* the Ghost and Ms. Barber

The Ghost is my roommate. She was given this title not due to her pale complexion nor due to a love of Florida Goth. Nay, she earned it because of the simple fact that she is never seen, but can be heard hovering around in the apartment.

The Ghost has lived here for 9 months. I have seen her, meaning laid eyes on her, perhaps 9 times since then. Please note: this does not count speaking to her. I have spoken to her perhaps 4 times- two of these times were conversations lasting longer than 5 sentences.

Here are some answers to what are going to be your preliminary questions: No, The Ghost is not mean, or spiteful. She is not born again (I draw the line on that shit in my home). She does speak English. She is just fucking odd.

I lost an amazing roommate last year and the Ghost was a seemingly sound replacement. She was willing to pay for the whole month of February even though she'd only be moving in the last week (a bidding war had begun to spring up for the room). That to me was her ticket in. Plus, when we met, she seemed pleasant, literate, and kind of nerdy. And not in an ironic Williamsburg-y way, either. Like, long mousy hair parted in the middle, all the way down her back, hasn't been cut since she was small nerdy. Like, is really into dog posters and may sketch horses in her notebook nerdy. Like, excited by a Chico's giftcard nerdy. (There may be a strong resemblance to "Carrie" pre-Prom blood spewing).

Things seemed OK until about week 3 when I realized with some alarm that she would come home and go right into her room. The door would open, and she'd be talking non-stop on her cell phone; and then I'd hear her bedroom door close. She wouldn't come out for the rest of the night, with the exception of going to the bathroom (presumably to eat toilet paper- see prior entry). My apartment is set up similar to the famous "railroad" style- her room and the bathroom are right at the front of the house and then, after a long hallway (that has my two closets in it), and the kitchen (which has a real dishwasher and a real oven- not that dollhouse shit that you normally get in NYC), there's another doorway that opens into two huge rooms- my living room and the TV den. These together are larger than the studio a friend of a friend pays $1000 some odd dollars to live in. And then, off to the side, is my small yet cozy bedroom.

When the Ghost moved in I made it clear that while my room was indeed my room only, these two other spaces were common rooms. I stressed that to her and she smiled and agreed. And then she never went near either.

She doesn't cook. She doesn't put anything in the refrigerator. She doesn't watch TV. She sits in her room and chain smokes. And talks on her cell phone- but oddly, only when she comes in the front door, when she leaves her room to go to the bathroom (?!?), or when I walk past her room to go to the bathroom.

At first, I was really spooked. I complained to Ben who suggested that I approach her to make sure allw as well. So, after I heard her come home one night and bolt into her room, I waited then knocked on her door. She opened it looking confused, holding her flannel pajama top closed and- yep- talking on her cell phone (which had commenced the minute I knocked on the door to her room). I asked if she was ok. She seemed confused, but mouthed yes, smiled, and then shut the door. Uh, ok.

This was to be the last time I saw her for a few months. The others were:

• literally DARTING like a rodent from the bathroom to her room when I was just opening the front door (?) and then TALKING ON HER CELL PHONE!!!!!!
  
• on the couch in the den watching tv (I don't charge her for cable since she doesn't have a hook up in her room and she's never around); on this occasion she stammered (who does that?! except in like, bodice rippers or stupid detective novels, NO ONE) something incoherent and scurried back to her room (no cell phone this time, as she didn't have it on her when she was discovered; I think that stammering was a primal response and am surprised she didn't make that fake phone shape with her hand as solace)
  
  

My friend Keith insists I don't really have a roommate and that I made it up that she lives here. But that's mystique of the Ghost: I never see her, I only hear her. Or smell her rancid smoke, which she chimneys out into the hall despite the rolled up handtowel under her door (again...dorm?). She picked up some atrocious vanilla air "freshener" at a .99 cent store and likes to spray that to pretend it masks her activities. Because, you see, this is a non smoking apartment. No, pot does not count, smarty jones.

To be continued...