I ain't afraid of no ghost!

"Anaeromyxo" and I were talking about ghosts. Those whispers of people we knew once ago, typically remembered as being associated with drama of some nature. Those translucent forms who've since moved on (or have been moved away from). But the thing is, they're never really gone, now are they? Two, five, ten years down the line they apparate, materialize out of thin air before you. It may be just a glimmer - a long-forgotten photo or a seldom-heard song gives shape to an old friend or enemy. Or if you're cursed, they truly appear before you, with solid edges, riding a bike in front of your car on your way to work one day.

At the time, we were discussing ghosts who may just be better vanquished and cast out. Your regular old ghouls and demons. People who just make you want to punch, kick, and scream. But what of the harmless variety, the Caspers, the Nearly-Headless Nicks? Is it really so terrible for them to stick around?

I was doing something quite monotonous after this conversation when suddenly my own friendly ghost presented himself. I was pipetting over and over again, and my mind slipped into a train of thought that dredged up the memory of my first kiss. Oh no, this was no grand flashback. No slow-motion movie scene sort of reminiscence. This was truly the most embarrassing, mortifying, crawl-into-the-fetal-position memory from my college experience (Yes, I said college! Stop laughing, it's not funny yet!) and I about fell off my chair in a fit of hilarity.

Meet my Moaning Myrtle: Chuck Muszak.

I spent the summer after my freshman year of college back in my hometown, working my very first job. I was a cashier drone at the local Giant Eagle. "Do you have any coupons today?" Beep beep. "Cash, check, or credit, ma'am?" These questions where followed by a deep, resonant "Paper or plastic?" from the end of the counter, spoken by my very own bag boy, Chuck Muszak.

Chuck was tall, blonde, and dreamy and most importantly, he liked me. Other cashiers would have pallets of groceries to be bagged, and yet there was Chuck at the end of my conveyor, bagging up Mrs. Pansington's cat food and Depends just so he could talk to me. I was smitten and he asked me out. I thought it was fate, that we'd be together forever because his favorite color was green, he had a pet turtle and his last name was my major in college (Muszak = music). But it didn't take long to know that our undying love for each other was not written in the cards.

One especially nice summer day, Chuck took me to a swimming pond that had a rope swing you could launch yourself off of into the pond. We were having a fantastic time swimming around and after, we cleared a spot in the weeds to lay in the sun to dry. It was picture-perfect, the magical essence of teenage love. One thing led to another and Chuck asked, "Can I kiss you?" I froze. I didn't know what to do. This was new territory, I had no idea what I was doing but I didn't want to disappoint. "Yes," I said.

He rolled inward and started to kiss what I imagine felt like a limp fish. After a few moments of trying to get some sort of reciprocation from me, and failing, he pulled away abruptly and said "Holy shit! Was that the first time you've ever kissed a guy?!" I could only nod, my voice betrayed me. "Holy shit! That's like... oh my god, really?" He proclaimed his disappointment and utter disbelief at my inexperience for what felt like an eternity. I was horrified and demanded to be driven home right then and there.

I must have cried for days, so stupid and silly, naive enough to think a name and a turtle had sealed our destiny together. Little did Chuck know, he'd have me in tears again, years later as this long-submerged memory drifted by and had me in stitches, nearly contaminating my phytoplankton transfer. Chuck Muszak. Those were the days!

vacation days well spent

There is something about a porch swing that ceases any inclinations of further motion. The hypnotic lull of the back-and-forth erases ambitions of progress and makes work but a distant memory. No sound is as sweet as the gentle creaking of the springs, no cushion as comfy as that sun-faded, flowery polyester.

There's a southerly breeze blowing over your shoulder that smells faintly of childhood. Cool sweat drips down your glass as the ice cubes melt within. You take a sip of your iced tea and find yourself remembering the giant maple that stood in the backyard of your youthful summers, the one with the rope swing that kept slipping until the seat was an inch above the ground, the one with the stray plastic dinosaur lodged in its branches.

As the porch swing sings of its desire for a few drops of WD-40, you pick up your book. Eight hundred and seventy pages chock full of intrigue and adventure await you and you purposely overlook the fact that the intended audience is a gaggle of pimply, hormonal fifteen year olds. After all, this practically is your second childhood. You utter a prayer of gratitude into the breeze, thankful for an improved complexion this time around.


You've been rocking on that very spot for a week now, absorbing word and sun alike, interrupted but once by an afternoon spent laying on the banks of a Great Lake, where you continued your absorption of word and sun alike. Phrases of thoughts drift through the back of your mind like the waves of a distant storm rolling ashore. "There was this thing... back in that place where I live... something I had to do...." But the tide carries the driftwood all back to sea, and you wrap yourself up in a cocoon of carefree summer days. "Whatever the worries, they can wait. This is just too perfect to taint."

Birds flutter and tweet in rhythm with the swing and the potted plants dance about. They can sense that your leisure time is running out, that your departure is imminent. They mourn for your loss, but they keep it to themselves, happy to keep your stresses at bay until their powers become ineffective in time.

At last, the hour arrives to pack up your temporary world of magical idleness and trade it for one of predictable schedules and constant vigilance. The real world awaits, freedom abates. The porch swing haven must be vacated. You're hesitant. If only you could just remain here, rocking and dawdling. Or package it up and take it with you. What more could you possibly need than everything right here in this moment?