Dead City

Dead City

By Matthew Sager

Yeah, I'm dead. I'm the ghost on this block. In limbo, until they decide that I've earned my place on the other side. You may have read about us in the papers, or have seen our lives and deaths laid out in the news. The guys and girls who had too much fun in too little time. But to be honest with you, sometimes, it wasn't fun.

We are a city full of the dead—those who killed themselves, overdosed on drugs, and sped head-on into other cars with a belly full of Jack Daniels and a reefer-fogged mind. We were selfish, immoral, and damn right deadly when we chose to be, or maybe we didn’t exactly choose to be that way. But we were human, which is why we stayed on earth. Not accepted in heaven, but not bad enough for hell. So we wander the earth waiting, but I'm tired of waiting for forgiveness.

It becomes different if I concentrate, but if I don't, the apartment doesn't change. It looks exactly the same as the day I died—same black leather couch, same blue curtains, same black coffee table, and same end tables. But when I look again, it fades away, and my apartment is no longer my own. It belongs to the new family living here—a mother, a father, and an adopted young son.

My death was the culmination of bad choices. Months before that, Stacy, my girlfriend, walked out and left me. Only to leave me alone with my addictions. Now that I had no one to answer to, I decided to go out and try to score some drugs, which was usually the case. My name is Sean Parks. I was 22 the day I died.

I headed to the local drug dealer, BJ. I didn't even know his last name, but somehow he became my friend. We smoked weed, did coke, and drank Budweiser for hours. The music blared. I laughed every time BJ took a leak, and right after, he would chug another beer. In that drug-induced party, with people passed out to my right and others still doing drugs to my left, I found myself playing absentmindedly with BJ's 22 pistol. I knew it's not loaded, but it still felt heavy in my hand. Then the door got kicked in.

Why I had the gun pointed at the door, I didn’t know. I was even more shocked when it went off. The first cop went down as I mouthed no. The second raised his gun through the door, and my world went black.

I stand by my window, staring at the world outside and thinking of the things I would have done differently. The boy, Tyler, was watching TV behind me, completely absorbed with Sponge Bob and oblivious to my presence. His mother, Carrie walks right through me to close the window. Except for the cat, no one knows I’m even here.

At first, I freaked out a lot. I found myself in Stacy’s apartment and smashed a few plates. That’s when I learned there are rules in this new reality of mine. I wound up stuck in my apartment and could not leave for five years. I found that I can do what I want, when I want, as long as I don’t interfere with the living.

Being dead is a lonely existence. I watched the family I share my home with growing older, and I remain the same through the years. Jesus, time goes by fast. Tyler is now a teenager. His father George’s hairline is receding away from his face. The cat watches me with wary eyes, old but still trying to figure me out. They have bought the house and turned the two apartments into one large home. They seem happy. But I noticed that Tyler is becoming withdrawn. His mother, Carrie, sees it too.

I often walk around town. Meet a few of the other dead people. I leave the house, walk right through the front door, and head down the street towards the river. I sit down on a park bench facing the water. Carl, a homeless alcoholic, or was before he died, wanders over. He sits beside me on the very bench where he froze to death three or four Januarys ago.

“Good morning, Sean.”

“Morning, Carl.”

“Nice day today, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Can’t feel warm or cold, but it looks warm,” I answer. “It has to be. I think it’s July.”

We laugh. The seasons have lost all their relevance to either of us.

“Lucy’s gone,” he says, in a more serious tone.

“Up or down?” I inquired.

“She stepped into the light,” he replies. “Lucy was a girl with problems when she was alive. To pay for the drugs, she prostituted herself until she overdosed. The man upstairs called her home. Sheila was with her when it happened. Told me it was beautiful—a beam of white light, and she was gone. Just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Gives guys like us hope, you know?”

“I had hope,” I say. It left years ago. I don’t know what’s wanted of me. “How did Sheila go again?” I ask.

“She pushed her landlady down the stairs, arguing about the rent money or something like that.”

“But how did she die?” I probed.

“Massive coronary while trying to get the landlady back in her apartment. Sheila thought the lady was dead but was just knocked out. Still, Sheila says she’s seen the face of god and has been praying ever since Lucy split. In her words, it was glorious. If the lady died, I think she’d be in hell. Like if you killed that cop instead of grazed him, you’d be burning right now.”

“You’re a glass half full kind of guy, aren’t you, Carl?”

“I am. I just wish it was a glass of bourbon and I could still catch a buzz.”

We continue to sit in silence on this hot July day watching the ducks in the river. A couple of joggers pass by not seeing us. Two men, one wearing a fur cap, boots, and winter coat, and the other with a hole in his forehead the size of a quarter.

One day blends into another. Days, weeks, and months pass by. I walk around town, as per my daily habit. I notice buildings being constructed, and others being torn down. The human ecosystem changing. The former woodlands of my youth are now subdivisions. I head home, and in front of the house, the family is arguing.

“Drugs in my house!” George yells.

The front door bursts open and Tyler runs up the street. I see George wrench the door open and throw a bong in the trash. With nothing better to do, I follow Tyler. Up the block and over the bridge, I follow.

I trail him out into the night. We enter the downtown area, past the sleazy bars to the pool hall. He goes to the staircase leading to the drug dens, which I knew were upstairs. I knew them well, a long time ago. Weekly rentals. Small rooms where you could always score. Standing behind Tyler, he knocks three times on an apartment door. A minute later, it opens.

I could not believe my eyes. I am blown away. It is BJ, years older, sitting on a sofa with a case of beer beside him, scales on the table, and the smell of weed in the air. I assumed he would be dead or in jail by now.

“Hi, Tyler,” says a girl to the left of BJ.

“I have $30,” Tyler says. “Can I buy some dope?”

I stand there watching. I can’t believe I missed this. This kid hanging out with these kinds of people.

BJ asks, “Did you want something stronger?”

“No,” Tyler says. “My dad just threw out my stash.”

The phone rings. BJ goes into the other room and over his shoulder says, “Just a minute.”

I follow and listen to him talk on the phone.

“Of course, I'll sell it all,” he says. “I'll just cut some with the other stuff. People might die, but look at the money we're going to make.” “Yeah, yeah,” he continues, and then quickly hangs up the phone.

I can't believe it. In of these years, he hasn't changed. In fact, he's gotten worse. I know what he's trying to push, and he's selling it to kids. I haven't been angry in a long time, but I'm unquestionably angry now. He gives Tyler the dope.

“Save me a sample of the strong stuff and I’ll try it,” Tyler calls, trying to sound tough.

I shadow him home with my mind reeling on how to make this right. Outside the house, Tyler puts the weed in his shoes and heads inside. I hear him tell his dad that it won't happen again, and he goes into his room.

The local news is on. There have been two local opiate overdoses within the last week alone, and I know the cause behind them. Carrie and George talk late into the night about Tyler’s falling grades and now the dope. They worry and so do I. I realize I care for these people. All night I think about how to make this right, about the drug-related deaths in this town. I come to the dark realization that my punishment might be to watch something terrible happen.

Days and weeks go by. I see Tyler go about his way but I can tell he’s been using. I decide I have to kill BJ. I have been observing him and his friends, and I know that this underground drug ring is coming through him. I watch for weeks. People come and go all night. I see them bring the shipments in. I see him dole it out, one kid at a time.

I realize that if I interfere, the consequence might be more than just being locked in my apartment. But I have to try.

It’s Saturday now, and there’s a party. I watch as BJ chugs his beers, takes a leak, and does it again. Standing in a room full of people with the music blaring, I grab six dime bags and dump them in his beer. BJ chugs it down after he comes back from the bathroom. He started convulsing and while on the floor, he looks right at me, shrieking a desperate howl. Then my world goes black.

I come to while on a gurney, being rushed down a hospital corridor.

“We have a gunshot wound!” the paramedic yells.

They took the bullet out of my shoulder. After the surgery, Stacy is beside the bed squeezing my hand.

“When I heard you had been shot, I rushed back. I love you and I have never stopped loving you. I can’t do this alone and you’re going to have to straighten up. I don’t want our child to have the kind of life that we’ve had. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to raise one on my own.”

“I love you too,” I say, “and you’ll never be alone again.”

“Good,” she says. “We’re a family now, and if it’s a boy I want to name him Tyler.”