Over My Dead Body

I sit in the corner of the embalming room watching as the mustached man drains the blood from my corpse. The corpse lies on a metal table, covered in a white tarp. And there is a faint choker of purple bruising and checkered abrasions around my neck. The blood in the tubes is purple-colored, with streaks of black.

My irises are cloudy white films, my pupils are fading black lifeless dots. As the mortician hooks me up to the embalming machine with its pump and wires, and the cold fluid enters the veins of my body, I feel nothing. I kind of shiver anyway. Out of habit. This is skeevy as hell.

Funny thing. I spent my whole life being afraid of death. Looks like I ripped that Band-Aid off. So, what am I doing here, in this musty, dimly lit room? What the hell happened? Obviously, there’s some kind of life after death. Mystery solved. But, sitting here now, watching my dead body, I’ve got questions. Lots of questions. Next in line after those lovely aforementioned quagmires is why in the hell is this dude singing to my corpse? Like, can you get any creepier?

The mortician is singing Knocking on Heaven’s Door as he embalms me. Am I in hell? Wow. Pitchy much. Not only that, but his voice is hoarse and raspy like he is breathing through a lifetime of Marlboro Reds. I can actually see the emphysema in his lungs. Seeing disease. I guess that’s one of those lovely abilities one acquires after traveling through the valley of the shadow.

And that’s me. Amelia. And this is what my life has amounted to. A pale, bloated, slab of festering lunch meat. Pathetic. I’m vaguely angry. I don’t feel outraged and cheated or anything like that. Not looking to get back into that saggy meat sack. I’m ready to move on. It’s more of a boiling blood lust. An impulse to do harm. To set things right. Unfinished business. I want restitution. But for what? And against whom? 

There’s no way I took the coward’s way out. So how did I die? I try to remember, but the last thing I can recall is drinking IPA’s and taking Jam’o shots with Eddie at McGillin’s Old Ale House on Drury Street, discussing the scoop I’d been working on.

I walk into the casket showroom, which is directly across from the embalming room, and flip on the lights. Turns out this is another one of my special abilities. Ooooohhhhhh… Booo. Haha. The room has a gaudy chandelier, various shades of white on the walls and trim, and cheap green inch-thin carpeting. By the wall is a dingy moth-eaten couch and stacked plastic chairs.

Things are set up for the Wake that evening. There are several stands full of freshly delivered flowers with notes attached, giving their condolences. A poster board with flattering photographs, many of which feature me and my sister, Sarah. A table with a guest book. And some assorted personal items. A Dictaphone. A few articles I had framed, showcasing my work. A trophy from high school. Blah, blah, blah.

I imagine the setting of my death, which I’m guessing was pegged as a suicide by the total lack of mention in the obituary or anywhere else.

An inky black shadow appears in front of me, which I somehow recognize as a portal, and it is filled with static like on an old-time 1980s black-and-white television set whose antennas are not set up right.

I place my right hand through.

It is like jumping into ice-cold water.

I am pulled in and everything goes black.

* * *

Seconds later, I find myself in a different time and place, in the basement/laundry room of my walk-up Kensington apartment on J Street.

Now this is my kind of party!

No. Not really, pervo. I’m being facetious.

This is a jomo situation.

Besides, this entire room screams “set up.”

Way too fleeky.

The crime scene looks like the set of a bizarre porno. Chains, sex toys, a whip, an empty tequila bottle, and a bejeweled cone-shaped polka dot party hat with glitter. These items are spiraled around my naked body, which is splayed out in an unnatural pose. There is a gratuitous can of whipped cream on an end table. Brought to you by… the set design team for Leaving Las Vegas.

There are diamond-shaped imprints crisscrossing my throat. Kinky. These roughly match the links of a utility chain and master lock dangling from a pipe on the ceiling.

There’s the homicide detective on his cell phone by the staircase. What is he doing, taking a coffee break? How about bagging some evidence, dude? I guess that’s too much to ask.

No suicide note. A flared red mini-dress with sequins—fucking sequins—is hanging—from an actual hanger—on the back of a chair in the corner. What am I—going to a ballet recital? And that isn’t even my size. Who hangs themselves naked, by the way? Asking for a friend.

What grown-ass woman wants a bunch of strangers staring at her hoohah and critiquing her post-mortem body?

And if I’m guessing, someone would have had to have sedated me to get my clothes off without simultaneously losing their groping hands in the process. Good to see forensics is on top of things, seeing as it didn’t appear that I had even been given an autopsy. Let alone a post-mortem tox-screen. Wouldn’t want to burden toxicology with ruling out the ruthless murder of a local investigative reporter. Jesus.

And here we have Exhibit A through Exhibit mother-fucking Z. Forensics hasn’t bothered taking any DNA off of my fingers, which are lacerated near the fingernails and probably have some kind of identifying biological evidence. But why bother with that? Taxpayer dollars and all.

I certainly wasn’t grasping at the chain if I did this to myself. So, query me this? Why do I have lacerations and biological matter under my fingernails? Because I was having such a good time before accidentally shuffling off the mortal coil?

These brown brick buildings are so old the entire basement is probably an asbestos “dead zone” I wouldn’t be caught dead in.

Ha! Guess I fucked that one up.

I walk to the corner of the room, where I can feel an inky black void of icy cold drawing me in.

Another portal begins to shake into existence, static and all.

* * *

Seconds later, I am back in McGillin’s Old Ale House on Drury Street.

The place is filled with Phillies fans dressed in jerseys and sports tees and sweatpants, swilling beer from octagonal plastic mugs, and playing beer pong in the corner by the dartboard. The place smells like a fraternity basement. “It’s Getting Hot in Herre” by Nelly is blaring a bit too loudly as most of the bargoers have their eyes fastened to the flat screens.

Sitting at a table under the neon lighting near the bar is Alex. He’s a friend and he works for Congressman David Lebovitz. He’s all suited up and out of place, with that annoying American flag pin on his lapel. He’s our slightly douchier Barney Stinson. I’d say we love him for it. But he’s suspect numero uno at the moment.

Julia Denim is sitting across from him. A chirpy Asian woman who is a PR Agent for various politicos around town. She is one of those annoying people who tries valiantly to tell everyone what they want to hear and gives the most annoying “try-hard” vibes you’ve ever experienced.

I overhear the two of them discussing Alex’s promotion to Campaign Manager. Interesting. He seems a bit young for that position. And I didn’t know he was a social climber. Judging by his drinking habits, I wouldn’t have guessed he had so much closet ambition.

“I’m so happy for you Alex. You’ve always been my favorite. So dashing and talented. Well done, sir. And well done is better than well said,” Julia says.

“Here, here,” Alex said, raising his mug in a token cheers.

“The important thing is to focus on David’s military background,” Julia says.

“Agreed. The public eats that stuff up,” Alex says.

“Lots of pushback from the union lobbyists. We really need to lock in union support, too” Julia says.

“You know there have been rumors about campaign finance issues, hence Jerry being canned,” Alex says.

“We need to silence those rumors,” Julia says.

“I’ve been working on it,” Alex says.

This son-of-a-bitch. Did he do it himself? All of my anger boils over and lumps up in my throat and I look directly into that bitch’s face as I scream out “You Bastard” at the top of my lungs.

“You Bastard!” Julia says.

“Excuse me?” Alex says.

Holy shit. I’ve got ventriloquism abilities. I can speak through the living. Okay, focus Amelia, you can do this.

“That bastard. I meant, that bastard,” I say (through Julia). Interestingly, she doesn’t seem to realize I’m speaking through her.

“You mean Amelia?” Alex asks.

“Yes. That pesky jorno. We need to make sure she doesn’t put the Congressman under the microscope or attract unnecessary media attention,” I say (through Julia).

“I wouldn’t worry about her. I hear she’s a freak and has been on a drug bender lately. I’m sure she can be easily discredited—if she ever even gets around to writing that hit piece,” Alex says.

“Are you fucking serious,” I say (through Julia).

“What?” Alex says.

“Ahhem. I mean, wouldn’t want to see her have an unfortunate accident,” I say (through Julia).

“No. No. Wouldn’t want that,” Alex says with a chuckle.

This son-of-a-bitch. At least I know who I’m haunting now. And I am going to haunt this bastard into extinction. You’re in for a dead reckoning, pal-o. You think you are getting off scott-free on this one? Over my dead body.

I distinctly remember after about a half dozen Jam'o shots, spilling the beans to Eddie about the scoop I had on the Congressman. And Alex had been there drinking with us that night.

I’d laid it all out. Given him the goods on a silver platter. How I had a source that Congressman Lebovitz had been funneling campaign funds provided by Developer Gerald Bundler, a big-time party faithful, over to several local City Councilmen to buy their votes on a zoning and buildings approval. Bundler needed the votes to secure zoning approvals and tax abatements for a gaudy luxury residential tower, unoriginally called “the Summit” that does zippo for Kensington, but which would make Bundler a pretty penny.

The two of them slam their mugs together and cheer their damnable conspiracies.

And I see an inky black static portal forming over by the dartboard.

I walk through two college-age kids playing beer pong.

I walk the length of the table.

I swat the ball away as I go, and it goes bouncing under a table in the middle of the bar.

I knock over a few solo cups too for shits-and-giggles.

I step through the portal.

* * *

Sarah and Eddie are drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee at the shop by my apartment, seated at cringy tables in the dingy, beat-up walk-in area, which has taken a back seat to the drive-thru as people have been growing increasingly antisocial.

Sarah is my two-year younger sister, and Eddie, well you know Eddie, my fellow reporter, best friend, and if I’d lived long enough there was some underlying chemistry that had us set on a course to eventually fuck. But I guess it is up to Sarah to light that torch if she ever has the inclination. My dance card is a bit full now, what with solving my own murder, time and space portals, learning new supernatural abilities, and figuring out how to “pass on” to the great beyond. And I’m presently sequestered in a different realm where I can’t actually directly interact with the living—so that ship has sailed.

“She was happy Sarah, really happy. I just—” Eddie says.

In my mental monologue, I think: Really wanted to jump her bones. But that’s the thing. I have a dirty mind.

“—See her taking her life?” Sarah interrupts.

“Yeah. No. I am not buying it. But I can’t help feeling guilty. Maybe there was something I missed. Maybe she was in some kind of trouble, and I didn’t see the signs,” Eddie says.

Maybe if I had just sacked up and made a move that night, she never would have been home alone to be drugged and framed for suicide… I’m sorry. I’ll stop.

“My sister was stubborn. To a fault. If she was going to fall on her sword, which she never would have done, you can be damned sure she’d take someone down with her. Someone evil. Someone who deserved it. She never wasted a chance to make a statement,” Sarah says.

Damn right sissy.

“Do you know anyone who would want to do her harm,” I say (through Sarah).

“I can’t think of anyone,” Eddie says.

“Was there, like, a story she was working on—anyone that might have had cause to—shut her up?” I ask (through Sarah).

“Well Congressman Lebovitz—she was doing a hit piece,” Eddie says.

“And anyone know about the piece who might have—maybe, wanted to stop it?” I ask (through Sarah).

“Only Alex,” Eddie says, continuing, “Holy shit, Alex was there that night and he just got promoted to Campaign Manager.” Aww, Eddie. You aren’t just a pretty face. Good boy.

Now off to make a statement.

* * *

I arrive in Hell. And by that, I mean the Kensington neighborhood of North Philly above Fishtown. They call it the Badlands. Upstanding citizens are locked indoors, afraid to come outside into the drugs and crime that are ubiquitous. It stands to reason why some developer wants to plow all this away and implant a bunch of yuppies to gentrify the area. But it doesn’t mean it’s any substitute for cleaning up this mess. Move it out of here, it just ends up someplace else.

“Philly dope” is a thing. $5 a bag. And the stuff is vicious. It is cut with damnation and ill intent. And that is part of the marketing. No joke. There is an open-air drug market on Kensington Avenue that rivals the Roman Forum in terms of sheer brutality: unsanitary conditions, market domination, carnage, and bloodshed.

It bears all the hallmarks of utopia.

Largest open-air selling market on the East Coast. By a long shot. You can straight up buy fentanyl. Over 200 deaths per year. The place should be swarming with spooks. But I’m the only one that I see.

Against a landscape of rowhouses, abandoned factories, and vacant lots, only Camden more closely resembles Afghanistan. Across the street, there’s a Chinese takeout with stock green signage, a nickel laundry that is shuttered, a check cashing joint with padlocked roll-up security doors already down at noon, and an Irish Pub called Flannigans where people are openly selling drugs outside without even swiveling their heads to look for cops.

As Alex walks below the Kensington Avenue underpass on his way to a Union rally, he passes by a mattress lying on the lawn of an empty lot by the sidewalk, near a bent-over red fire hydrant. He keeps his head down and walks quickly.

I inhabit a bum and say, “Got any change murderer.”

Alex flinches but doesn’t break stride.

As he keeps walking, I inhabit a homeless woman who is high as hell and collecting used needles to turn in to Prevention Point for clean needles, that can be sold for money. Her name is Rene.

“You gonna clean up the neighborhood Alex?” I say (through her).

He turns his head and says, “You know me.”

“I know what you did,” I say (through her).

“Jesus Christ,” he says, and keeps walking.

* * *

Eddie is at the rally at the Union Hall in Fishtown. Alex is standing by the Congressman.

Rene is in the audience.

As the Congressman gets on stage, Eddie confronts Alex about my death.

My powers have increased, and I now possess Rene.

As I approach the front of the auditorium in Rene’s skin, I take the package of fentanyl out of my pocket.

Eddie’s face is red. Sweet boy. He has some sweat on his forehead. He is really putting Alex through his paces. Laying out the evidence. Providing information from the autopsy report. Pointing out motive and opportunity. I taught him well. Pains me to think I won’t be seeing much of him after this.

As Eddie rushes off in a huff and Alex stands there red-faced and nervous, I approach.

“This is for you, you little shit,” I say (through Rene), handing Alex a bag full of fentanyl.

“Is this…” Alex says.

“Yeah, you little pussy. If you want to take the easy way out. Detectives know what you did. Few of us pushers saw you that night. And they are coming for you,” I say (through Rene).

Alex looks around the room, grabs the fentanyl, and rushes out without waiting for the Congressman.

* * *

Alex is in his Penthouse apartment. The Sterling Apartments in Center City. He sits on his micro-fiber couch. Listless. Afraid.

I am there in the corner.

A hypodermic needle sits on the table and Alex is taking the coward’s way out.

I watch him as he puts the tourniquet around his arm. I watch the blood pool in the fluid as he injects the chemicals into the blood, his eyes close, and his head lays back on the plush sofa cushions.

I am going to embarrass him, I think, strip him naked, like he did me.

But then another portal opens. Warm. Full of light. And pulls me in.