Certifiable love

....This was new territory, and he was ready to finally give that face some character. And find his woman. But how?

Fred had been asking himself the question all day as he paced about his old office at Spaten and Fletcher on the seventh floor of the Darth Vader Building. The office was the only place he had now; his sister had sold his house, but at least his name, Fletcher, was still on the front door of his business.

He was alone in the office except for Stan Spaten, his partner in the firm, who typed steadily while glancing between three monitors and several stacks of client records. Stan, a small, thin, man, who, with a patchy goatee and a widow’s peak that would scare Edmund Hillary, looked the type to be cast as the Devil in a church play, if the director wanted to make the Devil look particularly silly.

Fred was jealous of the man, having something to do, somewhere to be, even if it was paperwork a Saturday. Dying wasn’t so bad, once you learned that you’d live through it. But what to do now, about his mystery woman? Here he was, a sad sack among the spirits, and all the while the love of his life was somewhere out there in Kansas City. “What can I do?” he asked aloud.

“You could try to get some work done,” said Stan. “These returns aren’t going to amend themselves.”

Fred’s jaw dropped. “You can hear me? Can you see me? But how?”

Stan shrugged. “A lot of tax accountants can talk to ghosts. I think it has something to do with the whole ‘Life’s Two Certainties’ thing; if you can understand tax law, the mysteries of death itself are a breeze in comparison. But why are you here? Shouldn’t you be moving on, going into the light, Pearly Gates, all that?”

“Oh, I had the chance, but they’ll let you stick around if you can make a case for it. I have too much unfinished business.”

“I’ll say,” said Stan, looking forlornly at the stack of unfinished tax returns.

“Not taxes, Stan. Love. The thing that makes life worth living... er, you know what I mean. I saw the woman of my dreams, and I’m not moving on until I tell her how I feel.”

“No offense buddy, but you’re kind of an ineligible bachelor.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” shouted Fred. When he did, the lights dimmed, papers blew around the office, and Stan’s third monitor emitted a shower of sparks before the screen shattered. Fred stared in amazement. “Was that me?”

“Yes,” said Stan, emerging from underneath his desk. “You need to be careful with your emotions; they affect things in the material world. Look, if I help you talk to this woman, do you promise to calm down? I can’t have you going all Jacob Marley on me during filing season.”

“It’s a deal.”

They started where Fred had first seen his love, the Olathe Memorial Cemetery. She was there, walking among the tombstones, laying roses at some of them.

“Go talk to her,” said Fred. “You’ve got to tell her how I feel.”

“I didn’t become an accountant because I wanted to talk to people,” said Stan.

“You’ll do fine.” Fred pushed Stan in the direction of his love.

She turned to look at the stumbling man. “Um, hello,” she said.

“Stan Spaten, CPA,” he said, holding out his card. Fred slapped his forehead. Stan only knew one way to talk to strangers, and this was it.

“Emily,” she said, cautiously taking the card. “Can I help you?”

“I was just... wandering around the cemetery, looking for.. for... Why are you here, Emily?”

“Oh, I’m a local history buff. I like to come here sometimes, to pay my respects to the people that have made Kansas City such an interesting place to live.”

“So you are in to dead people. That’s good... Not many women... that is, I have a friend who shares your interests... Indirectly... He’s been following you, and now I am, but, that is... You should meet him...” Stan scratched his goatee thoughtfully, oblivious to Emily’s growing disgust. “Of course, I’d have to be there to watch, but-”

Fred couldn’t look, but he could hear the blow land. When he opened his eyes, Emily was gone, and Stan was lying in the grass. It took some time, but eventually both men were convinced that Stan was not dead.

“A lot of upper-body strength, that woman,” said Stan, then passed out again.

Fred had stopped paying attention once he was convinced Stan wasn’t permanently injured. He was now focused on one thing; a single red rose, laid across his own grave.

Their next stop, after Stan had taken a few days to recover, was the First Annual Barbecue Bash at William Jewel College. They had wandered among dozens of merchants, chefs, and other promising purveyors of pork. In the place of honor at the front of the proceedings was a whole roast pig, apple in mouth, whose flesh would be used to judge sauces. Fred wished he had lived just a few weeks longer so he could have tried a few of the samples that now passed around him.

“I know a guy in the IRS who judges barbecue,” said Stan. “He said Emily is a judge too. She should be here somewhere.”

“I see her!” said Fred. She was standing by the pig, announcing the grand prize winner to cheers and applause.

“Whatever you’re going to do, you’d better do it quick,” said Stan. “It looks like the winner is interested in getting more than a ribbon.”

Fred saw a strapping, handsome, man moving through the crowd, carrying a bouquet fashioned from burnt ends, rib meat, and sausages, all on sticks. “Stan, you’ve got to help me!”

“Sorry buddy. One black eye is enough.”

Fred didn’t know what to do, and so he ran, gliding through numerous attendees as he went, charging toward Emily. He had never felt more fear or love in his life. At the last moment he jumped toward her and found himself, of all places, looking at her from the eyes of the roasted pig. It felt like wearing a tight suit while having a sunburn.

“Mrphggll!” he said, then spat out the apple. “Emily!” he oinked. Being smoked had not done the pig’s vocal cords any favors. She looked at him with wide eyes. “I saw you everywhere in Kansas City but I never had the courage to talk to you! Until now!”

“Fred?” she said. “Fred Fletcher, is that you?” Fred oinked an affirmative. “I saw you everywhere too! But when you died in that restaurant, I thought I lost you forever!”

“I came back,” said Fred. “Just so I could tell you that I love you!”

“Oh Fred! I waited so long for you! With that, Emily drew the pig off the tray and kissed it on the snout. Fred returned the favor as best he could, pig lips being what they were. When he broke the kiss and resumed his spectral form Fred saw that the crowd had scattered, overwhelmed by horror, nausea, or perhaps romantic sentiment. He hoped it was the last one.

Emily and Fred were smiling like teenagers, her arm around a generous underestimate of his waist. It had been three weeks, and they had been getting to know each other, slowly, via text message, hampered only by Fred’s nascent material manipulation skills and an aggressive auto-complete function. They were in Stan’s office, prepared to make their big announcement.

“Stan,” he said, “We wanted to say thank you for helping us get together. We’re in love, and Emily is going to make the ultimate sacrifice to be with me forever.”

Stan’s eyes went wide. “No Emily! You’re a young woman! Don’t anything drastic!”

“No Stan,” she said. “It’s settled. I am going to buy Fred’s interest in the partnership from his sister, and work here until I know enough about taxes that I can see and hear my Freddy.”

“Oh,” said Stan, “That’s actually... reasonable. But I must insist upon one thing: No one, living or dead, must know that I can communicate with ghosts. Spaten and Fletcher is a respectable business, and I won’t risk getting a reputation as some sort of paranormal nut.”

“Stan,” said Fred, “You have nothing to worry about.”

Fred was typing slowly on his computer. Each key pressed took an enormous amount of concentration, but as Stan had pointed out, any work he could get done would be more useful that his making moon eyes at Emily all day. It was then that his love poked her head into the office.

“Yes Emily?” said Stan.

“Stan, we have a Ms. Willoby here to see you. She has some questions about incorporating her business... And she says she can hear footsteps in her basement when she’s home alone.”

Stan buried his head in his hands, leaving it there until he could look up with the composure warranted by a member of the accounting profession.

“Well show her in, Emily. Show her in.”

This story was originally published October 27, 2015 at 2:20 PM with the headline "Certifiable love."