The Tip

The tips of Miles' teeth, sharp and pointy, pressed through the smile. What Miles wanted to say, and what Miles did say, were two entirely different sentences. Miles stared out the front door, toward the light of day, pondering what to say before saying it.

“Yes, Harold," Miles finally said. "The banjuke is out of tune, and once we tune it, my headache will magically disappear, you’ll receive an offer to publish your book of poetry, and the song you are trying to sing will make the Billboard 100 list.”

“Oh, Miles, you can be such an optimist.”

Miles perched on the end of the banjuke, using his front right paw to turn on the electronic tuner. Next, Miles plucked one of the strings with his tail.

“You see, Harold, it is, in fact, out of tune.”

Harold looked at his hand, staring at it so hard that Miles worried he might burn a hole where the arm should have been. Unfortunately, Harold’s arm refused to materialize, and when Harold attempted to turn the tuning key, his hand sifted through the instrument as if it were invisible.

“The problem, old man,” Miles said, “is that you are living between two dimensions. It takes patience and practice to materialize properly in the land of the living if you are dead. Harold?”

Harold trudged up the stairs to the attic. “It’s no use, Miles. I’m a useless old ghost. I can’t even keep my instruments tuned.”

Miles ran to the table, scurried up the chair, and perched next to his iPhone. He typed in, “Dear Miss Kitty. We are having a ghostly emergency. Could you come by and tune the banjuke for Harold?”

After Miles hit send, he thought, oh cats. I should let ghosts be ghosts and take a nap. His iPhone vibrated, and Bob’s your uncle, Miss Kitty replied that she was on her way.