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October 14, 2001 the ghost renter Wouldn't you know it?  Of all the gin joints and rent houses in this sleepy town, I had to pick this one.  A haunted rental. My suspicions were aroused just days after I moved into the Alhambra.  At first, I thought my suspicions had been eating oysters with an Ecstasy chaser again so I suggested they take a cold shower and watch Rosie O'Donnell.  Soon, though, I realized I had a problem on my hands. My first encounter with the ghost came about when I was shaving.  I lathered my face with Nivea For Men Shaving Gel and looked down into the sink as I swished my Mach 3 in the hot standing water.  Blade heated and wet, I looked into the mirror to begin shaving when, lo and behold, my face stared back at me cleanly shaven!  Not only was my face cleanly shaven without three blades ever touching it, but someone or something had obviously applied to my skin Nivea Sensitive After Shave Balm.  While suitably grateful I didn't have to shave, I was slightly shaken by this turn of events which, in some respects, recalled my drinking days.  But I dismissed the unexplained hygiene assist as a blackout from a transient ischemic attack and it was soon forgotten.  At least until a couple of days later when I noticed white percale sheets left in my dry-cleaning pick-up bag. My dry-cleaner provides an invaluable service for the single professional.  I leave my dress shirts, pants and such in a clothes bag hanging on a hook outside my back door and, on Tuesdays, they are picked up and brought to the cleaners.  There my buttons are systematically crushed into powder and, despite strict instructions to the contrary, starch is added in such quantities that I find myself walking around stiff-legged and stiff-necked like Frankenstein with a full spinal fusion.  I do not, however, send my sheets to the dry-cleaners.  So you can imagine my surprise to find non-Martha Stewart sheets stuffed into my dry-cleaning bag.  Of course, I let it go thinking some needy vagrant had decided to "cop" a free cleaning.  And when the sheets were returned, I propped them against the house like the plywood they now resembled and assumed the hobo would come to collect.  I was wrong. The next day, I awoke to hear a quavering male voice cussing up a storm.  Something about too much goddam starch.  I got out of bed and went into the bathroom and there, hovering stiffly before me, was The Ghost Renter. After reviving from a swoon, I spent the better part of the morning getting to know my roommate.  It turned out we had a lot in common.  The ghost had been married for over twenty years but, during that time, he had turned to "spirits" (a ghost joke) and become an alcoholic.  Eventually, his wife fell out of love with him and joined the circus.  The house he formerly inhabited was sold and a new family of poltergeists moved in.  When he saw the Alhambra listed for rent, he moved in right about the time I did. Oh, yes.  The ghost's name is Louie.  I think this may be the start of a beautiful friendship.

©  2001 by the beastmaster