ghost story

all i have to say about the following story is what i said back then, and what i will maintain unto my grave:  (a) andrew was a singularly supple piece of ass; and (b) that motherfucker moved without any goddam help from me.

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weho, 1992 (or thereabouts)

i still remember how it all started: i was fuckingdating this hot, snarky little blond south african number, to whom my roommate-at-the-time paul took a particular shine. one day when he was over at the house, paul roped him into a discussion of one of his favorite subjects: the paranormal.

having heard it all before, i tried to head him off, but was too late--turns out andrew was into all that shit, and before i knew it, my other roommate royce was involved and the three of 'em had a pre-party seance planned for the following saturday night.

after andrew left, i remember asking 'em what the fuck, and they told me not to worry--it'd be fun.

when i inquired as to how exactly we would be communicating with the spirit world and paul whipped out his ouija board, i couldn't help it--i burst out laughing, even though i knew that was a mistake.

see, it was always two-against-one in that house.  as the guy who was there only because they needed a third, i had met paul exactly once before the three of us moved into 841 north crescent heights boulevard, and royce only on the day of.

they, on the other hand, had known each other for years, were several years younger and had been out forever--and took every opportunity to remind me of same.

oh, and the other thing they had in common?  paul and royce were both poz back when that was still a death sentence--which perilous status, they explained to me on that particular day, had conferred upon them them an extrasensory sensitivity unknown to the rest of us mere mortals.

"let's just say we're both on speaking terms with the other side, mike," paul told me, "but royce is closer."  royce confirmed this with a solemn nod.

when i snorted again, paul asked, "you ever play with a ouija board when you were a kid?"

"of course i did--that's why i find this shit so ridiculous."

"c'mere--sit across from me."

to humor him, i pulled up a chair, did as he asked.  he balanced the board on our knees, we rested our fingertips on the planchette and, working together, spent a few minutes spelling out words royce called out.

it was every bit as slow and jerky a process as i remembered--even a simple word like "cat" required concentration and the coordination of two people's movements in searching out each letter on the board.

"see how hard it is when you consciously try to do it?"

when i nodded, he smiled, replaced the board in its box and said, "remember that when saturday night rolls around, ok?"

i had no idea what he meant, but i'd find out soon enough.

*     *     *     *     *

by the time saturday night did roll around, word had gotten out--we had a full house.  the lights were dimmed, candles lit, margaritas flowing and chattering fags jammed into every available nook and cranny.  not exactly an atmosphere conducive to conjuring up spirits, i thought to myself, but whatever.

the stage was set:  the furniture in the living room had been pushed to the periphery, and two opposing dining-room chairs set up at its center, with a third off to the side for the guy who'd be recording the spirit's every utterance on a legal pad [me, as it turned out].

when the time came, paul called for quiet, and he and royce took their places.

they sat across from each other so close that their feet were almost touching, and balanced the board on their knees.  upon this shaky foundation was laid the planchette, upon which the tips of their fingers came to rest.

as the room fell silent, paul called out, "is there anybody out there?  i'm sure this old house has some stories to tell."

nothing.

paul repeated the question, and waited--again, nothing.

this went on for several minutes, as the crowd grew increasingly raucous--when all of a sudden, the pointer jerked violently across the board to 'yes,' and royce said, "ah, we've got a live one."

the laughter stopped, and the room got very quiet.

our spirit's name, as it turned out, was jackrabbit, and he "answered" questions--from royce and paul, and from the audience at large--for almost an hour.

and boy, was he a chatterbox--i was writing down each letter the pointer stopped at, and i swear to god it was moving so fast i could barely keep up. i further swear that royce and paul's eyes were closed--hell, they weren't even looking down; there was no way they were doing this on their own, and the answers to each person's question were too weirdly on-point to be made up.

paul tired pretty quickly, so several of us took turns at the board, sitting across from royce, with varying degrees of success. some couldn't get the thing to move at all, and others could barely keep it on the board.

me?  i'll never forget the feeling that came over me when i took my place across from royce, placed my fingers on the planchette, someone called out a question--i don't remember what--and that goddam thing flew across the board, completely independent of any conscious effort on my part.  but once it happened, and i accepted that it was happening, it was almost like good sex--i just let go, and let the spirit take me where it would.

please remember--up to this point i had been about as sensitive to the "spirit world" as a pile of rocks, and this was my first tangible inkling that maybe there was something out there after all, even if it was nothing more than a collective consciousness we were tapping into.

anyway, as the alcohol flowed and the crowd's awe faded, the questions became silly, and the session ended when jackrabbit's answers began to take on a childish, petulant tone that quickly degenerated into dark, violent threats against a couple of the biggest wise-asses.  royce, who had warned us earlier to be respectful, said the spirit wasn't happy about not being taken seriously.

whatever--bottom line, what had started out as lighthearted fun turned ugly and scary just as fast, and we quit, headed out for the bars, and those of us who weren't already got shitfaced as quickly as possible.

*     *     *     *     *

we talked about doing it again, but somehow never got around to it--life, as it has a tendency to do, intervened.

andrew and i parted ways shortly thereafter.

royce, turns out, was closer to the other side than any of us knew.  his undoing--paul and i both tried to talk him out of it--would prove to be a late-term circumcision gone awry

a white-faced paul after viewing the damage: "lemme put it this way--if he ever wants a blowjob again, he'll have to drive to silverlake"

the resulting infection from which ultimately killed him.

i'd move out a few months after that, leaving paul with two new roommates--the legendary dougs--to fill the void royce and i left in our wake.

ultimately, paul himself would abandon 841 and move in with his friends rod and tim--who, while they welcomed him with open arms, wouldn't allow the ouija board under their roof.

which is how it ended up in my possession, forgotten until today.

my only regret is that i didn't clean out this corner of the garage a little earlier--this woulda been a perfect halloween post.