Boo!

Ghosts of friendship past

Let’s play Ghost.

Remember? When we were kids, we’d sit in a circle, the first one up says a letter of a word she has in mind, the kid to her left adds a letter, and so on, until someone makes a real word.

Which is what you don’t want to do. If you do, you get a strike against you. Five strikes and you’re out. The strikes are recorded as the letters: G-H-O-S-T. When you turn into a ghost — poof! — you disappear.

There is a grown-up version of Ghost. Only two people are needed. More than two, it gets really complicated. Even with two, it’s tough enough, believe me. And only one of the two is actually playing Ghost. He just — poof! — disappears.

The other person is kind of like the dummy in bridge — she has absolutely no say in the play. And she feels like a dummy indeed: clueless. What the …? Am I imagining it, or is my best friend avoiding me? I’ve e-mailed, and v-mailed, texted and tweeted … I was afraid he’d dropped dead or something, but I hear he’s fine … was it something I did — or didn’t — do? What? Why? Speak to me!

Ghosts don’t talk, silly!

Game over.

Variation: For Immature Adults Only

This version requires the active — rather, passive — participation of both players. This tedious game — more commonly known as “Still Haven’t Heard from You” drags on indefinitely with neither party making a move, each insisting that the other go first.

This lose-lose game works — rather, doesn’t work — best when the opponents had played on the same team once-upon-a-time-God-only-knows-how-long-ago-after-all-its-HER-turn-to-call-ME.

And so it goes. Or doesn’t.

BOO!

Boo Hoo.

Boo Hoo who?

Nobody, silly! There’s no one even knocking.

Game on. And on…

BOO! Take Two

And so, after one year and seven months, here we aren’t. There is no “we” to be. Here or anywhere. Me and my shadow — in the joined-at-the-hip sense — are now but shadow figures to each other.

Our best-friends-forever-ship, drained of its zest by frustrations and hurt feelings, had already devolved into a shadow of itself. All it took was one non-phone-call from … me? … him? … to send its shadow packing.

I still see its ghost on occasion. I see its ghost each time I look at the glorious photos, the ones of me and my granddog, Puplet — the third shadow — taken on our threesome’s thrice-weekly walks in the cemetery.

I see its ghost — fluttering amidst the headstones whose names me and my shadow once knew by heart — while aimlessly meandering in the cemetery. Me-andering. Me alone.

I saw its ghost just this afternoon, right by the Laurel-and-Sixth-Street corner of Melrose common. Specifically, I saw his ghost, walking his dog — a new dog, to me.

I’ve often wondered — over this past one year and seven months — what I’d do if I came across his ghost. Would I look it fearlessly in the eye? Would I avoid meeting its (sad? baleful? unseeing?) gaze? Would I run scared, before it could say BOO!?

As it was, I chose to acknowledge its presence. My friend Chuck had pulled over briefly to greet the man who to him was no ghost, but a man in the flesh, well known to him as my former friend Michael.

From the safety of the car, I hailed Michael’s ghost with a wave and a smile.

And Michael smiled and waved in return. To Chuck. To me, Michael’s ghost didn’t even say BOO!