"The Man of the Crowd" - Edgar Allen Poe
"Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes - die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a [burden] so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave."
Furtive. That was the word the ghost of Samuel Burbage struggled for as he floated about the bed of Lawrence Count, age 72, New Shoreham RI. Lawrence here has a furtive look about his eyes. It was pitch in the room, but a ghost can see everything. It was an attribute only available to the dead. It was once a specialty to spirits, but the technology age did a great injustice with the invention of night mode. Not that they can see everything. Old Saint Michael had told Burbage over a game of bridge, "They may try to see the weakest of a light spectrum, but they'll never be able to capture feelings." Burbage and a cohort from old Maryland, Tanner, watched Saint Michael closely. "Watch how he counts the multipliers: I think he mixes clubs for spades."Lawrence had *the* glow. A guilty man. A man who has to live with himself everyday. He hates the world because he doesn't operate within it. He cannot amend himself to life, so he makes mistakes. He stacks guilt atop missed opportunities atop minor indiscretions. He thinks he prays. "He prays only to himself, he knows no GOD." Saint Michael pointed him out and through the fog of miasma came to Lawrence.
"Why do we do this, Arch Angel?"
"All we can do is try Burbage. If Tanner did haunt you, and you didn't repent, well, you wouldn't be here to do the same."
"This isn't a reward, Michael."
"Didn't say it was Burbage. But it is the RIGHT thing to do."
So Burbage came to the creeping hour half-heartedly. As Lawrence finished thoughts on the day's events, then a binge through a half-baked series on a streaming service, he started for bed. Lawrence knew Burbage was there, even just a little, because the lights would come up in a blaze to make the trek up the stairs and down the hall. Oh, he acted brave, but I could see the gait change, the odd periphery glances. Burbage put his hands on Lawrence's back and he could feel him shiver.
Lawrence would 'read' before bed (if you catch my drift men) which Burbage was thankfully pulled from. "Yes, we can see it...but, do you want to see?" The answer 19 times out of 20 'no'. The others were reassessed, you see.
Then the lights would go out and Burbage would whisper in Lawrence's ear, "Fluffernutter, fluffernutter." Use words that make no sense to the living. They hate that. Except for fans of Sid Caesar. Use the word 'sausage' then. [Jonas Sinkletter was a grand writer of the Guide.]
Lawrence would grind himself into his blankets. Burbage could sense it all in his glow: Count treated others as 'below' him, although the dissonance in that attitude is weighed in their own trappings. Count had no real friends. He had a wife that left him, running off with Anyman ages ago. (Anyman had an interest and that was all that was needed.) Count collected things and we know where that leads. In the end Lawrence Count had little, so he expressed it in an ego so fragile it could balloon and break several times in the course of a day. And so late in life to boot.
"Fluffernutter, dummy."
"It's not too late, Michael?"
"I didn't say that, Burbage. You have to do what you can. They make the choice."
"Fluffernutter, idiot."
"I'm not being graded, Michael?"
"You're already here, Burbage."
"Good. I can't say I'm particularly good at this."
"Burbage."
"Fluffernutter."
...
The new day came and Burbage was long gone: the twilight and witching hour passed. Lawrence Count noted his silliness at the nightly fear again. But true rest escaped him and it did gnaw, even just a little.
Remembering the world is a bunch of idiots gave him the energy to start his day anew.
...
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