The Almost Rock Star (A Ghost Story) (DRAFT)

The Almost Rock Star (A Ghost Story) 5, Plastic Corpses

Chapter Five

Plastic Corpses

The pain wouldn’t stop. I went to the sink, somehow got the water turned on, and pushed my arm under it. The water at first didn’t register that I was there, running down in a straight stream. Through my intense pain I concentrated, willed my arm into the water, and then felt the cool rush slowly replace the burning in my arm. 

Now there was coolness in my arm, and the rest of my body was on fire. The pain was worse and the water wasn’t helping as much. I felt an unbelievable hatred for my situation, for my murder, for my lost life, for that damn goddess, Hera. I’m not sure I ever hated like this in my whole life.

I tried to move the rest of my head and torso under the running faucet, concentrating on water hitting me, and again, slowly, the pain in my whole body was replaced by the coolness of water. All of the pain stopped. I let the water keep running, waiting for all the pieces, all the memories of the pain to wash away. It almost felt as if the water’s spirit was filling my soul. 

When the pain, or maybe it was shadows of the pain, stopped, I stood up from the kitchen sink. It was the old farmhouse kind. Big enough to put a large dog in, or arm fulls of corn and cabbage and tomatoes. I used to bathe my little Miwok in it. Miwok, my other name for Mambo. He looks like an Ewok, when he stands on his hind legs. When he dances, it looks like the Mambo. The Latin dance of Cuba, get it? We’ve got lots of Cubans here in south Florida. They were all escaping Castro or someone way back when.   Before I was born. There’s whole areas here where nobody speaks English. The signs and stores are all in Cuban. 

I looked down and there he was, happy poodle eyes that seemed too intelligent for a dog’s looking at me. He yipped happily, and I forgot the goddess, the pain, and my horrible death. 

“Yes, I love you little Doodle. I’m back. Don’t you worry. I’m going to figure this out.”

I didn’t really know what I was going to do. It had been dawning on me, on the long walk back to my house from the scene in the woods, that I was truly dead. At first I just wasn’t quite understanding my existence. Dead. I wasn’t back alive. I was a ghost. 

At that point I was walking and walking. It was about ten miles back to my house. I got tired, but I wasn’t feeling normal pains like sore feet. I was in the same clothes I was wearing when I died. Blue jeans and a white top. A little cotton frilly thing that had some eyelet lace on it. Black leather sandals. My toes were still painted my favorite frosty pink.

As I walked, I tried to go over what had happened. Some guy I had never met had come into the Blind Pig for dinner. He was the typical seedy type we used to get off the freeway sometimes. The Blind Pig was only about three miles from the Interstate, Florida’s biggest billboard sign on 95, positioned a few miles after “See the Orange Groves” and the “Visit Florida’s Gatorland, Just 15 minutes from Disney World” signs just north of us. 

West Palm Beach, which included El Cid, where I lived, was mostly a casual Florida town just over an hour north of Miami. By casual, I mean it was a halfhearted effort of renovated strip malls and suburbia and 1950s-era motels, tourist traps with no clear indication of which way the beach was. That was because while the beach was only 10 to 15 minutes away on roads clogged with stoplights and more tourist traps, city planners wanted the tourists to stop at all the tourist traps. Seriously, try finding the beach from Okeechobee Boulevard or Greenacres, some of the places you end up in when you get lost. You have to live here to know where the beach is. 

Some tourists miss West Palm Beach altogether, thinking there’s nothing here, and keep driving north on the Interstate to the most magical place on earth. Disney World. Only about two hours more along the freeway. 

West Palm Beach has always lived off of Palm Beach’s glamor and glitz. All kinds of famous people live in Palm Beach, from Michael Jackson for a while to Jimmy Buffet. John Lennon bought a place there just before he was murdered. There’s this huge mix of  voodoo and Santeria and drug lords all living in West Palm Beach, plus all the people who want to be living in Palm Beach. I heard that West Palm Beach has one of the highest murder and violent crime rates in the U.S. Our little piece of paradise.

Parts of West Palm Beach were like a mini Miami. It resembled bad parts of Miami, the buildings never repaired from hurricanes, Cuban Thai taco stands with tropical colored outdoor benches and dirty parking lots with a guy selling dead shrimp out of the back of his old Ford. West Palm Beach was no glitzy South Beach. And we had drifter types like this guy coming in all the time. So I didn’t pay much attention to him.

“I’ll have a country chicken meal, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a coke,” the guy said. His eyes were almost colorless in their lack of vitality. I could see they were brown, but his eyes on me felt gray. “I’ll probably have The Irish Mom’s apple pie for dessert, but ask me before you bring it.”

“Sure enough,” I said, flirty but not too much because he was a dirtbag type. You never know. I didn’t want him to think I wanted to go out with him. But I wanted a good tip.

When I brought him his food, he glared at me.

“Took you long enough. What’dya do, have to kill the chicken? Chop its little head off? Did it bleed all over the place back there?” 

I looked at him. 

“Are you always this social?” I bit back the sarcasm, still trying to keep it light and a little flirty. “You must have a lot of girlfriends.”

He made some weird snuffing sound and I shrugged and turned away. I kept half an eye on him, however. An apple pie would bring it up to $24.95 and that was a better tip if he even pretended to keep it near 15 percent. For slightly flirty, I usually got at least 18 percent, sometimes more. One guy, an older fat guy, gave me $80 on a $132 dinner. 

As soon as his mouth closed over his last bite, I headed over.

“Mom’s Irish Apple pie? It’s still hot. I could add some vanilla ice cream. They make it homemade here. It’s my favorite.”

He briefly looked like he was going to say no until I said it was my favorite. Then he got a funny look on his face, and said, “Well, I guess I have room for that.”

I got the pie and ice cream as fast as I could, except for eating a large bite myself off the scoop spoon. I love ice cream. The guy was weirding me out, but I was pretty glad when I saw a $5.50 tip. I was even gladder to see his retreating back.

“You coming to “Oh, Doctor, It Feel So Good tonight?” Aja said as soon as the door slammed behind the guy. “I need a drink already.”

“No,” I said. “I got a date with a change in my life and a pint of ice cream.”

“Not again! You always trying to change your life. What is it this time? Online dating service? I’ll be your date. C’mon, let’s leave for Vegas instead and get married!”

Aja was only half kidding, but I glared at him anyway. He was just my crazy Indian best friend, a coworker who worked the same stupid hours I did. We usually had drinks together after work. 

“No, I’m working on my new album. This one’s going to make it all the way, Aja.”

“I’m your best fan. I’ll buy it ahead of time. Maybe I come over and listen to you work.”

I rolled my eyes. Aja had no musical talent at all. He was all visual art and no sound. But he made a great fan. I was counting my fans already. Aja was number twenty-three. I made sure all of my millions of fans stayed with me. I was a YouTube star. More than 5 million views. So far, I had made more than $30,000 off YouTube ads.

My biggest hit was, “When You Make It.”