Nobody Gets The Girl (2 page)

But before he could even finish the thought
he was in bed and Veronica's warmth and smell was the only thing he
was aware of in the darkness. Would Rose have felt as warm? What
would she have smelled like? He closed his eyes and breathed
through his nose very, very slowly. He had to put this out of his
head. He would be the same person tomorrow that he was tonight.
These fantasies of walking out of his life, a life that had grown
so comfortable and familiar that it bored him, and into a new,
exciting unknown future, would never do him any good.

Then again, these fantasies also did no harm.
Richard knew in his heart he would never act on them. Whether that
represented courage or cowardice on his part he could not say. He
was too drowsy to think about it anymore. He scooted closer to
Veronica, till his back touched hers, and fell into sleep.

THE ALARM WENT
off. Richard rolled
from his bed groggily, reaching out to click off the alarm. But the
alarm clock wasn't there. It was ringing behind him, on the other
side of the bed. He looked over his shoulder. A man's hairy arm
slipped from the covers on the far side of the bed and slapped the
snooze button.

Richard leapt up and spun around.
Who the
hell…?
he thought. There were two strangers in his bed. Only it
wasn't his bed. Veronica and he shared a queen-size bed, and he was
now standing at the foot of a king-size one. He froze, afraid even
to breath, as he studied the room in the pale morning light.

The room had a spooky familiarity to it. The
closet, the windows, the hall door… in fact, every single
architectural element of this room was an exact match of his own
bedroom. Except the furniture, the paint, the curtains—those were
all different. He was in someone else's house.

In the bed was an old man of considerable
girth and a skinny old woman, their snores resuming in the
aftermath of the alarm.

OK
, he thought.
This is plain
weird.

Was this his house, or wasn't it? Should he
be outraged at the intruders, or was he the intruder?

His head hurt. Rubbing his temples, he
realized what was happening. He was dreaming. He had done this
before, dreaming that he was awake, growing increasingly confused
and panicky before truly waking. There was even a name for this:
hypnagogic sleep. His comedian's mind held onto little bits of
trivia like that. But this level of awareness of his dream state
gave him a chill. It was almost magical.

He laughed. Loudly. The sleeping couple
didn't stir.

"Ain't this a hoot," he said. The couple
continued to snore. He was very aware of the sound of his own
voice. It seemed so real.

"Am I dreaming?" he said. "I must be
dreaming."

He turned and looked in the dresser mirror.
His hair was messed up from sleep, his eyes baggy and dark. He
needed a shave.

"You can wake up now," he said.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was still in the
strange room.

So maybe he couldn't wake up. His heart raced
as he swallowed hard.
No, no, no
, he thought. He was already
awake. Which meant he was in some stranger's house. How?

The alarm went off again. The man smacked it
into silence, and slowly rolled his great bulk into a sitting
position. He rose, and lumbered off toward the bathroom, never even
looking in Richard's direction.

Richard silently let out a long, slow breath
and tiptoed toward the hall door. He opened it gently, and stepped
out of the bedroom. The hall was exactly like the one in his house.
Richard scratched his head.

He could rule out the dream thing. His senses
were fully engaged. His legs were cold, standing in the hallway in
only his underwear and socks. With every breath, he could tell that
the residents of this house smoked, and weren't particularly
fastidious in cleaning their cat's litter box. In the bathroom, the
old man was making sounds on the toilet that Richard hoped were
real, and not emanating from some dark and disgusting part of his
subconscious.

He left the hall and entered the living room,
now prepared for the sense of déjà vu. The house, structurally, was
a perfect match.

Weird, but not impossible, he thought.
Suburban architecture wasn't exactly known for individuality. But
what were the odds that he had gone sleepwalking and wound up in a
different house built on exactly the same plan?

Then it hit him. This must be Bert's revenge.
About a month ago, he had played a semi-harmless prank on the guy
at work. He had loaded a gag font onto Bert's system, one where all
the letters were reversed. Then he'd set that to be the default
system font on Bert's machine. Bert had spent hours trying to
discover what kind of killer virus had wrecked his computer before
figuring it out. Bert had been to his house before. What if Bert
had a friend with a house built to the same plan? Bert could get
his friends in on it, could get Veronica to play along, could . .
.

Richard stared at the fireplace. When he and
Veronica had moved into the house, they had discovered a small
heart carved into the mantelpiece by some previous occupant.
Richard took a step closer. The heart was there. This was his
house.

He had seen enough. He stormed back down the
hallway and slammed opened the door.

"Does someone want to tell me what the hell
is going on?" he yelled.

The old woman sat up with a start, staring at
the door. She looked as confused as Richard felt.

"Henry!" she called out.

"What," Henry grunted from the bathroom.

"Did you just hear something?" she asked.

Richard stared at the woman's face. She was
looking right through him. Was she blind? Being the victim of a bad
joke didn't make him feel good about terrorizing old blind women.
His anger fizzled.

"Look," he said softly. "I'm sorry I startled
you. I'm not a burglar, or—"

Henry came out of the bathroom, naked.
Richard once again hoped that this situation wasn't a dream. If he
was going to be dreaming of a naked person this night, it should be
Rose or Veronica, shouldn't it?

"What?" said Henry.

"I said did you hear something? It sounded
like the bedroom door slammed."

Henry stared at the door, with no
acknowledgment of Richard's presence.

"I didn't open it," said Henry.

"Neither did I," said the woman.

"Huh," said Henry.

Richard sighed. "If this is a joke, it's a
great one, except for one tiny detail: it's not funny!"

Henry walked over to him, not in a menacing
way, but with a speed and trajectory that showed very little
respect for Richard's personal space. Richard held his ground.
Henry stepped up to him. And then stepped right through him.

Richard felt dizzy. He stumbled forward, and
leaned against the dresser.

Henry stood in the hallway, looking
around.

"Maybe it was Pooky," Henry said.

"Pooky," the woman called out. "Where's my
Pooky?"

With a plaintive meow, a large gray cat ran
into the room from the hall and leapt up onto the bed. Then the cat
looked at Richard. Its eyes widened, its fur bristled, and it
hissed loudly.

"Pooky!" the woman exclaimed, reaching for
her cat. Pooky eluded her grasp and fled the room.

"What's gotten into that cat?" she asked.

"Who knows, Martha?" said Henry, stepping
back into the room. "Pointless to try to figure it out."

"OK," Richard said. "This has gone far
enough. You've taken this gag a long way, but the cat just blew the
act. Who are you and who put you up to this?"

Henry didn't answer. He went to the dresser
and opened his underwear drawer.

"Answer me, damn it!" Richard yelled,
reaching out to grasp the old man's shoulders. But his hand passed
right through Henry as if he were a ghost.

Or as if Richard was.

Richard began to laugh. He fell to his knees,
tears in his eyes. He’d figured it out. This was his house.
This
was his house.

And he was haunting it.

"I WONDER HOW
I died," he said to
Martha.

Martha kept ironing clothes.

"I mean, it seems like my death should have
been memorable, huh? It's, you know, one of life's big events."

When Martha finished her ironing, she went
into the living room to watch The Price is Right. She lit up a
cigarette.

"You shouldn't smoke," Richard said. "It'll
kill you."

He sat down next to her on the couch and
looked at the television. "So will this crap. I mean, c'mon Martha.
Don't make me spend my afterlife with Bob Barker. You hear me?"

She didn't hear him.

He sighed. "I figure I went in my sleep.
That's why I don't remember it. But, I was so young! Pretty
healthy, too. At least I thought so. Christ, I never even got
colds."

He crossed his legs on the coffee table and
sank back into the couch, making himself comfortable. Bob Barker
revealed the correct price of the stainless-steel refrigerator.

"Twenty-two hundred dollars?" said Richard.
"You know why refrigerators cost $2200? Women. Me, I was happy with
my $50 dorm fridge. 'Why do we need a big refrigerator?' I asked.
'It just means we'll have more stuff going bad in it.' But Veronica
had to have the top of the line. Our refrigerator had to make four
different kinds of ice and have water on tap. I mean, ice is ice,
and the water coming out of the refrigerator was exactly the same
stuff coming out of the sink. But did any of that matter to
her?"

Richard looked over at Martha. She didn't
answer.

"Huh," said Richard. "Wonder what she spent
on my funeral?"

The funeral. He imagined looking down on
himself in the casket. It was almost like a memory. Was it a
memory? He wondered where his body was now, moldering away in some
grave. Or would Veronica have had him cremated? Was he sitting in
perfect feng shui harmony on a mantle-piece in a new living room?
The bank had pretty good life insurance. It was probably a very
large living room. Maybe with a big screen TV. Just his luck to be
stuck here.

A commercial started playing and Martha got
up and went into the kitchen. Richard grabbed the remote control
and changed channels the second she was out of the room, clicking
through crap until he found CNN. From the kitchen, he heard the
beeps of a microwave.

"The Washington D.C. Dome was the target of
another bomb scare today," the announcer said. "The bomb was
discovered and diffused by a UN peacekeeping squad with the
assistance of the mysterious adventurer known as Rail Blade." The
screen shifted to stock footage of a woman lifting a tank over her
head. This was the kind of stuff that made Richard assume that the
line between journalism and fiction had been forever erased. "There
were no injuries," the announcer continued. "The terrorist group
Monday's Revelation claimed credit for the failed attack, and vowed
further acts of violence during next week's completion
ceremonies."

This news gave Richard pause. He could recall
the last day of his life, and he was pretty sure the D.C. Dome
celebration was about a week away then. Just how quickly did
Veronica sell the house once he'd died?

The smell of popcorn filled the room as
Martha came back from the kitchen. As she neared the couch,
Richard's fingers turned to smoke around the remote, and it fell to
the couch, right through his lap.

Martha looked at the television,
confused.

"Pooky?" she asked, looking around.

Richard felt more than a little confused
himself. His on-again-off-again tangibility was frustrating. And,
if he was dead, why was his stomach rumbling now that he smelled
the popcorn? He got up and went into the kitchen. He opened the
refrigerator (definitely not a $2,200 model). To his relief, he
found a pack of bologna and some cheese. To his greater relief,
there was also a six-pack of beer. A loaf of bread sat on top of
the fridge.

He finished his second beer by the time he’d
assembled a sandwich. He sat down at the kitchen table. The chair
made a rasping sound as he scooted it closer to the table.

A moment later, Martha cautiously peeked
around the doorway. Richard waved at her, then returned to his
sandwich. He was a little surprised that the sandwich didn't fall
from his fingers. He wondered what Martha saw. Did it look as if
the sandwich was just floating in mid air?

Martha took a step forward. Richard reached
for his beer, to wash down his food. His fingers passed right
through the can.

"Well, damn," he said, spitting crumbs.

Martha crept toward the table. She reached
out and touched the can of beer, then pulled her fingers away. The
phone rang, and both of them jumped.

Martha smoothed down her hair, before
answering the phone.

"Henry! Oh, thank God! No, Henry, listen to
me! I think there's someone in the house!"

She paced back and forth as she spoke,
casting her eyes warily around the room.

"Well, I was watching channel 6, then went
into the kitchen, and when I went back, the remote had moved, and
the TV was on channel 32. And then, when I came back into the
kitchen, there was a can of beer on the table. And . . . and
someone's moved the bread from the top of the refrigerator to the
counter."

Martha twisted the phone cord around her
fingers until Richard thought she might pull it from the wall. He
felt bad about scaring her, but it wasn't like he meant it. He was
just trying to get on with his afterlife.

"No!" said Martha. "I mean, sure, Pooky could
have stepped on the remote. But how did she get a beer out of the
refrigerator? No, it isn't one you left out last night. It's still
cold!"

Richard finished his sandwich. Since he was
unable to touch the beer, he thought he'd try to get some water
from the sink. But, for some reason, he couldn't scoot his chair
back. It seemed nailed to the floor. He tried again, pushing
harder, and suddenly tumbled to the floor, as the chair became
intangible. He sat up quickly, rubbing his right elbow. The floor
was still solid enough. And it was filthy. Martha and Henry weren't
the best housekeepers. He got up, brushing away dirt.