The Mediator
-Jesse's Story-
~Chapter One~
*My Querida*
Time for a new family. Oh joy. Nobody had lived in my house for quite a few years, I was getting rather bored, but still I preferred the solitude to the hustling and bustling of people. The fact that I stayed in a bedroom makes me uncomfortable enough, but no, I had to die in the best bedroom in the house! Nombre de Dios! I've seen people come and go, and have watched the boarding house turn into a normal house and then slowly deteriorate. There's only so much you can do when you're dead, so I can often notice the smallest things about a person.
My lovely house was finally restored before my new family arrived. I was happy; the drabness of it was depressing me. It took the workers months to make my house worthy of praise again, but finally they achieved their goal. The construction men, I mean. The house was finally as good, if not better, then new.
Then the family moved in. I tell you; it was quite a change from my solitary like. Suddenly, I was living with two people in their early 40's, two teenagers, and one twelve year old genius. All men, besides one adult. The woman's name was Mrs. Ackerman, and she married Mr. Ackerman after her husband died. Mr. Ackerman's first wife had died, too.
The kids were twelve, sixteen and seventeen. As I said, the twelve-year-old is a genius. His name is David. The sixteen-year-old is, how can I put this nicely?, not his younger brother. I would just love to see how he does in school. Brad is not the brightest boy I've ever met. And then there's Jake. I swear that boy shouldn't stay out so late. All he does during the day is sleep, sleep and sleep. Yet, girls call the house all the time trying to reach him. He's the least entertaining to watch.
Then there was the mystery daughter. Mrs. Ackerman moved here from New York City. Her daughter was still there. Sometime soon, the daughter is going to come here and have my room. And, let me tell you, I wasn't too excited about that. The room had been made over with brightly colored walls and a canopy bed. And from what I've heard about the daughter, I'm sure she'll hate it. This girl is going to be Trouble. I mean it. With a capital T. I envision her as all dressed in black, black makeup, repainting my room black or some other dark color, and doing spells on the floor. I mean it. I bet she's a witch. I ask you, how else could she creep around after night in different peoples (locked) houses?
But how wrong can one be?
When she did arrive, I took one look at her and couldn't believe this was the same person they told me about. True, she was wearing old jeans and a motorcycle jacket, but still, she was very pretty. And not in all black.
She walked in the room with her mom, threw down her bags and examined. She didn't seem too happy with the bed and wallpaper, but she had a Well, I'll live look on her face. Then she turned to where I sat, on the window seat, and looked mad. I guess the window wasn't big enough or something.
Her mother sighed. "Oh Suzie, not again."
She swore to her mom it was perfect and all that, then Mr. Ackerman came in and showed her how to turn on the lights (I ask you, how hard can turning on lights be? So hard you have to install a gadget that does it for you when you clap? I think not) and all the other things he put it to make her room be more, shall we say, futuristic. As soon as everyone left, she turned to me.
"All right, who the hell are you?"
I was startled, all right. I looked behind me, wildly, trying to find who she was talking to. Then it dawned on me. She can see me. She can talk to me! "Nombre de Dios!"
"No use calling on your higher power," she told me, as she turned her chair around, "In case your haven't noticed, He isn't paying a whole lot of attention to you. Otherwise, He wouldn't have left you here to fester for-" She started staring at me, pretty hard. I wondered what was wrong. "What is it? A hundred and fifty years? Has it really been that long since you croaked?"
"What is . . . croaked?" I asked, my throat raspy. I haven't used it in years.
"Kicked the bucked. Checked out. Popped off. Bit the dust." I had no clue what she was talking about. Checked out? I've never checked out. I've been living in this boarding house for years. Checked out? Ha!
"Died," she said, sounding exasperated.
"Oh," I said, finally understanding her. "Died." Then I realized what was going on. I was conversing with someone! "I don't understand how it is that you can see me," I said, shaking my head. "All these years no one has ever -"
"Ya, well, listen. The times, you know, they are a'changin'. So what's your glitch?"
"Glitch?" I repeated. I think that's around the time when I noticed her checking me out. I decided to do the same, sense she was obviously busy. She had a great body, lots of curves, and a good style. She looked a bit, let's say, tough, but now I realized that she was being herself. You don't see many people who just are themselves without caring what people thought. She had these wonderful green eyes, bright green, that made me feel like she was seeing into my soul. She was, all and all, beautiful.
"Yeah," she said. I caught her trying to look at my stomach, so I, being the actor I am, put a boot up on the window seat, allowing her to catch a bit. She looked surprised, then continued. "Glitch, problem." I still didn't get it. "Why haven't you gone to the other side?"
"I don't know what you mean," I told her. I was enjoying this conversation; we were flirting, yet not. She was trying to look mad, yet I could tell she thought I was handsome. And I thought she was very pretty. Yet, she suddenly looked mad. And not mad in general. Mad at me. Like I was being stupid on purpose.
"What do you mean, you don't know what I mean?" She barked at me. "Your dead." I was about to make a nasty comment, but I bit my tongue. "You don't belong here. You're supposed to be off doing whatever it is that happen to people when they're dead. Rejoicing in heaven, or burning in hell, or being reincarnated, or ascending another plane of consciousness, or whatever. You're not supposed to be just . . . hanging around."
I digested that. She wanted me out. I put my elbow on my knee. "And what if I happen to like just hanging around?" I teased, good-naturedly.
"Look. You can do all the hanging around you want, amigo. Slack away. I don't really care. But you can't do it here."
"Jesse," I told her.
"What?" finally, she was the one confused.
"You called me amigo. I thought you might like to know that I have a name. It's Jesse.
She nodded. "Right. That figures. Well, fine. Jesse then. You can't stay here, Jesse."
"And you?" I asked, smiling. She wasn't getting rid of me. Not after I had been here for years. I don't think she really truly wanted me gone, though. I think she only wanted me out of her room. I think she would have liked if I haunted the kitchen or something. But I was perfectly happy where I was.
"And me what?" she snapped.
"What is your name?"
"Look, just tell me what you want and get out. I'm hot, and I want to change clothes. I don't have time for - "
I wasn't paying attention to what she was saying, and I could care less, so I interrupted her. "That woman - your mother - called you Suzie. Short for Susan?"
"Susannah. As in 'Don't you cry for me'."
"I know the song."
"Yeah. It was probably in the top forty in the year you were born, huh?" She was in a bad mood, now. It was almost time for my graceful exit.
"So this is your room now, is it, Susannah?"
"Yeah. Yeah this is my room now, so you're going to have to clear out."
"I'm going to have to clear out?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "This has been my room for a centaury and a half. Why do I have to leave it?"
"Because. This is my room now. I'm not sharing it with some dead cowboy."
That's when I got mad. I slammed my foot down on the ground and stood up. I'm pretty tall an intimidating, especially when I'm mad. I hoped she'd think that, too. "I am not a cowboy!" I added something not-to-pleasant in Spanish, and I could tell she couldn't understand a word I said in it.
She looked kind of nervous, and said, with her hands stretched out; "Whoa. Down. Down boy."
I waved a finger in her face. "My family worked like slaves to make something of themselves in this country, but never, never as a vaquero -"
"Hey!" She said, and grabbed my finger. I was shocked. Nobody had touched me for over a hundred and fifty years. "Stop with the mirror already." I noticed, just then, that the mirror above her dresser was shaking violently. I was controlling with my mind without knowing. I steadied it with my mind, and then went back to listening to her. " . . . shoving your finger in my face." She continued. "Do it again, and I'll break it!" She let go, and I stared at my finger.
She touched my finger. She touched it! Her hand didn't just float through it; her hand grabbed it. Physically! I was in a state of shock.
"Now, look Jesse," the sound of her voice brought my back from la-la land. "This is my room, understand? You can't stay here. You've either got to let me help you get to where you're supposed to go, or you're going to have to find some other house to haunt."
I look at her, still astonished about the finger thing, and the fact that she didn't find it the least bit odd to have touched a ghost. "Who are you? What kind of . . ." I searched for the right word. I wasn't sure to call her woman, lady or girl. I decided that in this day and age, girl was more appropriate. "Girl are you?"
She looked horribly mad. "Well I'll tell you what kind of girl I'm not!" She all but shouted. "I'm not the kind of girl who's looking to share her room with a member of the opposite sex. Understand me? So either you move out, or I'll force you out. It's entirely up to you. I'll give you some time to think about it. But when I get back here, Jesse, I want you gone." She turned around and stormed out of the room. I sighed. Maybe the new family would be more interesting then I thought . . . or maybe I'll get sick of Susannah within a matter of days.
-Jesse's Story-
~Chapter One~
*My Querida*
Time for a new family. Oh joy. Nobody had lived in my house for quite a few years, I was getting rather bored, but still I preferred the solitude to the hustling and bustling of people. The fact that I stayed in a bedroom makes me uncomfortable enough, but no, I had to die in the best bedroom in the house! Nombre de Dios! I've seen people come and go, and have watched the boarding house turn into a normal house and then slowly deteriorate. There's only so much you can do when you're dead, so I can often notice the smallest things about a person.
My lovely house was finally restored before my new family arrived. I was happy; the drabness of it was depressing me. It took the workers months to make my house worthy of praise again, but finally they achieved their goal. The construction men, I mean. The house was finally as good, if not better, then new.
Then the family moved in. I tell you; it was quite a change from my solitary like. Suddenly, I was living with two people in their early 40's, two teenagers, and one twelve year old genius. All men, besides one adult. The woman's name was Mrs. Ackerman, and she married Mr. Ackerman after her husband died. Mr. Ackerman's first wife had died, too.
The kids were twelve, sixteen and seventeen. As I said, the twelve-year-old is a genius. His name is David. The sixteen-year-old is, how can I put this nicely?, not his younger brother. I would just love to see how he does in school. Brad is not the brightest boy I've ever met. And then there's Jake. I swear that boy shouldn't stay out so late. All he does during the day is sleep, sleep and sleep. Yet, girls call the house all the time trying to reach him. He's the least entertaining to watch.
Then there was the mystery daughter. Mrs. Ackerman moved here from New York City. Her daughter was still there. Sometime soon, the daughter is going to come here and have my room. And, let me tell you, I wasn't too excited about that. The room had been made over with brightly colored walls and a canopy bed. And from what I've heard about the daughter, I'm sure she'll hate it. This girl is going to be Trouble. I mean it. With a capital T. I envision her as all dressed in black, black makeup, repainting my room black or some other dark color, and doing spells on the floor. I mean it. I bet she's a witch. I ask you, how else could she creep around after night in different peoples (locked) houses?
But how wrong can one be?
When she did arrive, I took one look at her and couldn't believe this was the same person they told me about. True, she was wearing old jeans and a motorcycle jacket, but still, she was very pretty. And not in all black.
She walked in the room with her mom, threw down her bags and examined. She didn't seem too happy with the bed and wallpaper, but she had a Well, I'll live look on her face. Then she turned to where I sat, on the window seat, and looked mad. I guess the window wasn't big enough or something.
Her mother sighed. "Oh Suzie, not again."
She swore to her mom it was perfect and all that, then Mr. Ackerman came in and showed her how to turn on the lights (I ask you, how hard can turning on lights be? So hard you have to install a gadget that does it for you when you clap? I think not) and all the other things he put it to make her room be more, shall we say, futuristic. As soon as everyone left, she turned to me.
"All right, who the hell are you?"
I was startled, all right. I looked behind me, wildly, trying to find who she was talking to. Then it dawned on me. She can see me. She can talk to me! "Nombre de Dios!"
"No use calling on your higher power," she told me, as she turned her chair around, "In case your haven't noticed, He isn't paying a whole lot of attention to you. Otherwise, He wouldn't have left you here to fester for-" She started staring at me, pretty hard. I wondered what was wrong. "What is it? A hundred and fifty years? Has it really been that long since you croaked?"
"What is . . . croaked?" I asked, my throat raspy. I haven't used it in years.
"Kicked the bucked. Checked out. Popped off. Bit the dust." I had no clue what she was talking about. Checked out? I've never checked out. I've been living in this boarding house for years. Checked out? Ha!
"Died," she said, sounding exasperated.
"Oh," I said, finally understanding her. "Died." Then I realized what was going on. I was conversing with someone! "I don't understand how it is that you can see me," I said, shaking my head. "All these years no one has ever -"
"Ya, well, listen. The times, you know, they are a'changin'. So what's your glitch?"
"Glitch?" I repeated. I think that's around the time when I noticed her checking me out. I decided to do the same, sense she was obviously busy. She had a great body, lots of curves, and a good style. She looked a bit, let's say, tough, but now I realized that she was being herself. You don't see many people who just are themselves without caring what people thought. She had these wonderful green eyes, bright green, that made me feel like she was seeing into my soul. She was, all and all, beautiful.
"Yeah," she said. I caught her trying to look at my stomach, so I, being the actor I am, put a boot up on the window seat, allowing her to catch a bit. She looked surprised, then continued. "Glitch, problem." I still didn't get it. "Why haven't you gone to the other side?"
"I don't know what you mean," I told her. I was enjoying this conversation; we were flirting, yet not. She was trying to look mad, yet I could tell she thought I was handsome. And I thought she was very pretty. Yet, she suddenly looked mad. And not mad in general. Mad at me. Like I was being stupid on purpose.
"What do you mean, you don't know what I mean?" She barked at me. "Your dead." I was about to make a nasty comment, but I bit my tongue. "You don't belong here. You're supposed to be off doing whatever it is that happen to people when they're dead. Rejoicing in heaven, or burning in hell, or being reincarnated, or ascending another plane of consciousness, or whatever. You're not supposed to be just . . . hanging around."
I digested that. She wanted me out. I put my elbow on my knee. "And what if I happen to like just hanging around?" I teased, good-naturedly.
"Look. You can do all the hanging around you want, amigo. Slack away. I don't really care. But you can't do it here."
"Jesse," I told her.
"What?" finally, she was the one confused.
"You called me amigo. I thought you might like to know that I have a name. It's Jesse.
She nodded. "Right. That figures. Well, fine. Jesse then. You can't stay here, Jesse."
"And you?" I asked, smiling. She wasn't getting rid of me. Not after I had been here for years. I don't think she really truly wanted me gone, though. I think she only wanted me out of her room. I think she would have liked if I haunted the kitchen or something. But I was perfectly happy where I was.
"And me what?" she snapped.
"What is your name?"
"Look, just tell me what you want and get out. I'm hot, and I want to change clothes. I don't have time for - "
I wasn't paying attention to what she was saying, and I could care less, so I interrupted her. "That woman - your mother - called you Suzie. Short for Susan?"
"Susannah. As in 'Don't you cry for me'."
"I know the song."
"Yeah. It was probably in the top forty in the year you were born, huh?" She was in a bad mood, now. It was almost time for my graceful exit.
"So this is your room now, is it, Susannah?"
"Yeah. Yeah this is my room now, so you're going to have to clear out."
"I'm going to have to clear out?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "This has been my room for a centaury and a half. Why do I have to leave it?"
"Because. This is my room now. I'm not sharing it with some dead cowboy."
That's when I got mad. I slammed my foot down on the ground and stood up. I'm pretty tall an intimidating, especially when I'm mad. I hoped she'd think that, too. "I am not a cowboy!" I added something not-to-pleasant in Spanish, and I could tell she couldn't understand a word I said in it.
She looked kind of nervous, and said, with her hands stretched out; "Whoa. Down. Down boy."
I waved a finger in her face. "My family worked like slaves to make something of themselves in this country, but never, never as a vaquero -"
"Hey!" She said, and grabbed my finger. I was shocked. Nobody had touched me for over a hundred and fifty years. "Stop with the mirror already." I noticed, just then, that the mirror above her dresser was shaking violently. I was controlling with my mind without knowing. I steadied it with my mind, and then went back to listening to her. " . . . shoving your finger in my face." She continued. "Do it again, and I'll break it!" She let go, and I stared at my finger.
She touched my finger. She touched it! Her hand didn't just float through it; her hand grabbed it. Physically! I was in a state of shock.
"Now, look Jesse," the sound of her voice brought my back from la-la land. "This is my room, understand? You can't stay here. You've either got to let me help you get to where you're supposed to go, or you're going to have to find some other house to haunt."
I look at her, still astonished about the finger thing, and the fact that she didn't find it the least bit odd to have touched a ghost. "Who are you? What kind of . . ." I searched for the right word. I wasn't sure to call her woman, lady or girl. I decided that in this day and age, girl was more appropriate. "Girl are you?"
She looked horribly mad. "Well I'll tell you what kind of girl I'm not!" She all but shouted. "I'm not the kind of girl who's looking to share her room with a member of the opposite sex. Understand me? So either you move out, or I'll force you out. It's entirely up to you. I'll give you some time to think about it. But when I get back here, Jesse, I want you gone." She turned around and stormed out of the room. I sighed. Maybe the new family would be more interesting then I thought . . . or maybe I'll get sick of Susannah within a matter of days.