Girlfriend Electric

The ghosts you chase you never catch.
― John Malkovich

Here you are again—home alone in your Victorian manse and it’s raining. You never did get over your fear of ghosts. You tell yourself it’s puerile and foolish, but as the lights dim and brighten, your fears wax and wane, as if on cue.

The rubber plants conspire. The wind backs up water in the drains. The house is sighing, creaking, humming like a reed in a harmonica, and everything is singing with a strange music.

Then she appears, a schoolgirl dressed in a uniform—blouse and kilt and knee socks—long blonde hair cascading to her shoulders.

“What do you want?” I ask.

Her dark mouth moves. No words come out.

The lights dim again, lightning crackles and she’s gone.

Girlfriend electric—good witch riding the storm.

“So, it happened again last night—same dream?”

I yawn. I’m sure Margot, my therapist, thinks me mad—but then, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?

“Ya, it did—same old—same feeling.”

“You’re cavalier—quite all right with it then?”

“Bloody hell I am!” The outburst surprises even me.

Her pen scribbles.

“Well then, I think we should discuss this.”

“Oh, by all means, Doctor Freud. I’m here for writer’s block, paying you several hundred an hour and you want me to piddle away my time discussing a dream?”

She leans back and sighs, pushing away a stray curl of red hair. She’s awfully good-looking—for a mature woman, that is—she’s got this Prime of Miss Jean Brodie vibe going.

“You have to let me help you, James—you have to trust I know where to go and I’m not out to fleece you as Inge did.”

That hurt—really stung.

Inge chewed me up, then, walked away, my blood still dripping from her teeth—took me for what I was worth—not much back then, but everything.

“So what is this—reality therapy?”

She smooths her tight beige skirt, re-crossing her long legs—everything unconsciously sensual with her.

“Are you going to cooperate or play a hindering role? You’re the one who’s dragging this out, James.”

“Me? C’mon Margot—I’ve been through hell and back trying to unravel me. I’ve tried everything—even Scientology. Hell, I held two cans in my hand and was processed through an e-meter till I was cleared of engrams.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not avoiding things now.”

She’s right. I’ve been skirting the issue in more ways than one. Truth is, I find her attractive and I’ve been avoiding my real angst—my fear of women.

“Okay, so what do you think’s going on?”

She laughs softly, “Nice try, but I ask, you answer.”

I stare her straight in the eye and lie.

“I haven’t a bloody clue.”

“Really?”

“What do you mean?” I eye her suspiciously.

“Who’s the girl?”

“You think I know her? I don’t—she’s just a figment of my imagination.”

She arches an eyebrow.

“She’s not flipping real.”

“If you say so.”

“Ah, I get it—you think I’m repressing something—like she’s a part of my past, or something like that.”

“Are you asking, or telling?”

I look at her in despair. “Honestly Margot, I don’t know—I don’t know who she is.”

She looks at her gold wristwatch. “I think we’ll begin here next time—there’s something here, James. We need to look at this.”

“Okay,” I nod. She walks me out to the receptionist.

“Make an appointment for James at two next Wednesday, Sylphide.” She pauses and looks pointedly, “And this time, try not to be late.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she glides away—as graceful as a colorful kite, broken free of its tether and sailing toward Spain.

“Mr. Randall?” Sylphide is staring up at me, perplexed.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sylphide.” I take the proffered appointment card, “Wednesday will be fine.”

She smiles and returns to her computer.

I really have to get a grip—but what I really want is a drink. I punch in Harry’s number on my cell and arrange to meet him at The Sly Foxe.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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