The Matchmaker's Medium

was starting to feel like one of those ‘at school with no clothes on’ dreams.

“Yeah, I hate those. Unless there’s nothin’ but females in the room, then I’m a little more ‘up for the occasion’ if you know what I mean.” He winked at me, made a click sound with the side of his mouth, and smiled really, really big.

“Stop that!”

“What?” he grinned even bigger, teeth almost glowing in the dark they were so bright. “What’d I do?”

“Get out of my head you big jerk!” I swung to smack him, and caught nothing but air.

He laughed hugely, slapping his leg, tears glistening in his eyes, getting a really good hardy- har-har going, at my expense.

Which is the exact moment the stupid waitress showed up. Staring at me like I was totally insane. To be fair, seeing me yell at—and try to smack—the nobody sitting across from me probably made her think I was just the tiniest bit of crazy.

“Uh, here’s your check, whenever you’re ready. But—no hurry, okay, just, um, take your time, ma’am.” She slid the bill towards me, very slowly, as if—at any second—I might suddenly lunge and devour her eyeballs in a couple of quick bites. As soon as the paper was out of her reach, she snatched her hand back and did a lightning-fast about face to book it out of there.

“Great, now the wait staff here thinks I’m totally bonkers.”

He was still laughing, trying to calm himself down.

“Sorry, sorry, little mama, I’m trying!” He wasn’t really trying.

“No, no, by all means, go ahead and make yourself sick laughing at me. Obviously, I’ve got nothing better to do than sit here being ridiculed by a dead guy.”

That did it.

He instantly stopped laughing and composed himself, glaring at me the whole time he straightened his shirt and leisure suit, smoothed his goatee, and patted his ‘fro.

“So let’s get down to business, then,” he said, totally serious, now.

“We don’t have any business, Mr. — ”

“Jamal. Jamal Turner; hail from right here in good ol’ D.C., southeast.”

“Oh.” That’s not exactly Mr. Roger’s neighborhood, it’s pretty rough.

“Don’t I know it.”

Now it was my turn to glare.

“Sorry, sorry. I spend so much time listening to people’s thoughts, it’s hard to shut it off.”

“Seriously? What are you, some kind of disco-ghost-spy?”

“Nah, nothin’ that serious. Just comes with the whole ‘being dead’ thing.”

I looked at the check sitting on the table in front of me.

“I don’t suppose the dead have credit cards, do they?”

“Credit cards? Who uses those things?”

“Only every person in this century, that’s who.”

“Oh. Well, no, we don’t have that stuff on this side. No need, y’know?” That smile, again.

“How typical. Guy offers to buy me a drink, but doesn’t have any money to pay for it. Why did I expect anything different?”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever.” I grabbed my purse, shuffled through it again, muttering under my breath. Finally, I grabbed my credit card holder, randomly picked one, did a little ‘air math’ and smacked it down on the table next to the bill. “This should be good for an amusing minute or two over at the register.”

I signaled for the waitress, who saw me then turned her head really fast to pretend like she hadn’t.

“Okay, Jamal, what kind of work is it that you want ‘us’ to do together?”

“Now we’re talkin’,” he said, rubbing his hands together in pleasure. “How about we go to your place and talk about it, without all these people thinking you’re crazy for talking to no one?”

“Good idea.”

“Tell you what—you wait for the bee girl, and I’ll meet you outside.”

“Okay,” I said, looking around for the bumblebee toddler.

He gathered his things, and stood to leave. But, instead of walking to the huge front door, he walked right through a whole crowd of people—and the wall they were standing in front of—without the slightest hesitation.

“Holy crap,” I whispered, “what a show off.”

He poked his head back through the wall, and mouthed the words I heard in my head: What are you, jealous?

With that, he winked, and walked back through the wall all over again.

Chapter Four

“Is it okay if I come in?” asked a muffled voice, through the inner office door.

“Yeah! Just push the door open!” I yelled, trying to be heard over the sound of the TV. Jamal was watching another one of his reality TV shows, at full volume. This time, it was Hell’s Kitchen, with Chef Gordon Ramsay yelling at some ‘stupid cow’ who had made the tragic mistake of handing him barely-cooked pork.

Grabbing the remote, I pushed the volume down button at least 10 times, until Chef Ramsay’s screaming was only a small roar, “Aw, come on, you bleep muppets! Do you really expect me to serve this bleep garbage?” The guy cussed so much, I was starting to wonder why they even bothered putting the show on regular network TV, if you missed half of it from all the bleeping.

“Hi, Amber! I’m Victoria!”

A very chunky woman came barging into the room, hips swinging back and forth in a dizzying wave, as she crossed the room with her hand out. I shook it.

“You’re welcome. Have a seat.”

She turned and looked at the two rickety, second-hand chairs next to her. Immediately dismissing them as choices, she looked over at the lopsided thrift store couch against the wall. Bingo. Hefting her jiggling body on short legs that looked like they might collapse at any second, she huffed and puffed and finally dumped her colossal self onto the threadbare fabric with a resounding thud! I watched her for a few seconds, mostly to make sure the couch didn’t cave in, then sat back down.

“What can I do for you, Victoria?”

She was messing with an inhaler. Shake-shake, cap off, into her mouth, push it down, and swish. Inhale quickly, hold he breath for a few seconds. She held up a pudgy, sausage- fat index finger, waiting. At least a hundred hours went ticking by, as we both sat there doing and saying nothing, Chef Ramsay’s yell-bleeping in the background.

A huge hooooo as she let the air back out.

“Sorry ‘bout that, doggone az-mer makes me crazy.”

Az-mer. Nice, I thought. Just one more thing to add to the list of “Carolin-isms” I need to learn.

“My grandmamma came to me again last night, just like I thought she would.”

“Yeah? What did she have to say?”

“Nothin’. It’s the darndest thing. Even when I was younger, she never said a word. Always usin’ her hands and mouthin’ words, trying to get me to do this or do that. I could hardly figure it out.”

Being quite familiar with the fact most ghosts don’t make any noise, I could empathize.

“Well, what did it seem like she was trying to tell you?”

“Y’know, I’m not sure this time. She made her hands like she was drivin’ a steering wheel, and then a big