Jessica
—John Malkovich
I answered a personal ad in the Trib and met Hank, an ex-football player with creaky knees who turned out to be a ghost.
Lucky me.
Hank felt bad about the whole thing.
He smiled, but looked sad at the same time. “I wished I met you when I was alive.”
“This can’t be happening,” I said, more to reassure myself than argue with him.
“You sound like me—that’s what I said for the longest time—but we tend to adjust to things after a while.”
“I’ve go to go,” I got up and stumbled my way out of his penthouse to the elevators and back to my car. I was numb. I tried to think, to reason—to logically see things in their proper perspective, but couldn’t.
Maybe I’ve been drugged. It was a possibility and I heard of the use of so-called date rape drugs, but the only problem was, it didn’t fit the situation. Hank had been a perfect gentleman.
I concluded I was in shock.
I left my car and took a cab home. I fell into bed without undressing and awoke the following morning to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Maria, my cleaning maid, must have come and seen me asleep in my clothes and thoughtfully made me coffee.
Then the fact hit me—It’s Sunday morning.
I leapt out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Hank was standing in the middle of the floor, one of my aprons tied round his waist and holding a spatula like a crossing guard holding up a stop sign.
“Oh, there you are! As Goethe says, whatever doesn’t kill us, quickens us—I knew you’d be all right. By the way, are you aware you snore?”
“I do not snore” I flared, and then realized I was standing in my kitchen talking to a ghost.
“Oh!” I cried as the kitchen tilted and the diamond-shaped black and white floor tiles rushed up to greet me.
“None of that,” Hank said, breaking my fall and standing me upright on my feet again. He was standing opposite me, still poised with his spatula.
“How did you do that?” I asked, more from curiosity than anything else, because Hank hadn’t budged an inch.
“It just happens—I’m a guardian.”
“I better sit down.”
“Good idea.” A chair conveniently slid underneath me.
“May I continue?” He pointed to the bacon in the pan, sizzling merrily on the stove.
“Please do,” I said, a trifle sarcastically, because I wasn’t sure exactly how to conduct myself with a gentleman ghost cooking me breakfast in my own home.
He sat beside me, making small talk while I ate. “Mmm. That coffee smells delicious,” he said.
“Why don’t you have some?”
“Can’t—it’d go right through me.”
“But you sipped champagne last night,” I argued.
“Mostly bubbles—I can drink scotch though—after all, it’s spirits.”
“Ha ha,” I said glumly.
“Why so morose, Love?”
“Just my luck, I suppose. I finally meet a man I like and he turns out to be a ghost.”
“But we’re quite compatible in other ways. You like to see the world—we could travel together—I’ve been everywhere. I’m better than a tour guide.”
I began to feel sorry for myself and started to sniffle—an annoying habit, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.
I could see Hank growing anxious. His hands were twitching as if he wanted to reach out and hug me, but of course, he couldn’t.
I finally stopped on my own.
“So, where do we go from here?” I wailed.
“We carry on, I suppose, just as we are now.”
“But what’s the use, Hank—where is this heading?”
“Oh, I don’t know Love. Why don’t you just think of me as a garden gnome or a house fairy? I’m very good at protecting and I’m excellent company.”
“It’d be an improvement over what I have now, I suppose.” I eyed Poly, my lazy overfed Tabby, lolling on my sofa.
“There now, you see—that’s the attitude.”
“But couldn’t you somehow materialize—make your ectoplasm a little more dense, instead of being…” I searched for the appropriate word.
“Less rarefied?” he suggested.
“That’s right,” I sniffled. “Maybe we could sail away like Bogey and Bacall—go to Key Largo, or somewhere.”
He put on his best Bogart accent, “ But that wouldn’t work, schweetheart—you see, I’m a ghost.”
“Well, how’s it going to work?”
“As a platonic arrangement—a marriage of minds.”
“Sounds boring,” I pouted.
“No, on the contrary Love—I’ll listen to you, admire you, and laugh at your jokes. Most women have less with their husbands.”
Well, that’s how it started, this great love affair between Hank and me.
I know in my head, ghosts aren’t real, so Hank isn’t real. He’s my imaginary lover—but he is my lover.
He may be ectoplasmically challenged, but he’s good to me. He’s my protector and friend.
We spend nights sipping champagne and watching sunsets together. Next year, he promises to accompany me on a boat trip to Key Largo, creaky knees and all.
So, don’t worry about older, attractive women who have never married—they might have a Hank in their life.