Fiction

MY FRIEND, THE SKELETON

A Short Story by Michael Bowser

(Copyright © 2021)

I looked over from whatever drivel I was watching on late night television, and there he was: the skeleton.

There was nothing that unusual about him; apart from, you know, the whole “skeleton” thing. Not that I’d had much to do with skeletons in the course of my thirty-three years on this Earth, but he was pretty much what you’d expect: chalky-white, gaping eye sockets, bald, skinny, lots of teeth and, of course, naked as the day he was born (or died, perhaps).

Somehow, I knew this wasn’t the Grim Reaper I was looking at. I suspect my reaction would’ve been more extreme if it was. Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t just glance over from the mundane dreck leaking from my idiot box to see a skeleton in the spare armchair to my utter lack of surprise. But he seemed a pleasant enough fellow – uninvited though he was – so my brain chose to register his presence with little more than bemusement and, at most, a touch of alarm.

“Er…hello?” I said, unsure how to greet such a gentleman. (Or lady, as the case may have been; the smart money being on the former.)

He looked over at me, nodded amiably, then returned his big, black gaze to the television. He seemed content with what was on at the time, judging by his lack of complaints.

Fair enough, I thought. I’m grabbing a bit of late night TV just before bed – insomnia can do that to a man – and this perfectly affable skeleton chap has elected to join me. My mother and I had a dog when I was growing up, so how different was this from that? Less thick, dark fur to brush off the chair, for starters.

Heck: I could probably use the company, here in this one-bedroom flat. Been thinking about getting a pet anyway. This’ll save me a trip to the shops.

So there we sat, the skeleton and I. Enjoying a repeat of some senseless American sitcom at one-thirty in the morning, the radiant glow of the glass teat filling both our faces with superficial warmth. Seemed normal enough, at the time.

***

Later that day, on the train to work, there he was again. He wasn’t wearing a suit like me, or carrying a briefcase like others in the carriage. If only they could see him, the other passengers may have been quite perturbed to clock an unclothed skeleton sitting bolt-upright beside them.

Have I mentioned the skeleton’s posture? It was certainly an improvement over my own. I suspect such a thought would send the medical fraternity into a tizzy: the notion of a “dead” man being arguably healthier than a thirtysomething dude with no good reason to be the overweight, lazy-boned bastard that he is.

Stick that in your pipes and smoke it, gentlemen.

As for his proximity to myself, the skeleton was a couple of rows in front and across the aisle. Sensing my eyes on him, he looked back and raised a brief, bony hand to wave, grinning with those all-but-flawless pearly whites, before turning back to face front and patiently wait out the rest of the journey. The Council surely couldn’t ask for a more ideally behaved passenger. (The question remained whether the skeleton had purchased the ticket required for the journey, but such matters were frankly between him and the authorities.)

***

I didn’t see him disembark at the same stop as me, yet was somehow unsurprised to see the skeleton at my place of work. I’m not sure what official capacity he was operating in, but it seemed I had a new supervisor-of-sorts for the day.

He didn’t “look over my shoulder” exactly, but sat in the next cubicle and periodically glanced over to check that I was doing my work. I think he may have caught me on Facebook, just the once, and I certainly didn’t try my luck again for the rest of the day. I bear no grudges against the skeleton: I know he was only doing his job, as surely as I was (mostly) doing mine.

As for what he was doing at his own desk, I didn’t intrude. It was none of my beeswax, frankly. But it looked industrious enough, whatever it was.

***

I hit the grocery store on the way home – never can have too much chocolate in the fridge! – and my new friend, the skeleton, decided to join me. I was fine with this. He wasn’t explicitly invited, but the companionship was welcome. He even tried to make himself helpful by pointing out items I was looking for…which I’ll admit was a smidgen spooky, given the only shopping list I keep is the one in my skull.

A small test occurred to me.

“Hey, do you mind…” I said, pointing at a box of cereal quite high up. (In my defence, the skeleton was a tad taller than me, so it didn’t hurt to try.)

Words can’t express how bad I felt, then, when my companion just looked at me with those big black eyes and gave a small, impotent shrug suggesting that such a blatantly physical interaction may have been outside his Earthly jurisdiction. It’s amazing how much innocence can be conveyed by two dark, empty eye sockets. At that moment, he for all the world reminded me of my beloved childhood canine, Stripe, right after he’d been “naughty”.

“Ah, that’s alright,” I laughed, and got on my tip-toes to grab the box myself.

Some rude old woman gave me a strange look at this point – the type one might give to a crazy person caught talking to themselves – so I promptly shot her an evil-eyed glare that banished her to somewhere she could go about minding her own fucking business.

***

Later that “night”, the skeleton saw fit to join me for another spot of early morning television.

Sensing his presence, I looked over and smiled and nodded. He looked back and grinned and nodded back at me, before we returned our attention to the chubby, pouting face of Gary Coleman in time to hear those immortal words: “What you talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” The laughter that followed was kept entirely on the inside, but the kinship was undeniable.

It sure was nice to have company for a change.

***

The skeleton soon became a regular fixture in my life. Like a loyal dog, he seemed to follow me almost anywhere I went, but never in an impolite or intrusive fashion.

He let me be when I had to go to the little boy’s room, or take care of other “men’s business”. He wasn’t a stalker or anything: he was just my pal. I wouldn’t go so far as to say “partner”, and nor would I describe his role at work as my “boss”. He became my trusted friend and confidant. Anything I couldn’t say to others, I could safely say to him.

“I had a girlfriend, once. I guess I kind of took her for granted, almost like a ‘pet’. I suppose it all started with being the spoiled only child of a single mother…”

So yes, the skeleton and I, we were getting quite close. He didn’t confess anything to me, of course, but I think we had an understanding. Whatever had led him to this particular moment in his own “life”, I was sure he wouldn’t want to talk about it anyway. I know I wouldn’t.

Then again…maybe I would. I am a pretty confessional kinda guy, after all.

***

Not all was roses, however. My inclination towards laziness soon blossomed into a full-blown fiasco, as I figured that if the skeleton was happy to go out in the world and live life for me, I may as well stay home and let him take care of business.

I decided that I didn’t need to go to work, because the skeleton would do that for me. I didn’t need to go to the grocery store, because the skeleton always seemed to be there. Somewhere amidst the lack of food and excess of sleep, I guess my mind forgot to do some things: normal things, like taking care of myself. I just figured the skeleton would take care of everything for me. Boy, was I wrong about that.

I plead insanity, Your Honour. These things quickly spiral out of control, and before you know it…

***

“Here you go, Michael. It’s not quite MasterChef, but I hear it’s a step-up from aeroplane food.”

“Thanks, Regina. Honestly, it looks good.”

It doesn’t, but I still like this place. I don’t have to go to work, I can watch television to my heart’s content, and I don’t even have to get out of bed to pee.

Can’t say I mind the drugs, either. They say that once I get physically better, the next stop is a psychiatric unit. Sounds alright to me, as long as it’s not too much like prison, and they don’t expect me to make licence plates for a living. Can’t see myself getting much joy out of that.

All in all, I’m quite happy here. I have everything I need, including company. Now that I look back, I think I may have been a bit on the lonesome side in that tiny one-bedroom flat.

Oh, and speak of the Devil…or rather, the skeleton? Yeah, right, the skeleton. Suffice it to say, the bastard hasn’t come to visit me. Not even once.

I suppose it’s true what they say: you can only count on yourself in this life. Yourself, and maybe pets. But pets die eventually. We all do, I guess. Perhaps that’s what happened to the skeleton, in his own non-living kind of way, so I probably shouldn’t judge him. I’m grateful for the short time we had together. He was my companion, my confidant, my rock…

He was my friend. If only for the briefest of spells.