The Trip By A. Lyon

The Trip By A. Lyon

Hi, I’m Mike, and I’m an alcoholic. No, not really, but I am dead. You see three years ago, I died. I guess I never gotten over it because

I’m still around, obviously, or I wouldn’t be writing this paper on my death, definitely not by hand which is mysteriously required, for the P.D.C. It stands for the Post Death Committee, if you’re wondering. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but they’re really old boring people, trust me, they couldn’t have possibly come up with a better or more original name. Anyway, they think writing about my death will help me move on. I have no idea where or even why I’m supposed to move on, just that I’m supposed to move on. Personally, I think they just don’t like me and that’s why. To tell you the truth, I don’t like them. In fact, I want to move on, just to get away from them. Why I didn’t move on to begin with and save myself from there harassment, is a mystery, especially when Joe and Zeck did. We had been driving for several days from our rural icebox called Vermont to the live-wire city of Charlotte, North Carolina. My best buds Joe, Zeck and I were going to go see a college basketball game. We were going to be rooting for the Charlotte 49ers, obvious the home team. I don’t remember who they were playing, if I ever bothered to find out. Joe was the basketball fan; Zeck and I were going just to get out of our lazy, old hometown. Maybe Zeck was going also to get away from his mother. While we weren’t great friends, we had been planning the trip for months; you had to be very gentle with Zeck’s mother because she had heart problems. Probably because of this, no one would confront her on her treatment of Zeck. This is what it was like. I went over to her house one time and when you walk in you have to sit in, these really formal not to mention ugly and uncomfortable chairs in a floral pattern to complete the whole repulsive

ensemble. Zeck was already in the living room waiting for me. We were about to leave when his mother comes running down the stairs. “Honey, honey, wait for mommy!” She had this high pitch, nasally, obnoxious voice that was probably designed to irritate. I almost died of embarrassment for him. If he wasn’t, he should have been. He’d seriously, just followed her orders, like routine. It was scary. She came to a sudden stop at our feet, huffing and puffing. She was carrying in her hands a comb and sunscreen. She plopped some of the sunscreen in her hand, which was SPF 90 and patted in on his no longer surprisingly pale skin. “Baby, please knell down, so I can get hair.” She ordered. Dear god, she treated him like he never aged past five. She parted his blond hair directly down the center. Then she patted him on the head. “You boys take care. Mike, you watch out for my beautiful azure eyed boy.” “Okay,” I stammered “He has beautiful azure eyes, doesn’t he?” She admired “Yes, he has beautiful blue eyes.” Gay, that was totally gay. “AZURE EYES!” She screamed as I jumped. “He has azure eyes, not blue.” She seemed to be reassuring herself. At times like that, I’ve doubted her sanity. I have no idea how her husband deals with it, but then he’s a workaholic, so I guess that explains it. Joe’s father was passably normal. He had no problems with us going on an all-guys trip. Not even when Joe forgot to tell him about it until the week before.

“Dad, I’m home!” Joe roared, then crashed on the mammoth turquoise fluffy couch. “I’ve got news!” Their bachelor pad, which they got when he was seven because Joe’s mother died of cancer, was coolly painted in green-blue retro fashion. “What?!” Joe’s dad hollered back from the kitchen. “Mike, Zeck and I have been planning a trip to North Carolina to go see a basketball game and I forgot to ask if I could go!” he bellowed. “What?” His dad hollered as he came into the living room. “North Carolina, Mike and Zeck, basketball game?” “Yeah, sure, when? he inquired. “Next week.” “Cut it a little short, huh?” he mused. See what I mean. He never went on about Joe having walnut, not brown, eyes. He even treated Joe like a roommate, not a kid. He’s great. In fact, the only fault I can give Joe’s dad is naming his son Josiah-Josiah Eugene to be precise. Yes, seriously. Totally cringe. My parents were very conservative and naturally disapproved of me. They didn’t like having a rocker, rebel son with dyed long black hair. If they ever found out about my tattoos, they would kill me, that is, if I wasn’t already dead. Luckily for me, they’re in a place they will never see, not that they can see me to begin with. I don’t see why they disapproved of me; other than that one party, I was over all a good kid and got great grades. It wasn’t enough though; they wanted me to be a passive lawyer at all costs. The only good thing about my death is that that miserable wish will never happen. Ha Ha. Anyway the all A’s was my ticket to go on the trip.

My relationship with Zeck and Joe was weird. I suppose you could call us best friends, but we weren’t that close. We didn’t have any other friends, so by definition we were best friends. We would all rather do our own thing then spend time with each other. Only when we craved human contact did we seek each other’s company. I guess we were social misfits. I think if would be fair to say I didn’t know them all that well. To me, Zeck and Joe were two laid back people who accepted life as it came their way. Despite their physical and upbringing differences their personalities were very similar. They were probably better friends with each other than me. I’m surprised the trip ever happened to begin with. I wish it wouldn’t have happened. So we were driving through the hills of Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Oh, did I mention in a blizzard. Okay, I get it; it wasn't smart, especially since Zeck’s BMW had bald tires on. From my driving point, the view was pretty much nonexistent. I had the wipers going on full speed, and yet still I could see very little. I had my nose pressed against the glass in an effort to see. I could just barely see the lights of the truck as it came speeding around the turn. I jerked the wheel to the right to avoid it. Then I quickly pulled it to the left, trying to stay on the road. I could not stop, however, because of the ice. The last I saw of the truck in my mirrors, it had gone through the rail and was crashing down the steep hill. But by this time, my car was sliding towards a guard rail. Later, I found out that the driver had died when his truck ran into a tree at the bottom of the embankment. I’m ashamed to say, we were listening to”Jesus Take the Wheel” by Carrie Underwood as all this was happening. Can you believe it? I died listening to that, of all the irony? Thanks, Joe, him and his American Idol. I so

wasn’t a county fan then, and totally not now. Zeck and Joe however, were yelling it out; they had no care. They should have had a care, they were about to die, not that they knew that. But seriously, they were a parting away. They should have had more dignity. It wasn’t ‘till later that I learned they weren’t even wearing their seatbelts. Our car shot through the guard rail and began tumbling down. The car flipped over and over. I saw and heard Joe and Zeck in the back striking the roof and each other. Then everything came to a sudden, dizzying and serene stop. Forgiving darkness reined supreme. Later, I registered that it was becoming so, so cold. The next thing I knew I was standing outside the crash and my body. It was dark out, pitch black in fact. Mercifully, the terrible cold was gone. I don’t know how I knew I was dead, but I did. There are some things you just know. It was kind of like how I knew I had to stay and watch and wait. And wait. And wait. Around two in the morning a policeman discovered the crash. I guess he saw the broken rail. An ambulance and fire truck were called. People crawled in to the totaled car to get Joe’s, Zeck’s, and my body. From the quick look I took, our faces looked battered. Mine looked distinctly blue. As some officials dissected the scene, we were all pronounced dead. Not that it was shocking to me. They found our licenses which stated us to be Josiah Eugene Smith, Zelie Richard Brown, and Michael Anthony Fletcher. Joe and Zeck had died of head trauma apparently, while I had died of hypothermia. I listened to the call to my hometown police station in Vermont. I

strongly wanted to be there. I could clearly picture it. It had an ugly light brown paint on the walls, with matching furniture in the waiting room slash booking room. There was this imposing desk for the secretary in the back of the room, right next the door leading to the holding cells. There was another door to the left side, where offices were held. Suddenly and surprisingly, I was there. When the officer, who also was my neighbor, Hank, was sent over to inform our parents, I hopped in the car with him. He visited my parents and then Joe’s father. My mother started screaming and crying. Both Dad and Joe’s dad just stood on their doorsteps in shock. Zeck’s parents were the last stop. When they heard the news, Zeck’s mom started hyperventilating and ended up clutching her chest and falling to the ground. She evidently had a heart attack, and later, she died. I was contacted by P.D.C. and taught about how being a ghost meant only observing and blah blah. They also explained my transferring abilities. If you think about a place hard enough, you can transfer there. However, as time progresses from your death, this gets harder to do because as things change, you no longer picture an accurate place. So basically you don’t update your look of the place and you can’t go there. When I asked why ghosts didn’t just change their view, they said it was like when you move out of a house and then you don’t change the picture to how the new owners change it, you only think of how you had it, how your home was. Our bodies were shipped back and within three days the funeral was given. All in all, it was a wonderful funeral. Too bad, I couldn’t eat, or wasn’t alive. The flowers were beautiful, I guess. The parents decided to give a joint funeral between Zeck, Joe and me. Zeck’s mother was given a separate one,

which I was grateful for; she didn’t need to ruin my funeral by being there. I don’t, however, think that was the reasoning behind the decision, but whatever. Speaking of parents, my mother and father started an organization. They called it S.T.D., and the sad part is they don’t even get why people snicker at the abbreviation. If you don’t get it, you’re too young or stupid and shouldn’t be reading this. Stop Teenage Driving is what it stands for, by the way. They got teenage driving stopped in Pennsylvania. They did it in our memory. While this had good intentions, I hate it and I’m sure Joe, and Zeck would have hated it too. We did not die because of my driving. It was a tragic accident; it’s not fair to punish all the kids in Pennsylvania for one incident anyway. So that what’s been going on lately. Okay, is something supposed to happen or what? Why am I not moving on? Urrrr! You know, I hate this death thing. It’s so frustrating. No one can see me, so they can’t talk to me. I watch my family going on with their lives and I go nowhere. I’m stuck. I have no future, I’ll never go to college, get a job, have a family. No, it was all snuffed out because of one accident. It’s just not fair. People always tell you that life isn’t fair, but they never say anything about death not being fair either. I should have been able to do something with my life. I know it’s cliché but I wanted to make a difference with my life. Instead, in my death I made a difference. But it’s not something I believe in, or even willing to support. I’m totally against it, in fact. Maybe I’m being selfish, at least I wasn’t forgotten.

I’ll always be remembered for the kid that ruined it for teenage drivers, but people know I existed, that’s all I can really ask for, I guess. I’ll just have to accept my situation because there nothing I can do about it. Maybe the secret of death is acceptance. As a ghost I can only watch people. Sure, I can pick up objects, evidenced by this, but pretty much it’s watching and thinking. I guess you just have to accept that your life is over and your death is beginning.

***

I woke with a start, yes ghosts’ sleep; I mean how else would you pass the time? Read? Bah! Anyway I was not where I dozed off, which was weird, its never happened before. Nonetheless, I was in this dingy, grey hall. My yell of “Hello?” echoed off the walls. “Okay, classifying this as bizarre is an understatement.” I mumbled to myself. “I wrote that god-damn essay last night. Now I’m here in firkin eerie ville.” I moseyed down the door-less, seemingly unending hall feeling mysteriously hesitant. What seemed like hours later, I could make out this odd, freaky blue glowing light at the most likely end of the corridor. I gradually made my way there. I warily made my way into a vastly massive area. Other then its colossal size, it was all in all a plain room; the walls

were probably the same dull gray as the outside hall. It couldn’t be determined because they were bathed in blue light that was radiating from the arch. Just to let you know the world just took a turn for the worst towards Harry Potter. The arch went forever up. This pale blue liquid was on its surface. It looked like a vertical tropical ocean that was shimmering. In front of the arch was a metal desk with an ordinary, homely woman behind it. She was typing away on an old fashion type write. “Your name, please?” she asked quietly, not looking up from, but pausing in her typing. I just gave her the who the hell are you? look. “Your name?” she repeated now looking up at me. “Michael Fletcher.” I muttered. “Middle?” as she began typing again. “Anthony, look, I don’t mean to be rude but who are you and where am I?” “Good,” She nodded, completely ignoring my question. The infuriating woman was barely acknowledging my presence. “Now that you have accepted your death, the P.D.C. has authorized your departure into the realm of death. Please step

through the archway.” “Really, they authorized it did they, who do you people think you are?” Incredulously I asked. “Mr. Fletcher,” she mocked “Please step into the archway.” Humph, whatever. With an apprehensive glance behind me to the hall, I stepped into the arch’s fluid embrace. *** Official Post Death Committee Report Ghost # 218,374,890,477 Previously known as: Michael Anthony Fletcher Status: Moved On Death: 1/24/06 Cause: Accident Moved On: 6/08/09