Deborah Makes Peace

Deborah had warned everyone that she would be out of touch given her schedule, but one night Vicki called and left a voice mail. Deborah figured her cash-strapped friend was looking for a place to stay. Sure enough, Vicki’s message relayed she’d be coming to a wedding in Chicago and hoped she could crash for a few nights.

Deborah replied by text. “Sure thing, but you’ll have to sleep on the couch in the living room with a fascist ghost.”

In the pause that followed, she could picture Vicki estimating the rates for a Memorial Day weekend hotel room.

“I’m cool with that.”

Since she’d be having company, Deborah decided she should probably straighten up the apartment. As she ran a dust buster near the ghost’s corner he floated upward, clearing a path.

“I am not your maid,” she bristled, and skirted the border marked by a thin layer of ectoplasmic dust.

Deborah had to work late on the day Vicki arrived, so she hid the key in an envelope near the front door. She wasn’t worried about Vicki getting weirded out by the other occupant. Vicki wrote a blog on things like chakras and lunar cycles, and claimed she’d spent her past life as a Beagle. The ghost, meanwhile, was unlikely to object to a blonde, blue-eyed visitor.

On a break between meetings, Deborah texted Vicki to check in.

Vicki responded, “All good. Hanging with my friend Oscar. You might want to grab more wine. Sorry!”

No surprise. Vicki was known to seek out male company. Oscar was probably the bike messenger from the second floor who Deborah had met the other night while doing laundry. When he said “Hey” to her “Hey” she’d noticed his beard looked like a takeout bag for a recent meal. She’d had to fight the temptation to pull it off his face to include with a load of towels. Vicki’s last boyfriend had been a dumpster diver so that might not bother her.

When Deborah made it home at last with a six-pack and a bag of Chipotle, she found Vicki seated on the couch, a laptop perched on her knees. The ghost hovered in his corner. He scowled. Deborah scowled. Vicki didn’t seem to notice.

Deborah hugged her friend. Vicki was like a walking aromatherapy shop. Today she smelled of lavender, sage, and a cheap bottle of Chardonnay.

“So where’s your new friend?”

Vicki pointed to the corner. “Deborah meet Oscar; Oscar this is Deborah.”

“Very funny.” Deborah brought the beer and food into the kitchen as Vicki followed. “Did he write his name in the dust? Or is there perchance a Ouija board in that overpacked
suitcase of yours?”

Vicki placed her fingers on either side of her head and closed her eyes. Classic channeling look. In a monotone voice she said, “It’s coming to me. I see a mailbox. I see a label peeled off by a very attractive hand.” She opened her eyes, wiggled her fingers.

Deborah received no mail. She couldn’t even picture the location of the mailbox.

“When you looked inside did you find the latest edition of Nazi Digest?”

Vicki lifted Deborah’s hair and brushed the condensation from the beer against her neck. “Cool down. I have an idea.”

Back when Vicki also lived in LA, her ideas were along the lines of Let’s break into a hotel pool and go swimming. Today she announced, “You can change the future of the world.”

“Explain while I eat.” Deborah’s lunch, if it could be called that, had been a bruised banana consumed while running from one meeting to the next. She grabbed a beer and a burrito, headed to the living room, and flopped onto the couch.

Vicki followed with the bag. She waved at Oscar. He returned a cordial nod.

Deborah shook her burrito at Vicki, sending a cascade of lettuce shreds to the floor. “So you’re like best buds now? You realize his playgroup slaughtered my people.”

“I know. And that’s why we’re going to make sure it never happens again, one Nazi at a time.”

“And how’s that, considering he’s dead?”

A peace-sign pillow whacked Deborah’s leg.

You said you’ve been keeping up with my blog. Liar!”

Vicki flipped her laptop, which displayed the latest post. Deborah flicked a lettuce shred off her jeans and leaned in to read.

The Recycling Project aka the Future of the Human Race. Let’s agree that each of us contains a soul. Like many of our earth’s resources, they’re in limited supply. After death each soul gets washed, hung out to dry, and reused, but it can never be fully cleansed of its previous occupant. That means how you live now will directly impact the soul of a future person.

There was an arrow to click, but Deborah had gotten the gist. This had Dennis the dumpster diver’s fingerprints all over it.

“So the universe has a recycling center. We should all look for our appropriate bin on the way out. What does this have to do with him?”

Vicki dropped to a stage whisper. “Here’s your chance to change a bad soul into a good one. Like turning a plastic soda bottle into a toothbrush.”

“Remind me, why is one better than the other?”

Vicki gave a look that implied Deborah had lied about her college degree. “One rots your teeth, the other preserves them. Nazis destroy. Nice humans like you try to help refugees. You don’t fix evil with anger, you fix it with love.”

Deborah nodded, not because she bought into Vicki’s theory, but because “Fix it with love” would make a good tagline for the signage over the stage. She excused a portion of her brain to run through font options while she listened to Vicki finish her pitch.

“Be nice to Oscar. If you make him hate you, he’s going to come back hating you. But make him see the humanity in you, make him see you as a person, and you’ve paved the way for one more decent human to be born.”

“I’ll try,” Deborah said. Mainly because arguing with Vicki was like going against the City Planning Commission. Waste. Of. Time.

Vicki smiled sweetly. “Just remember, if you don’t and he comes back as our future president, that’s on you.”