Shadows in the Grey

    “And then I ran-“ he dramatically took a gulp from his mug, “that Confederate bastard through with mah bayonet! Yes, sir, yes sir,” Frank finished his long winded tale with a flourish of left hand that he propped between the third and fourth buttons of his ill fitting shirt in a poor Napoleon imitation.
    “Yeah, okay, darlin’ we’re just gonna go ahead and take this,” Sam said, pulling the mug of beer from his had before he decided to do another flourish that ended with patrons being splashed with Polygamy Porter. Again. “Hey, Mick, call a cab for Frank here, will ya?”
“Pssh, I don’t cab no need,” Frank sloshed, “I gots me car.” He pulled a set of keys from a pocket and began waving them about. When Sam reached for them, Frank pulled back and tisk tisked her while swaying an index finger like a metronome. A very inebriated metronome. He hopped up on a chair and wobbled atop it wiggling his keys above his head repeating the metronome gesture. “Frankie B. Can can drive A-Okay-ie,” he started repeating in a sing songy voice.
Sam looked up at him, placed her hands on her hips and sighed. Almost every night they played this game. Frank would have about nine too many and decide he was Yankee soldier (the details on exactly which soldier were fuzzy but a highly decorated one to be sure) fresh from the Civil War and would regale them all with tales of his valiant deeds against the Confederate scum. The fact that he was Black and from Atlanta did little to deter his vigor. Sam looked over at Mick for some assistance but he was busy and calling cabs, it was last call.
“Show me again how you ran that Confederate bastard through, Frank,” she said with mock interest.
Franks eyes lit up and he said in deep, seriously dramatic voice, “there’s we was in the middle of the jungle,” his Civil War tales would sometimes merge with Vietnam footage he’d seen while watching the History Channel drunk, “he a came at me and I went SHABAM,” he swung his key less arm up in an exaggerated blocking move, “and then SHAWACK,” he struck his other arm forward in a stabbing motion, keys first. Sam grabbed the keys and tossed them to Mick who deftly caught them in one hand while pouring a shot of Vodka in the other. Sam spun back around just in time to catch a falling Frank and help him to the safety of the floor.
“Now that there was cheatin’,” he said with more than one slurred word. “But you’s a girl a, a, a goods girl so I’s forgives ya. I ever tell you how you looks just like me Ma.” he finished with a broad smile as he sunk down in the chair he had been perched on a moment before.
“Yeah, I know Frank. You just sit there and we’ll get you out to the cab when it gets here.”
Sam went back and helped Mick finish last call, shoo the stragglers out and load up the cabs. It was about half after 1 in the morning when they finished.
“You want me to walk you home?” Asked Mick as he shrugged into his beaten leather bomber jacket.
“Mick, how many times do I have to tell you? This is Salt Lake not New York.”
“Yeah, yeah. Guess what? Good people still get dead by bad people round here sweetheart,” his voice maintained a gritty sound common to many chain smokers, although he’d switched to electronic cigarettes a few years back following a cancer scare. He eyed her from beneath the brim of his newsboy cap. Mick was well into his fifties but you’d never know it from looking at his bright, mischievous brown eyes. Sam rolled her mismatched irises at him.
“I’m a big girl, Mick. I can take care of myself. For six blocks anyways,” she said heading to the door.
“Okay, okay, just looking out for my number one gal is all.”
“Number one, eh? What happened with Mona?”
“Eh,” he grumbled as he locked the door to the bar, “women these days. All clingy and needy,” then in a mocking, high pitched tone that grated with gravely voice, “when are we going to get serious, Micky? When are going to meet my parents? Why haven’t you done laundry in two weeks? Why is there a sock in the coffee filter? Come on Micky Squishy.”
Sam snorted, “Micky Squishy?” she asked incredulously.
Mick groaned, “Oh, man I didn’t mean to say that stupid pet name.”
“Too late,” she exclaimed and then in a tone mocking his previous one and pursing her lips together and jutting them out, “Micky Squishy.”
“No, no, no none of that from you sweetheart.”
“You get to call me sweetheart and I can’t call you a nickname? Come on Micky Squishy that’s not fair!” They had walked across the parking lot and stopped at the light pausing before they would go their separate ways.
“I call everyone sweetheart,” he retorted.
“Right,” she said, elongating the word in sarcastic exaggeration, “I don’t recall you ever calling Frank sweetheart.” Mick rolled his eyes. “Oh, even better, I’ll call you Mick Squish!”
Mick groaned and turned away towards his apartment that lay just around the block. “I’ll see you tomorrow sweetheart.”
“Night Mick Squish!” His head dropped in defeat and he gave a half hearted wave with the back of one hand.
Sam smiled and turned the opposite direction towards home, popping the earbuds for her iPod in as she went. She shrugged her jacket closer against the cold that was so unusual for early October. A man dressed in rags circled around a lamp post muttering to himself. Sam glanced at him quickly. His mutters grew louder and he raised his hands towards the sky. He had gloves on, or at least he had at some point, years ago they had disintegrated and now revealed half the bones through decayed skin. She looked away pretending to not have seen. She could feel him looking at her but could not hear him through the chorus of Metallica’s ‘Master of Puppets.’ She had enough clients right now. If you try to help everyone, you wind up needing help yourself. In her case, it would be professional help. Escaping the notice of the dead isn’t easy if they know you can see them but if you ignore them long enough they forget and drift away. The music helped to tune out the screams.
 It was something she was born with. All kids can see and interact with ghosts on some level but it usually doesn’t last past puberty if even then. Sam was an unusually sensitive medium or whatever you wanted to call it. As long as it wasn’t ‘whisperer,’ she fucking hated that term. There was no ‘whispering’ about it, hardly ever a heart felt lesson about it, and she definitely didn’t have the tits of Jennifer Love Hewitt. Contrary to popular belief, the spirits of the dead don’t always stay due to unfinished business and when they do it’s not always a sappy ‘I just want to tell him I always loved him,’ story. Just because someone croaks doesn’t mean they suddenly change into an altruistic, selfless version of themselves. Most the time their personalities stay the same, at first anyways. Over time as they lose the things that know and love they begin to fracture. If they don’t find new things to attach to they begin to go insane and insane ghosts are no picnic.