Guess what? I wrote a Christmas ghost story just for you.
Okay, it’s not really a ghost story, and I didn’t really write it for you. I wrote it about thirty years ago, and back then it wasn’t a Christmas story. But I’ve made it a Christmas story, and while I was at it, I tried to fix some things that didn’t work thirty years ago. I also tried to fix some things that worked thirty years ago, but don’t work now.
I’m afraid it’s still not really a ghost story, but it’s pretty close.
Nobody
by John R. Logue
I have always hated Christmas.
Well, not always. There were happy Christmases when I was a child, before my father died. I suppose if I’m going to be honest, it’s my stepbrother I’ve always hated. Unfortunately, since we met on Christmas Day, I can’t help connecting the two.
It was a warm, sunny Christmas Day (not an unusual thing in southern California) about twenty years ago. I got a BMX bike that year and had just brought it outside for its inaugural ride, when a familiar red Mustang pulled into our driveway. It was Willard Stinchcomb, the weasely-faced creep who’d been dating my mother since that spring. And the weasely- and pimply-faced kid riding shotgun had to be his son.
My mother came out of the house as they were getting out of the car. She gave Willard a big hug and another hug to the kid. “Walter, this is Rodney,” she said. “He’s going to be your new brother.”
I remember thinking this was as bad as the time she told me Dad wasn’t coming home from the hospital. As it turned out I was wrong. This was worse. “Why don’t the two of you stay out here and get acquainted?” she said, and she and Willard went into the house.
To Rodney, “getting acquainted” apparently meant shoving your soon-to-be stepbrother to the ground, sitting on him, and twisting his arm behind his back.
“Ow!” I howled.
“Shut up, or I’ll break your arm,” he hissed in my ear. “Got that, Wal-ter?”
I wasn’t stupid. “Yes,” I whimpered.
“That’s good, Wal-ter. Now let’s get one thing straight. From now on, I’m the boss around here. Got it, Wal-ter?” The sing-song way he kept drawling “Walter” made me wish my parents had given me a tougher name, like “Axel” or “Gunner.” A guy named Axel or Gunner would never allow himself to be bullied, especially by someone named Rodney.
“Got it,” I said.
“I want to hear you say it, dumbass,” He twisted my arm another degree. “Who’s the boss?”
“You are! You’re the boss!”
“That’s right. And who are you?”
"Uh..." I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say. Clearly not my name; he seemed to have that down pat. “Not the boss?”
“You’re a loser, Walter. You’re nobody.” He gave my arm another little twist. “Say it.”
“I’m nobody!” I cried.
“That’s right, dumbass, and don’t forget it.” He released my arm and stood up. “Hey, nice bike,” he said, admiring my new BMX. “Mind if I take it for a spin?”
As he rode off, I realized that our relationship had been established: from then on, Rodney would have his way in everything, and I—
I was nobody.
But I was smart. I quickly learned that if you're going to survive living with someone with no self-control, it's vital to have plenty of it yourself. I studied psychology, which led to an interest in parapsychology. I read every book I could find on the subject. My bookishness and interest in the paranormal garnered me a new nickname: “Weird Walter” (although "dumbass" was still popular).
On top of everything else, my mother gave her new husband full control of Cramer Hardware, the family store that was to have been my inheritance. “Now, Walter,” she said, “It only makes sense. Willard has a much better head for business than I do, and you’re not old enough to take over the business.”
I couldn’t wait for college, where I thought I would finally escape Rodney’s clutches. No such luck. Willard persuaded my mother that, in order to save money, it would be best to send us both to the same state school, where we would share a room.
I majored in psychology and continued to spend all of my free time studying the paranormal. I channeled my anger into experiments in telepathy, clairvoyance, and telekinesis. While everyone else in the dorm was out partying, I sat at my desk for hours on end, staring at a compass, trying to make the needle move with the power of my mind. I probably would have done it if Rodney wasn’t always interrupting—barging in to borrow money for gas or beer, or kicking me out because he’d brought a girl back to the room.
As it turned out, my mother was right about Willard Stinchcomb’s head for business. By the time Rodney and I graduated from college, he had turned our small, family-owned hardware store into California’s most successful privately-held hardware chain. It galled me to see the name changed to “Stinchcomb & Son” with Rodney made a full partner in my family’s business. It galled me even more to take the position they offered me as sales assistant. But what else was I going to do with a degree in psychology?
When Willard died in a freak accident (during a 4.5 earthquake, a box of hammers fell on his head; he may have had a head for business, but it turned out he did not have a head for hardware), Rodney became president of the company. He promoted me to vice president, but in reality I was still what I had always been to Rodney: a loser, a nobody. I continued to immerse myself in my hobby—control—but it was always with the idea of controlling myself.
Until last summer.
Ironically, it was Rodney who put the idea in my head. It was at the company’s summer barbecue. Ordinarily, I avoided extracurricular company activities like the plague, but for some reason I'd decided to attend this one, and against all odds, I was having a good time. I’d been talking with Kate Garvey, our new marketing director. I usually found myself completely tongue-tied in the presence of an attractive woman, but Kate was surprisingly easy to talk to. Somehow we had gotten onto the topic of astral projection.
“It’s sort of like being in two places at once,” I said. “Your astral body—spirit or soul or whatever you want to call it—completely separates from your physical body.”
“I'm familiar with the concept," Kate said. "I took a course in comparative religion, and both Buddhism and Hinduism mention it. But it seems to me that without your soul—well, wouldn’t you be dead?”
“Nearly dead. Your physical body is in a trance state; breathing and heartbeat are nearly indetectable.”
“And how far could your astral body travel?” Kate asked.
“In theory, as far as you like," I replied. "Some claim to have visited other planets.”
“I'm not sure I'd want to go that far, but I've always wanted to visit Paris. Can we go there?”
I felt a pleasant tingle at her use of the first-person plural pronoun. “No reason we couldn’t, as long as we could find our way there and back, and as long as our bodies weren’t disturbed while we were away.”
At that moment, Rodney barged in. “There you are, Katie! Is my stepbrother boring you?”
“I prefer ‘Kate,’ and on the contrary, the conversation has been quite stimulating.”
“Stimulating? That certainly doesn't sound like Walter.”
“We were talking about astral projection,” said Kate. “How it’s possible for your soul to leave your body so you can be in two places at once.”
“If you have a soul,” I muttered under my breath.
“Well, what do you know about that!” said Rodney, laughing. “Weird Walter has finally come up with an idea that’s practical. Just think of the possibilities! You stay home in bed while your soul goes off and does whatever it wants. The perfect alibi! Now, Katie, if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss our new ad campaign...”
He steered her away, leaving me feeling very much the way I’d felt that Christmas Day he took off with my new bike. But I also felt something I had not felt in a long time: hope. I saw the possibility of getting some satisfaction for the years of abuse I had suffered at the hands of Rodney Stinchcomb.
I began working on astral projection a hundred times harder than I had ever worked to move that compass needle back in college. Night after night I lay on my bed, attempting to achieve the state-of-mind the Buddhists call “Nirvana.” I stared at the ceiling, consciously relaxing every muscle, freeing my mind of every extraneous thought, willing my soul to leap from my body.
A few months after the barbecue I had just about achieved this state when the phone rang. Irritated by the interruption, I got up and went into the kitchen to answer it. When I reached for the phone, I realized I didn’t have a hand to pick it up with.
I'd been trying for months to leave my body, but when it actually happened I panicked. I literally flew back to the bedroom (yes, without a body you can literally fly) and dove into my body, which was still lying on the bed. I slowly sat up, this time making sure my body stayed with me.
The phone was still ringing. It had to be Rodney. I went into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.
“It’s about time, dumbass! Do you even use the iPhone I gave you? You never answer my calls or texts, and the voicemail is always full."
“I think it’s broken,” I lied. It was still in the box. The only person who ever called me was Rodney, and I had no desire to make myself more accessible.
“Get it fixed, dumbass! What took you so long to pick up?”
“I was asleep.”
“At nine o’clock? You need to get a life. Speaking of which, I’m calling about the company Christmas party.”
“The Christmas party?” I asked.
“Yeah. Kate Garvey asked if you were going to be there.”
“Kate Garvey?”
“Yeah. It seems you made a real impression at the barbecue.”
“I made an impression?”
“Will you please stop repeating everything I say?”
“Sorry.”
“Are you going to be there or not?”
“Where?”
“At the Christmas party, dumbass!”
As I previously mentioned, I tended to avoid all extracurricular Stinchcomb & Son activities, and as I also previously mentioned, I hated Christmas. But if Kate Garvey wanted me there...
“Sure, I guess so.”
“Great! I’ll tell Kate to bring her cousin.”
“Her cousin?”
“Ever since the barbecue, I’ve been trying to get her to go out with me, but she always has some lame excuse. This time it’s a cousin who’s visiting for the holidays. I told her I’d find someone else and make it a foursome; she agreed, as long as the fourth is you. Once we’re all at the party, you get the cousin out of the way so I’ll have a clear field with Kate.”
I should have known. Rodney had often used me as wing man in a ploy that generally ended with neither woman ever wanting to see either of us again. Well if Kate Garvey ended up hating me, so be it; at least I would have the perfect opportunity for revenge.
“Fine, Rodney. I’ll be there.”
“Oh, and don’t forget your swimsuit. With any luck, this warm weather will hold and we’ll all end up in the country club pool. I can’t wait to see Katie in a skimpy bikini.”
“She prefers to be called ‘Kate,’” I said, and hung up.
With less than a month to prepare, I immediately began to practice my astral technique. It was easy, now that I knew how. Of course, being able to travel without my body was useless without being able to affect the physical world. Luckily, despite my failure in college, I now found it relatively easy to move things with my mind.
The secret to astral projection is to forget you have a body; the secret to telekinesis is to forget you don’t have one.
As arranged, on the Saturday before Christmas I picked up Kate and her cousin Beth at Kate’s apartment. Rodney was to meet us at the country club. His plan called for me to take Beth home after the party, leaving Kate with him. Beth turned out to be a delightful young woman, making me instantly regret the first step of my plan, which was to ditch her as soon as we got to the party.
Step one proved to be easier than expected. Beth's Doctor Who Christmas sweater tipped me off that she was a sci-fi fan. I introduced her to one of the few people in the company I genuinely liked: Eddie, our IT guy, who was also into science fiction. Within minutes they were happily debating the relative merits of Star Trek and Doctor Who, and I was able to slip away unnoticed.
Step two was to appear to drink myself into oblivion. I ordered one double scotch after another, discreetly dumping each drink into the nearest potted plant or flowerbed. I began to slur my speech and bump into people. Finally, I staggered over to a chaise longue by the pool and pretended to pass out.
Step three: I was now free to leave my body and seek out my victim. I found him near the hors d’oeuvres table, regaling Kate on his favorite subject: himself.
“Sure, my father expanded the business," he was saying, "but this deal I’m making—and by the way, nobody is better at making deals than I am—this deal will take us nationwide. We’ll be bigger than Home Depot. Trust me, nobody has done more for this company than I have.”
“Isn’t it true that Walter’s family started the business?” Kate asked sweetly.
It was then that I realized I was in love with her, which made me regret all the more what happened next. Before Rodney could insult my family, before he could tell Kate what a nobody I was, I gave him a telekinetic push.
Kate screamed. I meant to make Rodney spill his frozen margarita; I did not mean for him to spill it on Kate. He stared stupidly at the icy slush dripping down the front of her dress. “Somebody knocked it out of my hand,” he said.
“Who?” Kate demanded angrily, “Casper the Unfriendly Ghost?”
Dave Meyers and his wife Erin happened to be standing nearby. Dave represented one of our biggest tool suppliers. In my opinion, he was the biggest tool—a sycophantic blowhard who called everybody “buddy” or “pal,” because he couldn’t be bothered to learn their name. Besides which his company’s tools were crap; for years I’d been trying to get Rodney to go back to our old vendor.
“Everything okay, buddy?” Dave asked.
“Somebody made me spill my drink,” Rodney grumbled.
“That’s okay, pal,” said Dave, “We’ll get you another one. Hey, waiter—”
I gave Rodney a shove in Dave’s direction.
“Whoa there, buddy,” said Dave, steadying him.
“Who pushed me?”
“Nobody—and on second thought, maybe you don’t need another drink.”
“I’m not drunk!”
I gave him another shove, sending him stumbling into Erin. He grabbed her and they both went down.
“That's it,” said Kate. “I’m going to go find a towel, then I’m going to find Walter and Beth and see if they’re ready to leave. If not, I’m calling a cab.”
Howard Lee arrived on the scene as Dave was helping Rodney and Erin to their feet. “Everything all right here?” he asked. As head of the legal department, he was no doubt concerned about the possibility of a lawsuit.
“Everything’s fine,” said Rodney. “Did you bring those acquisition papers?” He was hoping to close the big deal he’d been bragging about to Kate.
“Well, yes—but are you sure about this? You know, there’s something to be said for staying small. People like to shop at our stores because we’re not Home Depot.”
“We already discussed this, remember? First the acquisition, then we go public. Go big or go home, Howard. That’s what I always say!” He grabbed a cocktail shrimp off the hors d’oeuvre table and shoved it in his mouth.
“Can't it at least wait until Monday? I prefer not to mix business with pleasure.”
“You sound like that loser stepbrother of mine. He doesn’t believe in mixing business with anything. You’ll never get ahead that way.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll live longer. You need to learn how to relax, Rodney. You may be twenty years younger than me, but you’re a classic type-A personality—a heart attack waiting to happen.”
“Ha! I’ll dance on your grave, you old fart!” Rodney said, stuffing another shrimp in his mouth. It was time for the coup de grâce. With a well-placed jab to the abdomen, I would cause Rodney to spit a mouthful of shrimp in Howard’s face.
Only it didn’t work that way. Instead of exhaling, Rodney inhaled sharply, sucking the shrimp into his windpipe like a cork into a bottle. His hands went to his throat. His face began to turn red.
Howard didn’t notice; he was too busy loading his plate with Swedish meatballs. “You should eat more vegetables,” he said, adding a single stick of celery to the pile of meatballs on his plate. “Those shrimp’ll kill you. They’re loaded with cholesterol, you know.”
This was not what I had planned. I wanted to humiliate Rodney, not kill him. I tried to use the Heimlich maneuver on him, but with no body to squeeze him against, I only succeeded in dancing him up and down like a limp puppet. In desperation, I threw him across the hors d’oeuvre table, hoping that would dislodge the shrimp. It didn’t, but at least it attracted attention.
“My God, Rodney, are you all right?” Howard asked, bending over Rodney’s body.
“Ignore him,” said Erin. “He’s drunk.”
“He might be choking,” said Dave.
“He didn’t seem that drunk,” said Howard.
“I think he’s choking,” said Dave.
“Plastered,” said Erin.
“No,” said Dave, “He’s definitely choking. Look at his face. See? He’s turning purple. Does anyone here know CPR?”
By now a crowd was gathering.
“You don’t use CPR when someone’s choking,” said Gloria Gonzalez, head of HR. “You use the Heineken method.”
I couldn’t believe that nobody in the company seemed to know the first thing about first aid. Didn’t OSHA require some kind of training? “For God’s sake, somebody call 911!” I tried to shout, forgetting that, without my vocal chords, I couldn’t make a sound. At that moment Kate returned and immediately grasped the situation.
“For God’s sake, somebody call 911!” she shouted.
Within twenty minutes, paramedics had arrived, removed the shrimp, and begun administering CPR. Unfortunately, it was too late. My stepbrother was dead, and it was my fault. Utterly miserable, I went outside to reclaim my body.
There were still a few people by the pool; apparently they hadn’t heard the commotion inside. But there was some sort of commotion outside, too. A group of people were gathered near the spot where I had left my body. As I approached, I heard someone ask, “Is he breathing?” With a dreadful feeling of déja vu, I penetrated the group to find my body at the center of it, dripping wet.
From snatches of conversation, I was able to piece together what had happened. While the rest of us had been inside trying to revive Rodney, these clowns had conceived the brilliant idea of throwing me into the pool to wake me up. Without my astral body, it was, of course, impossible for me to wake up. I sank like a stone.
I tried to pull myself together, but it was no use. My lungs were full of water; I couldn’t breathe. Someone ran to fetch the paramedics, who had just finished loading Rodney’s body into the ambulance. Again they tried CPR, and again it was useless. They put my body on a gurney, rolled it to the ambulance, and loaded it in next to Rodney’s.
“Must have been some party,” one of them said to the other as he closed the door.
I rode with them to the hospital—I had nowhere else to go. I felt bad for Rodney, but worse for myself. After all, he had gone on to a better place, or at least found eternal rest. I, however, was doomed to wander the earth eternally as a disembodied spirit. What Rodney had always said was now literally true: I was a nobody.
But why couldn’t a nobody become somebody—or, for that matter, anybody? I looked at Rodney—a perfectly good, perfectly dry body—just lying there, going to waste.
It was certainly worth a try.
I shocked the hell out of the paramedics when we arrived at the hospital. I had a hard time convincing them that I was well enough to go home. They wanted to admit me for observation, but they finally let me go when I signed a waiver absolving them and the hospital of all responsibility.
I also shocked the hell out of everyone when I turned up at the office on Monday morning; they thought the next time they’d be seeing Rodney Stinchcomb or Walter Cramer was at a double funeral.
The first thing I did was meet with Howard Lee. I told him the acquisition deal was off. I told him he was right; we were better off as a small, privately-held company. I told him we would use the money that had been set aside for the acquisition to give everyone raises and Christmas bonuses, and to improve the quality of our tool line. I personally called Dave Meyers to break the news. (“Sorry, buddy.”)
I also told Howard I planned on changing the name of the company to “Stinchcomb & Cramer,” in honor of my late stepbrother.
They say I’m a changed man. I tell people what happened to me was a lot like what happened to Scrooge in A Christmas Carol: as I lay in that ambulance, somewhere between life and death, I was visited by the ghost of my dear, departed stepbrother, who convinced me to change my ways.
Which, when you think about it, is not all that far from the truth.
Kate Garvey seemed to like the change. Our wedding is next month, with Beth as maid of honor and Eddie (now vice president in charge of information technology) as best man.
And for the first time in years, I’m looking forward to Christmas. Maybe we’ll spend it in Paris. Kate’s always wanted to go there.
