We have a thirsty ghost and his name is Bob.
I knew Bob in life. He lived on the top floor of our building. He had a hard time getting up the stairs and used to rest in the lobby before making the climb; sometimes I’d be passing through and I’d carry his laundry up to his door or just sit and chat with him. I quite liked him.
Shortly before he died, Bob asked us to switch apartments with him. He wasn’t going to be able to manage the stairs any more. We said no for a variety of selfish reasons, but it turned out not to matter as he died in the care facility where he was staying at the time.
Since he died, Bob’s been keeping me company. And the poor guy wants a drink. Every so often, he pushes something off a shelf where it is firmly lodged; the first time it was a beer bottle, today it was a water glass. I am always in another room when this happens. It’s a lot of shards to sweep up, but I don’t mind. I’d leave a beer for him on the counter (in a plastic cup), except I think Gene might object to sharing his hard-bought beer with my invisible friend. Bob’s also been screwing around with our refrigerator, I believe, covering the things inside with a thin layer of frost but still not really chilling things. Maybe he lives in there. I might, if I were a ghost who missed food.
Of course, it’s possible that working alone all day I’ve simply invented a friend, because I am a sad, pathetic person. But self-interest compels me to believe I am not sad and pathetic. I’m just hanging out with Bob.
This one’s for you, friend.