Last Night at the Gentlemen's Club

My roommate left the Thursday before the haunting. Kyler said his girlfriend was upset because she thought we were sleeping together, but she sent a message where she thanked me for the blender and invited me to her book club, so she must not have been too mad. But I didn’t give them my blender. I found out they took it when I came back from work and that and my phone charger were missing. In their place were two Subway gift cards and an open condom wrapper left on the counter, as if my former roommate’s final act was to have safe sex on the floors of our dining room. The next day, I called into work sick, forwarding my manager a forged doctor’s note. The remaining daylight was dedicated to writing ads for a new roommate and brainstorming methods of preserving my phone’s battery that didn’t involve spending $15 on a new charger.

It was Saturday when my phone died. By then, my flyers were taped to every telephone pole within a two-mile walking distance from my apartment. Interested parties were instructed to text me a photo of any potential pets and a 250 word paragraph on why they hate all theater. I told myself that I was only going to use my phone for emergencies, but my sister sent me a link to some videos from a fox sanctuary, and I watched those until my phone got hot and everything went black. I glanced at its metal corpse in my hand and felt an instant blend of relief and despair. On one hand, I was free. No longer was I held down by the incessant need to check my messages or scroll through Yelp reviews of cat cafes. On the other hand, I had no way of knowing if my ninth-grade science partner posted another rant about her cheating fiancé, which meant I had no one to compare to when I wanted to feel good about myself.

That night, I lay in my bed with all of the lights on. Without my phone to play whale sounds, the concept of sleep was nonexistent. I tried counting sheep, singing lullabies, recapping season four of Downton Abbey in my head, counting sheep while recapping season four of Downton Abbey in my head, but nothing worked. I was damned to stay awake. Though I was lying under twenty-three pounds of blankets, a gust of cold wind suddenly came over my body. The window was open, but I didn’t open it. I got up to close it and immediately lay back down. As I placed my head on the pillow, I tossed to the side to turn off the lamp on my bedstand, and that’s when I was greeted by the sight of a dirty patchwork-sheet ghost floating by my bed.

“I am the spirit of a soul long passed,” said the apparition, “and I require your assistance before I can make my journey into the afterlife.” Wearily, I looked my visitor over. The sheet it wore was composed of multiple awfully patterned sheets sewn together. Subdued paisleys, neon rocket ships, rainbow stripes, and mock denim patches made up my visitor’s form. The sheet covered everything except two seafoam eyes peering through a couple of shoddy cutouts and an entrail or two sticking out from under the sheet. It was also extremely dirty. Mold and grease stains covered the thin bedding, and the rust spots that occasionally made a cameo on the patterns were either blood or food stains.

“That’s fine,” I said, turning on my back. I wasn’t doing anything else that night, so I didn’t have a good reason to turn him down.

“Great,” replied the dirty patchwork-sheet ghost. “That was easier than I thought it was going to be.” My visitor hovered over to the middle of the room before looking back at me.

“Also, I just wanted to let you know that your room looks like shit.”

“You’re too kind.” I got up from my bed once more and grabbed my rainboots from under the bed. It wasn’t raining outside, but they were my footwear of choice whenever any type of traveling was to be involved, and I watched enough Scooby-Doo to know that the arrival of ghosts meant a lot of walking. “Is it really cold outside? ”

“Probably. I don’t feel anything, but I did draw a dick on the window of a shitty blue sedan outside, so it’s gotta be pretty cold.” The dirty patchwork-sheet ghost floated through the walls of my bedroom to the apartment’s landing. I grabbed my bubble coat from its hanging place, quickly put it on, and stuffed my phone into my coat pocket, just in case the ghost was leading me to a charger. Once I was ready, I followed the spirit out the door. When we got to the bottom of the stairs, I finally asked where we were going.

“You know Scuttlebutt?”

“Never heard of it,” I said. The ghost led us outside of the complex. It was snowing, and I had somehow missed the memo. I would’ve changed out of my pajamas if I’d known, but at least I was wearing a coat.

“Yeah, you have. The gentlemen’s club that was shut down because they found out it was a front for the mafia, you know the one.”

“Isn’t every gentlemen’s club a front for the mafia? Like I can’t name one that doesn’t look like a meeting place for a gaggle of pseudo-Italian grunts.” Digging through the snow with my feet, my sights homed in on a melted butterscotch candy on the asphalt. Its contents had leaked through the swirly wrapper. It was an impressive feat to pull off considering the weather. I kicked it, but it wouldn’t move. “Also, isn’t a gentlemen’s club just a fancy way to say strip club?” I tried kicking the candy again. Still nothing.

The ghost sighed. “The place with the pig-umbrella orgy.”

“Oh my god, yes. I know exactly what you’re talking about. The underground place on Broadmoor. It’s been closed for a hundred years or something.”

“That’s the one.” We were going through the parking lot, weaving through the stationary cars like lab mice in a cardboard maze. “So which one is yours?” asked the ghost.

“I don’t drive,” I lied. I didn’t want to tell the apparition that it was my sedan that was now adorned with a spectral-drawn penis. “There’s a bus stop behind the twin Camaros over there,” I said, pointing east. We moved to the bus stop, both of us refusing to speak another word. No one else was there, probably because anyone else in the city with common sense was in bed at that point.

When the bus finally came, the driver opened the doors without even acknowledging my companion. Either she couldn’t see the dirty patchwork-sheet ghost, or she didn’t care. Though no other seats were occupied, I stood. The ghost floated.

“So why are we going to Scuttlers again?” I asked, gripping the handrails above the bus’s multi-colored seats.

“Scuttlebutt. And I didn’t tell you the first time,” said the spirit. “I was waiting for you to ask.” The ghost’s glazed irises fixated on my forehead from behind the bedding. “We’re going to see a friend. She’s a jazz singer down there.”

“A friend or a friend?”

“Shut up.” The irises turned away.

I waited for further explanation, but my companion wouldn’t offer one. “What’s her name?”

“Maeve,” the ghost muttered in its wispy voice. I flinched.

“My mother’s name was Maeve.”

“Ok.” The dirty patchwork sheet ghost turned towards the back of the bus and began to slowly shift away from me.

“She’s dead.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The ghost’s eyes burned into the center of my face.

“Listen, don’t try to bond with me over your dead mother, okay? I’m not in the mood.”

We stared at each other. The bus driver smacked loudly on a granola bar. “Is Maeve my dead mother?”

“What? No. No, she’s not your dead mother, why do you think I want to get with your dead mom? What the hell is wrong with you?”

I couldn’t say.

I read in a book once that ghosts only come back to haunt those who’ve wronged them in a past life. As I sat on the bus, I went through a mental list of every dead person that I knew and had wronged. Kevin in seventh grade after his father lost his job. Mina Crenshaw, my senior year, who drank way too much at a sorority party and tried to leave out of the fourth-floor window. My brother’s second dog who I used to lock out of my room because she would always pee under my bed. Barry Manilow whose music my dad used to play constantly, and I cursed every time I heard the opening lines of “Copacabana.” Actually, I don’t know if Barry Manilow is dead. My phone seems to conveniently die every time I try to look him up, which just added to my “Barry Manilow is haunting me” theory, but I didn’t think it was my mother. She’d never draw a penis on anyone’s car.

We arrived at Scuttlebutt a little before what I’d assume to be midnight. The entrance was in a thin alley between a sandwich shop and a pharmacy. The door was covered with rusted nails and scraps of plywood where the place had been condemned and then re-condemned every time curious youths were arrested for throwing a Halloween party there. With this being said, the only thing actually keeping someone from opening the door was a spray-painted sign above the knob area that read “DO NOT ENTER.” The actual doorknob had been torn off quite some time ago. I pushed the door open. Greeting us was an obnoxious, bright utility light illuminating a carpeted staircase that led underground. Dried gum and abstract graffiti adorned the walls. Occasionally, I could make out someone’s tag or a crudely drawn pig, but other than that, the descent into the club was uneventful.

Once inside the club, the fluorescent lights had transitioned from a garish white to a deep red. Around us, plastic chairs sat a menagerie of translucent, boorish-looking men while shimmering women in torn lingerie and antebellum underwear tried to take drink orders without guts spilling out of their exposed torsos. There were no outlets or phone chargers in sight. The
dirty patchwork-sheet ghost and I took our place at a table on the far end of the room, filling a spot next to the empty stage that stood on the rightmost side of the club. A green construction worker with his right eye hanging from his socket occasionally winked in my direction, but none of the other dead patrons seemed to notice the presence of the only live person in the room.

We had been sitting at our table for a few minutes before the lights dimmed. Four shimmery musicians dragged their instruments onto a platform. The trumpet player blew a subdued note on his horn while a singular spotlight illuminated a spot in the middle of the stage. The entire band then started to play, and a powder blue, willowy woman floated onto the stage. Her short, curly, black hair bounced with the music, and her wide, brown eyes were encased in thick, smudged lines of eyeliner. She wore a feathered headdress, silk gloves, and a frayed, bejeweled bathrobe that made her look more like a mismatched Barbie than a performer.

“That’s her,” said the dirty patchwork-sheet ghost. “Maeve.”

“I’m excited,” I replied. “I’ve never been to a jazz show before.” I looked around at the other patrons. Some of them stood to watch the show. A large amount of them sat with their legs crossed. One or two of them had a singular hand thrust in their pants. All of them looked hungry.

Once the music started swinging, Maeve sauntered around the stage. She removed her gloves to the beat of the bass. Then her shoes. Then her socks. Then her robe. As the robe fell to the floor, everyone in the room howled. Maeve now wore nothing but her headdress and two multi-colored tassels on her nipples.

I turned to the dirty patchwork-sheet ghost.

“How is this going to help you ascend to the afterlife?”

“What?” The ghost was engrossed in the performance. They all were.

“I said, how is this supposed to help you get to the afterlife?”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen,” I yelled as I stood up. “I might not be the most observant person in the world, but this whole ghost-girl-thing seems to be a ploy to make your life here on Earth better. You told me you needed me to help you cross into the afterlife, so how is this supposed to get you right with God or whatever it is up there? Is she even a jazz singer?”

“Of course, she’s a fucking jazz singer,” screamed the ghost. “She just hasn’t made it yet. But she’ll get there.” Our voices rose and fell beneath the music, the cheers from the other patrons subduing our yells. The music stopped playing and was replaced with the sound of applause.

“Listen, the show’s over. Come backstage with me. We’ll talk to Maeve, and you can go home, alright?” My companion floated away from the table and towards a small door to the right of the stage.

“You never even told me what we were doing,” I mumbled. I followed the dirty patchwork-sheet ghost from a safe distance, far enough to where it was known that I wasn’t excited but not so far that the ghost could think I left. On the other side of the door were my guide and Maeve tied up in the beginning of an uncomfortable conversation. Limbs moved wildly under my companion’s sheet while they spoke, one obviously more invested in the conversation than the other.

“Jesus Christ, Frank. I can’t do this anymore,” said Maeve while she adjusted her eyeliner in the dressing room’s shattered mirror. She was wearing a flapper dress now, though the way it hung off her shoulders suggested that it wasn’t originally hers.

“Maeve, listen. I’ve changed, okay,” replied Frank. “This is gonna be it. I can feel it.”

“And who’s this?” The lounge-singer waved a translucent arm towards my chair. “Another vessel for you to possess so you can try and dig up my body again?”

“Wait, what the fuck?” I asked. Frank shot me one of those “don’t say another word or I’ll leave you down here to rot” looks and returned to pleading.

“Listen, babe. This won’t be like last time, I promise. The kid was a mistake. This one’s at least seventeen.”

“The last one looked like he was five, Frankie,” said Maeve. “Did you even get him back home?”

“Yeah, I got him back home, babe. You seriously think I’m gonna leave some kid alone in a cemetery?”

“Why are you trying to dig up her body?” I asked. “What is wrong with you?” It was then I actually began to regret following a random ghost out of my apartment. I could get over the strip show, but digging up a body was a little too much for me.

“Because I promised her that we’d be buried together,” Frank snapped.

Maeve sighed and put her head in her hands. “I’m in a pauper’s grave, sweetheart,” she said through boney fingers. “On the side of the road somewhere. I died in a car crash without any identification on me.”

“Then why are we here and not digging up her body, Frank?” I crossed my arms and then immediately uncrossed them because I didn’t want to come off as too aggressive in front of this woman who I just met.

“Because I don’t know where it is,” Frank said. “She wouldn’t tell me!”

Maeve’s voice boomed over the ghost’s. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to move on with your life! It’s been almost a hundred years, Frank. Let it go.” She then raised a long, non-tangible arm towards me and stroked my back. “He didn’t know, honey. Just go back home.”

I nodded and turned to my companion. His eyes were bloodshot around the green, so I looked over Frank’s head and pretended I was interested in the drapery.

Maeve must have seen the eyes too because she then went over and placed both of her hands where Frank’s cheeks should have been. “You got that, Frank? Take your vessel and go home. It’s over.”

“You know what? I will go home,” Frank said. “Come on, Elaine, let’s go.” I nodded. My name was Emily, but I didn’t feel like it was the time to bring that up.

We left the dressing room together, past the crowd of horny ghosts, up the carpeted steps, and into the alleyway. Our arrival to the outside world was marked by the reappearance of snow falling onto my head. I watched as it fell through my companion and wondered if I would miss the feeling of snowflakes on the tips of my lashes when I died. The bus had stopped running by then, but there was a payphone a few blocks away from it. I could call a taxi. I didn’t know who Frank could call.

“Do you need me to do anything before I leave?” I asked.

“Nah. Do you?”

I shook my head. “Unless you have a phone charger in that sheet of yours,” I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket. Frank floated to my side and gave the phone a tap through his sheet. The screen immediately sprang to life, flashing an illuminated apple in my face. “Thanks,” I said. My phone was now on five-percent. Scrolling through my messages, I saw two texts from some guy named Dave who sent pictures of a hamster and a short essay about why he hated his high-school production of Oklahoma. “Do you have somewhere to go?Do you need to come with me?”

Frank shook his head. “It’s okay, kid. I’ve got a place. You just clean your room, okay? I’ll be fine.”

I nodded and started walking again. I didn’t know what the proper spirit etiquette was after you were done with the haunting. Most people just died of fright or moved out of their house when their ghosts were done with them. I wasn’t dead or afraid. Just tired.

“Did you actually possess a first grader to dig up the corpse of your dead girlfriend?” I asked, turning back for the last time.

The dirty patchwork-sheet ghost looked down and then up again. Seafoam eyes glittered from uneven holes in the bedsheet. “Yeah.”

“That’s kinda cool,” I said. “Like not in a moralistic way, but in a punk way, you know?”

“It was annoying. The little shit kept stopping for bathroom breaks, then he tried to wipe his nose on my sheet. Like fuck that guy, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Fuck that guy.”