Chapter 9 Alive and Kicking
ALIVE AND KICKING
Cosmo - Present Day
Passed over for registrar again. Cosmo stomped on cardboard boxes with more force than needed, then tossed them onto the pile for the recycling bin out back.
Dahlia seemed lovely, and her experience at Wegmann’s Gallery certainly made her a sound hiring decision.
But he’d been the art handler for three fucking years, and no matter how good of a job he did, no matter how much he helped out with tasks that weren’t in his job description, like mopping the floors and scrubbing the walls, he was always turned down.
This was a student’s job. He needed to move up, but he was doing something wrong, and it was maddening that he didn’t know what it was.
Royce hired and transferred the employees, but he said it was between him and the gallerist to finalize decisions.
The gallerist, Hina, was a contemplative woman who always praised Cosmo’s installations and handling of the artwork, and had even given him a space in the gallery for his own sculptures.
So if it wasn’t her that didn’t approve, then it was Royce, which didn’t make any sense.
Royce’s loafers clacked against the tile. He stopped in the doorway, arms folded. “You really need to get a restraining order against Zedd. He’s getting creative.”
Cosmo groaned. He’d tried that, and the cops said there was nothing they could do other than give Zedd a scolding.
After the last incident, he hadn’t expected Zedd to get anywhere near the gallery again. Royce was in commendable shape for someone his age, and had literally picked Zedd up by his shirt and waistband and thrown him out on the sidewalk.
Cosmo tossed another broken down box on the pile. Though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, he said, “What happened?”
“He sent someone to give you roses.”
“Like, a delivery person?”
“No. A man with a bouquet showed up, wanting to talk to you. Normally your admirers orbit the same parties and gallery events you do, but I’ve never seen this man before.”
Admirers didn’t bring Cosmo flowers. They laughed at everything he said whether it was funny or not, spewed pick-up lines like they were rehearsing for the theater, then slipped a hand under his shirt.
There’d been Marla, of course, but she didn’t last. No potential new love ever lasted when Zedd was heavy-breathing in the background of Cosmo’s life.
“What was this man’s name?” Cosmo said.
“Didn’t ask.”
“What did he look like?”
Royce shrugged. “White guy. Glasses, brown hair, a scar on his face.”
Cosmo saw so many people on a given day that it could have been anyone. Maybe Royce was right, and it was another of Zedd’s delusional efforts to win back Cosmo’s affections.
“Well, thanks for scaring him away. I don’t want to deal with that today.”
Royce picked up a bundle of boxes and dumped them in a cart. “I’ll take these out for you. Zedd could be hiding in the dumpster for all we know.”
“Thanks. You’re sweet. I’m sorry this is such an issue.” Maybe that’s why Cosmo was always passed over for promotions. And really, who could blame Royce for not wanting to give him more responsibility when his damn ex-boyfriend constantly showed up and made a scene?
Zedd was destroying every aspect of his efforts to move on. His death party should have been more final. He could have quit his job, changed his name, and moved to a different city.
“It is an issue, but I don’t mind.” Royce pressed down the stack of boxes, then wheeled them toward the back door. “Let me take care of this, and we’ll go get a drink.”
“So thoughtful.” Royce acting as an impenetrable barrier made the gallery one of the only hassle-free spaces Cosmo could be. He’d turned down Royce’s drink offers in the past, but now Marla was gone, and he couldn’t bear to sit in a bar alone.
Royce disappeared out the door, and Cosmo helped close up. This wasn’t technically part of his job, but complaining was certainly not going to get him promoted to something other than art handler.
He walked outside, tugging his jacket around him.
Champagne pink bled from the setting sun, and buildings cut sharp silhouettes against the sky.
Someone approached from Cosmo’s peripheral vision.
The brilliant roses he clutched to his chest made the sunset a diluted facsimile. He wore a pale blue sweatshirt and his–
Cosmo screamed. He lunged for the gallery doors, but the ghost jumped in front of the entrance, an arm barring his way.
“It’s me!” Micah said.
“I know!” Cosmo clutched his heart and backed up. He misjudged the edge of the sidewalk and sharp pain lanced his ankle. The bouquet of roses hit the ground and a firm hand steadied him before he went down.
Micah’s grip was solid, his body and proximity anything but spectral. Breath rushed in and out of him, his features strained. He licked his lips and looked like he wanted to say something, but no sound came out.
Of all the people Cosmo had expected to be waiting with flowers, it wasn’t the ghost who haunted his old studio. At times, he’d asked himself if any of it had even been real. Maybe he’d been too preoccupied with death and dreamed it all up. But there was no disassociating from this.
“Why are you here?” Cosmo whispered.
Micah let go of his arm. “You’re not dead.”
“Am I supposed to be?” His stomach clenched. “Did I miss my window, and you’re here to push me in front of a bus?”
“What? No.”
“Or you know it’s coming any moment, so you’re here to usher me into the afterlife so I won’t be alone.” That was kind of sweet, actually, but Cosmo didn’t plan on going anywhere except to the bar, then home to his sculpting.
“No, I…” Micah picked up the roses and tucked an errant strand of lavender back into the raffia holding the bouquet together. “I just want to know what’s going on.”
“With flowers?”
A flush bloomed in his cheeks, and he adjusted his glasses. “They were for your grave, but then I found out you aren’t dead, so I figured I’d bring them with me instead of leaving them there where you’d never see them. Why did you scream?”
Yes, how embarrassing. “You startled me. I saw your face and–”
“Right.” Micah’s expression fell, and he looked so much like a kicked dog that Cosmo wanted to apologize, though he wasn’t sure for what.
“I have a bit of a thing for the macabre, and to be honest, I’m ashamed now. Screaming at a ghost is the equivalent of a herpetologist screaming at a snake.”
Micah frowned. “I’m not dead.”
A ghost who wasn’t aware he was one. That was a thing, wasn’t it?
They lived out their afterlife performing things they’d done when they were mortal, never realizing the cycle they were stuck in.
This certainly seemed off-script, though.
“I hate to break it to you, but you aren’t a part of the land of the living anymore. I saw you disappear on two occasions.”
“I saw you disappear on two occasions. And you wrote messages on my mirror. You – You played Soft Cell all hours of the night, and I could never sleep.”
The poor dear was really confused. But Cosmo knew how he had died, and it looked like he was going to have to break it to him.
The gallery doors swung open. Royce scowled at Micah. “I told you to leave!”
“You can see him?” Cosmo asked. “Well, of course you can. You told me he was here.”
“I’m not dead!” Micah protested. He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open, then aimed his ID at Cosmo. His photo was taken before he possessed his scars, which only proved Cosmo’s point. “Ask Ximena, ask the maintenance men at the complex. I live in your old place.”
“Of course you do. You were there when I was living there.”
“No. I moved in after you moved out. Well, Ximena said you died and your friends moved your furniture out, but when we were talking last night–”
“Last night? I haven’t spoken to you in years.”
Micah blinked, and something in his brain must have completely broken, because he stared through Cosmo, the flowers sagging in his grip. Cosmo hoped he didn’t end up this rattled once he passed on.
Royce pulled out his phone. “I’m calling the cops.”
“No, no. It’s okay.” Cosmo leaned toward Royce. “I’ll have to take a raincheck on the drink. I need to get him back where he belongs.”
“Is he schizophrenic?”
“Just very confused. See you tomorrow.”
Royce’s face creased. He glared at Micah, then strode toward the parking lot.
Cosmo took the bouquet from Micah and pressed his nose to the petals. “These are lovely. Let’s take a walk and figure this out.”
Micah nodded. They headed down the sidewalk in the direction of Cosmo’s old complex. He said, “I hate to tell you this, but you were assaulted in your studio. There are scars on your face–”
“I know that,” Micah snapped. His bottom lip pulled up, tendons jumping in his jaw.
He pulled out his phone and opened a browser.
After typing something in, he held it up to Cosmo.
The headline screamed: MAN HOSPITALIZED AFTER ASSAULT IN LEMON DISCO’S ARTISTS’ DISTRICT.
He scrolled down, revealing a blurred photo that said graphic content.
When Cosmo clicked on it, it clarified, revealing Micah with a bruised and bloody face, gaping gashes spidering away from his swollen eye. Cosmo cringed.
“Look at the date,” Micah said.
“January of this year? But I moved out years ago. How could I have seen you with your scars three years ago if the assault only happened this year?”
“Exactly.”
Now Cosmo was probably the one who looked like his brain was broken. “You’re not dead.”
“Coffee helps.”
“Well!” Cosmo slapped his thighs. “I could use a drink or two or seven. Care to take a lady out for a good time?”
“I’d love to.” Micah rubbed the back of his neck. “How about dinner first?”
If this was a come-on, it was the most original Cosmo had ever received. “I’d love that. There’s a delightful bistro down the street. Have you been?”
“No.”