Duke
hadn’t known that he was in Steve Job’s garage until long after he’d died. Or
perhaps it’d been just a few minutes following. It didn’t matter much to a
ghost, even if he did come out to haunt from time to time, crooning in his
fetid bass.
Whiskey
Sunshines until dawn had always felt classy to Duke, even as they slipped down
his throat. He’d liked to think they loosened his vibrato. It’d always helped
him with the blues, that much was for sure.
Jobs
was dead, of course, years before Duke had broken into the genius’ garage. He
talked to him sometimes. Jobs was a pleasant ghost, if a bit uneducated.
There
hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation. The girl had shot him, and he had crumpled
to the ground: clutching, then dying.
Dying
is like alcohol. It makes you feel loose, but you always regret it the next
day, even if you don’t.
Duke
remembered the look in her eyes. She’d hit a note and belted: cawing, then
noticing it was dearly, horribly wrong. Duke spoke with her ghost too, from
time to time.
She
always began with an apology and ended with a drink.
