Okay, it was mid-November, a drab, gray day — the kind of weather Seattle is famous for. After work I went downtown to go shopping. I wasn't really looking for anything in particular, I just felt like getting lost in a crowd of people.

     It was close enough to the holidays that parking on the street was impossible, so I put my car in a parking garage off Sixth Avenue, across from Frederick & Nelson. As I walked from the covered parking shelter, it started to snow.

     In front of the department store a Salvation Army volunteer was ringing a big brass bell, soliciting contributions. I pulled up my coat collar and scuffled past, gazing up at the snow, to prevent paying.

     The store was crowded, just the way I liked it. The inside of the department store was plastered with Christmas parenfenalia. I rolled up the sleeve of my overcoat, and pushed a button on my wristwatch. Although only mid-November, dazzling displays of Yuletide decorations dominated the decorum.

      Up and down the escalators I glided, gawking at the goods. To tell the truth, I felt a little empty — the way you do when you keep seeing presents that would be perfect for the person you just broke up with.

     I began composing a mental list of people I did need to purchase Christmas presents for. On one floor I found a salesperson so particularly appealing that I purchased six pair of gloves at her counter. "I hate for anyone to have cold fingers," I insisted, earnestly.

     But I started getting tired the way only shopping can make you tired, so I decided to go down to the basement for a cup of coffee. Riding down the escalator, I looked over at the people ascending in the opposite direction — middle class ladies laden with parcels, chattering teenagers, bustling businessmen, mothers holding hands of wide-eyed youngsters — when up the steps rode Butterfly Murphy!

     My heart skipped a beat. Almost twenty years had passed since I saw her last.

     "Murf!" I called. "Is that you?"

     My old college companion looked up, smiling shyly. For a moment her wide eyes acknowledged mine — then a plaster partition slid between us, blocking the view.

     Adrenaline surged through my system. I rushed forward, pushing past people to get another look. But she vanished from view like a mirage.

     For the next hour I searched the store, floor by floor, but could not locate my friend anywhere. Was it merely a case of mistaken identity, I wondered? Have you ever been in a big crowd, and for a split second you think you see someone you know, but when you look again it turns out to be a total stranger? Well, I wanted to think that was all that had happened to me. But it was sort of spooky. I was pretty sure that I had seen her. Hadn't her big blue eyes recognized mine?

     Oh, and this was also weird: I looked all over the place and finally I stopped in front of an appliance store window displaying several long rows of tv sets, with two dozen Tweetie Birds staring out from the glowing screens. Twenty four Tweeties blinked, simultaneously, and said, "I thought I saw a poody cat!"

     Finally, feeling a little depressed, I left the department store. The snow had stopped falling, and had already turned to slush on the sidewalk. I dropped the money I had planned on spending for coffee in the Salvation Army bucket and walked back to my car.

     I sat inside the cold cab a while, moving my memory back to our first meeting. I saw Butterfly Murphy sitting in a tree, barefooted, playing a piccolo. Her amber hair was long and fair.

     To an impressionable college freshman, she was easily the most interesting person I had ever encountered. She was every bit as flamboyant as the nom de plume she had chosen. I called her 'Murf'.

     The first thing you noticed about Murf was how skinny she was! She barely ate at all, in fact. Murf would stretch a salad all evening, taking tiny tentative tastes like a fickle rabbit. A package of M&M's would last her a whole week. She played with her food, mostly — she would toss an apple up and down for about an hour, then spend another hour shining it, before taking a tiny nibble. When you went to her house, there were always half eaten bananas or buttered biscuits on the sofa arms, like she intended to get back to them.

     Murf brought an animated essence to everything she attempted. I loved to watch her conduct ordinary activities, such as riding a bicycle or tying her shoes; she could make as common a task as folding her laundry seem positively enthralling.

     One summer Butterfly Murphy and I hitchhiked halfway across the country together. We stayed in fancy hotels until we ran out of money, then we slept in some haylofts. That trip was one of the best times I ever had.

     Sitting forward, I looked at myself in the rear view mirror. In no way did I resemble the hitch-hiking flower child Butterfly befriended in the Summer Of Love. I was wearing a double-breasted suit. I was sitting in an automobile I actually owned. My hair was cropped as short as a terriers.

     I stared more closely at my own reflection. Did I detect creases around my eyes?

     Slowly, another image materialized behind mine in the mirror. With utter astonishment, I beheld Butterfly Murphy sitting in the back seat of my car.

     When I stopped screaming, I quietly moaned, "Tell me I am dreaming."

     "It's me, Roger!" Butterfly exclaimed. "I have come to haunt you." She regarded me with a fond expression. "Sorry I couldn't make Halloween."

     When I tried hugging my long lost friend, she passed right through me. I fell forward across the seat.

     "That won't work," she explained. "I'm a ghost. Like Casper."

     I stared at her blankly. She was wearing faded blue jeans, a white peasant blouse, and love beads. "This is weird," I said, soberly.

     "No, this is weird," the ghost of Butterfly Murphy replied, making her body so pale that the seat shown through her.

     It was kind of creepy. I was really relieved when she made herself solid again.

     "What should we do now?" I asked, finally.

     "Start the car," she suggested, looking out her window. "There’s a guy out here in a truck with big tires. He’s wearing a baseball cap. I think he wants your parking space!"

     One last test was required to convince me of the apparition's authenticity. When I drove up to the pay booth, I asked the attendant, "Excuse me, but am I alone in this vehicle?"

     The parking lot attendant eyed me fishily.

     "Do you see more than one person in my car?" I prompted him.

     From the way he handed me my change, I knew that if I wasn't alone, I was the only one who knew it.

     As we drove down Sixth Avenue, Butterfly stared at the city scenery with wide eyes, like a child in a toy shop. She seemed so excited by the skyscrapers that it made me laugh out loud.

     "For gosh sakes!" I teased, indelicately. "Where have you been hiding?"

     "Purgatory," replied she.

     We toured around town, looking at various examples of modern architecture and landmarks which, for the most part, I had taken for granted the hundreds of times I had passed them previously. Being with Butterfly was eye opening. Her pleasant personality put me in a really good mood, too.

     Still, I needed some time to decide how best to handle the haunting, and cruised purposefully past a multiplex.

     "I remember how much you love the movies," I replied, parallel parking. "I thought we might take in a matinee."

     "Oh, boy!" Butterfly enthused, bouncing up and down. "The last picture we saw together was Woodstock."

     Of course, we got in on one ticket. When we walked past the concession stand I paused, and whispered awkwardly, "Do you eat food?"

     "Not in public," she replied.

     Murf flew forward and held the door open for me. I'm sure she was trying to be polite, but I felt funny, anyway, the door seeming to open all by itself and all. I didn't want to draw any more attention, so I choose some seats in back.

     "Is this too distant?" I asked.

     "I have perfect eyesight," she stated. "No one wears glasses in the afterlife."

     To tell the truth, I had difficulty paying attention to the movie; I concentrated, instead, on my predicament. It was the third time I’d seen Edward Scissorhands, anyway.

     Under similar circumstances, another person might have felt much more alarmed than I, but somehow Butterfly's appearance made me happy. I had no idea the kinds of problems playing host to a ghost could create.

     At the time, it didn't seem so illogical. It’s true, I hoped I hadn't lost my mind, or anything, but compared to the people who actually haunted my life, I was lucky to be haunted by the likes of Butterfly Murphy.

     "How did you like the movie, Murf?" I asked eagerly, as we walked back to the automobile.

     The ghost said, "Oh, the movie was great - what scared me was the popcorn prices!"

     Driving home, our car joined all of the other suburban commuters caught in a terrible traffic jam on the freeway. The cold weather had made the rush hour traffic more impossible than usual. Cars were backed up for miles.

     "Does this happen often?" Butterfly asked, as we crawled along.

     "I don't mind traffic jams," I confided. "They make me feel part of something big and important." As soon as I said it, I thought, "I need help."

     Butterfly made herself invisible, and I watched the station dial slide up and down as if by magic as she tuned the radio.

     "What is this noise?" she asked, after trying several stations. "I want to hear the Beatles!"

     "The Beatles aren’t as big as they used to be..." I informed her.

     "Really?" she said, shocked.

     She really had been gone a long time.

     "Are you cold?" I asked a little later, adjusting the defroster.

     "Are you kidding?" she chuckled.

     The car chugged forward, at fifteen miles an hour. We watched the scenery. I glanced down at my clothes, self consciously — sitting inside a sedan in a traffic jam wearing a three-piece business suit next to the ghost of the Nineteen-sixties was sort of unsettling.

     When I looked up the traffic in front of me had stopped. My foot flew to the brake, but I knew it was too late. A fender bender was eminent.

     An instant before impact Butterfly's hand touched mine and everything stopped.

     I mean that very literally.

     All action around us suddenly ceased. All of the surrounding automobiles stood absolutely still. The people inside the cars wore frozen expressions. The landscape in every direction, as far as I could see, was in a state of suspended animation. Even the birds in the sky stood still, suspended in flight.

     I had time to back the car up a bit, averting the accident, before Murf removed her hand, breaking the spell. As action resumed, she expelled a deep breath. Apparently she could suspend motion only for the length of time she could hold one breath.

     I couldn't say anything for a while. My eyes were bulging out of my head. The world sounded very loud, now that it was moving again.

     I decided to pay attention to driving the car. The traffic jam showed no sign of subsiding. Snails inch along at a faster pace than we were progressing.

     "I hope we don't run out of gas," I said, a few miles later, indicating the fuel gauge. The needle pointed to 'E'. I always put off service station stops.

     "Don't worry," Butterfly laughed, winking one eye.

     The next thing I knew, we were rolling down my own driveway! I was so startled that I slammed on the brakes sharply, stalling the motor.

     "How did we get here?" I cried.

     "I did it," Murf admitted.

     My hands shook slightly as I ignited the engine, and parked the vehicle in a numbered parking space before my unit.

     As I stepped from the automobile, I noticed the gas gauge again. In addition to chauffeuring me home, Butterfly had topped the tank.

Chapter Two.

     As I started up the steps to my apartment, with the ghost of Butterfly Murphy in tow, I wished I had her ability to stop time because, frankly, I needed a moment to tidy up the place. I wasn't expecting guests. I was also a little concerned where she would sleep. Or if she slept.

     "What are you worried about? It has to be an improvement over your place in college," she commented, as we climbed upstairs.

     Actually, I did all the climbing — the ghost of Butterfly Murphy floated upstairs. She was so curious to see how I lived that she went through the door ahead of me. I had to open the door to enter, myself.

     Murf flew around the apartment, inspecting the furnishings and snooping into closets. She also demonstrated the ability to disappear inside drawers.

     How beautifully Butterfly floated through the air, her chin held out, like she were the masthead of a swift ship; she sort of shrugged her shoulders as she sailed through the air, as if big, invisible wings were attached to her back.

     I was renting a condo in a bedroom community south of Seattle. I had lived here a year and a half, but I still used a stack of unpacked cardboard boxes for a coffee table.

     "Oh, Roger!" Butterfly Murphy exclaimed, stretching her arms out nearly twice their normal length in mock worship. "Divorced bachelorhood truly suites you!"

     We went in the kitchen, and she looked through all the cupboards — without opening any. "X-ray vision!" she said, as if it were nothing.

     I found some of her habits a little unnerving, to say the least, so I busied myself drawing up water for tea. "Do you want a cup, Murf?" I asked, uncertainly.

     "I'll take a glass of milk," she said. She drank about half of it and burst into laughter. "Roger! Hey, watch this!"

     She made it so I could see the milk going through her system! It was gross.

     "You were lucky it was only milk," she assured me, as we toured the bathroom, right after that.

     She was definitely a low maintenance house guest. You didn’t have to tell her where the guest towels were kept because she could look through walls. You didn’t have to worry about seeing her stuff all over the bathroom because the ghost of Butterfly Murphy’s toothbrush was invisible, too. You didn’t even have to do her laundry because Butterfly changed her whole wardrobe by just thinking it.

     I showed her the guest bedroom, but Murf preferred the attic as her quarters, instead. There was an old stereo phonograph up there, my album collection, and a comfy old overstuffed sofa.

     "Mind if I put up a few posters?" she asked.

     "Make yourself at home..." I volunteered. Don’t you think I was accepting the situation gracefully?

     Butterfly blinked, and the attic became her bedroom. She revived the tired, castoff furniture by draping tie-dyed material over everything, put up flush crushed velvet curtains, and covered much of the floor with perfect little Persian rugs. She put up a poster advertising a Jimi Hendrix concert at the Filmore; a group called Country Joe and the Fish were sharing the bill.

     I picked myself off the floor and said, "I wish you’d warn me before you blink, like that."

     "All right, Roger," she relied. "Stand back!"

     Waving her arm, he changed the color of the walls from a grungy green to a soothing salmon. It even had the nice, clean, smell of fresh paint. I had to admit, she had an excellent sense of interior decoration.

     Sitting on one stereo speaker was a photograph of Janis Joplin in an antique gold frame. It was inscribed: "Butterfly, dear, Get it while you can!"

     "You’re on first name basis with Janis Joplin?!?" I asked, incredulously.

     "Sure," she said. "We were roommates for a while. In the Hotel Afterlife."

     I didn’t quite know how to approach the subject of Murf’s demise, but there were a few ‘technical questions’ I was curious about. I danced around the issue all evening, while showing her how to operate all the gadgets in my living room.

     Murf missed a lot while held prisoner in Purgatory. She was charmed by the clarity and simplicity of my CD player, intrigued with the answering machine, but uninterested in my personal computer.

     Her powers could be a exasperating at times. I spent a half hour explaining how to operate the television remote control; it turned out she didn’t even need one. Murf could change the channels just by waving her hand!

     We did put on a Beatles album finally (Rubber Soul) and then we sat down on the living room couch (the ghost of Butterfly Murphy floated around the room, actually) to talk.

     "Well, errr..." I hemmed and hawed. Then I got flustered again and said, "Hey, if you’re so clairvoyant and all, why don’t you just read my thoughts?"

     "I can read your thoughts, Roger," she said, quietly.

     "Oh, yeah? Then what am I thinking?"

     "You’re wondering how long I’m going to stay," Murf replied.

     "I am not!" I insisted, a trifle guiltily.

     "I was kidding," the ghost of Butterfly Murphy laughed. "What you really want are all the gory details of my... spirituality," she suggested, smiling wryly.

     "Well," I deferred, defensively "I suppose I am curious. But purely on a scientific level," I hastened to add.

     "Okay," she began, "I died."

     Suddenly the room got real cold. A clap of thunder, followed by a lightning bolt, rattled the room. I had to admit, she was good.

     She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "I died of a drug overdose. Some would call it suicide, others an accident. Regardless, you don’t get into Heaven if you commit suicide, everyone knows that. But I was given a second chance, due to a technicality. I didn’t mean to die — I was just stupid! Well, They send me to Purgatory to think about it a while, and then They made me a deal: I come back to Earth, do a good deed, and They revue my case. I might get into Heaven after all!"

     I tried to grasp all she was saying. Finally I asked, "Well, what’s your good deed?"

     "I’m going to help you grow up, Roger."

Chapter Three.

     I didn’t sleep well that night. Part of the problem was worrying about Murf, but the other was she had me up half the night, playing records in the attic. The sounds of Van Morrison drifted down from the attic until almost 2 a.m. — then she discovered punk rock!

     The next morning I got up early, bathed, shaved, and drove off to work by myself. I figured either the ghost of Butterfly Murphy was sleeping in, or I had dreamt the whole thing.

     I couldn’t take Murphy to work, anyway. I didn’t really like my job that much, but having the ghost of Butterfly Murphy getting in the way all day wouldn’t help.

     Just as I was thinking how grateful I was to be alone, the ghost of Butterfly Murphy materialized in the passenger seat.

     "Good morning!" she sang, cheerily.

     I was so startled, I swerved into the next lane. Horns honked, and I swerved back barely in time to prevent being bashed.

     "Gaaaaa, Murphy!" I screamed.

     "Boo!" she said, playfully.

     After I caught my breath, I moaned, "What are you doing here?"

     "I’m haunting you, remember?"

     "Well, you’re lucky I didn’t join you in the afterlife, with that little stunt!" I insisted. "Can’t you give me a little warning before you show up, or something?"

     "Like this?" she suggested, and made a loud gong sound. "Or how about this?" she suggested, and mooed like a dairy cow.

     I wished she would take my wishes a bit more seriously.

     "What are you doing here, anyway?" I asked, instead. "I can’t take you to work with me."

     "Why not?" she said. "I won’t get in the way. I’ll make myself invisible. See?"

     I couldn’t see anything, of course. She was invisible. Her voice came from the empty seat where she had been sitting only a moment before.

     "Or, if you’d prefer, I can make myself as small as a church mouse, and hide in your shirt pocket."

     I suddenly felt a small tug in my pen pocket. I looked away from the road long enough to verify that there was indeed a tiny person in my shirt pocket!

     "Would you please stop fooling around," I suggested, as calmly as possible, considering I had a Tom Thumb sized girl in my shirt pocket. "I’m trying to drive!"

     Another loud gong reverberated through the cab, and Murf materialized beside me in the next seat. Her sound effects were already getting on my nerves.

     "Come on, Roger!" she pleaded, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind one ear. "Let me see where you work."

     Now, there were a couple things in my life I didn’t like to talk about, and where I worked was one of those. But I couldn’t exactly hide anything from my clairvoyant friend, could I?

     That’s what I thought at the time, anyway. In hindsight, it was a big mistake.

     I worked for the Allied Mutual Insurance Company in a seedy six-story building in a nondescript neighborhood in north Seattle. My job involved trailing disability claimants around in hopes of photographing them playing tennis or lifting heavy furniture.

     Pretty contemptible, huh?

     It wasn’t easy making a living as a full-time photographer!

     I lugged the canvas bag with all my camera gear from the trunk of the car, across the asphalt parking lot, and into the building. The ghost of Butterfly Murphy skipped at my side, humming, "Fly Me To The Moon."

     "Murf," I warned, as the elevator doors slid shut, "I really wish you would disappear."

     She took me quite literally. When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, it looked like I was alone.

     When I walked into the suite of Allied Mutual offices, Lynn, the receptionist, looked up from her typewriter and smiled.

     "Good morning, Roger!" she exclaimed.

     "Hi, Lynn!" I hailed, trying to appear normal.

     Behind me, the door, which had shut behind me, opened and closed again. Lynn stared behind me, and blinked.

     "Windy out," I suggested, and hurried down the hall to my office.

     I shared an office with Morty Issowiz, a rookie life insurance agent. Mort was short, with long curly sideburns and a small, black skullcap. He was hired for his connections in the "Jewish community"; I know how horrible that sounds, but we are talking about the insurance industry here!

     Anyway, Morty was poring over a copy of "Contacts Influential" with bright, beady eyes. Still staring down, he said, "Hey, who was that woman I saw you walking across the parking lot with?"

     I started stowing my camera gear while I thought up an answer. Murf, meanwhile, picked up a framed picture from my desk and said, "Who’s this, Roger?!?"

     It was a photograph of a woman with eyes black as coal and long, dark curls. My ex-girlfriend, Anna. Another aspect of my life I didn’t care to discuss.

     "None of your business!" I snapped, snatching the picture frame from the air.

     "I know aaaaallllllllllll about it," Murf taunted.

     Mort looked up at me, standing in the middle of the room, grappling with Anna’s picture, and shook his head sadly. "Oy, Roger! When are you going to get over that girl?"

     The Assistant Sales Manager seemed squeezed. He seemed squeezed into his three-piece gray suit, he seemed squeezed into his leather executive highback seat, he seemed squeezed behind his desk. The two of us were squeezed in his office.

     His huge hands turned over the black and white glossy photographs I had taken the day before. I held my breath, hoping that his greasy fingers, or the perspiration beading his brow, wouldn’t tarnish the emulsion.

     Finally, the Assistant Sales Manager leaned back in his seat, folded his fat fingers, and frowned. He slid the folder of photographs back in front of me and I wondered if he could conceivably look more unattractive.

     "Roger, we are paying you to take pictures."

     "Carl, these are pictures."

     "You call these pictures?" he ranted.

     "Well, sure I call them pictures," I said. "I wouldn’t call them zebras," I added.

     His tiny eyes grew smaller in the folds of his face.

     The telephoto photographs I had taken showed an invalid sleeping in a wheelchair, where she had remained the whole day I was staking out her driveway. I had failed to catch her lifting barbells or pushing a plow or driving in the Indianapolis 500 or any such strenuous activity which would release the insurance company from their obligation to pay disability payments.

     "Why don’t you bring me some pictures of kittens while you’re at it? Or a fluffy bunny rabbit? How about an eight by ten of a mother hen and her chickies?!?"

     His hollering carried into the hallway. It was sort of embarrassing.

     "I’m doing my job," I insisted.

     Carl stood up and crashed a fist the size of a ham down on the desk. His chair rolled slowly back by the window.

     I said, "Sit down, Carl. I’ll do better. I promise."

     After that, I ducked in the bathroom. I had to go to the toilet, anyway. Have you ever noticed that people in books never seem to go to the bathroom?

     I was washing my face when the ghost of Butterfly Murphy materialized beside me. I splashed a handful of cold water on my face and dried myself with some paper towels, before speaking to her.

     "I thought you were here to help me!" I demanded.

     "I am helping you," she said, quietly.

     "By pulling peoples seats out from under them?" I asked.

     Murf didn’t say anything. I wasn’t positive she had propelled Carl’s seat back. I wasn’t certain she even existed, for that matter. She was standing right next to me, but mine was the only reflection in the mirror.

     I had several assignments, but Carl had insisted I attend the nine-thirty staff meeting. The conference room had walnut paneling, and a long, polished table, around which were assembled the underwriters of Allied Mutual.

     At either end of the table sat Carl and Don. Don was the Senior Sales Manager. He had a fatherly image. Between the Senior Sales Manager and the Assistant Sales Manager, the other agents sat as obediently as a troop of Boy Scouts. I had never noticed before, but everyone had receding hairlines (although Morty’s, of course, was covered with a black skullcap, and Oscar wore a toupee), as if hair retention loss were a prerequisite for selling life insurance.

     Don stood up and smiled around the room. He always talked with an unlit cigar in his hand.

     "Guys," he said, warmly, "I’m proud of you! We have almost met our quarterly quota." His beaming smile was as wide as a crocodiles.

     "Bradley here," he continued, pointing his cigar at a slender, freckled man in his twenties wearing a pale blue suit and white shoes, "just signed a half-million whole life policy out on the golf course!"

     He turned his cigar to a somber, hawk-featured agent in a dark, pinstriped suit. "John just put together a group Keogh plan for a dental cooperative..."

     Don went around the table, tipping his Tiparillo in turn to the agents targeting the family sector, the elderly, the Afro-American, and other assorted constituencies.

     I lost interest around then, and started thinking about my ex-girlfriend again. I replayed a trip we took to British Columbia. We stayed in our hotel room almost the whole time. I couldn’t figure out how we went from being so happy and in love to practically hating each other. When I finally came to, Don was handing out beneficiary checks.

     Carl took the floor. "Now, men," he practically purred, pulling his vest tightly over his tummy, "if you merely mail the beneficiary payments to the bereaved, instead of paying a personal visit, you are not doing your full job. Can anyone tell me why?"

     A couple hands were raised hesitantly.

     "Why is that, Anders?" Carl asked a pale skinned underwriter who looked like he would rather have a cigarette than answer the question. He hadn’t even had his hand up.

     "Well, I suppose it’s so you can say something comforting to the survivor," answered Anders, without much conviction.

     Everyone around the table nodded their heads in solemn agreement. Carl and Don nodded theirs, too. I even nodded mine a little.

     Carl rubbed his huge hands together. "Of course, you also have an excellent opportunity to sell some more life insurance. When you present the beneficiary check in person, it’s your duty, as a friend of the family, to suggest that the surviving members increase their coverage."

     Everyone looked at him like they would rather stick their hands up a horses behind.

     "Carl’s right, guys!" Don was quick to add. "Don’t let a golden opportunity like this pass you by. You’ll be doing the grieving family a favor! After all, what will become of the children if the widow kicks off next? Why, they won’t have enough insurance to pay the burial costs! And, with that beneficiary payment hot in their hands, they have the means of making the first yearly premium on the spot!"

     After a second of stunned silence, something propelled me from my seat. It was the ghost of Butterfly Murphy, of course. She had her hands under my arms, so I literally lurched to my feet. Everyone stared at me, suspiciously.

     "Doesn’t that seem a little, I don’t know... ghoulish?" I suggested.

     Don’s smile grew quite cold. Carl looked as peevish as a truant officer. I wished I hadn’t said anything, and all of a sudden I noticed the strangest thing. The conference room, the whole building, in fact, had grown absolutely silent. Don’s cold smile and Carl’s peevish expression were frozen on their faces. Everyone else in the room were as still as statues.

     "Murf?" I said.

     "You rang!" she replied, cheerily, appearing out of nowhere.

     "Murf, what are you doing?!?" I exclaimed, hysterically.

     "I’m keeping you from making a mistake, Roger," the ghost of Butterfly Murphy calmly explained. "You have got to think before you speak. It’s a sign of maturity," she added.

     "You started it!" I protested, weakly. I leaned across the table to examine Carl more closely. I had never seen anyone is such a perfect state of suspended animation.

     "Roger, I am trying to show you something. You can’t just blurt out your objections like you’re attending a protest rally. You need to learn to choose your words more carefully."

     "Look, you’re the one who goosed me!" I objected.

     "Must you bicker? I could always set things back in motion again. But I’ll tell you where this was heading; it would have ended up with Carl bawling you out in front of everybody. You didn’t give him much choice!"

     I realized she was right. There were times when the choices I made did reflect poor judgment. I wouldn’t have been stuck with that rotten job in the first place if it weren’t for my own inimitable charms.

     "He is a jerk, though," I grumbled, looking at the frozen Carl. He was so bald, he didn’t even have any eyebrows.

     "He is that," Murf conceded. "But if you want to air your personal differences, you need to find some place a little more private."

     The next thing I knew, the staff meeting was once again in progress. Don was concluding the pep talk, for a second time. "And, with that beneficiary payment hot in their hands, they have the means of making the first yearly premium on the spot!"

     There was, as before, a second of stunned silence — only this time everyone was gaping at the bushy black eyebrows someone had scribbled on Carl’s forehead with a ball point pen!

     I had the opportunity to air my personal differences in private, just like Murphy suggested, an hour later. The Famous Final Scene actually occurred in an elevator.

     As usual, I was trying to carry too much. I wobbled up to the elevator, my bulging camera bag weighing down one shoulder, my arms hugging my tripod, battery pack, and a slippery stack of file folders. I had to balance everything on one lifted knee so I could free a finger to summon the lift.

     I pushed the call button just as the steel doors were sliding shut. The elevator doors opened hesitantly to admit me. Carl was standing impatiently inside. His forehead was inflamed pink from scrubbing the ink off. I would have waited for the next car, but Murphy pushed me in from behind. To the Assistant Sales manager, it looked like I stumbled inside.

     We rode downstairs, an uneasy silence enveloping the elevator. I could feel Carl’s glare boring a hole in the back of my head.

     "Here, Rogie!" Murf chirped. "Let me help you with that!"

     She tried to take my tripod. I snatched it back. Carl, evidently, did not see or hear her. All he saw was me juggling my heavy load — and spilling everything all over the floor of the elevator.

     "Davenport," he growled.

     "Watch it!" I shouted. Murphy was pulling the Emergency Stop button out. I leaped to stop her. Carl’s jaw dropped a good two inches, as the elevator lurched to a stop between the third and second floors.

     My file folders slid across the floor. Carl and I both slipped on them while trying to get our footing and fell down on top of each other.

     "Davenport!!!" he bellowed.

     We both struggled to our feet.

     "Why did you do that?" Carl cried crossly, turning to me.

     "Why did I do that?" I echoed, turning to the ghost of Butterfly Murphy.

     Murf put her arm around my shoulder and put her mouth close to my ear. "Stand tall, Roger! Now that there’s no one around, you two can have that little man-to-man talk I was talking about."

     I put my shoulders back and turned to Carl. "Well, Carl, now that we’re alone, there are a couple things..."

     "You start this elevator right now!" Carl insisted. "I’ll have you canned for this!"

     "Not until I’ve had my say," I replied, trying to keep my voice down. "I don’t appreciate your bullying me around, especially in front of our boss, or the guys I work with. You’re always pitting people against each other, and for what? To sell some insurance? I don’t think that’s very nice, and I don’t think you are very nice. If people have a real need for insurance, they’ll buy it anyway, without your manipulating them. So, what do you think of that? What have you got to say for yourself when it’s just you and me? Eh?"

     Carl’s face turned crimson. "Davenport, you’re fired!" he hollered. "Now, get this thing moving!"

     "Gee," I said, reaching over to push the Emergency Stop button, "I was expecting something along the lines of an apology."

     Nothing happened. The elevator remained moored between floors.

     I pushed the button again. And again. Still nothing. Carl’s breath was burning the back of my neck.

     "Murf!" I whispered under my breath. "Can you fix it?"

     "Sorry, Roger. Elevator repair is a little out of my realm," she said. "But let me be the first to congratulate you — on your new career!!!"

     I drove glumly down Lake City Way, past the burger franchises and used car lots, past a topless dance club right next door to a day care center. Murf sat in the passenger seat, her bare feet propped on the dashboard.

     "I’m confused," I confessed. "One minute you tell me to use more restraint, then the next thing I know you’re promoting a wresting match in an elevator. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Geez! We were stuck in there with Carl for two hours!"

     The ghost of Butterfly Murphy pulled a strand of her hair to within an inch of her eyes, and examined its blondness carefully. "That’ll teach him to take the stairs more often!" she laughed. "Besides, you need a more stimulating job."

     "Oh, great," I said, morosely. "I need a job — period."

     Driving soothed the sting some. We drove almost all the way home when suddenly I remembered.

     "Hey, Murf! It’s Election Day! I almost forgot to vote!"

     It sort of cheered me up. We stopped at a Presbyterian Church that is the polling place in my neighborhood. I felt lucky to be exercising my democratic duty. I even felt lucky to have the ghost of Butterfly Murphy helping me. I’d worry about finding a new job another day.

     People waiting outside our voting booth probably wondered what was going on inside. I kept having to wrestle the voting pen away from her.

     "No! Don’t do THAT!!!" I cried.

     Murf gave my endorsement for President of the United States to Ross Perot!

Chapter Four.

     I was standing in my kitchen, flipping through my address book. The ghost of Butterfly Murphy was upstairs, playing an obnoxious Frank Zappa record on the stereo. I needed to talk to someone.

     The song she was playing was called, "You Didn’t Try To Call Me." It was a really dumb doo-wop song:

      You didn’t try to call me

      Why didn’t you try?

      I’m so lonely!

No matter who I take home I keep calling your name

     My finger pointed to one name in the address book after another. But I rejected every entry. My address book contained the names of lots of women I had dated, but I didn’t really know any of them well enough to confess to being haunted by the ghost of a flower child from the 60’s.

     Gad, I couldn’t believe how irritating the song emanating from the attic was! A really whiny falsetto crooned:

      Tell me, tell me who’s loving you now

      Cause it worries my mind and I can’t sleep at all

I stayed home on Friday just to wait for your call

      And you didn’t try, you didn’t try, you didn’t try

      You didn’t try to call me

     I turned to the first page of my address book. Anna’s address had changed by now, of course. I still found it hard to curb the compulsion to call her every time anything interesting happened.

     I called my old friend, Jerry, instead. He was a former flower child himself. Even if he didn’t believe me, at least he wouldn’t turn me in!

     "Hi, Jerry!" I greeted him. "What do you know?"

     Jerry didn’t say anything right away. One of the best things about my friend Jerry is he always thinks out his sentences very carefully before he speaks them.

     "The Egyptians invented scarecrows," he said dryly, finally.

     "Why?" asked I.

     "What?" Jerry said. Frank Zappa was launching into a loud guitar solo. "Do you have someone there?"

     "Yeh, sort of," I said. "In fact, it’s getting a little crowded around here. Are you doing anything right now?"

     He met me a half hour later at Dick’s Drive-In. We liked it there because of all the scenery on Broadway.

     Jerry ordered three hamburgers. I only ordered one. "I’m ten years older than you," he explained.

     My hamburger was a cheeseburger. "I asked for a hamburger, didn’t I? This is a cheeseburger."

     "You could scrape the cheese off of it," Jerry mumbled, his mouth full of food.

     "You peasant! No way!"

     Jerry held his hand out. "I’ll take it!"

     I tossed it to him. Then I reached for one of his French fries.

     "Hey!" he shouted. "Keep your hands off my food!"

     We walked over to the gravel jogging track that circles the water supply, between Howell and Pine. A big fountain bubbled in the background. Our feet crunched on the gravel as we walked. We crunched a good long ways before Jerry said, "Well, work or woman?"

     I laughed at that. It was one of those embarrassing little laughs that starts out a laugh and ends up a snort.

     At Starbucks, over a couple cups of coffee, I told him how I lost my job.

     "Wow!" Jerry said.

     "I didn’t expect you to be impressed."

     "Whatever possessed you to stop the elevator in the first place?" he asked.

     I hadn’t mentioned anything about the ghost of Butterfly Murphy.

     "Anyway, I guess I need a new job now," I finally said.

     "Hmm," Jerry said.

     Parking was so impossible on Broadway that I had parked several blocks away. Jerry drove me back to my car. Through the windshield you could see the Space Needle.

     "So, are you seeing someone, finally?" Jerry asked.

     "You could say that," I replied.

     We turned a corner by a car wash that had a big revolving neon elephant in front. It was silhouetted by a beautiful sunset.

     I turned in the car seat to face my friend. The majestic white arches of the Science Center were behind him.

     "Let me ask you something, Jerry. Suppose you saw things, you know, things most people don’t see. Like sunsets behind car washes, for instance. In fact, you saw things so differently from other people that you made it your job.

     "Then, suppose you saw something, or someone, that no one else could see, only you could. Now, are you really seeing it? Or are you just so good at looking you just think you see it?"

     Jerry pulled beside my car. "Why don’t you apply at the Seattle P.I.?" he said.

     "Thanks for the talk, Jerry," I said, as I climbed out of his car.

     I trudged up the two flights of stairs to my apartment, looking at the mail. "Bill, bill, bill," I mumbled.

     The balloons on the balcony should have tipped me off. When I walked through the door into my apartment, my shoes were replaced with quite comfortable slippers. I was wearing a crushed velvet smoking jacket. Understand something: I did not change my clothes, they were changed on me, in the wink of an eye.

     Not only that, but I had company. Seated around an elegantly laid table were a half dozen dinner guests, wearing funny hats. Although I had never met any of them before, they seemed kind of familiar.

     Before I could blink, Murf materialized at my side.

     "Surprise!" she exclaimed.

     "Ahhhhhh!" I exclaimed.

     "Relax, Roger," she whispered, motioning toward the guests, who had all turned in their seats to gaze curiously at us.

     "Who ARE these people?!?" I demanded. "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE, MURPHY?!?"

     The ghost of Butterfly Murphy was wearing a long, white evening gown and long, white gloves. Her hair was braided and arranged in an unfathomable design.

     "Isn’t that a tiger?" I insisted, pointing past her.

     "Let’s talk in the kitchen," she suggested, pulling me aside, out of earshot, supposedly, of the patiently waiting diners. One woman wore a crown on her head. Beside her sat a cowboy, lazily smoking a Marlborough.

     The ghost of Butterfly Murphy whisked me into the kitchen. We flew in there. Literally!

     "Murf!" I exploded. "I don’t like surprise parties!"

     "Would you keep your voice down," she urged me. "They can hear you."

     "Of course they can hear me!" I hollered, waving my arm. The only thing separating the kitchen from the dining room in my small apartment was an open bar.

     "Mellow out," the ghost warned me. "I was trying to do something nice for you. I thought you could use some good company. A dinner party will perk you right up!"

     I felt too embarrassed of losing my temper to drop it that easily. "Listen, Murf. I’m tired! I’ve had a long, hard day. I lost my job. I voted for Ross Perot..."

     "SO DID WE!!!" the dinner party guests shouted, in unison.

     I started to laugh. "I’m sorry I spoiled the party, Murf!" I apologized, and gave her a hug. Of course, she sank right through me.

     The ghost of Butterfly Murphy leaned against the drainboard. I wondered how come she could lean against a counter, yet my own embrace passed through her like liquid.

     "That’s okay, Rog. You’re not the only one with a problem, you know. Being a ghost is not always the barrel of laughs everyone thinks it is. I mean, granted, I can read minds, walk through doors, stop time, and so on. But I can’t get a job, or join the Navy! It is a little boring, sometimes. I do want into Heaven. Purgatory is a drag!

     "I’m supposed to do something nice for you. That’s all I’ve got to go on. So if some of my attempts seem a little desperate..."

     "Come on, then," I interrupted. I hated to see a ghost grovel. "Let’s eat!"

     It truly was an enjoyable meal. The guests were ghosts, of course, but there was a theme. Seated around the table were the Maytag Repairman, Mrs. Olsen, the Marlborough Man, and believe it or not, Tony the Tiger! They were the ghosts of old television commercials! I sat between the lady who got a crown on her head every time she ate Imperial Margarine, and the ghost of a past commercial I must have missed.

     "Who are you?" I inquired.

     "I’m the Don’t-Squeeze-The-Charmin Man," he said, smugly.

     "Have some of these hot cross buns!" Tony the Tiger roared. "They’re GREAT!"

Chapter Five.

     The next morning, I retrieved the morning newspaper from the steps and carried it to the couch. I am not a lounge-around-the-house-in-a-bathrobe kind of guy. I was dressed and shaved and savoring the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The ghost of Butterfly Murphy was up, also. At least, the sound of her stereo drifted downstairs.

     When you are out of a job, you approach the newspaper differently. The headlines don’t seem as important as when you are a working member of society. The funnies aren’t as funny, either. The only part of the paper that does matter are the classifieds.

     I dumped all but the classified ads section on the floor, and scoured the want ads. The only job listing for a photographer was at Sear’s portrait studio in a mall in south Tacoma, which not only guaranteed to be boring, but constituted an incredibly crummy commute, as well. I decided to trade in my car, instead.

     Just then a phonograph album floated across the room and stopped a foot from my face. The album cover showed a bare black and white portrait of Patti Smith, looking as ragged as a concentration camp victim. Some considered her the Priestess of Punk, because she defined a style in the Seventies that was still being adopted by bands in the Nineteen Nineties.

     "Roger, can I talk to you about something?" her voice said. She remained invisible. The Horses album hovered in front of my face.

     "Murf," I said quietly, "I can’t see you."

     "Oh, sorry," Murf apologized, materializing. "What do you think of Patti Smith, Roger?" she asked. "This album is far out!"

     "So I heard," I moaned; she had "discovered" the album at four a.m. "Tell me," I continued, "if you are so all-seeing, why haven’t you heard of Patti Smith? She made that album fifteen years ago."

     "Well, Rog, in the Afterlife the only rock and roll records allowed are by Buddy Holly, the Beatles, or Fleetwood Mac. Which reminds me, have you got any Elvis Presley records?"

     "Not now, Murf," I said, shaking my head. In my mind, I was wrestling with the fate of my BMW. "I have to trade in my car."

     The ghost brightened. "Great!" she exclaimed. "A Beemer doesn’t fit you, anyway."

     "Let’s go, then," I said. I was getting used to being haunted quite readily.

     "You go ahead, Roger," the ghost of Butterfly Murphy said, turning invisible. The album cover floated back up the stairs. "I’ll catch up with you. I want to play this record a couple more times."

     Soon I was driving down Aurora Avenue. Every conceivable fast food franchise was represented along the roadside. Drizzle dotted the windshield.

     Suddenly, I spotted Anna’s automobile. Well, I thought I did, anyway. It turned out to be someone else. I still started every time I saw a white ‘89 Miata convertible with a black top, such as Anna had driven. Every time it turned out not to be hers, I felt hurt.

     Murf’s materializing at that moment startled me very badly. I would have been less embarrassed to be observed plucking my nose hairs. "Yahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I screamed.

     "Aha!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "Aha!" she repeated, emphatically. "Indulging in the old Tan Car Syndrome, are we?"

     It upset me so much I pulled the car to the curb and parked it.

     The Tan Car Syndrome was the name we invented in college for a condition we found ourselves suffering a time or two. It’s when you break up with somebody, and every time you see their same model of automobile for a while afterwards, you think it is carrying the same person who broke your heart back into your life again. Sometimes, if you are lucky, the condition lasts less than a year.

     Back in the car, I felt very irritated with the ghost of Butterfly Murphy. I wanted her to take a flying leap at a donut, very much.

     She leaned across the seat and put her face right next to mine, so I was staring straight in the face of a spirit. It was a very uncomfortable sensation, let me assure you.

     Murf had an unsettling way of settling arguments. She would just disappear. So I started the car and drove further down Aurora Avenue.

     Before us were half a dozen used car lots. We chose Friendly Fred’s Foreign Auto, because it had most flapping flags and the brightest neon sign.

     No sooner had I pulled into the parking lot, than a man ran up to welcome me. The used car salesman was wearing plaid pants, and an orange blazer.

     "Hello, Pilgrim," he said, extending his hand. "My name’s Abe." He seemed sincere.

     Murf was still invisible. That left it up to me to deal with the used car salesman.

     First he showed me a Cadilac.

     "I don’t think so," I said. "Too big."

     Next Abe showed me an MG.

     "Nope. Too small."

     Then he showed me a tall four-wheel-drive truck. It had the wheels raised so high you had to pull yourself up a couple yards to the cab.

     "These are very popular ," Abe insisted.

     "Uhn uh..." I said. "A truck like this would sure be handy if you had a glacier running through your neighborhood, though."

     Abe grinned tightly. "Say, you’re a bit of a kidder, aren’t you?," he asked, condescendingly. "Isn’t that a hoot, though!"

     Just then, a shiny red Volkswagen bug drove up to where we were standing. The ghost of Butterfly Murphy was driving it. Of course, only I could see that.

     Murf swung open the passenger door. "Get in, Roger!" she called.

     Abe, the used car salesman, did not understand exactly what was happening. As quick as I could, I slammed the car door shut.

     "I’ll take it!" I said, stunning him a little, I hoped.

     The ghost of Butterfly Murphy really helped with negotiating the trade in. Abe and I were standing on the asphalt used car lot under the Friendly Fred’s marquee, stalled on the price, when Murf walked up to the Volkswagen.

     She let the air out of one tire, made both headlights fall off, and short circuited the electrical system so that the brake lights started blinking, the radio began to play, and the horn went beep, beep, beep.

     I offered eleven hundred dollars, which Abe accepted without argument. In fact, he had stopped talking entirely.

     "Are you all right, Abe?" I asked. "You are as pale as a ghost."

     We still had the trade in to work out. Murf moseyed up to Abe, and whispered in his ear.

     "What will you take for this beauty?" Abe asked, his face twitching.

     "Oh, eight or nine thousand," I suggested, which is what the Beemer was honestly worth. Murf whispered in the used car salesman’s ear again. A worried expression played across Abe’s face. Sweat beaded his pale brow.

     "I don’t see any problem with that," he stammered.

     It didn’t take long to sign the papers. Soon we were driving home in a nice shiny 1972 Super Beetle. It’s engine made a pleasant putt-putt sound. The cab was so compact, it seemed like our faces filled the windshield.

     "Are you sure we didn’t break a law or something?" I asked. An abandoned gas station that had a concrete roof shaped like a Stetson hat passed by my window.

     "Oh, I’m sure," she said. "That’s the only way to get a fair deal from those guys."

     We drove another block in silence.

     "Can I drive?" she asked.

     "No way!"

Chapter Six.

     "Hey, Murf!" I hollered. I was standing in the foyer, facing the telephone table.

     The ghost of Butterfly Murphy materialized in a shower of sparkling light. "Ta-da!" she chorused, doing a few soft shoe steps.

     "Well, I’m glad I got you in a good mood," I said in a haughty tone. "Murf, my answering machine has zero messages. I haven’t had a single message in a week."

     Murf put her fingertips to her temples, and squeezed her eyes shut. "Wait!" she insisted, "I divine a thought. You are anxious, perhaps, whether a certain ex-sweetheart left an urgent plea via telephone?"

     She was dead right, of course. I did still check the answering machine several times a day in case Anna called. I had to admit, Murf was a mean mind reader. But I wasn’t going to admit it to her.

     "I don’t appreciate your playing with my answering machine," I insisted, stubbornly.

     "But, Roger, I adore the answering machine," pooh-poohed Murf.

     "I would rather answer my own messages, if you don’t mind. I didn’t hire you to be my secretary. Doesn’t this constitute an invasion of privacy, or something?"

     "Invasion of privacy?" the ghost repeated. "Are you serious? Roger, you are being haunted. You have no privacy!"

     "Well, when you put it like that..." I conceded. You could argue with Murphy until you were blue in the face, and not get anywhere. If she started losing an argument, she’d fade out on you. Maybe I was learning something, after all.

     "Have there been any messages?" I asked, as politely as possible.

     "Yes, as a matter of fact. Your mother called. Twice. She wants to know if you are coming home for Thanksgiving. Are we? You have an overdue library book, naughty boy! And, you didn’t forget, did you? You have a date tonight. Jennifer."

     "Oh, no." I had forgotten.

     "Her voice sounds nice," Murf said.

     "Right," I replied.

     "You need to get out more, Roger."

     "Sure," I said.

     "Roger, your reticence is really exasperating!" exclaimed the ghost.

     "I’ve got to dress," I said, reminding myself to look up reticence in the dictionary when I got to my bedroom.

     I sighed as I pulled on my socks. With a few simple sentences I could have explained a lot of things. Although I had passed the stage where I didn’t want to go out in case, in my absence, Anna called, I was finding it hard to accept the cold realization that Anna wouldn’t call tonight, or any night. The prospect of dating depressed me, because I didn’t believe I could ever have as much fun as I had in Anna’s company. To tell the truth, I didn’t want anyone to get close enough to my heart to hurt me ever, ever again.

     A dent appeared on the edge of the bed next to where I was sitting. I smelled the scent of Murphy’s hair. A small, gift-wrapped package floated into my hands.

     As I unwrapped the present, Murf’s voice came out of nowhere. She said, "Don’t worry, Roger. Everything will be all right. If you need me tonight, you can call me with this."

     I stared at the object in my fingers. I wasn’t sure what she meant. In my hand I held a plastic Pez candy dispenser. If I wasn’t mistaken, it had the head of our current First Lady, Hillary Rodham Clinton.

     I love Broadway after dark. Sure, it has gotten sort of seedy, but Capital Hill’s main drag is still pretty glitzy. It was funny — the street people were either faded flower people (you couldn’t call them children any more), or young people dressed in flower child castoffs, which was for some reason the latest fashion trend in Seattle. I wished Murf were there, which was worrisome, because I was walking down the sidewalk with a real live person.

     I was walking with Jennifer, who was wearing a variation of the street peoples’ wardrobe, which had come from Nordy’s Rack.

     We had met a few weeks previously at a revival of Lawrence of Arabia. She smiled at me as I passed her seat, and I knew somehow, as the lights dimmed and the life of D.H. Lawrence rolled by, that I would see her again after the show.

     Since then, we had been to two more movies. This time she’d insisted we see Ghost.

     "Why do they always have to have the bad guy impaled at the end of so many movies lately?" she commented.

     We had walked past three storefronts in a row which all had NOW SERVING EXPRESSO signs in their windows.

     "That was an interesting movie, all right. I kept wondering why he didn’t leave his poor grieving widow alone!"

     "Ha! Ha!" she said. I had noticed that Jennifer said "Ha! Ha!" to practically everything I said. "It was so romantic!" She also spoke as if there were at least one underlined word in every sentence.

     "Oh!" she bubbled, "I adore Patrick Swa-zee! I wouldn’t know how to say no if he asked me to bed!"

     I laughed. Then she laughed. I wasn’t sure if she was hinting at something, or not.

     "I think were getting pretty familiar, pretty fast, for our third date!" I joked. I even underlined some words in my sentence for her.

     "Ha! Ha!" she said again. I wasn’t sure if she got it or not. I looked down at the sidewalk; there were brass footsteps imbedded in the cement that taught the tango.

     "Do you want to go someplace really great for coffee?" Jenny suggested.

     The next thing I knew, she was digging in her purse for the keys to her apartment building.

     "Say," I said over her shoulder. "Is this where you meant the great coffee was? Well, you sure have nice marble steps. This building is a brownstone, isn’t it?"

     I kept the commentary up as we went up the stairs to her apartment. "Boy, they don’t build them like this any more." That kind of thing. I felt like I’d been out of the dating scene a little too long.

     Jennifer’s apartment was impeccably kept. She was an even neater housekeeper than Murf, who merely blinked her messes away.

     "Would you like a drink?" she asked. "Or soda? Tea?" She thought about the contents of her cupboards a second. "Coffee?"

     "I like coffee a lot," I volunteered.

     "Really?" she marveled. "I like coffee, too!

     "Well, I don’t like to drink it," she added, hastily, "but I adore the aroma!"

     Then she gave me another one of those long looks she had been giving me all evening, those kind of inviting looks people give you, like you are in on a little secret with them.

     I had seen that look enough times with other women to know I could have crossed the room and kissed her and had somebody to sleep with that night. I had a notion I could have spent the night there on a regular basis, if I wanted to. Which is what stopped me. I didn’t like her that much. Maybe I liked her too much. Anyway, I wasn’t really ready for romance, just then.

     At that moment, I was tempted to use Murf’s signaling device. Even a medical excuse would have probably been better than the truth.

     "Nice couch!" I said, nervously, flopping myself down. I sunk deep in the soft cushions. "Sit down beside me, Jennifer. There’s something I want to talk to you about."

     Jenny sat down and leaned toward me. Her eyes looked deep in my soul. She let her perfume work on me a moment, then she took my hand and said, "Roger, you can tell me anything."

     Playing for time, I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out the Pez dispenser Murf had given me as a signaling device.

     "What is that?" she sang, totally charmed.

     "It’s a Pez dispenser," I answered nervously.

     "Jeepers," she said. "I didn’t know they had one with Hillary Clinton yet."

     I put the Pez dispenser back in my pocket. It freed my hands, at least. So I could wring them. I didn’t want to tell her what I had to tell her.

     "Anyway, there is something I should probably (pause) tell you before we go any (slightly longer pause) further."

     "Roger," she said sensibly, "why don’t you let me put some water on?"

     I had to give her credit. She was being very nice to me. I was acting like an oaf. I could have taken some comfort at Jenny’s place, but there was something too comfy about the situation. Maybe it was the way, I noticed as I stood and crossed the living room to the kitchen, she had her teddy bears arranged on the other end of the couch, like they were her best friends, or something.

     "You know, Jenny," I said, leaning my head through the kitchen portal, "I’m a haunted man."

     Jennifer was lifting the steaming tea kettle off the front burner of the stove. Two matching mugs prepared to share a tea bag. "You’re a haunted man?" she repeated.

     "This is going to sound a little silly," I began, and stopped.

     Jennifer smiled encouragingly. It is never nice to tell another person that you like them a little less than they like you.

     "Let me begin again. You see, I have a ghost in my house. I am being haunted by the ghost of a girl I knew twenty years ago. I am not completely unhappy with the arrangement..."

     Jenny was dipping a dripping tea bag up and down in the space between the two teacups. She was suddenly wearing a wary expression I had not seen on her before.

     "A ghost?" Jennifer repeated. "You are haunted by a ghost?"

     "To put it in kinder terms, a fallen angel," I amended.

     "Roger," she finally said, "this is a little weird."

     She flung open the front door and motioned me unceremoniously outside. This was, of course, after calling me a lamo, a sicko, and a latent homo.

     "No, wait!" I jabbered. "I’m not a serial killer! I’m serious! You want proof? Boy, I’ve got proof, all right," I explained, fumbling frantically in my pants pocket. "This is no ordinary Pez machine!" I proclaimed, brandishing the plastic candy dispenser like a sword.

     Jennifer slammed the door shut in my face. I realized what I was saying probably did sound a little weird.

     A lot later, I was walking home alone through Pioneer Square, a scenic section of town with big brick buildings about a hundred years old. There was dew covering the cobblestones in a courtyard I crossed, which in the darkness made it look like a field of marshmallows.

     Just then I remembered the Pez dispenser and pulled it out of my pocket. I stopped under an ornate iron street lamp and tilted Hillary Rodham Clinton’s head back to take a piece of candy. It tasted a little like orange, a little like dishwater.

     The fog in front of me seemed to rearrange itself, and Murf materialized. The ghost of Butterfly Murphy flew toward me in the mist, the bottom of her body trailing behind like a flag blowing in the breeze, before becoming feet, as she landed.

     "Hi, Roger!" she said, simply, and walked with me the rest of the way home.

Chapter Seven.

     "It’s good to get out of the city, isn’t it?" I asked, as we bombarded down the highway in our VW Beetle.

     Murf had been right. The VW was a better car than the BMW. Mine had a brand new engine in it, a loud stereo, and a shiny coat of paint. It used less fuel, was easier to park, and seemed peppier than the Beemer.

     Murf was playing one of Neil Young’s CD’s, so we had to holler everything above the scream of electric guitar sounds. I always liked it when she waxed philosophical about her favorite rock stars. She rhapsodized over Neil Young almost the whole drive home. She called him a national treasure, the greatest American since Walt Whitman. At my age, I didn’t know that many Neil Young enthusiasts.

     When Murf was alive she attended rock and roll concerts constantly. She had seen everybody, from the Beatles on down to Bowie. Once she even rode on Jethro Tull’s tour bus!

     I exited the freeway with a feeling of exuberance. It felt good to be going back to my hometown. I always enjoyed the windy highway through the thick evergreen forests that led to the coast. Although the ghost of Butterfly Murphy volunteered to blink us there, I opted for the four hour drive, instead. I enjoyed the scenery.

     I hadn’t been home in a while. Although it was still a small town, Long Beach was a lot different from the small seaside resort I’d grown up in. Everyone I went to school with were a lot older, had kids of their own, or moved away to towns with brighter lights. My own parents were in their seventies. The whole world had changed, I reflected.

     "You know, Murf," I shouted, above the clang of "Come On Baby Let’s Go Downtown" and the four cylinder engine, "when I was a kid, I promised myself I would never get so old, that I would talk about when I was kid."

     The ghost of Butterfly Murphy floated six inches above her bucket seat, her legs locked in the lotus position. "Far out!" she said, her eyes sparkling in the soft sunlight.

     The road was lined with dense groves of alder trees, which sun shone through in a way that reminded me of the strobe lights they used at psychedelic concerts in the Sixties. It went well with the jangling music that was playing. As the miles rolled past, bringing me back to my hometown, memories of growing up flashed through my mind. By the time I pulled into my parents driveway, I was humming "Home Sweet Home", happily.

     My parents lived in the same rambling weathered beach house I grew up in. Mom and Dad ran right out the front door onto the lawn to greet me. Their dog, Dimples, a Dalmatian, ran around the driveway, barking. I could see my older sister, Olive, waving her hand out the window on the second floor.

     I ran up the stone steps that lead from the driveway to the yard and hugged my Mom. Then she pushed me back with her strong, boney arms, and looked me over. Under Murf’s influence, I was growing my hair longer, and my clothing was quite casual.

     "Love beads, Roger?" my mother admonished me, seeing the string of brightly colored beads around my neck. "Isn’t that a little blasé?"

     My dad, meanwhile, was walking around the Volkswagen, inspecting it with a serious, suspicious expression. I had a feeling I would get a lecture about American made automobiles before the holiday was through. Dad’s hair was white, almost silver.

     For a moment there, I was afraid the dog would give us away. Murf, invisible to everyone except me, leaned on the Beetle’s front fender, tearing up over our tender family reunion. Maybe dogs see souls, or something, because the Dalmatian took to the ghost of Butterfly Murphy right off.

     Dimples jumped up and down in front of Murf, and ran around and around and even through her legs, whimpering gleefully. Murf bent down to pet Dimples, and the dumb dog vaulted into the ghost’s arms. I swept Dimples from Murf’s embrace, nearly losing my balance trying to hold up the wriggling, near delirious dog.

     Both my parents were looking at me when this happened. They continued to stare at me. I put the dazed Dalmatian down and rumpled the hair on her head a little.

     "Aw," I murmured, "I’m glad to see you too, Dimples!"

     Then my dad and I bickered over who could carry more of the suitcases stacked in the back seat upstairs, and he kidded me as he always does about the amount of baggage I’d brought for such a short stay. As Dad and I struggled up the steps with my luggage, my Mom followed, worrying already about my joblessness. No one noticed my tennis racquet and a lumpy laundry bag float up the steps behind us, followed by the adoring, tail-wagging Dalmatian.

     So there we were, my mom, my dad, my sister, and me, sitting around the old kitchen table, drinking wretchedly weak coffee. Dimples slumbered on the floor. Murphy hovered above us in a horizontal position, parallel to the chandelier, like she was laying on a lounge.

     "This is great!" I exclaimed. "It’s good to be home!"

     "Welcome home, Timmy!" my sister Olive said, in the same voice June Lockhart used at the end of Lassie when the collie brought the little boy back. My Pollyannaism was a popular target in our family.

     My mom patted my shoulder and put down a piece of poundcake. "Now, stop that!" she admonished us siblings.

     My dad, meanwhile, was lecturing about the problem with the Common Market, or something, his deep voice droning in the background while everyone else carried on their own conversations, at the same time. We were once again that entity known as the Davenport clan.

     Suddenly Olive said, "Wait! Did you hear that? I thought I heard somebody laughing..."

     Dad and I were doing the dishes.

     "I have a new system," he said.

     "That’s a good one," I started to say, but Dad shushed me.

     "Segregate your silverware," he insisted. "That way, you can grab a whole handful of forks for the fork compartment, or spoons for the spoo..."

     "I get it, Dad. I sure wish you’d streamlined the dishwashing procedure before now. I spend eighteen years indentured to the Old System."

     Mom and I were seated on the sofa. Mom was on one end of the couch, reading The New Yorker. A pile of ravaged candy bar wrappers separated us. I was reading an Ann Tyler novel, which I held in my right hand. But every once in a while I would glance at the book open in my left hand, and turn a page. The ghost of Butterfly Murphy, of course, occupied the other end of the couch. She was slogging through Pilgrim’s Progress.

     Mom looked at me over her bifocals. "Are you really reading both books at once?"

     "Yeh," I said, "they sort of balance each other out."

     "Makes sense," she nodded, returning to her magazine.

     Olive was making a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. Dimples, the Dalmatian, was watching her.

     Just around the corner from the kitchen was a hall closet, where coats were kept. Olive was about to pour milk over her Rice Krispies when the door of the hall closet squeaked open, and then quietly clicked closed.

     Dimples padded out in the hall and sniffed outside the coat closet inquisitively.

     Olive put the milk carton back down and tiptoed into the hallway. The dog was dancing eagerly in front of the coat closet door, her toenails tapping on the linoleum floor, as if it were walkies time. Muted thumps emanated from inside.

     Olive jerked the door open. The ghost of Butterfly Murphy was dressing for a walk on the beach. For a split second, a yellow raincoat, a pair of hip boots, and an Admiral’s hat hung suspended in the air, as if clothing an invisible mannequin. Then the clothes dropped to the floor in a heap.

     Dimples did a double take.

     "Dad?" Olive called, cautiously. "Mommy?!?"

     Thanksgiving morning dawned sunny. The soothing sound of the surf droned tranquilly through the open window of my bedroom on the third floor of our old beach house. I had passed a sumptuously peaceful night of sleep in my boyhood bed. A delicious odor drifted up the stairs from the kitchen, where my mom was already busy preparing the turkey for tonight’s feast. Could I have been more cozy?

     I looked at the bedside table. A model stage coach that I made in the Cub Scouts still stood beside the lamp. Gee, it looked cute.

     I sighed happily and glanced over at the guest bed. There was an indent on the pillow and bedspread, about the size of a slumbering Butterfly Murphy. Dimples was sawing logs at the foot of the bed.

     "Okay, you guys!" I called, merrily. "Rise and shine!"

     Dimples, the ghost of Butterfly Murphy, and I raced down three flights of stairs and burst into the kitchen. My mom stood at the chopping block, her hands sunk deep in a bowl of gooey turkey stuffing. Dad sat at the breakfast table, eating a piece of toast, The Oregonian opened to the editorials.

     "My goodness!" Mom exclaimed, wringing her fingers free of the sticky mixture. "You made enough noise coming downstairs for several people!"

     I loved the luxury of my parent’s kitchen. It had a red tiled floor that was cool to walk barefoot on. Copper pots and pans of all shapes and sizes hung from hooks in the bare brown brick walls. The wooden cabinets, the dinner dishes, the toaster — I knew them well. We had, after all, grown up together.

     I opened the refrigerator and leaned inside. "Wow! Look at all the loot!" I marveled.

     I took a pitcher of orange juice off one of the stuffed shelves and carried it to the counter. Then I got a cup out of the china cabinet. While my back was turned a bowl of Jell-O floated out of the fridge, and I think the ghost of Butterfly Murphy might have floated it right out of the room if I hadn’t caught it!

     "About the only thing you see when you open the refrigerator in my apartment is the light bulb," I quipped, recovering.

     "Oh, you bachelors!" my mom laughed.

     "Shut the ice box, for crying out loud!" my dad yelled, rattling his newspaper. "You’ll let all the electricity out!"

     "Oh, George!" Mom laughed harder, sticking huge handfuls of turkey dressing in the body cavity of the big bare bird.

     "I’ll be right back, Rog," the ghost of Butterfly Murphy said in a voice only I heard. Then she walked right through the front door, without opening it first, which I could never get used to.

     "So tell me, Mr. Bachelor," my mom addressed me, "are you seeing someone special?"

     "Well, sort of seeing someone," I said, haltingly. "Nobody in particular, though," I amended. "You know."

     My mother walked to the sink and rinsed off her hands. I knew the question was coming a split second before she inquired, "Have you heard anything from Anna?"

     Murf burst back through the front door. "Come on, Roger!" she cried. "It’s a beautiful day outside!"

     "Say," I said, rounding up my coat and sneakers, "I think I’ll take a little tour around town. Gotta work up an appetite for that turkey tonight! Come on, Dimples — walkies!"

     Unable to face up to my parents, ashamed of my inability to maintain a rewarding relationship for more than five or six months at a time, and not particularly hungry, I fled home. Olive watched me walking to the car from her bedroom window, which was on the second floor, overlooking the driveway. I appeared to be talking to myself.

     "When am I ever going to grow up?" I was asking Butterfly Murphy’s ghost. "How come every time our family choose to celebrate a national holiday in this house, everyone reverts to some strange, perverted, prescribed pecking order within eight hours of our convening?!?"

     Olive’s eyebrows arched up over her downcast eyes, first in puzzlement, then alarm. As I assumed my position in the drivers seat, the car door on the passenger side opened all by itself. Dimples scrambled into the back seat. Then the car doors slammed shut. Even though the sound was muffled from the distance, Olive distinctly heard two car doors. She smiled smugly and shook her head.

     "Yep," she said. "Dos."

     Long Beach looked different. The small, sleepy seaside town I remembered from childhood had changed.

     I drove down the Ridge Road, so named because it ran parallel to the Pacific Ocean. More and more houses and motels clotted the coastline than ever before. Stop signs had been installed in places where none were needed in the past. Everything was all asphalt.

     The city council had evidently voted in favor of placing stop signs every two blocks. We lurched toward town, never getting out of second gear. This stop/go approach to transportation was not improving my disposition, either.

     "It’s a conspiracy!" I cried. "We didn’t need street numbers on houses when I was growing up. Heck, you could ask anybody for directions anywhere because everybody knew everyone else!"

     "Roger, I hate to say this, but you are starting to sound an awful lot like your dad," Murf suggested, regardless.

     That hurt.

     We screeched to a halt at a traffic light.

     "This is ridiculous!" I shouted, pounding the steering wheel. "It’s nine o’clock in the morning! There isn’t any other traffic! The only thing we’re likely to collide with is a seagull!"

     Our car puttered at the stop light. We were where the Ridge Road bisects the gravel beach approach. If you looked around in a circle you would see sand dunes, a few pine trees, the ocean, and what little there was of the town. The beach was beautiful, but before I could get a good look the traffic light changed and I had to drive forward again.

     We drove past a lot of tourist stuff — a go-cart track, tee-shirt shops, burger stands, bumper cars, a carousel with antique wooden horses. A tall white water tower rose above the rooftops.

     "When we were in high school, Ricky Eaton, Mike Slagle, and I climbed all the way to the top of that tower and painted a big Batman symbol on the side. It took two gallons of black paint! The police put a fifty dollar reward on our heads."

     We passed a patio golf course, and a hardware store, that was now a video store. "Hey, Murf," I said, "want to see the Eighth Wonder of the World?"

     "What’s that?" asked the spirit.

     "The World’s Largest Frying Pan," I explained. "It’s fifty feet tall. Stands in the Town Square. The pioneers used it for festive clam fries."

     But it wasn’t in the Town Square, and we had to drive up and down Main Street a couple times before we did find the historical monument. The World’s Largest Frying Pan had been demoted to a corner of the elementary school baseball field. It didn’t seem to tower as tall as I remembered, either.

     On the edge of town we saw a large lot that had been bulldozed flat. A big billboard said: ANOTHER MCDONALD’S GOING IN HERE!

     "This is terrible!" I whined. "Do you know what used to be here?"

     "Yes, as a ghost I can see both the past and the future..." Murf began.

     "This used to be a llama farm!" I interrupted. "A grassy green pasture where a llama herd grazed. I used to ride my bike here to hear them humming!"

     "Humming?" Murf repeated.

     "Llamas hum when they are happy and content. They hum when they are agitated, also. They seem to take comfort in the sound. It’s a nice noise, a herd of humming llamas."

     We both listened a second, as if we expected to hear the humming herd.

     "I’ve got an idea," I said, shifting gears. "Let’s go to the lighthouse. That’s got to be unchanged!"

     A seagull cannonballed through the clouds and soared out over the bright blue water toward the coastline.

     Towering, jagged cliffs met the Pacific Ocean with a powerful pounding of crashing, surging breakers. At the top of the tallest bluff stood North Head Lighthouse, a welcome beacon to travelers of the deep.

     The seagull flew straight up the sheer side of the tall cement tower, then looped lazily around and red roof, and spiraled slowly down the straight, white walls over our heads. We stood, the ghost of Butterfly Murphy, Dimples, and me, at the base of the building. I had to keep a hold of Butterfly’s hand, because the sudden gusts of wind whooshed her away a couple of times.

     We hiked down to a little ledge that let us stick out further over the ocean. It was probably about a mile in the sky, which was sort of scary, and kind of a kick, all at the same time.

     "This is my favorite place in the whole world!" I enthused. The wind whipped my wor