Brush With A Ghost

Then, Old Alben and The Ghost Of Christmas Presents Future found themselves in a stark, cold bathroom. The tub was stained with rust, and a crack ran through the only window, letting in a draft. Standing in front of the mirror was a young man, no older than twenty, in a slovenly white shirt and trousers, brushing his teeth with a standard toothbrush.

“Wait, is that…” Alben moved closer. The young man could not sense his presence. “Why, no! It can’t be! Not young Festley!”

“Do you see why I brought you here?” asked the Ghost.

“Yes, of course,” said Old Alben, nodding solemnly. “Young Festley is my assistant. Excuse me, was my assistant. I remember when I first came upon the boy. He played a game on the street outside the railroad tie factory. He would place a hardened lima bean under one of three chipped ceramic thimbles, and then rearrange the lot of them rapidly. When he came to a stop, the tie-makers, their callused hands replete with a week’s wages, would place bets on which held the treasure. No one ever won, of course, except Festley. I offered him a job on the spot, seeing his ingenuity.”

Old Alben stepped up next to the young man, examined his features in the mirror which reflected only one face.

“Festley was a great in his role,” Old Alben said. “Put him in a bow tie and you’d forget he was the son of a lowly pie-tin inspector. Indeed, there were days when I thought of him like my own son, and I had planned to surprise him with a change in signage. I would tell him I had a small painting project for him to undertake. He would frown, of course, seeing such a task as rightly beneath him. But then I would tell him it was the sign that required a touch up. For it should not say ‘Alben’s High Interest Loans & Subprime Mortgage Emporium.’ No, henceforth, it should read ‘Alben and Festley’s High Interest Loans & Subprime Mortgage Emporium.’ Also, the ampersand needed work.”

Old Alben sighed.

“Of course, it never came to that. One day, the day I planned to buy the required paint, I caught him stealing tape and fired him. He claimed it was to patch leaks in his ceiling. When I reminded him that he lived on the first floor of a three story apartment building, he told me it was because a gang of bootleggers lived above them, and their bathtub gin would drip through the cracks in their floor and into his sleeping sister’s snoring mouth, rendering her angelic singing voice gravelly and harsh, and leaving her too drunk to perform well in school. She’d just that week, he claimed, gotten into a slurred yelling match with her arithmetic teacher. This did not sway me. I held steadfast. But alas! It was only tape! So yes, I see why you’ve brought me here: to show me what I’ve wrought. Because I could not overlook his minor theft, an act committed to help his sister, I, in effect, destroyed any chance at success he might have.”

The Ghost shook its head. “Cool story, but nope.” He extended a bony finger towards Festley’s toothbrush. “Look at that thing! So old! So inefficient. Not capable of all those great sonic vibrations, that perfect timing, and no app connectivity to show him how he’s brushing. You just got a 2-pack of Philips Sonicare FlexCare Platinum Connected toothbrushes, right? You should’ve given him one.”

Old Alben brushed a tear from his eye. “Oh, yeah, sure, that too,” he said.