The Drummer

           Harold, dressed in the clothes he had died in, trudged down the steps, like he was in a funeral procession. His shirt, a pink polo shirt, was tattered, torn, and looked like a tie-dyed blood bath. His jeans, held up by a leather belt with a gold belt buckle, had also seen better days. Harold held his head in his arms, caressing his skull.

            “Open meetings simply mean anyone, like family members and friends, can attend. My sponsor died before I did, and I can’t leave this cabin, so I couldn’t go to a meeting even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to,” Harold said.

            “Harold,” Miss Kitty said, “if you don’t want to go to a meeting, you have to go, and if you do want to go to a meeting, well, then you should probably also go.”

            Harold settled his head on his shoulders. He reached out his hand and said, “Hi, my name is Harold the ghost and I’m an alcoholic.”

            Miss Kitty grasped his hand. “Hi, my name is Kitty and I’m an alcoholic-addict.”

            Shocked, Miles stood up on his hand feet. “Miss Kitty must go to a lot of meetings,” Miles said, “Because she’s one of the most sane humans I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.”

            “Miles says you are sane,” Harold said.

            Miss Kitty giggled; she laughed; she snorted. “Oh, my sponsor will love this one. ‘You were talking to a headless ghost and a packrat? I think you need another meeting.’”

            Miles had packrat tears and snot rolling down his furry face from laughing so hard. Harold’s head slipped off his shoulders, bounced on the ground, and landed next to the photo of the drummer.

            “Smack Death,” he shouted. His body jumped over to the photo, and his blood-stained hands picked the photo up and ripped it to shreds…