The full harvest moon bathed the deserted valley in wan silvery light. The man in the waxed canvas jacket and worn black jeans adjusted the backpack straps as he walked along the shoulder of the deserted highway. He took a moment to appreciate the moonlight, his only light this late at night. His last ride – an older balding white man who had been chain-smoking Pall Malls in his meticulously maintained International Harvester Scout – dropped him off on the outskirts of Hopland as the driver turned east heading to Clearlake. He’d said Jason was welcome to ride all the way to Clearlake if he was interested. Jason thanked the man, but said he wanted to stick to 101 – his ultimate destination lay due south. An hour passed as Jason walked the road. Two tractor trailers passed without so much as acknowledging him and now Jason stood on the green, utilitarian truss bridge spanning the Russian River. Watching the light play across the still-narrow river below felt like his personal little secret that the tractor trailers didn’t even notice except maybe to make sure they would clear the bridge’s low iron trusses.

He walked on and found himself in as an ideal stretch as he could hope for – a straight bit of two-lane lay open to the sky, the trees on the east side hunkered down from the road in a copse that traced the riverbed, while only a single live oak stood close to the road on the west, like a curious cow coming to visit the perimeter of the fence. Jason knew once he made it to the middle of this straight-away, even in this low light a driver would have plenty of time to spot him and decide to slow or not. This late at night with sleep tugging at the edges of even the most eager night owl’s consciousness, even better judgement often laxed at the opportunity to trade talk with another human being and stave off sleep for a few more towns.

So when Jason heard the burbling exhaust of the diesel F-250 pickup bearing down the road, he knew this guy would be his next ride. The driver made a lazy effort to stop, passing Jason’s outstretched thumb and finally coming to a stop a hundred yards ahead. Jason jogged to the truck idling on the shoulder. He opened the passenger door of the cab and the driver barked, “How far you goin?”

“I’m aiming for Petaluma,” Jason said, adding, “Anywhere between here and there would be much appreciated.”

“Your lucky night – I’m going all the way to San Rafael. Hop in.”

Jason climbed in, dropped his pack on his feet and buckled himself in as the clattering motor spooled up and the driver pulled back onto 101 south. Jason stared out at the cool silvery landscape beyond the window of the pickup, silence hanging in the cab. He thought they might make it past Cloverdale before either man said a word and he didn’t mind. Jason appreciated long silences.

Alas, as the truck traced the highway’s graceful arc across the cement bridge covering the dry Pieta creek bed on its way to its confluence with the Russian river just off the west side of the road, the driver spoke. “Name’s Freddy,” he said curtly.

“Jason.”

“You always out on empty highways in the middle of the night?”

Jason chuckled, “Sure seems like that.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Freddy said.

“Yeah,” Jason replied and let the silence hang in the air for a long moment. “Guy I know died on a stretch of road like this a few years ago.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. It’s funny – it was a full moon like this, and on 101 out here, too.”

“Shame.”

“Drunk driver. Careened onto the shoulder, my friend slammed onto his hood, his head hitting the windshield so hard it lodged there.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Jason continued, staring straight ahead into the middle distance. “Coroner said he was alive for at least the first ten miles…”

“Then?”

“Driver kept going. Made it all the way home to Healdsburg. Left his Mercedes with the lifeless body on the hood in the garage.” He scoffed, “Can you imagine the scream when his wife went to take it to Pilates the next morning?”

“Heh,” the driver gave a nervous laugh.

“I’ve heard his ghost walks this highway looking for a ride south on 101 on lonely nights…”

Freddy let out a genuine short chuckle. “Reminds me…” he started.

Jason broke out of his reverie and looked over at the driver. “Yeah?”

“Friend of mine died out here, too.”

Jason looked on expectantly.

“Driving south outta Ukiah. Diesel duallie Ford like this. Worked a 12-hour shift at the mill, driving to get home to his wife and kid in Asti…” Freddie trailed off. A mile passed as the lights of a northbound empty logging truck lit up the cab of the truck as it whizzed by. “He…” Freddy started, “He got tired. Always got tired on that drive. Knew he’d be fine…” Several miles droned on as the truck barreled through the dark morning. “Woke up as the truck hit the center divider and flipped into the other lane,” he gestured with his hand making twisting motion. “Crashed upside down into a Toyota with this family. Mom, Dad, kids… boom….”

“Did anyone…” Jason pressed.

Freddy shook his head. “Not a soul.”

Jason sighed and looked out the passenger window again.

“They say he still drives this road early mornings, southbound, trying to get home…”

Miles passed in silence.

“Freddy…”

“Jason…”

Both roared at the same time:

“I’m the hitchhiker!” Jason yelled as Freddy yelled “I’m the truckdriver!”

Stunned silence.

“No way!” Jason laughed. “What are the odds?!”

“Sure as shit, man,” said, slapping the wheel. “You know how many times I’ve never made it home along this road?”

“It gets goddamned lonely as a ghost hitchhiker!”

“But you get picked up?”

“Sure. And I tell that story and, poof, I’m gone.”

“Same thing here! Let the hitchhiker off at a stop, he tells the people and they go all white and shit and tell ‘em about how I died years ago.”

They both laughed together for a while longer.

“So… what happens when a ghost truckdriver picks up a ghost hitchhiker?” Jason asked.

“Guess we’ll find out,” and the pickup barreled south through the darkness along 101 south.

If you haven’t read Part 1 this will make a lot more sense if you read that first.

Mitch climbed into the backseat of the black, driver-less, Tesla Model X, the falcon wing door closing after him. Andrew walked around to the other side and pulled his robe in before lowering his falcon-wing door.  Mitch stared at the angel with a petulant look on his face as the car started moving by itself.

Andrew didn’t notice Mitch staring daggers at him for a good two minutes as he looked admiringly out the window at the buildings along the street. When he finally did notice Mitch, he started, “Signore? Is there a problem?”

“So what is this? Some kind of Uber for the dead?”

Andrew gestured past the unoccupied front seats to the windshield which held a swoopy logo similar to that of lyft, but instead it read “fall”.

“That’s cute,” Mitch shook his head. “Can you tell me where we’re going at least?”

“It is not far, Signore,” Andrew said, going back to staring out the window.

Mitch reflexively reached for his phone. When he pulled it out he let out a tiny shriek.

“Signore?”

“The screen of my phone is shattered,” he held up the handset for Andrew to inspect.

“Ah, yes. That is a feature of your new existence.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That is indeed your telefonino. You will find it is…” he searched for a euphemism, “…adequate. You have no data. You have no contacts. And no matter how you try you cannot replace the screen.” The phone binged a warning – through the cracked screen he could read “Alert: 10% battery left.” “Oh, and you cannot charge it beyond 12%.”

For the first time since he left the WeWork office, true open fear played across Mitch’s face. “That’s… that’s… that’s… insane,” he said.

“Ah, Signore Mitch, you are about to learn new levels of insanity. Oh, look, we are here!” The black Tesla turned from Harrison onto 13^th street and pulled into a surprisingly large parking lot.

Mitch looked out the window at the big box retail store the car approached and the color drained from his face. “No, no, no… Andrew, why are you taking me here?”

The car slowed to a stop and Andrew opened his falcon wing door with one hand as he regarded Mitch with a beatific smile. Through the open door Mitch could make out the garish blue and yellow paint scheme and the unmistakable logo of the consumer electronics store, “Buy More”.

They both got out of the car. Andrew tapped on the glass of the passenger window and said, “per un momento, per favore” and the car silently glided away.

“Why are we here?” Mitch again asked as he hurried to catch up with Andrew already moving towards the sliding entry doors. Noticing the darkness inside the store, Mitch added, “Look, it’s not even open. Why are you walking towards the doors that are locked—”

The doors opened with a whoosh and the interior lights snapped to full illumination faster than is literally possible with florescent tubes. “Being an angel has its perks,” he smiled and walked in.

Mitch followed him as he made an immediate left and walked with purpose towards a red and black counter with a sign over it bearing a running stick figure with a briefcase flanked by the words “Nerd Herd.”

“Oh my God,” Mitch stared at the counter. “I’m in hell.”

Andrew let out a genuine laugh as he reached the counter, “Oh no, Signore Mitch, I assure you, you cannot begin to fathom the torment of hell. This,” he picked up a folded white button down shirt and a skinny black tie, “this is merely an irritant at best.” He thought about it a moment, then added, “Albeit a constant, nagging, incessant irritant. Your uniform, Signore.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Andrew?”

“No. Not in the slightest. You have a new job. This is your uniform, Signore.”

“Oh no, Andrew. I’ve got a job – I run a company. I’m not some sort of… technician,” the last word sour in his mouth. He pulled out his phone with the broken screen and tried to bring up the phone app. “One call and I’m out of here.”

Andrew instantly folded the shirt perfectly (because he’s an angel), placing it back on the counter and closed the distance to Mitch with two determined paces. The tall angel stood a half head over Mitch and leaned down to be perfectly eye level just inches from his face. “Signore,” he started with a stern tone barely above a whisper, “let me make something clear: you are dead. When you lived, you lived a terrible, immoral life. The only reason why you did not immediately join your brother in the fiery bowels of hell facing eternal torture and pain you cannot imagine is because your various companies did provide some good in the world – the charity donations, outreach, young student training. Make no mistake, it is abundantly clear none of these things came from a spirit of goodwill but as gestures intended to improve your standing. But these deeds have given you an opportunity that practically no mortal ever gets – you get to try to redeem yourself. But you get no choice in this matter. This, “he gestured behind him to the counter, “is your new job. You will work eight to twelve-hour days six days a week, and you will be the best Nerd Herder here. If you are not, you burn. If you are late, you burn. If you get so much as written up, you burn. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

For the first time in his life (and, for that matter, death), Mitch had no quip, no argument, no addendum or suggestion. His terrified eyes met Andrews and he said just one simple word: “Yes.”

“Good.” Andrew straightened and started back towards the entrance. “Don’t forget your uniform, Signore Mitch,” he said over his shoulder. “Your orientation is tomorrow at 9am sharp. Do not be late. Come!” he said as he walked through the doors.

Mitch didn’t move until he heard the whoosh of the automatic doors closing after Andrew. He hurried to the counter, gathered the clothes, then hurried towards the entrance himself. As he exited the building his breath caught in his throat. There, looming above him were the collective towers of San Francisco’s SoMa and Financial districts, so distinct and familiar they felt like family… only Andrew’s words echoed in his mind – “You are dead.” These buildings, the industries they stand for, the boardrooms he engaged in corporate battle, they were as much a corpse to him as his old body. Mitch finally recognized it: he was dead.

The black Tesla pulled silently up, and Mitch and Andrew wordlessly climbed into the backseat. The car moved out of the parking lot onto a deserted on-ramp for Interstate 80 east. As the ribbons of road began to close in around them for the beginning of the Bay Bridge, Mitch looked up at the sentry-like One Rincon Hill skyscraper and tried to catch sight of his now-dark window near the top but before he could the roads closed in above and they were in the tunnel approach for the bridge. When the black car emerged onto the eastern span of the bay bridge, Mitch gasped as the white suspension tower had been replaced by a giant pale white femur. He looked more closely and noticed that the cables were instead read sinews leading down to the deck of the bridge, glistening obscenely in the harsh LED lighting. “What is this, Andrew? What am I seeing?”

“Oh,” Andrew said nonchalantly, “Signore Mitch, this is the way you will see a lot of things from now on. Think of them as grisly reminders of where you are not.” Mitch looked at him quizzically, “In hell, they build this same bridge just this way every day using live souls. Then they enact a Loma Prieta-grade earthquake and rend it all apart to start another day.” He let the horror play across Mitch’s face for a moment longer then repeated his words from earlier, “Eternal torture and pain you cannot imagine.”

The rest of the drive passed wordlessly until they exited the freeway in Oakland. Mitch stared out at an unfamiliar, run down street with tents and lean-tos along the sidewalk. They finally stopped at what Mitch took to be a burned out three-story building. The falcon doors opened and they both got out. “Where are we?” Mitch asked.

“Your home,” Andrew gestured to the building that Mitch could now tell wasn’t actually burned out, but that he genuinely didn’t think a fire would make it look any worse. Andrew reached in his pocket and produced two objects: “Your key,” he handed the small brass colored key to Mitch adding, “Third story, rent is covered and you have bedbugs you cannot get rid of.” He smiled. “And your Clipper card,” he passed the plastic card over. “The Clipper card never runs out – remember, never be late. You cannot blame it on the card. Or, for that matter, the BART. Plan ahead, Signore! One last thing,” he took a step back and regarded Mitch for a moment. “You are realizing you are dead. You are realizing you have a job you never expected and that you cannot miss under penalty of your soul. This might be a bit…” he shrugged each shoulder back and forth, “overwhelming. It is. And it is an opportunity. Please, succeed, Signore Mitch! I have a bet riding on you,” and he disappeared.

Mitch stared dumbstruck at the sudden absence of the person who had been his guide. Disoriented, he turned towards the front door of the building. The glass in the top half had long been replaced by graffitied plywood. Mitch sighed and took two steps before he heard, “Hey, man…” Turning he saw a twitchy skinny white man with a stained green jacket on, mottled faux-fur hood pulled over his matted dreadlocks. “Hey, man…” he repeated then started, “do you have a light.” Before Mitch had a chance to answer he blurted, “Do you have any money?” louder. Before Mitch could react the man yelled, “Too late!” and pulled out a black snub-nosed revolver and fired three times at point blank range before turning and running off.

The shots caught Mitch in the chest and he collapsed with searing pain. He lay there confused about the pain and how he, who was already dead, was now going to die again. He touched his shirt expecting to feel blood. But he felt nothing but unmarred shirt… and now three very angry, painful bruises. He sat up and saw the man in the green jacket disappear around the corner at the end of the block. “So this is my afterlife,” he said and got to his feet.

I admit this ends in a fairly bleak place. That’s deliberate. Next month I hope to expand this story with a coterie of other characters and places into something approaching a novel. The storylines unfolded before me after I finished the first part, but instead of jumping into that right away I wanted to get Mitch settled here for now. Stay tuned next month for more on this story. But we’ve still got a week left in October and that is SEVEN MORE GHOSTS!!!! – Jordy 🙂

Mitch bounded out of the WeWork space on Second in a rush. He popped open the charging case for his AirPod ear buds with one hand, while calling his assistant with his other hand.

“Jackie… yeah, I know, I’m on my way to the Creamery to meet the Angel investor,” he spoke into the air weaving through the other pedestrians. “I realize I’m late, that’s why I’m calling you on the run. Look, I need you to book me a flight to Vegas… no, not another party trip. My brother Thad died last week… Yeah, thanks… no, totally unexpected – some weird bathtub electrocution thing, he was into weird shit… he was an asshole anyway, but I have to make an appearance, you know?” He dodged a bedraggled man with a long beard carrying an enormous plastic bag with half-crushed aluminum cans and nearly crashed into three white guys with conference badges around their necks.

“Did you get rid of Elaine?” he changed the subject. “…No, I don’t care if she’s got two kids. You need to get rid of her before she files that sexual harassment charge. I don’t want a single mar on our record going into this next round of funding.” He rounded the corner onto Folsom, shoving his way through the knot of people waiting for the light to cross. “Did I do it? Jackie, you know me better than to ask that. Of course I did it. But that’s not the point. The point is if we don’t sweep this under the table it will mean a lot of money for the IPO.”

One of his AirPod earbuds came loose and as he fidgeted with it Mitch didn’t see the homeless woman’s puppy laying in front of her until he tripped over it, knocking it into her can of change. The puppy yelped, the change exploded out of the can, the woman shrieked, and Mitch staggered sideways flailing his arms to catch his balance before he fell. With so many things happening at once it’s reasonable that Mitch completely missed the hipster on the electric unicycle barreling towards him. Unable to stop, the hipster slammed into Mitch and tumbled off, barely missing the yelping puppy slamming into the building along the sidewalk. The force of the collision caromed the already-falling Mitch off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic. Mitch had time to look up before everything became bright white. The bright white, it should be noted, was the color of the Google bus that charged through the yellow light and didn’t even attempt to break until Mitch became a hood ornament. For Mitch, everything then went black.

The first thing Mitch noticed was music. It wasn’t angelic like he’d hoped for, nor was it some sort of Wagner-esque fugue to accompany him to where he expected to go. No, this was some ukulele solo over a hip hop trap beat broken by the intermittent howls of a woman clearly getting oral surgery without anesthetic. Oh shit, he thought, this was hipster music – it had to be that goddamn hipster’s Bluetooth speaker on his fucking unicycle, because of course he had a Bluetooth speaker on his electric unicycle. He opened his eyes and saw he was lying in the street in front of the stopped Google bus with the electric unicycle next to him in the gutter, “music” still blaring. He pushed himself to his feet and saw a crowd gathered near the back of the bus. He stepped onto the sidewalk and started into the crowd that were talking amongst themselves.

“Who is it?” someone said.

“I think that’s Mitch Dessner,” came a reply.

“Oh my God, that asshole?” someone else chimed in.

Mitch turned towards the voice, but couldn’t make it out before someone else joined in, “Right? A bus is too good for that guy” and “Poor bus!” and “Is the puppy okay?” and “Hey, a quarter!” “Oh yeah, I found an AirPod earbud!”

Mitch pushed his way through the crowd which didn’t move aside for him as much as he moved through them. Reaching the edge of the sidewalk, he saw two off-duty paramedics partially under the bus attending to… him. Well, what clearly used to be him. There’s denial, and then there’s seeing your body after it had been run over by a double decker bus. Without going into detail, let’s just say it doesn’t really leave much room for inconclusiveness. Mitch Dessner was dead. So, Mitch thought, where does that leave me?

As the thought coalesced in his not-head he didn’t notice that everything around him had become an opaque gray. Or maybe he did notice and just thought the fog came in awfully quickly for a fall day in SoMa.

“Hello, I’m Saint Andrew Avenillo,” The tall wiry man in a long, white, billowy robe and an aquiline nose spoke with a light Italian accent. “Signore Mitch, you may call me Andrew.”

Mitch turned to look at the man and he didn’t say anything, just gave him his best pursed-lipped TED Talk stare.

Andrew blinked several times before saying, “I am the angel of sudden death. I’m here to help you pass on… No,” he stopped. “That is not right. Not in this case. I’m here to guide you on your journey.

Mitch’s mask of self-importance fell. “Umm, excuse me? Journey?”

“Yes, Signore, your Journey. As you might suspect, most people who die are instantly judged and sent one way,” he gestured up towards the sky, “or the other,” he pointed to the ground. “And there’s cases like yours…”

“Because I’m such a successful, powerful power broker whose every utterance causes markets to quiver with anticipation?” Mitch asked.

Andrew stared at Mitch with a baffled look on his face, shaking his head. “No. Precisely because you are so irritatingly full of yourself. You still have much to learn before you are escorted off this earthly plane.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Scusami?”

“So, what comes first? The ghost of Christmas past or Christmas future?” He snapped his fingers, “No, I’m supposed to say something like, ‘the world would be better without me,’ right? No, no, no,” he hopped up and down, “This is like some goddamn ‘Our Town’ with San Francisco standing in for Grover’s Corners?”

“Are you quite finished, Signore?”

“Finished?” Mitch spread his arms wide, “I’m in the afterlife, Andrew, I can go on forever, right? Time has no relevance, right?”

“Not quite,” Andrew said pulling back the hem of his sleeve to check his Apple Watch.

“Whoa,” Mitch stopped cold. “You’ve got an Apple Watch? I don’t believe this…”

Andrew gave him a patronizing smile and sighed. “No, Signore, not exactly. What you see is me through the lens of what you would expect. In your existence, an Apple Watch is perfectly reasonable. If I were speaking to a Swiss banker perhaps I would have a fine Rolex, or if you were one of the programmers you dismissed so often perhaps I would have a calculator watch. It is all relative, Signore.”

“Okay,” Mitch said, rubbing his eyes trying to ease the headache forming… then realizing he no longer even had a head to ache and that it still ached so he rubbed harder. “Then what does your not-Apple Watch tell you?”

Just then the opaque gray evaporated and they were back on the corner of Folsom and Second, but night had fallen. The bus and people and paramedics, and hipster, and electric unicycle were gone, as was the homeless woman and her puppy. Mitch looked up and down the empty street which was, in fact, slightly hazy with cold fog. He judged it sometime early in the morning – maybe two or three AM. He turned questioningly to Andrew standing behind him. Without saying a word Andrew nodded towards the direction of oncoming traffic. Mitch followed his gaze and saw a black Tesla Model X glide up to them silently. The black car had blacked-out rims, completely opaque tinted windows, but the roof bristled with numerous bulbous cameras at varying angles as well as a spinning LIDAR unit. As the car pulled to a stop, the rear driver-side falcon door raised open. Mitch looked in to verify what he already expected – self-driving. Of course, he thought.

“Signore,” Andrew gestured for Mitch to get into the waiting car.

To be continued…