I feel compelled to glance over at him, not through the power of some supernatural force, but thanks to the gnawing insistence of my own curiosity. To be honest, I still haven’t convinced myself this is actually happening.
Sure enough, Eddie Michaels is right there in the passenger seat, a new pair of gift shop sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. These pink frames are bent into the novel shape of two large hearts and covered in shimmering rhinestones that pop against the dark lenses. Despite a bargain-bin price tag, Eddie has managed to find the perfect approximation of something bold and brash from his high-end personal collection.
“You like them?” Eddie asks.
“Like what?”
“The glasses?”
I consider how to answer, wondering whether I should be buttering him up. “Yeah,” I finally admit.
“You sure about that?” Eddie presses, a slight alteration in his tone.
The question hits different this time. A single word bubbles out of me involuntarily. “Yes.”
Eddie smiles, amused, then clears his throat. It’s an instinctive habit—meant to signify the start of some important conversation—but the result only serves to highlight just how bizarre this situation really is. Instead of the muted cough one might expect, Eddie produces a strange, rattling wheeze, the wet crackle of bones and torn flesh grinding within his esophagus. “Alright, the first thing I hope you understand is that I’m not a bad guy,” the corpse begins. “I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s the truth.”
Good. He’s feeling chatty.
I have plenty of concerns about my current position, but right now my biggest disadvantage is lack of information. There are things going on here that stretch well beyond my sphere of understanding, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn.
Organizing the details and tucking them away is a great first step to getting out of this mess. It’s how I approach every problem: slipping little pieces of knowledge into my mind’s filing cabinet until suddenly I open it up and realize I’ve collected the whole story.
“Who are you?” I ask.
Eddie furrows his brow, glancing over at me not once, but twice in an exaggerated double take. “Sport. Are you joking?”
I don’t respond, waiting for a concrete answer.
It’s in this silence that I notice the smell again, as though a little gremlin is hard at work popping corn somewhere inside the truck’s cab.
“I’m Eddie Michaels,” he finally replies. “Who the fuck else would I be?Liberace?”
“Eddie Michaels is dead,” I counter.
“Do Ilookdead?” He laughs. “Actually, don’t answer that.”
He’s got a point. If this walking, talking cadaver is not Eddie, then who the hell is he? I don’t have a good answer, but then again, I don’t have a good answer for much right now.
“If you’re Eddie Michaels, then what’s the B-side on the original ‘Heart in Your Hands’ single?”
“There was no ‘Heart in Your Hands’ single,” he replies immediately. “That song didn’t get popular until it was on theHeroes of Darknesssoundtrack thirty-five years later.”
Eddie’s confidence in his answer is arresting.
“If I’m not Eddie, then what am I?” he asks.
“An evil spirit or something.”
“Anevil spirit?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, totally. I’m an evil spirit,” Eddie states. “You know what ghosts love to do once they’ve transcended thephysical realm and reconnected with the infinite cosmic beauty of the universe? Evil shit here on earth.”
I stare at him, struggling to get a read. “Are you fucking with me?”
“No, I’m like amean ghost,” he says.
