“The heat’s been getting to me lately. It’s 97 degrees today, it was 99 yesterday. Thank god the dead don’t rot once they wake up, otherwise this whole neighborhood would smell like Detroit. I shouldn’t joke about that stuff, Little Styx is actually a pretty good neighborhood if you’re not squeamish or easy to scare. It’s been getting gentrified lately, lots of art studios and shit like that are popping up all over, just stay the fuck out of the restaurants. Well, restaurant. there’s one restaurant around here and the chef can’t make grilled cheese right. I’d say it tastes better when it comes out the other end, but it never really does. Skeletons don’t poop, which raises a lot of questions frankly, like where the food goes after I eat it or why I need to eat in the first place. Most skeletons don’t need to, but since I have a fleshy head it kind of makes sense I guess. Actually, I’m kind of hungry now that I think about it. I’d get up and make something to eat now, but the fridge is empty and it’s too damn hot out.”
I clicked 'enter' and sighed. Complaining about the weather and discussing my non-existent bowel movements, now that is a winning formula for a blog entry if I ever saw one. Honestly, it's more meaningful content than most of the shit on TV these days, so I probably shouldn't have be hard on myself. At the very least it had a shred of truth in it. Little Styx was getting gentrified. Up until last year It was a necropolis, which is a fancy way of saying it was cheap enough that you could afford a suite with a good amount of space the minute you step out of the grave. Turns out the Egyptians were right, getting buried with your life savings is actually pretty pragmatic. When you reanimate, you're basically waking up to find your job filled, your apartment rented out, and your family (assuming they're still around) too uncomfortable with your exposed femurs to lend you any of your inheritance.
At any rate, a few years ago some artists, mostly the living ones, realized how cheap the buildings around here were and started renting them out as studios. After that, the hipsters started moving in. The next thing you knew, I needed a room mate if I didn't want to load my entire unliving room into the back of a U-Haul.
Something on the other end of the room buzzed. I wasn't sure where exactly, but it was between the the wiggly-looking grandfather clock and my messy pile of anime DVDs, or as I like to call it, Mount Yaoi-more. Yeah, I admit it, I like Japanese cartoons about gay highschool boys. So what, even dead girls need a little action. I dragged myself off the couch and picked up the phone. I didn't recognize the number, but in this case it was exactly the kind of call I'd been waiting for.
“Ahoy-hoy,” Said a man on the other line. “I'm calling about the advertisement in the paper. Is the room still available for rent?” He sounded old. Old and English. I had the urge to hear him say “Bah humbug!”
“Yeah, the room's still available. Do you want to come by at some point and check it out?”
“Yes, of course. I'll be there Sunday, 7:36 in the evening. I assume that's good for you as well?”
“Wait, 7:36? I mean yeah, that works, but that's kind of a weird time.” There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by an exhausted sigh.
“Seven-thirty would be ideal, but due to my current location the best train for me is the R, which arrives at the nearest stop at precisely 7:28, and comes only once every 18 minutes. From there it's a seven block walk. I average three miles and hour, or about one block a minute. Accounting for one street light every three or four blocks, that would have me there at 7:36” I was the next to pause.
“Okay... I'll remember that. What's your name again? Sherlock was it?”
“I am not Sherlock Holmes.” The words came out of him sounding cold and bitter. If he had spat in the same breath it probably would have landed with a clink. “Anyhoo,” he said, regaining his composure “it's Bell. Joseph Bell. Feel free to look it up. At any rate, I wish you a good evening.”
I waited to hear the line go dead before muttering under my breath “Weirdo.” I'm not really sure why I muttered, he obviously couldn't hear me. I guess it was just a habitual thing.
I decided to take a cold bath and forget that conversation. I was sweating enough that my shirt was sticking to my rib cage, so it seemed a good a time as any. As I pulled my tee up over my head, I saw the brass around my throat in the mirror. What the hell was that thing for?
Saturday came, with a bit of Mr. Bell along with it. He was kind of like the side of fries to the greasy, bitter grilled cheese that was my day. Then again, fries aren't such curious things to behold, and I don't think I've ever seen a slightly autistic potato before. Maybe once I looked past one at a farmers market and didn't really pay attention. After all, they're all the same on the inside, except those fucking purple ones.
He was punctual, I'll give him that. The instant it became 7:36, he was at my door. It was the first time I actually heard someone use the knocker instead of just softly punching the door. He was old bones, just as I had predicted, and not all the well bleached. He was dressed in attire both formal and wrinkled. I don't doubt he slept in it. He stepped lightly and observed quietly. The way he looked around I couldn't tell if he were judging me or savoring my collection of geekery like it were a museum exhibit. After somewhere between five and ten minutes, he stood up straight and gave an approving hum.
“What made you drop German?” he said after a few moments of silence.
“German. You were majoring in German and Nipponese, right?”
“Japanese. Um, yeah. Yeah I was.” Shit, this guy read me like Hermione reads school books. “I figured specializing in Japanese would free up some electives.”
“Good call. I like this place. It's spacious, good location, basic necessities, not too humid-”
“Aren't you going to tell me how you did it?”
“The thingie... thing that you just did.”
“You mean monitor the humidity? My watch has a built-in hygrometer. Amazing what technology can do these days-”
“No, I mean how did you know my major?”
“Oh, that? I was just looking at your library. There were a lot of books on German and Nipponese-”
“-Japanese literature, gender politics, government and other various cultural information. Based on your age and the fact that you've already shopped for books for the upcoming semester, I just assumed. I turned out to be right. There are some Nipponese- I mean, Japanese, books still in their wrapper but no German. All the books are new, but you can't afford this place so the dining credits probably apply to the school book store. The pages on all the German books and most of the Japanese are wavy so they probably got wet and then dried. Hurricane Sophie was about a year ago, and this neighborhood is surrounded on three sides by water and is barely elevated. This was a flood zone, right? In that case, you haven't bought any schoolbooks for your German major in over a year. Also, I couldn't help but not-” It was at that point that his phone began ringing loudly. I'll spare you his fucking potty-mouth, but there were a shit-ton of shoot's, tarnation's and so on. Totally not acceptable for mixed company.
He pulled a four-year-old phone out of his pocket and answered curtly. “Chief, I'm afraid you caught me at a most inopportune time. Please be quick.” He tapped his foot impatiently. “Okay, stop. No, in all seriousness just stop.” If he had eyebrows then, they would be furrowed in indignant frustration. He was holding out the palm of his hand as if the person on the other end could see him. “Chief, it's clearly natural causes. Yes. No, absolutely not. I have no reason to go there. I am telling you that I have absolutely no reason to rush across town for this business when the cause is self evident. Just get him processed, I really don't-” His teeth locked together and shook. “Very well,” he sighed, “but if I turn out to be right, and he just had stroke then I fully expect you to take my word for it from thence on. Yes, good, bye.” He clapped the clamshell phone shut and exhaled deeply. “Were they calling you about a murder investigation?” I blurted it out without even thinking. He still gave me kind of a Holmes vibe I guess. “No, it was a murder investigation.” he made air quotes around the word 'murder' “There is no case but the police cannot for the life of them figure it out for themselves. At any rate he reanimated, and now instead of taking care of of him they're calling me in to sort things out in person even though I can do it over the phone just dandy.” “So, let me guess, you're a consulting detective?” “Of course not. That job doesn't exist outside of poorly written crime novels. I'm actually a bit surprised that someone as bright as you would believe in such nonsense. I'm an ectomortician.” “A what?” “It would be quicker to show you then explain.” He said, already walking out the door. “Come along then, there is little time to be wasted!”
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