The Ghost
She came to the sofa and shook him awake.
"Mike," she called. "It's dark already. It's eleven. You gotta' get to work."
The young man groaned. His mother sat at the far end, pulling her robe closed at the neck. She lit a cigarette and turned on the TV.
"What time is it?" Mike asked.
"I said it's eleven. That gives you one hour. Time for work."
He washed himself and then dressed in blue Dickies. He buttoned the shirt all the way to the top because it was cold outside.
"Can I have a cigarette?" he asked.
"No. And don't take any from the station. They're not yours."
"Okay."
"And be careful when you count."
"I know."
"They take the money out of your pay if you count wrong."
"I know!"
Mike forgot his hat and gloves, but continued without them because he knew it would anger his mother. It would be warm anyway in the booth. If he did things right in the booth he'd make his mother proud. If he earned enough money she'd be able to buy herself a new robe.
A cold wind was blowing and he jogged to keep warm, feeling off-balance because his hands were in his pockets. He heard the rumble of an engine and the whine of tires on cement. When he stepped off the road onto the berm and turned, there were no headlights; yet, it sounded closer every second. He got back on on the road, thinking that the sound must be a weird echo.
There was the crazed screech of locked tires as he was knocked into the gully. The car revved its engine repeatedly; but Mike saw only the outline, a vague shadow, of it, as if there was no car to see. He had been in the middle of the road and saw nothing even as he was hit; so maybe it wasn't really there.
"Damn!" he cried as he struggled to right himself. The pain in his legs and back stopped him, and all he could do was flop over onto his stomach. Along this gloomy and deserted stretch, Mike usually walked on the road to avoid the bushes and gully beyond the berm which frightened him, thinking that ghosts and devils lurked there. He should've known that ghosts could have cars, same as people. He felt foolish because people would laugh when they heard he'd done such a dumb thing.
With a singular push, he righted himself for a moment and saw the surprised face of the driver illuminated by a strange, green light that seemed to be not of this world. Mike fell back, not sure now if it was a ghost, or a man driving a ghost car, or what. The door opened and the man-ghost hurried around the car.
"Dude," he said. "I thought you were a dog or something. You all right?"
"Are you a ghost?" Mike was surprised at his own lack of fear.
"Huh? Aren't you like totally pissed?"
"There weren't any lights, so you must be a ghost. But if you're a ghost, then why don't you disappear."
The young man stood up to consider this. He realized that he might still escape, as the only witness seemed to be an idiot. "Oh, I'm a ghost, man; just watch me."
He hurried back to his car, pausing to see that no one else was around. The car took off with the steady thrash of its engine and the shadow disappeared. Mike crawled out of the gully and sprawled across the berm, unable to go any farther, his nostrils afire with the smell of burnt rubber.
Mike's mother came to see him at the hospital. She was secretly happy, because it was a chance to make some easy money, if whoever had done it could be found.
"I didn't see no car," Mike explained. "I think it was a ghost."
She told him to remember as much as he could, and not to mention nothing about ghosts to the police. "Don't worry," she said. "Someone must have seen the accident."
"I don't think so," Mike said. "Most people wouldn't see it anyway, since it's a ghost."
Once home, Mike had to stay on the couch until he had fully healed. Mike's mother became sullen and bitter when she realized that the police weren't going to find the car, and that she would get nothing but bills for their trouble. And all this time they were without Mike's paycheck.
"We couldn't collect no money from a ghost, anyway," the boy told her.
"Don't talk like that," she said. "People will know you're slow."
The boy felt guilty: his mother couldn't have any parties, and there was no one to take his sister for walks when their mother's boyfriend came to visit. He had caused nothing but trouble by getting hit by the ghost's car.
It was two months later when he returned to work. There was a light snow that night, and his feet itched from the cold. As he walked, he stayed in the middle of the berm, watching both the gully and the road for ghosts. He paused at the spot where he'd been hit: the smell of burnt rubber was strong, overwhelming, though for a moment he wasn't sure if he actually smelled it, or if it was just his memory playing tricks. Then he heard the engine and the tires, far off down the road. There were no lights, so it had to be the ghost. He crouched to conceal himself.
The car's outline was discernible. It was a 1969 442 coupe with a scoop on the hood. The driver's face glowed in the eerie, green light; it was the same young man who hit him. He drove past doing a hundred at least, and then accelerated as if it had nitrous blown in. This made him happy, this affirmation of the truth. He couldn't wait to tell his mother. And wouldn't the guys at work love to hear about it!
The station owner was waiting impatiently. "You're late," he said sharply.
Mike sat down quietly, and smiled politely when the owner locked him in the booth, feeling embarrassed about what he wanted to say.
In the morning, Mike's relief, newly hired since the accident, was bleary eyed; he boasted of his good time at the bar the night before. "You going to party today?" he asked.
"No," Mike laughed.
"I was working your shift while you was sick, but now I'm on days."
"Oh."
"Don't get run over going home," he suggested.
The winter sun was just then creeping above the barren trees and the apartment buildings. The ground was blanketed with fresh snow; Mike walked uneasily, slipping often, but he wasn't bothered. It would've been fun to brag about his ghost, but no one would believe him; so, instead, he carried his secret like a halo hidden beneath a hat, like he'd seen in the picture book about God. He paused at the point where the smell of burnt rubber was overwhelming. Several cars went past, and then, when the road was deserted, the ghost drove past in a white flurry. In the light he could see it clearly, which made him less afraid of it. Mike waved, watched it travel out of sight, and then walked the rest of the way home feeling blessed.
In the spring, his mother was still sullen and bitter. Her boyfriend wasn't visiting anymore, and some nights she'd cry for no good reason. The way she yelled at Mike, he figured it was his fault. Even though Mike was working, they were behind in the bills, and so she still didn't have enough money to do what she wanted to do. It was so bad that she fixed Mike's sister's birth certificate so that the girl would be sixteen, and sent her to work.
"Don't worry, I'll keep working," Mike told his mother.
"You won't make enough money for us, ever," she replied. "But you just keep working anyway."
"The ghost likes me, and I can tell when he's coming. I won't get hit again."
"You mean you see the same car that hit you?"
Mike was frightened by her tone.
"Answer me!"
"Y-yes. The same ghost car."
"Is the car you see real?"
"I don't think so," Mike said.
She went to the phone, but paused before dialing. What would she tell the police. How embarrassed would she be this time trying to explain, and watching their faces when Mike tried to answer their questions. She put the phone down.
"You and your God damn ghost," she said. "Well, that ghost can kill you this time: I got insurance on you now."
Mike noticed that his mother had bags under her eyes, and no longer bothered with makeup or bleaching her hair. She'd become an old woman in just a few months. This too, he figured, was his fault.
Mike began to wonder if his friend, the ghost, was really a friend after all. Since meeting him, there'd been nothing but trouble in his life. And never once was the ghost friendly towards him. Mike waved every evening and morning, but not once had the ghost waved back. He'd not honked his horn, or given Mike a ghostly glance, or nodded his ghostly head. So why did Mike cherish such a friend?
He stood closer to the road when the Ghost drove past to get a better look. Was the Ghost absolutely not noticing him, with arm raised, the only thing along a one-mile stretch of road. As far as he could tell, the Ghost's eyes didn't budge from watching the road.
But this was reasonable: he was going over a hundred, and often the road was slick with snow or rain. Of course he had to drive carefully. And the one time that Mike knew for sure that the ghost had seen him, was the time he'd been hit; and that time he had to stand in the middle of the road.
But then again, did a Ghost have to watch the road? If he could appear out of thin air, couldn't he look away from the road for just an instant, long enough to acknowledge Mike? What good is it to be a ghost and to have a great car, if you can't see anything, except what's in front of you? Perhaps he did see Mike wave: couldn't a ghost see without looking? Mike began to yell "Honk!" when the ghost drove by. But the ghost didn't honk his horn.
Mike and his sister passed each other every night as they walked along the road, going to and returning from work; the girl blamed Mike that she had to work scrubbing floors at the grocery store at the end of the road, and so she ignored him. But this one night, when she came upon Mike as he stood staring, waiting, where the smell of burnt rubber was overwhelming, she spoke.
"Why the hell are you standing here?" she asked.
"I'm waiting for the ghost."
"You retard! There ain't no such thing."
"Is too!"
"You're such a retard. You're not my brother, you know. Mom told me that your just a half-brother, and I'm glad!"
She walked away, leaving Mike to wait alone in the cold and the quiet. A while later, when the ghost drove past, Mike didn't wave or yell; he felt sad that he had such a cruel friend who caused so much grief. If only the ghost had driven past with his sister watching, he'd have been believed. He might even have been forgiven.
The next morning, Mike tried to convince his mother that he'd seen a ghost car driving down the road. He described the car as exactly as he could, filling in where the lines had been vague with what he knew a 442 would look like.
"It's your memory playing tricks," she said. She went to the closet and returned with a picture: it was the same 442 he'd been describing, and there was a young man leaning against it. "That's your father. You've seen this picture before, and that's what you think you see. It's your imagination showing it to you. Remember, sweetheart, you're not as smart as the rest of us."
"I don't remember seeing this picture."
The woman became angry: "If you tell the wrong person about the ghost, they'll laugh at you. I can't make 'em stop! They'll call you names and laugh."
"Tina laughed at me," Mike said. "She's glad we had different fathers."
"Tina had nothing to do with that," the woman said.
"What happened to my dad?" Mike asked.
"He killed himself by driving that car into a river."
"Why'd he want to do that?"
"He didn't want to; he was just drunk, is all."
For several days, Mike didn't watch the ghost as it drove past; instead, he walked to work with his head down. He was trying to understand why a guy with a car like that would drive it into a river and drown. It made no sense to him. If he was allowed to drive, even if it was just a Dart, or a Rambler, he wouldn't drive it into a river.
Then he thought about the ghost's profile: it had a small chin, a large, beak-like nose, and small eyes, kind of like a bird. He realized that this was just like the picture of his father, and so the ghost wasn't just any ghost, but the ghost of his father. The next night, he waited impatiently for the other cars to clear off. He looked up and down the road, straining for a glimpse of the vague shadow, and listened carefully for the sound of his father's car.
At last it came. Tentatively, he raised his arm and said: "Daddy," as it drove past. There was no acknowledgement, no sign that his father noticed him anymore than the other times.
Mike had fleeting moments of joy imagining that his father would stop the car to chat: "How've you been, son? I've missed you!" They might go for a drive together, and Mike would show off his father to the guys at the station.
But these moments became more rare as the evenings and mornings passed, and not once did the ghost slow down, or glance, or honk the horn. It was as if he didn't see Mike at all, for if he did see him, wouldn't he have to acknowledge his own son?
Mike called to his father's ghost by name: "Mike Taylor." And some days, he cried and sobbed. Had death made his father this cold and cruel? Was there no room in his ghostly life to say hello to his only son? Not even once?
It became uncomfortable for Mike to stand on the road: the smell of burnt rubber, as powerful as it was six months ago, mocked him all the more. The smell began to follow him, and leaped upon him at unexpected moments: as he opened the refrigerator door, as he lay down to sleep on the couch, as he sat quietly at the gas station in the loneliness of the night.
The empty hours of the night were the most difficult to endure. Before he had been proud and enjoyed being alone for eight hours a night; now this time was filled with pangs of regret and embarrassment as he thought of how he'd been run down and scorned by his father's ghost. What a fool! Nothing could distract him from the tortuous memories, for there were cars all around him, driving past on the highway, pulling into the station, and on the movies he'd watch on the small television: they all reminded him of his father's car. And always the smell of burnt rubber was there, too. He was unable to keep his nostrils clear of it. Now he understood why people had laughed at him throughout his life, for he was a fool, and he was doomed to a lifetime of foolishness.
The walks to and from work became times of shame and harassment. Mike ran now, trying to be off the road before the ghost drove past; but it was as if the ghost drove even faster now in order to drive by and not look.. Each time Mike was reminded that his father had killed himself in a drunken stupor, and that everyone knew he was dumb. To whom could he confide these things or look for help? At both ends of the road, ridicule awaited. And scorn was in the middle, never failing to find him.
There was in this time a spring morning that promised warmth and life: the sun was already above the budding trees, and sparrows vied with the jays and cardinals for seeds in the gully along the road. Nonetheless, Mike felt hopeless and utterly deflated. When the birds flew away, he thought they were avoiding the fool. When the jay screamed, Mike thought he was being laughed at.
At the point along the road where he'd been struck down, he waited. He waited without anger and without sadness; he waited patiently, with a single-minded determination, until he heard the ghost speeding closer.
The man that found Mike's body was nervous; he was shaken, and nauseated; his hands trembled. It was the first time anything like this had happened to him. He had seen the car before, and it always went fast; but he had never imagined what might happen if someone got in front of it.
Other police were already searching the area for the car in question. The cop that stayed was just waiting for the ambulance to arrive and claim the body. But he wanted to hear once more what the man had seen and heard. The cop couldn't quite understand some part of it.
"I d-didn't get a good look," the man said. "It was going way too fast! But I heard it, or f-felt it, really. It went by in a rush, l-like it was doing a hundred and twenty. I guess I watched it; maybe I was so amazed that now I don't remember."
"Then you found him," the cop prodded.
"Y-yes."
They both fell silent as they looked over at the boy who had not yet been covered, and whose body lay smashed and twisted in impossible angles on the berm.
"You didn't see the impact?"
"N-no sir."
"And you never heard tires lock up, or the sound of impact?"
"No."
For the cop, something just didn't add up. It all seemed obvious enough: the kid had been hit full on by a car; there were no skid marks, so it hadn't tried to stop, which explained why the body was as damaged as it was. The cop scratched his head as he walked the road once again. But there had to be skid marks; otherwise, he couldn't explain why the smell of burnt rubber was so overwhelming.
Parma, Ohio, 1988