Ghost

 “You look better than I expected,” Alex said upon seeing me again. We were meeting for coffee downtown to discuss his project.

It was the first time that I had been downtown in over a year. Nothing had changed. Except for me, of course.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass when I opened the door to the coffeehouse. That person looks vaguely familiar, I thought with a tinge of panic and resolved to keep my distance, until I realized my mistake.

Alex was vibrant and gracious, as always, overflowing with projects and ideas. He was wearing a burgundy sweater. I wouldn’t expect anything less. “I knew that rumors weren’t true,” he reassured me, which immediately made me suspect that perhaps they were.

Though I could only imagine, maybe it was true what they were saying about me. That I went rogue. That I moved into a basement apartment, in The Halfway House. That I haven’t seen the light of day for months. That I sleep on the floor, curled in a ball, extra tight, atop a pile of leaves and moss. That I walk around covered in acorn shards and leaf matter. That I befriended the family of skunks who live under the porch. That my senses are heightened, mostly the olfactory. That I have a wild look in my eyes, seldom blinking, nostrils flared. That I pace the floors until sunup, tracing obscure designs into the floorboards with the grip of my slippers. That the words spill out. That I froth at the mouth with them. That I ink up the pages. That I sharpen the pencils all the way down to the erasers, covered in teeth marks. That I am almost finished. That I am putting on the final touches. That it is all I think about, The Blueprints.

“I keep thinking that I will see you on campus. Sometimes, after class, I forget and stop by your office to say hi, for old time’s sake. I never get used to seeing someone else there, in your chair, behind your desk. It just doesn’t feel right.”

I contemplated telling Alex about my new office, about the supply closet at The Community Center, about the cleaning products, about the artistry, about the all-consuming project of cleaning everything, of starting from the very bottom and setting it all right. But I thought better of it. Besides, there was the business at hand.

“So I received your email,” I stated, more concerned with the pragmatics of the situation than with semantics.

In his last year of the program, Alex was planning his honors thesis. He had been staying up late, working on the details of The Plan. He couldn’t wait any longer. He just had to share it with me. Slipping back into a familiar role, I was all ears. 

Inspired by one of my lectures, he wanted to write about the architecture of memory sites. He couldn’t think of anyone better to supervise him, with my background in institutional responses to political violence and all. At the same time, he explained, he was aware that, technically speaking, I couldn’t be his supervisor, being that I no longer worked at The Almost Ivy League University.

“‘Technically speaking’ being the operative phrase, the part of the syntagm where all the weight falls, maximum pressure, a semantic fulcrum of sorts” Alex added. He indeed had a bright future ahead of him.

“The good news is that technicalities can often be obviated.” Alex had discovered a loophole. His eyes lit up. The curls dangling on his forehead trembled. “There is, thankfully, the possibility of co-supervision.” Alex’s voice reached a crescendo, leaving behind his natural register as a baritone.

“This basically means that I can choose an internal supervisor, someone from the department, and an external one from an outside institution. So, what do you say?" It was a good pitch, an intelligent and creative solution to an awkward problem. "Will you be the external member of my supervising committee?”

I took a few moments to search for the right words. I wanted to let him down softly. As former student at the conservatory and talented musician, Alex played piano gently on the tabletop with his fingers as he waited for my response. The perfect background music, it soothed my nerves, admittedly worn, not by Alex, of course, but by the events of the past year. The notes cascaded down leisurely like snowflakes. I wanted the melody to go on forever.

“Where are you teaching now, anyway?” Alex interjected. “I forgot to ask.” This was the crux of the matter, the fault line, a nodal point of maximum semantic condensation, as my interlocutor might say. “You see, the thing is… How can I say this? Well, I’m not exactly teaching.”

I was surprised to find Alex unsurprised by my words. More focused on solutions than problems, it didn’t take him long to find the way forward. “That’s okay. It can be a research position as well. You’re working on your book, aren’t you? Well, we can just put whoever is financing the book. That will do.”

Alex was right. I am indeed working on my book. In fact, except for cleaning and occasionally writing about cleaning here, it’s all I do.

“There’s the problem of institutional affiliation, I mean, the lack thereof.” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to find the strength to push the words out, the ones that I had yet to speak aloud. “Nobody is funding the book.” The sentence hit like a slap across the face with its brute force and blunt edges. Panicking, I scrambled to soften the blow. “Independent researcher, that’s what I usually tell people. Whether or not I have funding doesn’t change what I do or who I am, right? The boat doesn’t capsize just because the investors get cold feet. Full steam ahead. Stay the course. Finish the book. That’s what I tell myself. And 'independent researcher' has a nice ring to it, don't you think? That’s what I usually say.”

Alex detained his melody in mid-note. Letting out a deep breath, as if it was the one I had just taken in, he ran his hand through his hair, tangling his fingertips in the curls, losing them in the brambles. “Well, how do you get by?”

He immediately retracted his question, assuring me that it had slipped out unintentionally.

Lately, I had been feeling good about my situation, as if it made sense, as if there were a way to make it make sense. Nonetheless, I just couldn’t answer his question head-on. I obviated. “I picked up a side job, something to pay the bills, you know, while I write the book in the off hours.” A half-truth would have to be enough.

“Have you ever heard of a ghost supervisor?” Alex was receding, and I asked the question in an attempt to lure him back to the surface of the conversation. “It’s really quite common. Departments in the Humanities are small. It’s hard to find professors that share your research interests. You choose one professor, the busiest one, to be your supervisor, that is, your supervisor on paper. To check the right boxes. Only a formality, really. Meanwhile, you work with someone else, the real work, someone who is willing to get in the trenches with you, muddy their boots, your ghost supervisor, like a ghost writer but a supervisor, a behind-the-scenes one.”

“You could be my ghost…???” Alex’s voice trailed off before he could finish the phrase. He cast his gaze outside the window of the coffeehouse. Snow was falling underneath the streetlamp, within the cone of its wistful orange light, the first good snowfall of the season.

I searched Alex’s features for his customary brio, but it was as if the world had suddenly darkened without sufficient notice, which it kind of had, on account of the recent switch to daylight savings time. This is what I had been worried about, the heaviness and how contagious it can be, the reason why I hesitated to respond to his email in the first place.

“I would be more than happy to do that for you, be your ghost supervisor,” I reiterated. “You have my number.”

We both stood up from the table, removed our jackets from the backs of the chairs, and put on them on.

“I have your number,” Alex echoed, as we made for the door. “Sure, okay, yeah, that sounds like it might be something that could maybe work. In any case, I have your number.”

“You have my number,” I said, holding the door for him. The words rang out as he made his way down the sidewalk, making fresh tracks in the snow.