatever kept saying his name, then fell back asleep.