Dead Schmed

I was able to write the first six
chapters of a novel about an HIV-positive private detective. I hated
the concept, but I was determined to finish the book. Jonathon, my
literary agent, had come up with the idea, saying that it would be an
easy sell. He even gave me the title: Deathwatch. He wanted to market
it as a three-book series about a character battling a terminal
disease. Keep him alive for another three books if the first ones sold
well. At first I resisted, but as the weeks passed, as my ghost-induced
writer’s block became more lengthy and pronounced, as my bank account
grew smaller and smaller, I decided to go ahead with it. Better to
write a bad book than no book at all. At least I’d remain in print and,
if Smed’s claims were true, less imminently mortal.

Having a
book underway made it easier for me to cut back on the Scotch. I
started drinking later in the evening, I drank less, and I even managed
a couple of nights with no alcohol whatsoever.

Smed continued to
make sporadic appearances. Sometimes he talked to me, at other times he
acted as though I wasn’t there. One night I was awakened by the sound
of canned laughter. I went downstairs and found him watching a three
a.m. rerun of Cheers.

“You mind if I turn that down?” I asked. “I’m trying to sleep.”

The
ghost’s eyes remained fixed on the television. I picked up the remote
and turned it off. It made no difference to Smed. He chuckled quietly,
the way one does when watching a comedy alone, and just kept on staring
at the set as though nothing had changed. I went back to bed. It was
quiet for a few minutes, then the sound of laughter returned. I wrapped
the pillow around my head. Hours later, morning light filtering in
through the blinds, I fell asleep.

***