Ten minutes later, John stepped out of his closet and into the living room, clad in corporate armor and ready to take on all comers. He picked up the phone to call his driver, but all that came out of the receiver was a whisper of static.
John put down the phone and collected himself. He couldn’t drive, and the phone was out, so…subway. Not his first choice, he thought, but he’d be damned if he missed this meeting. He headed towards his private elevator and down to the lobby.
The marble floors echoed as his custom leather shoes carried him to the doorman who he dismissed with a wave as he headed outside, like he had done countless times. The doorman barely acknowledged him. In fact, John thought, I don’t think he noticed me at all. Maybe he’s hung over too, John thought, as he stepped into the New York morning air.
Clearly something had happened last night. Lights from a cop car flashed in his eyes and a small crowd was forming on the curb. Edging past the lookie-loos, he peeked over the head of an old Chinese woman who was muttering to herself in a hushed tone.
Christ! He thought as he took in the semi-solid mass of bones, blood and organs. What in the hell had happened here?
“Anybody know what happened?” he said, but no-one replied.
“I said, anyone know what happened?”
Still no reply.
The old woman turned around, weathered lines in her face forming slowly into a frown. She looked straight at John.
No, that wasn’t right. She looked through him.
The old lady pointed in his direction, fingered a jade amulet on a necklace and screeched at him in Mandarin.
“Whoa lady, back off!” John said, edging away from the crowd and the harpy’s shrill screams.
The Chinese woman increased her pace and volume, and walked right through him, yelling at thin air all the while. John couldn’t help but wince.
What the hell? John thought. That couldn’t happen.
He chased after the old woman, rapidly outpacing her, and passed through her again. His body went cold, like an empty vessel suddenly filled with dry ice.
Jesus. This was not good.
John ran down the middle of the street, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Hey! Hey! Look at me, you bastards! Look over here!”
It was a long shot. New Yorkers ignored these kinds of outbursts most of the time. But the cars racing through him sealed the deal. He was dead. A ghost. Gone. He’d seen enough movies to know the score.
But didn’t ghosts haunt people? Or hang around old houses? Or mack on Demi Moore? He didn’t feel any sense of purpose at all. When he was alive he had the constant hum of money and deals to keep him focused. The next score, the next fix.
Now he just felt empty.
He walked to the end of the block, brushing non-existent dust off his suit. At least he looked sharp in the afterlife, he thought, pausing to check himself in a mirror before realizing he didn’t have a reflection.
So. Not even that going for him.
“Hey! Buddy!”
Turning his head to the alleyway next to him, John saw another man in an immaculate suit. Expensive haircut, shiny shoes…this guy worked on the Street. Emphasis on worked, because half his head was blown off, exposing bone and brain underneath.
“Dude. Welcome to the club.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re a rare breed, you and I. We’re the last breath of capitalism. We literally died of affluenza, and here we are.”
John shifted so he could address the part of the man’s head that was still intact. “You look like you died of something other than affluenza.”
“What can I tell you? Alpha male dealer tried to rip me off. He was packing heat and I wasn’t.”
John was a little surprised that he was handling this so well. Normally after a night of binging on cocaine and whores he was a little jittery come morning. But then this was no ordinary morning.
“Come on, meet the rest of the guys!”
John followed the rotting man into the alleyway. Two other specters awaited him. One was dressed in natty Sixties attire, his skin grey and his lips blackened. The other looked like he was going to a costume party with a gilded age theme. He was a very fat, mustachioed gentleman in a top hat and tails, with a waistcoat bordered by a gold watch chain. He was also nearly transparent.
“I’m sorry pal, I never got your name,” the half-headed man said to John, holding part of his own brain in as he leaned in to greet John.
“John. John Thompson. And you fellas are?”
“That see-through old-timer is Jessup, and this is Steven, one of the original Madison Ave sharks. I’m Jim.”
“Wait a minute,” John pondered. “I remember now, Jim Shelstein, the hedge king! There was a scandal about you getting found dead in a crack house!”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Jim mimed a gun at his head and pulled the imaginary trigger. “Blam!” He half-grinned unnervingly.
“So that’s what you do once you’re dead? You wait in alleyways for other dead guys?” Jim asked.
“Not for most people. They go…well, we actually have no idea. Most of them die and that’s that. But we ran the numbers and….well, we really are the one percent. There’s a few of us in this town, and we were all top of our game when we were still kicking. I’m guessing you were too.”
“Goddamn right,” John blurted, and felt a sudden pang. He’d never get to screw people out of their money again.
“There’s history to this crew, too. The None Percent…” Jim began.
“The what?” John asked.
“That’s what we call ourselves. There’s not many of us and technically we don’t really exist, at least not to the living,” Jim smirked, “and it just sounds better than ‘one percenters.’”
“I’ll say,” John agreed.
“Anyway, this scam’s been going on since the days of Tammany Hall. We think a lot of those guys are still around, but you can barely see ‘em. Sometimes,” Jim paused, solemnly. “If the wind is just right, you can hear them whispering. Just once, I thought I heard Boss Tweed.”
“So what do they do? What do you guys do?” John queried.
“Not much,” Jim shrugged. “The really old ones can barely talk, like I said. As for us, we can’t make money, can’t sell stuff, can’t run railroads…so we wait.”
“Wait for what? Judgement Day?” John jibed.
“Happened already. Year 2000. Nobody noticed,” Jessup said matter-of-factly, twirling swirls of ectoplasm out of his mustache.
“Pay him no mind, once you start fading out the mind disappears too,” Steven the ad man remarked.
“So that’s what we have to look forward to. Wandering around Manhattan, and then fading away into nothing,” John considered.
“Happens to all of us. We just take longer than most,” Jim reflected.
“Well, not me.”
“I beg your pardon sir, but what is this balderdash?”
“Yeah, mack! Don’t you think we’ve been trying to figure out what to do with ourselves since before you were born? Jessup here has gone crazy at least twice over this pickle!” Steven cried.
“At least,” Jessup lamented, as he fiddled with his pocket watch.
“Does that thing still keep time, Jessup?” John inquired. “And if so, what time is it?”
“It most certainly does. My force of will keeps the gears turning, as near as I can reckon.”
“It’s the same for all of us,” Jim remarked. “A guy with half a face only exists because he’s a dream that refuses to die. There’s your solution, buddy. We’re just stubborn sonsabitches.”
John paced back and forth. He couldn’t get high; he couldn’t make any deals; he was basically homeless, and even if his apartment was in his name, that didn’t mean squat anymore. Some part of him refused to let go, move on, take off. It was a feeling he’d had every day as a New Yorker. The city threw a lot at you, but you just hunched down, pushed through, and didn’t give a fuck what other people t
hought.
“Wait a minute,” John speculated. “What if….”
“Yes?” Jim asked. The others perked up. This was the best conversation they’d had in decades.
“What if we helped people? You know, like guardian angels?”
“Sounds like bolshevism to me!” Jessup bellowed, his wispy jowls shaking with anger.
“Yeah mack, I put up with enough of the pinko crap from my employees when I was still alive!”
“What’d you expect from kids with a liberal arts education and a set of pencils? Common sense?” Jim contested.
“Shut up, all of you!” John demanded, temporarily silencing the squabbling spirits.
“Listen, I’m the first guy to look out for myself,” John continued. “I completely understand where you’re coming from. But if there’s one thing I know about this town, it’s that no matter how bad it gets, you just tell everyone and everything to get the hell out of your way, because you’re a goddamned New Yorker.”
The spirits nodded in agreement.
“Well...we’re done. You guys might shamble around trying to fool yourselves, but it’s true. I’m a mean guy. I take drugs. I treat women badly. I don’t sleep. I work my ass off and I made billions of dollars off of other people’s work.”
“And?” Steven remarked.
“And it was great! I loved every second of it. But I always wondered, was I doing this by myself, or was someone looking out for me? I mean, I’m kind of a piece of shit. Why would a higher power want to help me be that way?”
“I gotta tell ya, that never really came up for any of us,” Jim ruminated.
A rat scurried down the alley, past Jessup and through Steven’s foot. It stopped, shivered and bolted into a nearby dumpster.
“But now, with what you’re saying about old voices…that gets me wondering. I thought it was all me, drive and ambition and not giving a fuck about anyone else. And you know what? Maybe it was. But maybe it wasn’t.”
“Where you going with this, fella?” Jim mused, stroking his half chin.
“I’m saying let’s get out there. Let’s be the guardian angel for every broker, every potential tycoon, every guy who wants to make a buck and doesn’t give a fuck.”
“Some of us are of….diminished capacity,” Jessup murmured.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t whisper suggestions into the ear of a trader, nudge him along! People don’t know we’re there, but some of them can tell something’s up. I’ve seen it! Why not use that to change things up? We could even take this thing global!”
“And,” John said, becoming more animated as he spoke, “I’d bet the spirits you sometimes hear have been doing the same damned thing since forever! Stands to reason, given the amount of stuff that happens in this town for no good reason. Or so we thought.”
“That explains a few things. The war in Iraq. Hell, wars generally,” Steven hypothesized.
“Watch it buddy! I tell ya, John, these advertising guys act like they love the green but deep in their chests beats the heart of a liberal,” Jim countered. “Well, maybe not beating in this guy’s case, but …”
“Nah, it’s just good business. What better place to make new ghosts than a war? And don’t call me a liberal,” Steven quipped.
John waved his hand to get them to stop their bickering. This was an important task. It was their purpose.
“Ok so, back to now. Here’s the plan, alright? When one of our guys does that last line of coke or has a heart attack in his mistress’ bed, we’re there ready to welcome him to the team. And the cycle begins anew!”
“Outstanding!” Steven clamored. “Dante once said hell is other people. Let’s prove that bastard right!”
“Count me in!” Jessup thundered. “My word, this is the most fun I’ve had in years!”
“Right, let’s head to Wall Street. First stop, Lehmann Bros!” John proclaimed.
“They do good work!” Jim chimed in, shaking his half face vehemently up and down in agreement.
John smiled to himself. He might not be breathing anymore, but he could still make a dent. 2008 wouldn’t know what hit it.
~~END~~
The Vintner of Little Neck
by Chris Tuthill
My brother-in-law’s name was Dakota, and he deserved it. Every year he came for a weekend or two with his family to visit us in the city. He was the kind of guy who would complain about everything. I mean, if he were a football fan and had 50-yard-line seats to the Super Bowl, he would bitch that it was too loud and crowded and why couldn’t he have a luxury box.
Since I love my wife Sarah and my eight-year-old son, Eric, and am generally a nice guy, I had to put up with Dakota for a few weekends a year. I didn’t have to like it, but I was raised to be polite and friendly, so I did my best.
One year, Dakota and his wife, Helen, were to bring their kids, Juniper and Ivory, to our apartment in Kew Gardens during the last weekend of September. Before their visit, I had spent a few days scanning the local papers for some kind of family outing we could do that wasn’t too expensive. Dakota usually wanted to attend pricey Broadway shows, sporting events, or other such touristy things that were over our budget and annoying to boot. I figured I would head him off and find something cheaper.
We might try a baseball game, but I hated to take the subway unless I had to. Our stop had buskers and so-called artists that grated on me, but whom Dakota would no doubt love. I thought it best to avoid our local station, especially since I had recently had an altercation with an overly aggressive performer there. I didn’t want another scene with out-of-town visitors.
I thought about the Cloisters up in Washington Heights, but knowing Dakota, a museum would be a bad idea. Last time I had gone there I’d been stuck listening to some over-educated jerk ruin every gallery. It was a crime they let people do that. Afterward, I had taken the dude aside and let him know how rude he was. He didn’t seem to get my point at first. Perhaps I was too forceful with him, but I do think he eventually saw things my way.
I had an idea though, and one that we could all probably agree on. Even Dakota would love it, I was sure.
They arrived on a Friday evening. Sarah had ordered a couple of pizzas, and predictably, Dakota didn’t like it much.
“Up in Wells, they have pizza that isn’t so oily like this New York stuff,” he whined in his nasally voice. He had taken my seat at the head of the table while I was mixing iced tea.
“Well, Juniper seems to like it,” I countered. Their portly eight-year-old boy had already eaten three slices and was reaching for a fourth.
“It’s not good for him,” Dakota complained. “He shouldn’t have so much grease. And this pepperoni might give him gas. Next time, we should order one with no cheese, and some broccoli and kale toppings.”
“That sounds more like a salad,” I joked.
Helen and Sarah laughed, and this made Dakota angrier. “Haven’t you got any beer?”
“I think there are a few cans of Coors in the fridge,” I said.
I don’t drink much. People bring it over sometimes and it sits there patiently, maybe wishing it had been brought to a home where it might be appreciated.
“Coors?” Dakota sounded incredulous. He turned to his daughter. “Ivory, what do we think of mass produced beverages like that?”
“It’s made of advertising lies and corn syrup,” Ivory replied. She was ten, going on about forty.
“Well, in this case, not corn syrup, exactly, but close enough,” Dakota said. “Though it would not surprise me if they brewed that swill from corn. Is there any place I can get some decent craft beer around here? At least a Dogfishhead, or a Sierra?”
I shrugged. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know.”
“There’s the beverage barn,” Sarah said. She tugged at her long blonde ponytail nervously. In her eyes I could see her pleading with me to be nice. And here I was thinking I was being as friendly as one of those subway performers who had just been offered a six figure recor
d contract.
“I suppose there is,” I agreed. “Dakota, it’s just a couple of blocks away. They probably have some Sam Adams at least. We can go there now if you like.”
“Well, I guess that would do. But there’s no need right now. It’s too late. Maybe tomorrow.”
The subject of beer being exhausted, Dakota turned to Broadway. “So, shall we go see The Book of Mormon this weekend? I was looking online and the tickets seemed reasonable.”
“Reasonable?” I said. “They’re about three hundred a seat. However, I did see that the Queens Farm Museum is having what they call Harvest Weekend. Rides and stuff for the kids. Pig races. And I see they even have a beer garden. How does that sound?”
“Pig races!” Eric yelled through a mouthful of pizza. “Mine’s gonna win!”
“No, mine!” Juniper shouted.
“Can I see the pig race too?” Ivory asked.
“It’s settled then,” I said. “It’s the Harvest Fair tomorrow.” The kids yelled happily as Dakota groused. Round one was mine, and it felt nice.
“We can do that kind of thing up near Wells,” Dakota said. “I had hoped to give the kids some culture. But since you already have them all excited about racing pigs and other nonsense, I guess this fair will do.” He looked at me like he wanted to burn me to ashes and then kick the resulting pile into the street. I figured the Farm would be fun, though. Lots of open space. Lots of chances to help Dakota see the error of his ways.
*************
The next day we got on the Q46 and bused it out to Little Neck, home of the Queens County Farm Museum. Though Dakota had a car, he didn’t want to drive us because he said he hated city traffic. I think he also wanted to get blotto and not have to deal with driving or the embarrassment of having his wife take the keys away, which I had witnessed more than once over the years.
Just being on the bus was enough to make Ivory and Juniper excited. There were people who weren’t white, for one thing. They stared at a Jamaican guy with long dreadlocks, until I told them it was impolite. They didn’t know any better, being from Wells and having a guy like Dakota as their dad.
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