Giving Up The Ghost

GIVING UP THE GHOST

by Dan Dillard 2013

Published by Dan Dillard 2013

From the Author of:

Demons and Other Inconveniences (2011)

What Tangled Webs (2011)

The Unauthorized Autobiography of Ethan Jacobs (2011)

Lunacy (2012)

How to Eat a Human Being (2012)

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Giving Up The Ghost

Written by Dan Dillard

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Dan Dillard 2013

Cover art by Stefano Cardoselli

Copyright Stefano Cardoselli 2013

ISBN 10: 1301578436

ISBN 13: 9781301578436

License notes:

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase additional copies. If you’re reading this and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

To Wong Foo: Thanks for everything.

*****

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Stephanie Dillard, for being my navigator. I am always getting lost.

To Dad, Elerie Stroud, Linda Swink, Meghan Dayton, Lucie LeBlanc, Michael Yowell and Yen Ooi, thanks for reading and for being brutally honest. Your eyes and brains are invaluable and enviable.

For anything you readers see that conveys quality editing, correctly spelled words, proper punctuation, or continuity thank those people above. For any errors you might find, blame me.

And to Stefano Cardoselli, thanks for the vision. Your art is magically delicious. I also owe some of the inspiration for the cover to Daniel Galli, a friend from the webs.

To The Damned, I appreciate the camaraderie and the writing, you folks are twisted.

To friends and fans on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, Google +, Smashwords, and wherever else you might lurk, thanks for being there. Remember: it’s free to encourage any artist to continue, but discouragement can rob you of your next favorite book, song, painting, film, dance move, joke, recipe…the list is endless.

Thanks to Mom (rest in peace) for my wicked streak...and Dad for words of wisdom, even if I ignored most of them. To the rest of the family, these are just stories, I ain’t tetched (look it up).

Just as a note, I did some research on committing suicide with pills, solely for the purpose of this story. Someone out there cares about you—suicide is NOT the answer. It’s a sad thing, and I don’t recommend it, even if your kid does grow up to be an asshole. Don’t try anything you read in this book at home.

*****

GIVING UP THE GHOST

Chapter 1

Gerry Sheffield flicked peanuts onto the floor. His jeans were dirty, worn for the third time that week and the plaid button-down only served to cover the sweat stains in the armpits of his t-shirt. The cocaine was wearing off. The quality hadn’t been so good, but it was all he could afford. The bar was hazy and thick, one of the few left that allowed smoking, and over the thud and twang of the house blues band, he shouted at the bartender.

Get me another?

The bartender, a grisly man with tattooed sleeves and black leather vest on nodded, and pulled the handle on one of four beer taps, filling another mug. Gerry looked around. He could count the number of patrons on one hand, the number of staff on the other.

The band, a blues group of four, was decent in Gerry’s estimation. A gravelly singer belted out tunes with soul, the guitarist scorched riffs honed by decades of experience. Why they were in that bar was a mystery he was too sideways to consider.

Twenty-five, shouted the bartender.

Huh? Gerry said.

Twenty…five…bucks.

The tattooed man sneered, placing both hands on the bar, a stance that emphasized his size and unwillingness to barter.

I asked for one beer? Gerry argued.

Yeah, for the fifth time. Pay up.

Gerry rolled his eyes and retrieved his wallet. He fished out a twenty and a five and smacked them on the counter. The bartender gripped the bills, crushing them in his fist. Gerry laughed to himself and picked up the glass mug, downing half of it in three gulps.

No tip, I guess, said the bartender.

Not likely, Gerry laughed.

He pushed a hand up his sweaty forehead and through his thinning hair, slicking it back. When the lone waitress—a thirty-something in tight jeans—walked by, he grabbed her by the arm. She turned to him, almost spilling her tray and glared. It was a sour expression on an otherwise pretty face.

Yeah? she asked.

Gerry straightened up, looking at the deep cleavage visible in her low cut shirt. Then he looked her in the eye, noticing the bored expression she wore, and found his way back down to her chest.

I was wonderin’ what you might be doing later? he said, attempting charm but sounding smashed.

She switched the tray to her other hand before wrenching her arm away.

Someone else, she replied and walked away.

Someone else, he muttered.

Finally getting the joke, he laughed to himself and swallowed more beer.

In the corner, the bitter waitress placed two drinks on a table for a wide-smiling old man who was already ordering another pair for himself and his date. His date was much too young for him, revealing too much skin and obviously working for the evening. Her bored expression was entertaining. Gerry noticed the wedding ring on the man's hand.

Good for you, buddy, he said under his breath, then finished his beer.

He stood and walked to the door, winking at the lone waitress. She didn't acknowledge him. The band sounded muffled behind him as the door closed, dwindling to a droning hum with the occasional thud. Five beers in conjunction with most of a flask of whiskey he'd had on the way to the bar rendered him wobbly. Illuminated by the green and yellow neon light of the bar's sign, he puked into the gutter.

A cab drove by, ignoring him, as Gerry wiped his mouth. It didn't matter as he didn't have any money to pay for the ride anyway. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked west, heading for his apartment. It was a typical Wednesday for Gerry. Thursday through Tuesday wouldn't be much different.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through the address book, shaking off the sick feeling and the cold sweat. He stopped on a name and number he didn’t recognize. Sandy, no last name. A quick press of his thumb dialed the number and Gerry let it ring as he walked.

Hello, a sleepy voice said.

Sandy? Gerry.

Gerry? Gerry who?

Sheffield. Can't remember where we met, he slurred.

Oh, I remember you. Look, it's after midnight, Gerry. Is something wrong?

He pulled his phone away from his ear and looked at the clock on its face.

Holy shit. It’s after midnight.

The fact struck him funny and he laughed, placing the phone back to his ear.

"I could yoosh a ride," he said, still chuckling, starting to slur.

Sandy groaned and hung up. It clicked in his ear, and went silent.

Sandy? he said. Sandy? Her name came out, Shandy.

He sat on a bus stop bench and pulled the flask of whiskey from his shirt pocket. It was mostly empty, but still, he let the last bit drip into his mouth. Gerry pulled a crumpled pack of smokes from the same pocket and smiled when a pair of singles came out with it. Firing up a cigarette, he took a deep drag, inhaled, and staggered across the street to a convenience store with bars on the windows. He looked at the two dollars in his hand and laughed.

There's your freaking tip, asshole, he said.

The door to the store beeped when he opened it. The cashier nodded with recognition. The young man looked relieved to see Gerry and not someone more sinister. Gerry walked straight to the refrigerator in the back and found a forty ounce bottle of malt liquor and approached the counter, dropping the two bills on the counter.

Actually, it's $2.10 with tax, he said.

Gerry stared at him for a minute, waiting for his eyes to focus. He grabbed a handful of pennies from the need-one-take-one tray and sprinkled them on the counter one by one. The young man sighed with slight frustration and smiled.

Okay, okay sir. Have a nice night.

Gerry gave him a two-fingered salute and popped the top off the bottle, taking a gulp before he even reached the door. Outside, he lit another cigarette and despite the chill in the late-night September air, continued to sweat. A black car sped by, spraying water from a puddle onto the walkway. Gerry sidestepped it, stumbling and then righting himself, continuing toward his apartment.

The traffic lights shifted from green and red to flashing yellow as Gerry reached the last corner before his building. He stared at them for a full minute, feeling the warm tingle of the alcohol as he downed the last bitter swallows from his bottle. When it was gone, he dropped it on the curb and crossed the empty street.

When he finally reached his door, he was too drunk to work his key in the lock and dropped the key-ring on the ground. This brought an uneasy laugh from him and he said something that sounded like, Damn it, but it was so garbled, most wouldn't have been able to make the words out. He passed out when he leaned down to pick them up and that was where he slept for the next four hours.

The first two neighbors who met Gerry's sleeping body in the hallway simply stepped over him. It was the landlord, Mr. Tinsley, who kicked him and brought him out of his slumber.

Wha…what the…fuck’d you do that for? Gerry said.

Get up.

Gerry looked up, squinting against the hallway light, glowing fluorescent yellow in his bloodshot eyes. He still didn't recognize Tinsley.

Get up, you piece of shit. Get off my floor.

Gerry struggled to his knees prior to grabbing the doorknob to pull himself up.

You smell as bad as you look, Sheffield.

Tinsley bent down and grabbed the keys, then handed them to his tenant.

I pay rent, this is my floor too, Gerry said.

No. You pay some rent, some time. Your parents pay the rest, when I have to call them. Nice, decent, well-off people. I'm not sure how a turd like you came from that stock. Either way, this floor is mine, and it will stay clean and free from alcoholic bags of shit. On the other side of that door? You can do what you like as long as it doesn't disturb your neighbors. And trust me, they all know it will only take a phone call to get you out on your fat ass.

Gerry stared in amazement, his head throbbing, taking in only every third or fourth word. Tinsley watched him for a moment, then shook his head and walked off. As he left, he said, Rent's due by Friday. Hope you didn't drink it all.

Gerry waved him off, twisting the key until it finally slid into the lock. He fell through the door as it opened, kicking it shut and dropping his keys again. He peeled off his flannel shirt and wiped his face with it, then fell onto his thread-bare couch and pulled a pillow down over his ears, going back to sleep.

Chapter 2

The phone rang sometime between 3:00 and 4:00 pm. It was an old phone company push button with a heavy base and handset connected by a curly cord. The ringer was an actual bell and it was loud. The sound ripped through Gerry's head causing an instant headache he could no longer sleep through. He almost rolled off the couch swatting at it. Finally, in a struggle, he managed to knock it from its cradle and stood there panting as he realized where he was and what was happening.

Gerry? a voice said through the phone.

The handset was on the floor, twisting on its cord. He breathed a sigh of disappointment when he recognized the voice, Margaret Hanlon Sheffield—Margo to her friends, his mother.

Gerry? she said again. Are you there? Why won't you at least get an answering machine?

I'm here, Ma, he said, picking up the receiver.

"Oh, good. I've been trying to call you since Monday night.

I've been out. Whatta you want?

Whatta you want, she mocked. I want to talk to my son. Check on his well-being. I guess you were out drinking all night?

In truth, Ma, I been out drinking all week. I'm glad you called, actually. Let Dad know the rent is due on Friday. Oh, and I'm busted. Lost my job last week.

Lost your… she started. Of course you did. That's what you do best.

Look, don't preach. I'm workin' on something. It's just taking longer than I thought.

This the same thing you've been working on for the last twenty five years?

No, Ma.

I think the only thing you're working on is your liver. You can't go on like…

Ma, he interrupted, Let me talk to Dad, will ya?

She made an angry sound, like air escaping a tire with a nail in it. Fine. Wait a second.

He heard her put the phone down on the counter and mutter something in the background. It sounded like, he's at it again, or something similar. His father, William Gerald Sheffield—Bill to his friends, picked up.

Gerry?

Hey Dad.

What's the problem, son? You drinking again?

Gerry laughed, You say that like I stopped at some point. Hey, rent's due and I'm busted. Out of work. Can you spot me for a few weeks?

There was a long silence. Gerry crushed his eyelids shut trying to alleviate the pain for a minute, and switched the phone from one ear to the other. The line was still silent outside of his father's breathing.

Dad?

Alright, his father said, sounding defeated.

Alright? Gerry prodded, wanting more information. Dollar amount, delivery time, etc.

Bill cleared his throat in Gerry’s ear and spoke over his wife who was arguing in the background, all to Gerry’s delight.

Yes. I'll send you some money and pay your rent. But this is the last time. You're a grown man. Start acting like it.

Last time. That's a good one, Gerry said. I'll write that one down.

Don't be an ass, son. This is way out of control. You are way out of control...

Gerry placed the receiver down as his father continued to lecture. He shuffled into his tiny kitchen, pulled a bottle of painkillers from the cabinet over the stove and put three pills into his mouth. He opened his refrigerator and found an open beer bottle which was less than half full and washed them down with it. He went back to the phone and picked it up as his father was getting really spun up.

…and your mother, your poor mother just can't take your bullshit anymore. Do you…

Gerry interrupted, Bullshit? Such language. Look, I've got to get moving if I'm going to find another job. I'll get back to you. Thanks for the breathing room.

With that, he hung the phone up.

Shit, Gerry said, then chuckled. This just gets easier and easier.

His apartment was clean, surprising given his current shape, but he hadn't been there in over a week and he was sober when he left. His paychecks were rare, amounting to no more than a few hundred to maybe a thousand dollars. It was enough money for a few days of drinking here and there. Enough to impress a woman, maybe two, for a couple