Ghost Coffee

I sit on my couch, watching television, admiring the way the fabric of my new pants drapes over my legs, which are stretched out and propped up on the coffee table. The blood spots are a bit conspicuous, but they should wash out. Good pants are hard to find. I try to explain this to Madeline. She tells me I’m crazy. I tell her she’s just a ghost and what would she know about good pants anyway. She gets upset and disappears. Stupid ghosts, I say, always leaving when there’s an argument.
I get up from the couch and walk into the kitchen, smiling at the way the pants hang from my hips. They really are perfect. The legs are short enough that the cuff doesn’t drag on the ground, but long enough that they don’t expose my ankles when I sit down or walk up stairs. Their color exists somewhere between gray and black. I’ve taken to calling them soft black. The zipper is very satisfying, and the button is a shallow concave disc with a pale orange ring printed on it, for contrast. I open the refrigerator. There isn’t much inside, just a half-full half-gallon carton of milk, three eggs, a brand new jar of raspberry jelly, and a metal water bottle. Madeline appears, standing behind the open refrigerator door. Look at you, she says, Mr. Trendy. How much did that cost you? I grab the water bottle and close the door. I say I didn’t buy it, I stole it. She rolls her eyes. She asks me if I’m going to steal cat food too or am I going to let them starve. I explain to her that you don’t need to feed ghost cats, but she’s disappeared again. I take a drink of water, then open the refrigerator and put the bottle back.
I’m so happy with the pants that I decide to sleep in them. That should ensure their molding to my form, for the perfect fit. I toss and turn for an hour before deciding to take the pants off. Sleeping in clothes is always awkward. The two ghost cats are sleeping on either side of my legs and I worry about disturbing them while I try to worm out of the pants. Then I remember that they are ghost cats and that even if they were real cats they probably sleep enough as it is. I kick the pants off the side of the bed and go to sleep.
* * *
My alarm goes off at 9:30 and at 9:34 I roll out of bed and slide into the pants. The ghost cats are chasing each other through my apartment. I walk into the bathroom and am halfway through brushing my teeth before I remember the blood spots. I finish brushing my teeth and take off the pants. I put the section of the pants occupied by the blood spots under the tap and turn on hot water. I take my toothbrush and scrub the pants. Madeline walks into the bathroom. She is wearing a black bra and tiny black shorts. Her shoulder length black hair is pulled into a pony tail. I wouldn’t use that toothbrush anymore, she says. You don’t use any toothbrushes anymore, I say. I ask her why she’s dressed the way she is. She says that’s what she sleeps in. I tell her she doesn’t sleep. You’re right, she says, I just like teasing you. Sorry to disappoint, Maddie, but it isn’t working, I say. I’m lying, of course. Madeline is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, alive or dead. Except, maybe, the pants. I turn the faucet off and use a small hand towel to dry the pants. I put the pants on and look at myself in the mirror above the sink. Madeline stands next to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. It’s cold. Are you sure, she asks. I say yes, now I’m going to work, and ask her if I’ll see her later. She says sure, whatever.
* * *
I get to work at 10:03. Three minutes late. Not that it matters. My shift overlaps Ricky’s by fifteen minutes, and there is rarely enough business at the 24-Hour EZ Copy to necessitate two employees. Especially at 10:03 on a Friday night. I say hi to Ricky and walk into the back room. I clock in and put on my orange employee apron. I hate wearing it. I don’t understand why a name tag won’t suffice. This particular shade of orange does not go well with the pants, I think. I leave the back room and walk to the Island. The Island is where the cash register is. It sits in the middle of the room like the North Pole, surrounded on all sides by icebergs of office machinery. I tell Ricky he can leave now and that I’ll clock him out at 10:15. He says thanks, and tells me my pants look good. Thanks, I say, have a good night. Ricky takes off his apron, wads it up and tosses it behind the counter. Peace out, he says. The door makes an electronic ding when he leaves. I sit in the tall office chair behind the Island’s counter, my feet propped up next to the register.
At 10:15 I get up, grab Ricky’s apron and walk to the back room. I hang his apron up and run his time sheet through the machine. I hear the electronic ding of the front door and walk into the main room. Hello, I ask. I don’t see or hear anybody. Hello, I ask again. I weave through the copiers and printers and laminators, but I still don’t see anyone. I make my way back to the Island and stand on the counter. Hello? I heard the door bell, I say. A deep voice erupts behind me. Nice pants, it bellows. I nearly fall off the counter spinning around to face the voice. It belongs to Mike. Mike is a ghost. I don’t really like Mike, but at least he keeps me company some nights. I step down off the counter. Mike says, no, really, nice pants, and asks where I got them. You don’t want to know, I reply, but thanks anyway. I really like the way the legs maintain their shape. He looks at me and his eyes tell me he doesn’t really care, that he was just being polite. What do you want, Mike, I ask. Oh, nothing, I was just going to tell you I can’t hang out tonight, I’ve got places to be, he says. You’re a ghost, I say, what places could you possibly have to be. Well, not here, he replies. I was looking forward to having someone to talk to tonight, so I tell him he should stay for a bit. He asks why don’t I talk to Madeline. I tell him I don’t know where she is. That’s a shame, he says, then asks if the two of us have ever fucked. She’s a ghost, I say. So, he replies, and disappears.
No one comes into the store until 2:36. I am sitting in the office chair at the Island, browsing through random papers that customers have left in the trash, when I hear the electronic ding. I look up from the papers and see a man walk in. He is in his mid-twenties and roughly my height. I nod at him and go back to my papers, keeping an eye on him while he navigates the store. He stops at a copy machine and fishes through his black backpack, removing a thick set of papers. I wait for him to set to copying before I return my attention to the papers in front of me. After a few minutes he walks up to the Island. Excuse me, he says, the machine is out of paper. I tell him I’ll be right with him. He is walking back to the copier when I notice his pants. The are the same soft black color as mine, but the fabric they are made of looks much nicer, much softer. I grab a ream of paper from under the counter and follow him back to the copier. Along the way I ask him why he’s making copies so late. Homework, he says. I want to ask him more, but he doesn’t seem like he wants to talk. I replenish the copier with three hundred brand new sheets of Imperial White paper. There you go, I say, all set. He says thanks, already starting the copier again. I tell him he has nice pants. He looks up from the copier, clearly taken off guard by my statement. No, really, nice pants, I say. He hesitates, then says thank you. He opens the lid of the copier and places a new piece of paper on the glass. I look at his pants and notice how the cuff at the ankle rests on his shoes. I ask him what waist size he is. He looks up from the copier again, trying to mask his discomfort. Uhhh, thirty-two, he says. Perfect. I lurch forward and grab his neck with my left hand and his hair with my right. I slam his head down onto the glass surface of the copy machine. I hold his head there with my right while my left reaches for the lid. He is so surprised that he doesn’t have time to react before I mash the lid down on his head. I snake my right hand out from between the two pieces of the machine and firmly grasp his right shoulder. He’s making all sorts of spurting, sucking sounds through his bleeding, broken nose. I push down harder on the lid and twist his shoulder upwards until I hear a satisfying crack and I’m sure his neck is broken.
* * *
I get off work at 6:30 and drive straight home, thinking about how much better these pants are than the others. I was right, the fabric is much softer, more supple. The ghost cats are waiting for me at the door when I open it at walk into my apartment. Madeline is there, too, sitting on the couch. She is wrapped up in an old yellow blanket I’ve had since I was a boy. When she hears me come in the door she stands up, letting the blanket fall to the floor. Light from the morning sun filters through closed blinds and reflects off her naked body. She walks towards me. I open my mouth to ask her what she is doing, but she puts a cold finger to my lips until I close them. She walks away, towards my room. When she gets to the door she turns and looks at me. You’re just a ghost, I say. She smiles, says so, and walks into my room. I follow her and close the door, leaving the ghost cats to chase each other.
* * *
I wake up an hour before my alarm because I am cold. I wonder if I left the window open before I realize that I’m cold because Madeline is sleeping next to me. I steal a long glance at her smooth form, admiring her subtle curves before I crawl out of bed, slip on the new pants and t-shirt and walk into the living room. I pick up the yellow blanket off the floor. I notice that it smells vaguely of Madeline. I fold it and put it back on the couch. I slip on my sneakers and head out to my car.
I meet Jeff every Thursday before work at a coffee shop near the EZ Copy. He is sitting at a small table when I walk in the door. I wave at him while I stand in line. I order a cappuccino and sit down. We exchange greetings. Jeff asks me if I got new pants. I reply yes, just last night. I ask him if he likes them. He says they are damn fine pants and I agree with him. The barista is looking at me, quite puzzled because she doesn’t see Jeff, she only sees me, talking to what she thinks is thin air. I ignore her and continue to talk to Jeff. Jeff is lonely. He doesn’t get along well with the other ghosts. That’s why I meet him here every week, so that he’ll have someone to talk to. I genuinely like Jeff, but most of the reason I feel obligated to keep him company is because his situation is partly my fault. The ghost part, that is, not the lack of social interaction with the others. That’s his own doing.
Jeff asks me about Madeline. I tell him that we had sex. He asks me what it was like and I say it was cold and distant. I am about to tell him that she didn’t disappear afterwards, that she actually stayed, but I’m distracted by someone walking into the shop. It’s the guy from last night. He looks around the room until he spots me. Motherfucker, he yells, and marches towards our table. Jeff looks at me, worried. The pants, I say, and Jeff relaxes a little. The guy arrives at our table and pounds his fists down on top of it. Hey, calm down, I say. Have a seat. He looks at me, then at Jeff. Jeff excuses himself and disappears. Really, sit down, I say. The guy picks his fists off the table and takes Jeff’s abandoned seat. Mike told me I’d find you here, he seethes through clenched teeth. I take a sip of my cappuccino. I ask him what his name is. He replies Eric. Eric, I say, I’m sorry and I know you’re mad, but I assure you that you’ll get over it. Eric gives me an incredulous look. I ask him to just listen for a minute and explain to him that I’m sorry I killed him, but that I needed the pants and I hope we can work it out and become friends. He pushes away from the table, stands up and walks out the store silently.
A minute later Jeff reappears. Well, how’d that go, he asks. I say not well, but I’m not worried about it. Yeah, he’ll come around, eventually, Jeff adds. They usually do, I say. I tell Jeff I have to go now, and that I’ll see him next week. I finish my cappuccino and go to work, content with loose but not baggy fit of the pants.