A spooky love of barbecue
When he was a living, breathing creature, nobody paid much mind to Fred.
In his 36 years on planet Earth, he’d attended more than a few parties, mostly invitations from well-meaning co-workers at his accounting firm. A few flirtations here and there, sure, but once he started in on 401(k) plans or capital gains, eyes glazed over.
When he first set his eyes on her at his favorite barbecue joint, all thoughts of finances were tossed aside as quickly as short ribs gnawed to the bone.
She seemed destined to appear here and there in his life: He was quite certain he’d caught a glimpse of her when he was rushing across Kansas City International Airport to pick up his sister and her brood. And he’d spotted his dark-haired beauty at one of his favorite haunts (so to say), the Olathe Memorial Cemetery, drifting from one gravestone to the next, pausing with respect at each one.
His true passions in life were clearly shared by this Kansas City native, and that would be the rich history of 19th century Kansas City, and what the city was known for now. Barbecue.
On this day she was dining on a platter filled with the very finest – from short ribs to brisket, pickle nestled atop toasted bread.
She grinned up at him, sauce slightly smeared across her chin.
Her grin seemed to say, join me. What guts it would take to say hello. Fred took the chair opposite her and ordered the daily special, the rib platter.
Oddly, she seemed to flicker in and out of his vision. She was there and then, in a blink, she was gone.
In his final moments, gazing at the last bite of a brisket sandwich, he wondered what happened. In the end – and it was – he figured it could have been his fault. Call it a passion for burnt ends and short ribs. Call it the curse of genetics. All 307 pounds of Fred felt a sharp pain in his chest, and the next thing he knew he was floating above a crowd at his own funeral. Aside from his parents and his sister, who was chasing after her three small children, few seemed to mourn Fred.
It was mid-October, prime barbecue season, when Fred was pulled from his nirvana.
Stuck between Earth and a place he could only imagine would be bliss, he tried to fit in as a quintessential ghost on a quest to find his brown-eyed, sloppy-faced dream girl. The one he now knew was not of the old world he once plodded through.
He had a few strikes against him. First, he was bit young to be hanging with some of the famous ghosts in Kansas City. To them he was an upstart, and there’s nothing like being snubbed by a ghost to humble a man. Or whatever he was.
Frankly, if Fred were a jack-o-lantern, he would have been carved by a child’s hand. Standard features, pleasant but bland look (think triangle eyes, turn the triangle upside down for a nose, crooked grin).
This was new territory and he was ready to finally give that face some character. And find his woman. But how?
No, he would not do anything to change his features, her smile had said I like you just the way you are.
Because during Fred’s life he was a very organized, conservative kind of guy he put his brain to work listing all the familiar places he had seen her: 1) the barbeque joint, 2) the Kansas City International Airport, 3) the Olathe Memorial Cemetery. Had she been there only because he was there? Was she stalking him? Was the platter of ribs an enticing “come on”? Could she have known that would push Fred over the edge? He had to find her.
Being a ghost of a young age, it was hard to recognize some of the other ghosts who had lived in Kansas and Missouri. His love of history helped somewhat. He remembered the Union Station Massacre and Quantrill’s raids on Lawrence and Olathe. So many dying a violent death. Had this woman been one of the victims? He had to find her.
Stopping at the Clock Tower in downtown Overland Park he found a ghost who had died during Quantrill’s raid on Olathe. Fred described his woman and inquired if the man knew her. He said he knew a lady of that description who lived in Westport but didn’t know where she could be now. He had been around since 1862 but had not seen her.
Fred then headed for the Mahaffie House in Olathe. Mahaffie House was a stopover for stage coaches traveling the Oregon/California Trail. There the passengers could rest and get a meal. Approaching J. Beatty Mahaffie who was in the barn doing the daily chores, as he did when on this earth, Fred described his woman and asked if she could have been on one of the stages that stopped there. He was directed to his wife who was hovering over the old cooking stove where many meals had been prepared for weary stage passengers. Lucinda Mahaffie remembered a woman of that description who told her she was going to California to open a barbeque place. However, it never happened. The woman was killed when Indians attacked the stage on its way out of town.
Leaving Mahaffie House, Fred decided to check the Olathe Memorial Cemetery. At the cemetery he found a grave with a wooden marker that read: Unknown -- Killed by Indians on the Oregon/ California stage. Yes! He was making progress!
As he turned around to leave he heard a voice say. “Are you looking for me?”
There she stood but not as the beauty Fred had envisioned. Her disfigured body was grotesquely twisted making her head appear on backwards. The black hair previously noted by Fred as beautiful was now stringy, covering most of her face exposing one eye out of socket and her teeth dripping with barbeque sauce.
Fred stumbled back, shocked. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. Whipping out a lighted torch she flung it at Fred. Fred was quickly engulfed in flames, all 307 pounds of him.
The woman smiled. Now where did she put the Gates Barbeque Sauce?
This story was originally published October 27, 2015 at 2:01 PM with the headline "A spooky love of barbecue."