"Number 108,612,750,001!" yelled Miss Argentina.
The blue-faced college sophomore with a GO BUCKEYES scarf tied extremely tightly around his throat hopped out of his chair and stumbled to the reception window.
"I know whut that's about," Beetlejuice snickered salaciously to the young woman next to him on the couch under the giant "Starving Artist" Painting ("NO PAINTINGS OVER $30!") of waves on a beach. She was flattened from her sternum to her knees, bus tracks imprinted there for all eternity. She remained obliviously fixated on the screen of her smartphone, which had caused her demise, and gave no indication that she'd heard a word Beej had said.
Irritated and bored out of his mind, the Ghost With The Most brushed more yellow sand off his red suit-jacket. "So, I wuz sayin'," he continued to everyone in the crowded Waiting Room, who were intently ignoring his presence, "I make deals. It's whut I do. Ya newbies might wanna use my services." From an interior jacket pocket Beetlejuice pulled out a handful of business cards and tossed them to everyone in the room. Most fell to the floor. The six-year-old with the charred face, hair burnt to charcoal, and skewered with the stick from an illegal, pyrotechnic firework, picked one up. His equally charred and skewered father slapped it out of his hand.
"Ya got th' Living ruinin' yer Afterlife, ya call me. I get rid of 'em," the ghost snapped his fingers, "like that. Satisfaction guaranteed." He leered. "You ladies might want to remember that. Keep th' number for future reference."
All the women picked up magazines and shielded their faces with them.
"So there's these newbies, Adam an' Barbara Maitland. Cutesy lovebirds, made me wanna spew. They called me. I was in my office, mindin' my own business, havin' a few brews, y'know, how ya do. I'd left a lil' business flyer in their attic, cuz I saw they had these snobby New York artsy types infestin' their house. Thought they might wanna clear 'em out, y'know?"
"Number 108,612,750,002!," hollered Miss Argentina.
The man with the car steering wheel shoved around his neck walked to the reception window, bits of windshield glass falling from his head.
"Lemme emphasize, they called me," said Beetlejuice. "I showed up an' offered my services. Told 'em my qualifications, which are impressive, if I do say so myself."
The room's muzak became mysteriously louder. Beetlejuice noticed the receptionist glaring at him. He winked at her. The glass partition slammed shut.
"They were crap at scarin' the Livin', okay? Absolute shit. I gave hubbie an' his wife," he smirked, "I'm a tit man, but the gams on that lady," he whistled, "I gave 'em a preview. The Big Face-Off."
No reaction from the room. Neil Sedaka's "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do," full orchestration version, whined from the overhead speakers.
Beetlejuice's face exploded into the most hideous thing ever seen by the living or the dead. The new arrivals shrieked.
The glass partition slammed open. "You do that again, I call Juno! Compreendo?"
"Sure, sure," the ghost assured her. "So, when do ya wanna get off, baby? An' I don't mean from work." He licked his lips.
"Fode-te!"
"Any time ya want, babay!"
The slam almost cracked the glass window.
"That wasn't enough to convince th' morons," Beetlejuice continued. "They ditched me! An' I made Italian fer dinner, enough fer all of us, an' they blew me off without so much as a," his voice became cultured, with perfect diction, 'Thanks ever so much for your time, but we need an interval in which to discuss this proposition, then we'll let you know.'" His voice returned to its deep, gravelly growl as he added, "Rude! Get this: these amateurs tried t' scare th' idiots from their house themselves. So," he shot his dirty, lacy cuffs and grinned smugly, "I gave 'em a Free Demonstration. Really good shit, too."
"Watch your language, if you please," snapped the charred father, covering his son's ears.
"Hey. Kid." Beetlejuice leaned toward the boy. "Sucks ya died before puberty."
The father dragged his confused son to the opposite side of the room.
"Number 108,612,750,003!" the receptionist bellowed.
"Yeah, yeah, whaddaya think that's for?" Beetlejuice pointed at the Now Serving sign on the wall. He yelled on her behalf, "NEXT!"
The bullfighter with the horn up his rear waddled to reception.
"ANYway." Beetlejuice put his white, patent-leather shoes on the coffee table, atop Better Graves & Gardens magazine. "I scare the crap outta th' living that they called me t' get rid of, an' they get mad at me!" He snorted indignantly. "Wastin' a professional's time!" His voice became Barbara Maitland's as he quoted, "'You could've killed him!'" Normal again, he pointed out, "I'm a professional! I know whut I'm doin'! Chicken-livered Chuckie might've had a heart attack, might've broken his leg, maybe woulda ended up in a wheelchair for six t' eight weeks. But I wouldn'ta killed him. I don't want a loser like that hauntin' in my perimeters. Bad enough havin' those Yuppie Maitlands around. THEN th' Maitlands banish me back t' this side an' call me a pervert! Whut's me bein' appreciative of th' Deetz's daughter got t' do with anythin'?"
"You're not a pervert?" asked the elderly woman covered in cat hair.
"'Course I am! But whut's that got t' do with me doin' my job? Speakin' of th' daughter..." Beetlejuice leaned forward. In spite of themselves, the Waiting Room crowd leaned in an inch. "This is th' really insultin' part. It's why I'm here. See, th' Maitlands got caught in an exorcism spell one of th' Livin' didn't know how t' control. If any of ya end up hauntin', watch out for assholes like this. They get their warm, stupid hands on some half-cooked," he air-quoted, "'Spiritual Tome,' an' they think they can jerk us dead around like a Starbucks barista. Then when it goes wrong they just shrug an' say, 'Oopsy!'"
"We can be exorcised?" blurted the college girl, who'd actually torn herself from her device and been listening.
The ghost replied sourly, "Don't worry, kid, yer head's not gonna spin around an' puke pea soup."
"What are you talking about?"
"Jesus! Kids t'day! Watch a classic movie, already! ANYway, th' daughter, who's just my type-"
"WHO ISN'T?" yelled the typing pool.
"- just my type, she comes runnin', beggin' me t' save th' Maitlands. First, I can tell she's smart, cuz she knows I got juice powerful enough t' halt an' reverse a spell like that. Second, more proof she's smart by acceptin' that we gotta have a deal. I tell her, ya want me t' save them, ya gotta marry me."
"What?" exclaimed everyone in the room.
"It's The Rules." Miss Argentina sounded bored.
"See, yer all ready t' blame it on me, when Th' Rules have been around since forever. This is whut I'm talkin' about! I tell this Lydia th' specifics of th' deal. No fudgin', no fine print. Quid pro quo. She's smart, she knows whut she's gettin' into. She says yes."
"Oh my gawd," said College Girl.
"Yeah, compassion an' sacrifice t' save other people." The ghost imitated College Girls' voice. "Oh mah gawd, I would, like, so not do that!" His glare silenced any retort she might be considering. "I save th' Maitlands. I get rid of th' more obnoxious of th' Livin'. SO. I held up my end of th' bargain. I show up in my finest suit," he gestured to indicate what he was wearing, "et voila. Got th' ring, got th' Officiate, all ready fer Lydia to keep her promise, t' hold up her end of th' deal. A deal made fair an' square! No forcin'! No coercion'! I'm happy as hell! Got my girl, who's," he clicked his tongue with lewd appreciation, "an ' I'm all ready t' be out an' free fer good! An' whut happens?"
The room was silent, except for Paul Anka singing "Having My Baby," accompanied by The Romantic Strings Orchestra.
"What happened?" a first-and-last-time-skydiver blurted.
"Barbara Maitland, y'know, th' one whose Afterlife I just saved, thank you very much, sics a sandworm on me."
"A what?" they all asked.
"Read the brochures!" yelled Miss Argentina.
On the coffee table was a pile of brochures. Sandworms & You: Prevention & Precautions.
"She's ridin' th' damn thing, breaks up my nuptials, an' makes it EAT me!"
"Ugh!" they all said, though none of them were clear on the concept.
"Right in front of my beloved bride-ta-be! I was lookin' forward t' one hell of a weddin' night. But instead, my ass is chomped an' I end up here. Again! That's th' thanks I get!"
"How'd you get back out?" asked the six-year-old.
"So now-"
"Did the sandworm poop you?"
The ghost flicked his hand. Duck tape appeared over the child's mouth.
"So now," Beej repeated, as the father tried to wrest the tape from his kid, and then decided he kind of liked it there, "I got, y'know, these friends, an' these friends pass along this gossip about me-"
"Merda!" Miss Argentina stuck her head out the Reception office window. "You, friends? It was us you heard talking about it. We are laughing at you. Ha ha!"
"Th' gossip is," said Beetlejuice sourly, "that I'm th' bad guy! I'm th' villain! Sure, maybe I'm-"
"Gross," interrupted Miss Argentina.
"Vulgar," said the secretary behind her. "Lecherous. Licentious."
"Conniving," added the typist next to her. "Immoral."
"They know me so well," said Beetlejuice proudly. "But I am not th' bad guy here! I told th' Maitlands I'd get rid of th' Livin', like they wanted! I didn't name my price, cuz we never got that far. But I gave 'em a free demonstration! And that Lydia, I told her straight up front exactly what I wanted in exchange for what she wanted. I didn't lie. I didn't pressure her. I didn't force or threaten her. She thought about it, an' she decided."
"How old is she?" the elderly woman asked, suspicious.
"Eighteen! An adult!"
"Seventeen!" refuted the typing pool.
"Seventeen's old enough t' make up her own mind! Whut, was I supposed t' interrupt her parents' little Shrivel th' Ghosties seance an' ask, 'Scuse me, but yer daughter, a fine young lady of class an' looks, wants me t' stop yer turnin' her friends inta ash. But I need a Parental Release Form t' legally cover my big, fat, dead white ass. Sign here an' here?'"
"You really saved them?" asked College Girl.
Beetlejuice threw up his hands to indicate that the receptionist should confirm or deny his claim.
Miss Argentina sighed resentfully. "The bastard saved them."
"An' they're happily hauntin' their precious house right now, thanks t' me!" Beetlejuice exclaimed. "They're besties with th' Deetz's, who were responsible fer them almost bein' urn filler! They've practically adopted Lydia, an' have turned her completely against me! Framin' me as a 'evil demon' who tried t' 'force' her inta unholy matrimony! Which is not only an insult t' me, but t' her for her courage t' do whatever it took t' save them!"
The Waiting Room crowd exchanged glances and murmurs of disapproval.
"But ME," the Ghost With the Most snarled vehemently, "I get stuck here."
"The Rules," said Miss Argentina, with smirking irony.
"Well, The Rules don't say anythin' about whut I gotta do while I'm waitin'."
Beetlejuice snapped his fingers.
The muzak screeched to a halt. It restarted with a full orchestra, but now with a vibrant, lively calypso beat.
The Ghost With the Most's deep, dry voice sang along at the top of his lungs, drowning out Harry Belafonte's mellifluous one.
"Angelina, Angelina, please bring down yer concertina
An' play a welcome fer me 'cuz I'll be comin' home from sea."
The receptionist's glass partition slammed open again. Miss Argentina shouted,"I'll call Juno!"
Beetlejuice jumped onto the coffee table. While he sang, he yanked off his jacket, twirled it, and tossed it on top of College Girl.
"Well, I've heard th' bawdy tunes
I've been in honky tonk saloons..."
He pulled off his clip-on bow tie and threw it at the grandmother in her bathrobe.
"I'll call her, I swear!" the receptionist threatened.
Unbuttoning his vest, then his shirt, Beetlejuice sang,
"I took my liquor by th' vat
Well I stayed on call for a rousing brawl
Home was where I hung my hat."
The shirt was off and flying through the air to land on the charred kid. Beetlejuice kicked off his white, patent-leather shoes. Everyone ducked as they soared across the room and bounced off the water cooler.
Beetlejuice's hands went to his fly. The new arrivals looked at Miss Argentina in panic.
The receptionist huffed. She hit the red button for the Now Serving sign and held it down. The numbers whizzed. She removed her finger.
"Number 9,998,383,750,000!" she snapped.
Beetlejuice's zipper was half-way down when he stopped. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the long slip of paper with his number on it.
"Well, whadda coincidence! That's me!" He hopped off the table. The others covered their eyes as he scooped up his clothes and draped them over his arm, then grabbed his shoes.
Beetlejuice paused, his hand on the knob of the inner office door. He turned and looked at the full Waiting Room. In return they blinked at him with confusion, amazement, and some envy.
"I'm not th' bad guy here," he stated. He grinned cunningly. "An' I'm not an idiot, either." He winked and was gone.
The End