A Boy’s Guide to Ghosts

“Like I said after we scared the thuggish rich kid dressed like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance and his ghostly granddad off, you stay away from him. If he shows up, you walk in the opposite direction and do what you came there for: your education. Simple.”

Undeniable relief washed through me. Jimmy, with his rough face under a mullet hairstyle, passion for Hawaiian aloha shirts unbuttoned over tank tops and build of don’t-mess-with-him muscles had proven once more, he wasn’t just a bodyguard. He was my emotional support yakuza. “Point taken,” I said. “And thanks.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Keep you safe and sane.”

We got out and headed into the house, looking forward to tea and whatever Jiji or Grandma had baked that day, as if we were kids needing after school treats.

So, this transition seems like a good moment to fill you in on the details of what happened.

I was nervous enough about starting school. Being sixteen in a world of people who’d graduated high school and were already pretty much adults, felt weird, not to mention having Jimmy with me, while a relief, also drew lots of looks, not just because he’s buff and attractive in a rough kind of way, but he radiates an energy that makes a space around us, ironically meant for protection but which for that very reason, draws curious attention. But I digress.

Jimmy parked his Corvette in a space in front of Berkeley Law where my first class, Intro to Criminal Procedure Investigations, was. We were forty minutes early- lesson learned that I had more time to eat breakfast with Jiji, Grandma and Gracie, and not rush off as I’d thought I had to - and there’s a little café attached to the school building in front so we went to get a cup of coffee and some croissants first. The place was basic, small café tables inside, men and women in suits and briefcases, sipping and chatting, or reading and marking papers, students with backpacks, sipping and discussing. At one table, sat the guy Jimmy mentioned, pink leg warmers, off the shoulder Flashdance-style sweatshirt in pastel pink. He too, had a white cup and saucer and was seemingly absorbed in a large textbook open on the table next to his coffee, in spite of the fact two other people sat at the table with him, not reading or conversing. Just sitting. One guy looked like a student, a pile of books on the table in front of him, crisp chino slacks and a neat oxford button down.

It seemed odd that both young guys were ignoring the professor sitting at the table with them, an elderly man, also in a white button down dress shirt and slacks. Except that there was a slight physical resemblance between the elderly man and Leg Warmer Guy who was enduring a scolding, completely unruffled. Almost as if he didn’t hear him at all.

My inner red light went off. I needed to stop staring at them and go about my business. But it was already too late. In the next second, the elderly man looked up, gaze connected with mine and he blinked a few times. Then he stared some more.

Our turn at the counter came up and Jimmy ordered for us, since he knew by now what I always had. Coffee, milk, no sugar. Plain croissant. I turned back to dig for the money in my pocket, but Jimmy waved it away. Coffee on the Suzuki’s dime, along with Jimmy’s services. Orders of Kiku back in Tokyo.

Heart beating harder now, I pressed in a bit closer toward Jimmy. Even though when it came to ghosts, Jimmy couldn’t do shit for me, his presence itself was bolstering. I looked away, then back. The old guy was still there, staring at me. Except, now, he was standing up. Leg Warmer Guy was still reading his book and his companion sat quietly, hands folded in his lap, watching his friend as if that were his purpose in life. Leg Warmer Guy, however, must have sensed eyes on him because he looked up now too, and saw me watching him. He narrowed his eyes then returned to his book.

The elderly man, at this point, definitely identifiable as a ghost, was pointing to me. “You see me! You see me, right?”

I cleared my throat. “Jimmy, is the coffee ready?”

“Almost.” He looked at me, then frowned. “What is it? A deadling?” His accurate but disrespectful working term for the mortally-challenged.

“I think so. Maybe forget the food?”

But the barista was already passing a tray of coffees and croissants in a white paper bag into Jimmy’s hands and scooping his change from the till drawer.

Just those few seconds gave the elderly ghost time to reach the end of his tether a couple tables away from me before getting yanked back to the table he’d been sitting at with the two young guys.

“Let’s go,” I said, almost clutching Jimmy’s sleeve. Hopefully, the ghost was haunting the actual table and not one of the guys sitting there, so as long as they stayed put, the ghost couldn’t follow us.