Are Ghosts Naked?

By Greg Karraker

As a kid, I was a huge fan of Jean Shepherd, and his warm, fuzzy, nostalgia-drenched stories, with their gently warped sense of humor. Years later, I was more of a P.J. O'Rourke and David Sedaris kind of fan, because they put a bit more bite behind their chuckles. So here, with a nod to those three class clowns who thankfully never outgrew being class clowns, are two dozen microstories. Each one takes about as long to read as it takes to listen to a doo-wop song. And this will never be an audiobook, so you won't have to listen to any of my off-key singing. Some of these stories dive into oddities that include the hidden spiritual connection between being pooped on by a seagull and winning the lottery, two crazed Russians at a bachelor party fighting like wet cats, selected rants about ostentatious foodies and overpriced naming consultants, and dumb questions like "Do clouds die?" and of course, the title story. The Amazon Book Description tool says I have 3077 characters left to write here, so let me list a few of the celebrities who have not read this book, to the best of my knowledge: Donald Trump, Kim Jong Un, Donald Duck, Ronald McDonald, Kim Kardashian, Kanye West, Adam West, Bruce Wayne, Fiorello LaGuardia, Boss Tweed, Eleanor Roosevelt, Laura Bush, Mrs. Doubtfire, Mrs. Butterworth, or Camilla Parker-Bowles. An unconfirmed rumor has Jenny Craig downloading a sample at a Southwest gate, but my sources say her flight was called before she could complete the download.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Karraker
• Release date: Dec 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393812432

Book preview

ARE GHOSTS NAKED?

Odd stories, off-plumb opinions, and questions that didn’t really need to be asked.

By

Greg Karraker

© 2015 Greg Karraker

All Rights Reserved

For Kathryn, who has given me the best 38 years... and counting...of my life

Jerry and the Smurfs

HE LOOKED LIKE ABRAHAM Lincoln; probably 40 years old, maybe shorter, but the pipecleaner thin body, black beard and hollow cheeks were the same. Every night about 7, he would sit down at the bar, ask Michael for a Bud, then drink it straight out of the longneck bottle almost as slowly as it had been brewed.

He would also ask for four quarters, leave three for a tip, and take the fourth over to the Smurf Machine. At least that’s what I called it. It was a novelty game of the sort you’d find in a state fair or small-time carnival; one of those machines with a giant claw at the top, controlled by two levers sticking out of its side.

The purpose of the game was simple. Feed the thing your quarters while you tried to pick up one of the stuffed toys inside with the giant claw, and maneuver it to a tiny chute that was just big enough for the prize to squeeze through.

The toys ranged in scale from purple and yellow Teletubbies the size of Barbie to cat-sized blue Smurfs with Don King hair to an Energizer bunny that was at least two feet tall. Jerry always went straight for the bunny.

For degree of difficulty, flying a helicopter is comparable. That act has been described as holding a stick in each hand, and keeping a plate spinning on each stick while your feet are playing hopscotch beneath you.

Or like being able to actually draw something with an Etch-A-Sketch.

This is why none of the customers of the bar, which had red-flocked wallpaper slowly peeling at the seams, and a hundred years of stale beer smell in its duckboards, even thought about taking on The Smurf Machine.

Every night at 7:15, like clockwork, Jerry would drop a quarter in the illuminated red slot, finesse the levers for less than two minutes, and drop the rabbit down the chute with the precision of a smart bomb.

Jerry would then march his prize over to Michael, or whatever bartender was on shift, who would exchange the rabbit for a $20 bill, then store it beneath the bar. I saw this happen a number of times before I asked Michael what was going on. He explained to me what everyone else in the bar already knew.

Jerry is alcoholic and partly retarded. He lives about three blocks away, in a small, furnished apartment, which his father pays for. His father also owns the bar.  If, every night at 7, Jerry is sober enough to pick up the bunny with the claw, he gets his $20 allowance for Bud, Pall Malls, and Chow Mein at the Chinese restaurant next door.

If he can’t pick up the bunny, he knows it’s time to call it a night.

This is the way his father has taken care of him for the last ten years.

Love doesn’t always look like you think it does.

Food

THE WORST DINNER I ever had, for many reasons, was at a restaurant in Manhattan named Aureole. The idea of naming an upscale dining establishment after a nipple was silly enough, but their oversized menu elevated pretentiousness to a spectacular level.

One of the appetizers presented for my consideration was Warm Sheep’s Cheese on Crisp Lentil Cake. When I described this item to a friend a few days later, he rightly pointed out that this was one of those unique phrases whose bullshit quotient rose exponentially with the addition of each precious word.

Read that item a few times slowly, and see if you concur.

Foodie culture is like that:  They’re obsessed with the way a series of words will play on a menu, and driven to be the first establishment to offer that particular creation. 

When you consider that human beings and their foodstuffs have coexisted for nearly