Almost a Ghost Story

Part I

It was late summer. The little cherry colored sports car was made for that weather. With the top down the hot evening turned delightfully cool. The air was infused with the thick taste of cut-grass and night-blossoms. You could barely hear the buzz of the crickets and cicadas over the roar of the little miata’s engine.

Our little car zipped along cobblestoned streets, escaping the sleepy little town where our bed and breakfast was, headed for more lonely, more twisting roads. He was itching to drive, the car was itching to go and I was itching for an adventure. He took a turn northward and the faster we went the more I felt as though we were free. Delving into the back roads of the Pennsylvania countryside, leaving behind the sweet Dutch farmhouses and their cheery neighbors. As suppertime came and went and the sun started to fall dangerously low the roads got lonelier. It was just the two of us. Our conversation, started so chipper and easy - the kind of jabber that comes from being snuggled close in an unknown land – turned low and dark with the sky. We teased about horror movies, ghost stories: witches that haunt the forests, madmen who prowl for vengeance, dark houses that lure unsuspecting couples to their doom. And just as we started to giggle at our jests a building rose up out of the overgrowth of trees and bushes.

It was huge. Many stories tall, with wings that stretched wide either direction. At the top were turrets and gables, and each step down showed balconies and long hallways. And hundreds of hundreds of windows, all dark, all lonely, all threatening. It was an old resort, the chipping paint sadly showing how happy and chipper a place it used to be. The eaves of the windows looked naked without lace curtains. The lawn, overgrown and weedy, looked out of place without happy couple picnicking, happy children playing badmitton in white dresses and short pants. The big french doors to the lobby looked out of place without bellhops and butlers.

If this had been a movie we would have seen a figure in one of those old, dirty windows. A quick flash of a face or the brush of a skirt moving from room to room. If this had been a movie we would have seen lights flash on, beckoning us forward.

Instead a man in jeans jumped out of his work truck, stomping up the lonely stairway to the doors and turning on a construction light. Here too, the movie would have turned. The man would have seen us, come up to us sitting in our little convertible and warned us to move on. Not to ask questions, not stop here after dark. Instead we sat outside the gates and watched the old building in peace.

Driving on we talked about it. How a place like that ought to be haunted, ought to have a story. A grand old building still standing in the wild forests of Pennsylvania should have a history. It should have drama to match its weathered red trim and darken white walls. It should have a life. Motoring on in our little car we chattered about its size, how it’s such a surprise to find it amongst this little tiny road. We chattered so much we didn’t realize the sun was gone now and the road was narrower. We didn’t notice that the trees, which before lent a pleasing feel to the country, now leaned over us ominously making the dark summer night darker, more covered in shadows.

And we were startled to find on either side of us two small houses in disrepair. Unlike the large hotel the windows of these buildings were gone. Everything was dark, ominous. The walls leaned into weeds. The earth grew up around the houses as if it was trying to pull them down, swallow them whole. The wood was rotted, falling apart, the roof was sliding down slowly. The empty eyes of windowpanes were pitch, one could feel the hand of a witch reach out and grab you. Pluck you right in, never to return. Here there was no need of horror movie tricks. We were scared.

“Drive.” I whispered. I didn’t have too…he was already turning around.

To be continued…

Shocker

"So they're all trying to be sexy for this guy with the camera, but they're drunk so they're not doing a good job. So they start showing off 'the shocker' and they are so not doing it right."

Being a naturally quiet and shy person I often find myself sitting in the middle of conversations that have a story-like quality to them. Occasionally I get something out of it. As my current storyteller went on about instructing girls on the proper "shocker" technique, and the importance of the thumb, I cocked my head.

"You look confused." A helpful musician chimes in.

"Yes" I say "I've never heard of "the shocker".

Apparently, I am very funny. Everyone has a good laugh.

"No, really. I have no idea what it is."

Being naturally quiet and shy I often find myself in situations where people think I am innocent and sweet. Unfortunately, innocent is a barrier when surrounded by men who all know what "the shocker" is, but do not want to tell me. Or, as one protested, did not know how to tell me.

They tell me to ask my husband.

Now I have to know.

Eventually, after a long stream of cryptic jokes, mostly at my expense, some at the expense of the apparently all important thumb, one rogue felt brave enough to educate me. But we had to hide behind a set of pumpkins to do it.

"So...you get that this has to do with...er...some...er...form of physical...er...exercise. Of the, you know, the sexual nature."

"Okay." I try to look knowing and experienced.

"So, here are two fingers...you know where these go right?"

I blink for a moment. I realize that people may think I'm rather sweet and innocent, because I am. Already I'm a little shy. But I play it off.

"Yes, I can guess where those go."

"And you can figure out where this goes...right?" He says, showing his pinky with the two fingers and helpfully twisting his hand into a position just so.

"Yes, I can figure that out." And I can, but my mind is having trouble bending around it. On either side of my head is a pumpkin, the rogue is whispering conspiratorially, and the rest of the men have gathered around, all scrutinizing my face as I think. I speak before I think.

"So, in that case, what is the thumb for..." I pause, the rogue has extended his thumb and helpfully re twisted his hand for me.

"Ooooooh!" I got it.

"Don't worry." The helpful musician says "Your face only turned four shades of red."

Really...I'm shocked.

Cellphone Blues

Crossing the cobblestoned street of the cultural center of Baltimore. To our backs rises the Meyerhoff. To our front the Lyric. All around us are gray parking garages and red brick rowhouses. A mixture of old and new. A mixture of the modern and the historic.

And the people too. Behind me are couples dressed to the nines. Suits, dresses, heels. Ready for a night at the opera. Okay, maybe just a Loreena McKennitt Concert. But it's at an opera house. In front of me, jaywalking over two streets and in front of a rushing ambulance a man in a polo shirt and khakis.

Oh no, excuse me. A golf shirt. Not a polo shirt. A golf shirt.

Behind me the couples hold hands and giggle at the oppressively long "Don't Walk" light, in front of my golf-shirt-guy talks to himself.

Oh no, excuse me. He's talking to his blue tooth headset.

I wonder what he does, golf-shirt-guy, that he requires his headset to be on at 8PM at an opera house. I wonder if he knows his ear is blinking blue. I wonder if he realizes he looks a little crazy crossing the street in front of a rushing ambulance, talking to himself. If he wasn't wearing a golf-shirt I'd be expecting him to ask me for some spare change.

And thus it begins. Before I even set foot into the semi-modern-but-made-to-look-old opera house I've caught a case of the cellphone blues. Blues because the cellphones burn bright blue in the dimmed light of the auditorium. All around me are signs posted. "Turn them off!" they scream. "Turn them off at the door" "Turn them off in the lobby." "Turn them off in the bathroom" Turn them off, turn them off, turn them off. Even the nice ushers, dressed up in there black tuxes with crooked bow ties admonish us.

"You need to turn that off" one says to the girl sitting next to me.

"It is off," She says, looking up from her screen "I'm just texting."

I think we need a new definition of off.

A man sitting below me defines off as hiding the phone under his program as he mumbles. He looks awkward tenting himself with a piece of paper, held over his face. I can't help but stare at him talking on his phone furtively in the same way I used to hide under my covers with a blanket and read past my bedtime. It's a weird correlation to make, especially since he must be in his 50's and I was 7.

When he turns it off he makes eye contact with me for an uncomfortably long time. I feel the need to whisper "You are soooo busted". Instead he winks at me.

The girl stops texting. The man stops talking. The lights go out. And in the crowd below the eerie glow of blue cellphone screens pop up amongst the dark forms. Like faeries, flitting about, impishly pointing to each offender and saying "Here they are! The naughty ones are here and here and here."

There is a weird pause in the darkness, a new pause. Once an audience could be safe in the dark, knowing that instantly the stage would light up and we'd be transported. Now we wait, as ushers run around and help to extinguish the remaining phones...as the first musician waits patiently for our full attention...we wait...a mix of the old anticipation and the modern attention limbo.

The show hasn't even started and we all have a case of the cell-phone blue

So maybe I'm a little tired

My cat and I are having a spat.

She seems to think my spot on the bed is her spot on the bed.

She also seems to think my glass of water conveniently placed on my bedside table is her glass of water conveniently placed on my bedside table.

She also has the crazy idea that my stomach was made specifically for her pillowing pleasure.

Kitty has no sense of "personal space."

Our spat came to a head the other day as I was wrapping up some emails in the office.

Kitty: meow!

Katy: What?!

Kitty: MEow!

Katy: What!

Kitty: MEEEEOOOWWW!

Katy: What? What? What?! What do you want?! Whatwhatwhat!

Kitty: Meow?

And just before I tear my hair out of my head -

Husband: Um, don't let the cat stress you out.

Okay, so maybe I'm a little tired.