Tatertown

“I dare to be myself—screw you!”

That’s what I want to scream from my seat on the bus to Anywhere and Nowhere, like every bus I’ve hopped on in the past month. A distraction from my messy divorce. Hopefully, adventures. But I keep my middle-aged mouth shut like the good little girl my momma raised.

Chicken.

I pull on my newly-pink hair self-consciously, regretting my “screw you” attitude that led me to choose a sleeveless shirt that shows every jiggle of my flabby upper arms.

Sigh. Reinventing myself ain’t so easy.

I look out the window at the swampy scenery and see a sign that reads, “Tatertown, SC—10 miles.” Like every decision I have made in the past month, it gives me a “What-the-hell” kinda feeling.

That’s my next stop. Why not?

The bus is mostly empty. But a white-bearded man who resembles Morgan Freeman shuffles down the aisle to my seat. He pauses and rests those calm, knowing eyes on mine, as only Ol’ Morgan can.

“Er … h-hi there,” I stutter, sounding so confident in my new life.

“Hello,” Morgan gravely greets me. “I thought I’d give you a little gift.” He holds up a pair of weird black socks with bones embroidered willy-nilly all over.

Ooookay. Humor the crazy dude, Tracy.

“Thank you.” I take them with a false smile. And kicking myself, because I was always a people-pleaser, I fall back into bad habits. “I have a hole in my pair I’m wearin’ now. These will be great. Thanks again.”

Under the watchful dark eyes of Morgan, I take off my shoes and socks, and I tug on the black, bony—and let’s not forget, weird—pair. As I pull back on my sneakers, I cast about for something to say.

“Um, that’s an interesting thread for the embroidery.”

‘Interesting’ is certainly one word for it.

Morgan smiles mysteriously. “It’s made from a dead man’s hair.”

Now I just want to be rid of this guy. He’s crazier than a loon. As I open my mouth to move his skinny ass along, he winks and retreats to the back of the bus.

Bye, Morgan Freeman.

Hmmm … maybe the wink means he’s kidding. I mean, of course he’s kidding, Tracy. And I do have a hole in the other pair. Socks are socks.

I mentally shrug as the bus pulls to a stop. Stepping off the vehicle, along with the few straggly passengers, I study my surroundings.

Tatertown is a run-down Southern town in flat-as-a-flapjack, Eastern South Carolina, complete with a shabby, shop-laden main street, muddy river running alongside, and swamp surrounding the clustered buildings.

But I see evidence of attempts to attract tourists. A fun-looking cat café attracts my attention, but before I set off for it, a young boy with an afro and a sneaky smile whistles from across the street. I peer right and left but he’s lookin’ right at me, so I cross the empty road and join him.

“Hey, old lady,” he insolently comments.

Not lovin’ this kid.

“You should join the Haunted Ghost Tour of Tatertown. It’s over there.” He points to a brightly-painted sign that spells those words, over near the muddy river.

This kid may be annoying, but a ghost tour sounds right up New Tracy’s alley.

“Thanks, kid,” I cheerfully say. It’s hot as a cat on a tin roof out here, but I’m intrigued.

I walk over in my bony socks to the sign, where a skeletal young woman stands, eyes marking the sparse crowd that gathers. She appears to be my age.

My age? Remember, you are 47, babe. She could be your daughter.

That’s depressing.

“Welcome to Tatertown’s Haunted Ghost Tour,” the skinny girl dramatically gestures. “I’m your guide, Tammy Rae. Let’s move along, as I’m sure you are eager to hear these tragic—” she pauses, with her arm flung across her forehead, “tales of woe.”

A whisper of excitement spreads through the small group, except for one cackling voice.

“Horseshit, Tammy Rae. Mabel Snow here. Don’t be so over-the-top. These folks might eat it up, though. They don’t look too bright.” A stooped-over (actual) old lady with a coffee complexion pins me with her gaze.

Screw you, Mabel.

The words stick in my throat though, as Old Tracy yet again takes control.

“The tragedy of these tragic events, you’ll see, is just …” Tammy Rae casts about for the word.

“Tragic?” Mabel snickers.

“Yes,” Tammy Rae gratefully sighs. “Just tragic.”

We amble over to an old shack near the riverbank, where, oddly enough, I see a dirty white man in an old pirate outfit rest his gaze on me.

“Neat tour. Complete with actors,” I announce, pleased. I get some strange looks from the group, and Tammy Rae flings her arms wide.

“This is the site where Horrible Harry the Pirate met his tragic end, double-crossed by his crew tragically at their hideout,” she declares.

Tammy Rae needs a thesaurus.

As I smile at the actor, he suddenly … disappears.

Holy Crap! An actual ghost! Or heat stroke, Tracy.

I gasp and probably turn all pasty. Mabel snorts, looking my way.

As Tammy Rae attempts to give the crowd chills, I jump-start my brain.

Okay, Tracy. Why are you seeing ghosts? What’s different today?

I look down at my feet.

Oh.

That “hair-from-a-dead-man” line looms large in my mind. Cursed hair.

Well, I’m stuck on this tour now, but first thing, I’m burning these babies.

The socks feel warm on my feet.

It’s just ‘cause they’re black in the summer heat, girl. Sure, that’s why.

Tammy Rae brings our group to a gloomy clearing in the swampy forest next to the river. “Here haunts a woman of the Santee Tribe, who was betrayed and killed by her white lover, so many centuries ago. It was just ….”

Wait for it.

“… tragic.”

A young, Native American woman turns her head to stare at me.

Uh oh. Not again.

She vanishes, and I let out a little “Eeek.”

Mabel scathingly eyeballs me. “Some of us have more imagination than others.” She rolls her eyes.

I don’t know how I feel about this ghost thing. It freaks me out, but … it’s a different, new aspect of my utterly mundane life. Maybe this is part of New Tracy?

We trudge, dripping sweat, to an old barn that looks partly rebuilt. Suddenly I notice the young boy who directed me to the tour, standing by my side.

“How do you like the tour, lady?” He grins, knowingly.

“Well, it’s sure interestin,’ kiddo,” I admit.

The plump, bearded man next to me studies me uncomfortably and moves closer to his even plumper wife. I wait for Mabel’s inevitable snarky comment, but her face sags with sadness and her gaze is inward.

“What’s up with old Mabel?” I whisper to the boy, who stares hungrily at the wizened woman.

“Memories,” the boy murmurs back.

Tammy Rae wildly gestures at the building. “This is where a 10-year-old boy in the ‘80s tragically met his doom, setting fire to our local tobacco farm’s barn. Poor lil’ hooligan,” she mimics sympathy, shaking her head.

“Mama?” The boy with the afro tentatively addresses Mabel, who doesn’t hear.

Mama?

Then I blink—and he’s gone.

Holy Blazes, Batman. He’s a ghost, too!

The kid appears again in front of me, eyes begging.

“Please, lady, I know you see me. Only you. Please, pretty please with a cherry on top, tell Mabel, my mama, that I didn’t set the fire. I was playing hide-and-go-seek with friends, and they all left in a hurry when one by accident knocked over a lantern, forgetting … me. I was still hiding,” he sighs, sadly.

His melancholy face moves me. I lean over to Mabel, taking a deep breath as New Tracy, and speak softly.

“I know you are the boy’s mom. He’s here. He wants you to know he didn’t set that fire; it was an accident.”

Mabel freezes and gives me an outraged look. Then she goes all thoughtful-lookin’.

“Normally I’d hit you with my handbag, girl, but you had no way of knowin’ I was Marcus’s mother. So … maybe he is here,” she slowly speaks, with dawning hope. “If so, I love you, Marcus child. Don’t matter what happened anyway, you’ll always be my boy. Rest in peace, punkin’.”

Marcus, all snark gone from his young face, turns to me and mouths, “Thank you,” and he fades away.

A cocoon of triumphant feelings enfolds me, as I finish the tour. I glance around at Tatertown, seeing the pirate lurking off the muddy riverbank, and the Native American chick walking in the woods, and I smile.

A purpose. Bringing peace to the living and the dead.

I flip my pink locks sassily and gaze down at my feet. The bones stare back at me.

I speak my thoughts, chuckling a little.

“Screw you, Old Life.” I glow, banishing my past. “Hey, New Tracy, I wonder if human hair is machine washable.”