Over the past year, I read installments of my short story, "Life Magazine Turns Ten," at Open Mic Nights at the New-York Society Library. I was looking at the menu that inspired the story, thinking about F.M. Howarth. I wish I could figure out where he went when he came to Manhattan to drop off his work or to visit with publishers. But I get no clues from the menu (except that he went to Sardi's once for the "Life" dinner). I get no vibe, no jiggly waves. It was so long ago; doesn't he want anyone to remember him?
That's the way with ghosts -- they hang around the high corners of the living room pretending to be anonymous. Then they get nervous and anxious because no one is paying attention. They move around and stir the air, puff in my ear, play a radio in a distant apartment that the painters left yesterday.
Ever notice when you don't have cobwebs in those undusted corners? And you thought it was your Swiffering.
You won't see their tracks through the dust on your dresser. Ghosts are far too light and clever for that. Just check the corners. I have to go look for F.M.