The Ghosts

Some people get to be ghosts, for a living, and making some cash too. The writers these are, the ghosters, whose voices channel through another person, coming through like a muffled something, a stew of ambition and cash-flow problems.

“Tom”, as he would like to be known, has sometimes even ghosted for me, and I must say, he keeps it real. I’ll just leave him a few notes and some lunch-money, and off he goes, into anonymity, the ghost world of late-night computer-humming, dimmed lights and bad hygiene. When I come back, from wherever I have been, he’s still there, flexing those squeaking finger-joints, coughing that silent ghostly cough.

I’ll go over and peek over his shoulder, and they’ll be there: my words, my thoughts, but not my work. He leaves then, says goodbye without much fuss, and I can hardly remember he was there. My ghost-writer “Tom”. Always the polite one, the diligent worker, he never complains. If only I was as good as he is.