The Unregistered Ghost
Mr. Gray looked up from his desk as an unkempt man in pajamas leaned head and shoulders into the open office door. It was Saturday; a traditionally slow day at the Registration Department, and Mr. Gray was immediately annoyed at having his weekly crossword puzzle interrupted by the disheveled man’s unexpected appearance. He tried without success to keep the irritation from coloring his voice as he spoke.
“I’m sorry. Do you have an appointment?”
The man quickly withdrew from the doorway then reappeared in full form, his left foot leading one apologetic step at a time as he entered the office. He looked as if he had just climbed out of some unofficial grave; his hair was sleep-plastered to one side of his head and his wrinkled blue pajamas, the arms of which revealed streaks of dried blood, hung loosely from his slight, hunched frame.
“I’m here to register,” he said, simply.
“Registration is usually done by appointment only,” Mr. Gray said, only half listening.
Nine letters, Poirot, et. al. “My receptionist is away on an errand. You’ll have to complete a registration form when she returns.”
Ah, d-e-t-e-c-t-i-v-e. He entered the letters into the puzzle.
The man was silent for a moment before clearing his throat, “I don’t think I have time for that.”
Gray looked up, preparing to ask the man to find a chair in the waiting area, but he had already seated himself on a tired looking sofa in the corner of the room. He was crying.
With a heavy sigh Mr. Gray ceremoniously laid his pen on the desk and pushed his folded newspaper aside. He tented his fingers in an exaggerated display of patience and watched the man until his sobbing had subsided. Realizing he now had a bit more of Mr. Gray’s attention the man straightened and wiped his face with a blood-stained cuff. The reconstituted blood left a horrid smear across his cheek. He looked more like a casualty with each passing moment.
“How can I help you?” asked Mr. Gray.
“Ah, I’m here to register,” the man said again.
Mr. Gray pushed his chair back from his desk and opened the drawer of a filing cabinet behind him. He withdrew a single registration form and returned to his desk. Retrieving his pen he began to fill in the necessary fields with the time and date.
“Name?” he asked
“Eric Lively.”
The pen stopped moving as Mr. Gray looked up. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, that’s my name,” the man stated.
Mr. Gray sighed and entered the name.
“Residence?”
The man hesitated. “My closet,” he said, finally.
What the hell? “Look, Mr. Lively,” Gray said sternly, “we provide a legitimate service for those who require it. We do not have the time or patience for this sort of nonsense. Now, seriously, where do you live?”
The man looked down at his shoes. “I’m not really sure,” he said at last, “somewhere near the subway.”
Gray held his tongue and followed the man’s gaze. He wore stained, faux fur-lined moccasins that had surely seen better days.
174th street, he wrote, gritting his teeth.
“Now,” he said, putting down his pen and leveling his gaze directly at the man, “this next question is very important. Whether or not we can help you depends on how you answer it. Do you understand?”
The man looked away. “I guess so,” he said quietly.
Mr. Gray resisted the temptation to throw his pen at the infuriating man. Instead, he reached for his unfinished crossword puzzle and read the clue for 26 down – five letters, apparition.
“Mr. Lively,” he asked gravely, “Why are you here?” He didn’t expect a clear response and was quite surprised at the one which came-
“I want to die,” said Mr. Lively, looking down at his scuffed shoes.
“Well then,” Gray said with a mirthless smile, though relieved that the matter was now coming to a close, “It seems we won’t be able to help you after all, but I do know someone who can.” He pulled open his desk drawer and withdrew a tattered and warn business card. He held it out to the man, who slowly rose from the sofa and came nervously forward to accept it.
“Who is it,” the man asked, taking the card from Gray’s outstretched hand. He held the card gingerly, as if he might drop it.
“He’s an old friend of mine,” Mr. Gray said, “He helps people with emotional problems, gets them back on track. I’m quite certain he can help you, too.” Gray waited, half expecting the man to refuse the card. Instead, Mr. Lively pocketed the card and seemed to brighten at the prospect. Hurriedly, Mr. Gray continued, “His office is just a few blocks away. You can’t miss it; there’s a bagel vender right there on the corner next to the bus stop. He keeps his cart a little too close to the curb but the bagels are excellent.” He made show of looking at his watch. “If you hurry, he should be able to get you in today. In fact,” he went on, “I’ll give him a call to let him know you’re coming.”
The man smiled. It was a strange smile, a smile of renewed hope and vigor. “Thank you,” he said, “you don’t know how much this means to me. Thank you.” He turned and headed toward the door as Mr. Gray picked up the telephone receiver and pretended to dial.
__________________________
Mr. Gray was still working at the crossword puzzle when his receptionist, Ms. Specter, returned. She hovered in the office doorway for several minutes before he saw she was there. It gave him quite a start; he dropped his pen and nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Good God, woman! You scared the bejesus out of me!”
Ms. Specter laughed a laugh full of spirited mirth. “Well, isn’t that what we do here?”
“I suppose,” he replied, composing himself and returning to his puzzle.
26 down. Ghost? Yes, that’s it! He entered the letters into the puzzle.
“So, any customers?” she asked playfully.
Mr. Gray glanced up with an absent look in his eyes. “No,” he said, “but I’m expecting one soon.”
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