The Matchmaker's Medium

“Come on, girl, don’t be such a drag. You know I meant a different kind of first time,” he said, strolling across the room in his classic pimp-walk style. Even though he had been my spirit guide for almost five years, I never got tired of looking at him in his hundreds of different ‘pimp outfits’. Butterfly collars, in zebra print or plaid, colored in every shade of brown or one of his too-bright reds, greens, and blues. He even wore tall platform shoes, wide-brimmed hats, huge sunglasses, and used a shiny cane now and again. No matter how dead he was, Jamal was always dressed to impress.

“Knock it off already,” I said, walking around my tiny office/front room, turning off lamps and locking doors and windows along the way. Although I had only opened my little ‘psychic matchmaker’ shop a little over a year ago, I was already settled into a nice routine. After growing up with a neurotic military officer’s wife for a mother, routine was a blessing I never took for granted.

“You know, I think you should go out tonight. Get you a piece of the ack-shun,” he said, swiveling his hips and moving his feet in some pretty decent dance moves. Well, decent for the seventies, anyway. Poor guy died during the height of the disco craze, so he was sort of stuck in Saturday Night Fever for all eternity.

“Nah, I’m more of a homebody now,” I said, gathering my purse and the current library book I was devouring. Yeah, I’m one of those people: the ones who know the library hours by heart, and the staff on a first-name basis.

I walked out the back door, pushed it shut and locked both locks. There had been a recent rash of break-ins, so I was a little more careful than normal, testing each one, pulling and twisting for good measure.

“I think you got it locked down tight, foxy mama,” he said, as he materialized through the back wall.

“Show off,” I said.

“Jealous,” he shot back. It’s kind of our thing; one of those inside-joke things.

I was walking to my car, keys in hand, trying to decide what the hell to do with my life, when my cell phone rang, the sounds of Miles Davis’ Blue in Green wailing across the parking lot.

“I’m never gonna get hip to that thing,” he said, shaking his head and walking far enough away that he could pretend it didn’t exist. Jamal was still not too keen about some of the ‘modern day’ conveniences. I can’t keep track of all the times he told me to go find a pay phone and ‘drop a dime’ in the past few years. Pretty hilarious, considering pay phones are almost non-existent and the few that do exist cost at least seventy-five cents.

“Hello?”

“Is this, um, Amber? Amber Green?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On who you are.”

Silence.

“Are you still there?” I snapped. No one was supposed to call me after 9 P.M. for business reasons, so I was already irritated.

“Yes, I’m here,” the voice had lowered to a whisper. The woman sounded like she was trying to decide something.

“How did you get this number?” I asked, mentally running through a short checklist of people who I would be yelling at, as soon as this call was over.

“From a friend. Your friend. Well, my friend who said they’re your friend.”

Well, great. This lady’s either crazy, or dumb, or—both. Just what I need in my life, more crazy.

“Exactly who are we talking about?”

“I’m sorry, you’re right, I probably sound like a nut job right now. Let me start over. My name is Victoria, I got your name and number from Marcus.”

Shit.

Marcus was a name I had spent the last few years trying to forget. Of course, being a medium, I had no hope of avoiding his murdered 7-year-old brother, Trevor. That sweet kid had followed me ever since the day I got him killed. Occupational hazards and all that, I suppose.

“Okay, I’m listening,” I said. As she spoke, I unlocked my car door, dumped my purse into the passenger seat, and plopped down to listen.

“Well, about a week ago, I was in this car accident.”

“Did anyone die?”

“What? Oh. No, no one died.”

“Okay, that makes things easier,” I said, turning the keys in the ignition so I could crank up the air conditioner. Here in Charlotte, hot and humid go together like ribs and barbecue sauce. It’s just the way it’s always been; or so they keep telling me.

“Anyway, it wasn’t a bad accident or anything, just crunched up the front of my car, so I had to get it towed to the body shop.”

“Okay,” I said, starting to feel boredom itching around the edges of my mind. Which is precisely when Jamal decided to make himself comfortable next to me, right on top of my purse. Well, not really on top of it, since he’s a ghost. But, still.

“Well, ever since it got towed there, my grandmother keeps coming to me at night.”

“Is that annoying?” Like you are to me right now… I thought, fiddling with the temperature controls on the dashboard.

“No, it’s just—after she died, she used to come to me every night. But lately she was only coming a couple times a year. I mean, it’s been a decade, now.”

“I see. So you’re upset about her coming more often, again?”

“Yes! That’s exactly right! You really are a psychic, aren’t you?”

Here we go again.

“No, I’m not a ‘psychic’. I’m actually a medium. Didn’t Marcus explain?”

“Well, sure, but I wasn’t really listening to all of it. He was going on and on about stuff, but when I heard that you could figure out things the rest of us don’t understand, I just knew I had to talk to you.”

“I appreciate the confidence,” I said, “but it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Good! When can I come to your office? Are you open tonight?”

“Actually, I just closed up shop.”

Jamal started waving his arms around, shaking his head as if to say, No, no! Stop!

“Oh,” Victoria said, sounding like a teenager who just got un-invited to the coolest party of the year.

I watched Jamal flailing around for a few more seconds, trying not to laugh. Evidently, he had forgotten he was a ghost and no one could hear him but me, because he was still using hand motions and mouthing words to get my attention.

“But I could squeeze you in tomorrow afternoon.”

Jamal finally stopped, slumping down into himself with relief. I had to give him credit; the guy was hilarious when he wasn’t trying.

“Fantastic! I knew it would be soon.”

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow around, say, 1 p.m.?”

“Great. See you then!”

I ended the call and put the cell phone in my purse.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he responded, doing his best impression of super-innocent.

“I mee-eaan why didn’t you just say whatever it was you wanted to say? I’m the only one who can hear you, for crying out loud.”

He chuckled, a deep, slow chuckle that made my stomach feel strange.

“Baby girl, I think sometimes I start to forget I’m—you know.”

We sat there in silence, the AC blasting my hair in a million directions and not affecting him at all.

“Yeah. Well, that was a stupid call. So why were you losing your mind?”