Ghosts on the Tele

by Pedro Ferraz

Fran Jacquier

Mom was crying again. The Gone fabric softener ad was on TV, and Rob was in the middle of his pitch, “…it will give your clothes that warm and cozy feeling.” She always cried when Rob came on the television. It had been two years since his car accident, but the wounds were still fresh.

“Will, when you head out make sure to get me some Gone from the store on your way back. I think we’re running low.”

It was no use pointing out that we probably had a four month supply of Gone. She would just argue and get upset and start crying again. In the afternoon, when the ad for Chef Maples Tomato Sauce came on, she would probably text him to bring home that item as well. After eight months of spaghetti and meatballs in tomato sauce, Will was ready for another type of food advertisement.

He had understood why Rob had sold his image in posterity to the FrontierSoft Corporation. The thirty grand he had received by doing it helped them pay for dad’s medical bills and even left them a little cushion for mom’s new TV set. It was easy money received while you were alive, and they only used your image after you were gone anyway. What difference was it to him? Unfortunately, less than a year after Rob had signed his image over, he died in a car accident on Cherry Street. The driver who killed him escaped and was never caught by the police. Drunk driver, they said. He was buried on a rainy Tuesday morning on the family plot, next to his maternal grandmother and grandfather.

Rob’s death hit mom particularly hard, and dad’s lung cancer had started acting up again. Now the bills were piling up and Will’s job at the Lost Worlds, the videogame store on 4th Avenue, wasn’t cutting it. He needed money and he needed it now. Selling his image wasn’t high on his list of priorities for the week, but it was sure looking enticing as the days wore on.

“I’m heading out to work, mom, be back later.”

“Don’t forget the Gone, Will!”

Some memories were just too strong to suppress. Some emotions too close to the surface.

***

“…so you see, Mr. Willis, our postmortem advertisements have a 67 percent higher clickthrough rate than our regular advertisements. Studies show that postmortem ads have an emotional appeal that regular ads just can’t convey. We are able to connect with your target audience on a gut level.”

Stan exuded confidence. His pitch to the Tab Corporation executives had been going smoothly. He was sure he had them, hook, line and sinker. His pinstripe suit and dark blue tie contrasted nicely with his white shirt and gelled hair. His tall, erect posture beamed success. Stan had spent the past fifteen years climbing the ranks at FrontierSoft before finally landing at the top of the postmortem division. He had pioneered aggressive sales pitches to potential customers and had a knack for public speaking. He was now reaping the benefits of such talents.

“Very impressive, Stan. We’d like to start with a three year contract, fifty million a year, for the online, print, and television ads. We expect great things from you.”

“We will be sure to deliver only the best, Mr. Willis. We have the cohorts already mapped out and are ready to begin next week. I will send you the contracts so that you may sign them and we can begin immediately.”

Dark clouds gathered over the FrontierSoft building as Stan and the rest of his team bid Mr. Willis and his staff farewell. The Tab account was a huge win for them and signaled a great start to the year. It would make a fine opener for Stan’s meeting with the board of directors later in the week.

Stan looked at his watch. It was almost seven at night! He quickly congratulated his team, shook hands, and left. A pressing appointment was on the back of his mind, one he couldn’t afford to miss.

The neon lights of Cartic City illuminated the puddles on the street. It had been raining all day and, to make matters worse, Stan had been stuck in traffic for forty minutes. When he finally arrived at the Chameleon at 8:30, he was over an hour late. A small, green, neon chameleon hung above the nondescript gray door in the small alley perpendicular to Cooper Street. A couple stood smoking outside, their puffs of smoke quickly dissolving in the humid air. Stan stepped inside, his black overcoat soaking from the rain. On the left side of the room, stools lined a small bar; a blue strip of light running underneath it gave the room a melancholy glow. Rooster, Stan’s contact, sat at the far end, a brooding scowl on his face.

Stan approached him.

“You’re late, and I hate waiting.”

“Sorry, Rooster. Traffic was hell, man. Got stuck on the turnpike for forty minutes.”

“You got the money?”

“Yeah, here it is. Three contracts this month. Eight for the month before that. Makes it your biggest haul in a while, no?”

Rooster didn’t answer. He was busy sipping his beer and looking at the TV on his right. Rooster slipped the manila envelope into his waistcoat pocket. Stan ordered a cold one for himself and tried to make conversation.

“You know business is booming, Rooster. People can’t get enough of their loved ones on TV. They just can’t resist. Once they see them on the screen, it’s just buy, buy, shop, shop. With you putting them down so efficiently, we end up reaping the rewards even earlier than expected. Our board is very pleased. I might even be able to get you a little bonus.”

“Just pay me what you owe me. I’m not interested in the circle jerk you guys got going on over there. It’s a rotten business if you ask me. The dead shouldn’t be bothered with such things. Bad karma.”

Rooster got up and took a last swig from his beer.

“Why do you do it then?” asked Stan.

“I’m a mercenary, Stanley. I go where the money is. Besides, it’s on your heads, not mine. I’m just the delivery boy.”

Without saying another word, Rooster got up and headed out the door. Stan was left to finish his beer alone, the nine o’clock news on the TV emitting a faint glow over his face.

***

Will had thought long and hard about it and had finally decided, today was the day he would sign his image over to FrontierSoft. With the money he got he could pay all of the family’s bills and even put some money away for a rainy day. He didn’t even feel bad about it. Maybe they would use him to sell something cool, like a hovercraft or a ticket to Mars. Will laughed at the thought of being on TV. Even though he expected it would take him many years to die, he imagined the surprise of some of his friends (if they were alive, that is) of seeing him on TV, pitching them the latest gadget or household item. He had just entered the reception of the FrontierSoft building and noticed the huge glass walls on either side. An oval reception desk with three receptionists stood in the center of an otherwise sparse first floor.

“Welcome to FrontierSoft, sir. May I help you?”

The attendant had a round, chubby face; her red hair was curly and partly obscured one of her eyes. She seemed upbeat, even giddy.

“I have a 10 a.m. appointment at the Dreams Department. They told me to look for Peggy.”

That’s what they called it, the “Dreams Department,” where a stroke of the pen could land you months or even years of peace of mind.

“Of course, sir. It’s on the tenth floor. Take the elevator on your left. There will be another reception area as you exit the elevator.”

When he arrived on the tenth floor, one of the first things Will noticed were the posters of FrontierSoft’s clients and products. One pictured a smiling woman washing her clothes, the logo for Gone fabric softener in the background. Another featured the new Amus car model with a happy driver going through a field. Were these people alive? Had they already been processed by FrontierSoft’s famous imaging department? Will felt a shudder but decided to ignore it. He approached the reception desk.

“Will Adler. Here to see Peggy, 10 a.m. appointment.”

“Of course, Mr. Adler. Please follow me.”

The receptionist escorted Will into a small room. A desk and two chairs on either side of it were there, as was a small woman with long black hair and rimmed glasses sitting on one of the chairs.

“Ah, Mr. Adler. I’m glad you came. I just need ten minutes of your time and then we can get going. Please have a seat.”

Will sat down uneasily. The room felt cold, unadorned.

“Were you able to read the contract we sent you? Do you have any questions regarding any of it?”

The contract Will had received was almost a hundred pages long, with fine print and specific clauses that seemed designed not to be read by even the most diligent of readers. He lied.

“Yes I did. So I’ll get paid as soon as I sign, correct? No questions asked?”

“That’s correct. The money will be transferred to your account immediately. Like it says in the contract, you are signing over your image rights for eternity after your passing. We may use it as we please. Is that clear, Mr. Adler?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “We will also need you to be processed through our imaging department once this contract is signed. It shouldn’t take more than a couple hours, but I hope you’ve cleared your schedule. Now, if you’re ready, let’s proceed. Here, use my pen.”

Will thought of his mother as he took the pen emblazoned with the words “FrontierSoft” on it and signed the document. Black ink oozed out as his name was signed on several pages.

***

Three months had passed since his visit to FrontierSoft, and Will was feeling good. He had used the money he had received to pay dad’s outstanding medical bills and had enrolled in a creative design course at the local college. His tenure at Lost Worlds was coming to an end, and Will wanted to branch out creatively into the larger videogame industry if he could. His design course was the first step in that direction. Mom still cried from time to time when Rob came on TV, but Will felt that she was getting better and less emotional with each passing month.

It was a sunny afternoon, and the late afternoon rays gave Will a warm and cozy feeling as he left Lost Worlds for his evening course. In the penthouse of the Troubador Building, a mere three blocks away from Will’s location, Rooster readied his rifle. Stan had been pressuring him as of late and demanding more and more hits in close succession. It seemed the board’s appetites for results knew no bounds. Rooster couldn’t remember the last time he had fulfilled a contract this early, a mere three months into the target’s lifespan.

Will turned the corner and went past his favorite doughnut shop. He looked at his watch: 6:52. He had to hurry or he would be late. Thoughts raced through his mind as he envisioned the characters he would be designing today for their class project, a game about a haunted house and the ghosts within. The light turned red on the corner of Chapman Drive. Will looked up as the sun reflected off the windows of the Troubador Building, the light blinding his eyes. Rooster readied his aim, his finger on the trigger.

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Pedro Ferraz is a Brazilian sports writer whose work has been published on sites such as theinertia.com and stabmag.com. He has recently made a foray into short fiction.