Bobbleheads supervised Keith’s cubicle, nodding approvingly whenever he swiveled and banged his knees on drawers that never closed.  Neon Trolls perpetually grinned and relieved no more stress than any of the squeezable knick-knacks collected over seven years with the company.  In sheer variety of crap, he rivaled Oriental Trading.  Whenever a co-worker attended an outside function with giveaway garbage – a deck of cards, a drink cozy, a “bendy-Wendy” made of rubber and pipe cleaners – it found its way to Keith’s junk repository. 

Early this Monday morning, Keith discovered his desk was buried under rainbow colored Slinkies.  It wasn’t his birthday or anniversary.  While he considered ways to attach the ends of separate coils and create the world’s largest Slinky, his phone rang.

“Thank you for calling Heilenman, Sigorsky and Lee.  This is Keith.  How may I help you?”

“Keith!  Thank God!  It’s Lewis.”

Keith dropped the toy and checked caller ID.  Unlisted.  Of course it was.

“Lewis?”

“Yes, Lewis French.  Listen, I don’t know how much time I’m allotted.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Lewis!  I need you to pay attention.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“NO!  DON’T!  Please – ask me anything!”

“I don’t know who you are, but Lewis French died three weeks ago.”

“Yeah, I was listening to the Bulb CD you burned for me that morning when I ran off the road.”

The same CD Keith was listening to during today’s commute.  Good driving music.

“You’re very sick.  Goodbye.”

A tone sounded, then Keith released the caller.  Moments later, Cynthia at the main switchboard rang.

“This is Keith.”

“I have a Lewis French on the line.  He said it was urgent.”

“Patch him through.”

Keith took a deep breath, grabbed a squeezable sumo wrestler figurine, and fondled it as the caller transferred.

“Who is this?”

“I’m Lewis French and before you hang up again, yes, I’m dead.”

Keith debated the merits of twenty questions, decided it wouldn’t be worth the effort.  This was probably one of Lewis’s cohorts in crime – idiots, the bunch of them.  In college, it was entertaining to saran wrap a motorcycle on a hot summer day or fill a toilet bowl with Great Stuff.  Keith’s hankering for prankering subsided after graduation, but Lewis never lost that fervor.  Still, the voice in his earpiece was too familiar to ignore.

“You’re dead.”

“And I only get one phone call.  I’m not sure how long this token permits.”

“Why did you call me?”

“Because Stephanie screens her calls and she’d never believe me enough to pick up.”

“But why me?”

“Because you’re the only person who works this early who can get me out of here.”

Keith removed his glasses and spun the frame between his thumb and forefinger.  His reflection on the computer monitor looked dumbfounded.  Rightfully so. 

“Stop playing with your glasses and get a pen.”

Keith swept the trinkets from his shelf, searching for a camera.  “Can you see me?”

“No.  I’m not a ghost.”

“But Lewis French died three weeks ago!”

“And I had to cut in this stupid line for the phone, or else I’d still be waiting for my call.  The bureaucracy here sucks.”

“I went to the funeral!”

“Okay, thanks for that.  We’ll have plenty of catch up on details when I’m back.  Would you please shut up for a minute so I can talk?”

How many times had Keith heard those words before?  Wasn’t that the rallying cry before the two friends left their dorm room with a crate of shaving cream?

“I still don’t understand why you called me.”

“That’s not important.  Get in touch with my mother and get her to look through the attic of the Congress Avenue house.”

“Your mom hates me.”

“So give her money.”

“It’s your mom!”

The line beeped twice.

“I don’t have much time!  In the corner of the attic, you’ll find a shoebox – it’s a diorama.  Take it to 200 North Park Street in Smyrna and give it to Marshall Pratt.  He’ll have further instructions.”

“Why do you need a diorama?”

“200 Park Street.  Marshall Pratt – write it down!”

Keith located a sticky note and scribbled frantically.  The phone beeped again. 

“Pratt works the third shift, so you can meet with Mom tonight and meet with him afterwards.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know!  I’m not a guardian angel, Keith.  If you run into any problems, ask Pratt what to do.  Thanks.  I owe you.  Oh, and don’t forget to take –”

Two more beeps, a click, and dial tone.  The timer on Keith’s phone revealed the entire conversation ran 7:06.  It didn’t feel that long, and it certainly didn’t feel long enough. 

Keith chose to forego logging his first call of the day, powered up his computer and checked his email.  Hopes of further clues went unsatisfied.  If the afterlife allowed a telephone call, why not internet access?  (Rigor mortis probably made typing more hassle than it was worth.)  He pulled up a map of Smyrna and found the desired address: 200 Park Street was a car wash.

Keith dialed the number and listened to a message listing business hours, directions, and a guarantee for the cleanest automobile ever!  Regardless of the recording’s offer, no operator connected when he pressed zero. 

The telephone startled him.  Mailroom.  Chuck DeLaney snorted, “Whazzup, slink dog?” 

“Nice one, Chuck.”

“Dude, I got two more Hefty bags of ‘em here.  Who else wants some?”

“I don’t know.  I have a call on my other line,” Keith lied.

“If you want any more, buzz me.”

Keith terminated the line and studied his monitor.  Sudz-n-Sparkles.  Google provided no further results than the address and phone number; apparently the owners weren’t high tech enough to develop a webpage.  He placed his headset on a hill of coiled rainbows and left a sticky note on Reg Heilenman's office door: BACK BY NOON. – K.