It's finally here. You've waited all week for this. Working like a dog in your real-world job while yearning for the week to end. That ghost-investigation carrot has been dangling in front of you all week. Tonight, you are doing another private residence case, which is typical for your group.
After flipping the last burger you rush home, grab a bite and begin your pre-investigation equipment check.
Voice recorder. Check. EMF detector. Check. Flashlight. Check. Camcorder. Check. Pen and notepad. Check. Spare batteries. Check. Thermal imaging camera. Check. Wait, you don't have that and you certainly cannot afford it. One can dream, you think. Sigh. Uncheck.
But the saying "fake it til you make it" suddenly makes a good argument. Thermal imaging camera. Check. Grin. Double check.
You pull out your make shift paranormal team shirt. You hesitate as you contemplate whether it matters that your bowling team name, Pins Up Balls Down, covers the back.
Heck, your name is on the front, albeit in cursive, so you flip it on, comb your hair and look in the mirror.
You just can't help but think just how para-sexy and suave you look. But something is missing. Duh, sunglasses. You plop those on and gaze intensely into the bedroom mirror again.
It's hard to believe that there is so much "awesomeness" in just one room. A couple adjustments of the right upper corner of your mouth and presto. It's like opening an "awesomeness" box of Cracker Jack only to find an "awesomeness" mini-you as the prize inside. It's almost unfair you think.
But the "I'm looking so awesomeness" moment halts are you remember it's a night investigation. These might not be practical. You pause for a second and try to think of one good reason, just one good reason, you could pull off the nighttime sunglass gig. Your mind races and within seconds your natural "Hal 2001" presents the results. It found just one reason but hey,what more does "awesomeness" need.
The result: The song "Sunglasses at Night" by Corey Hart.
You celebrate your victory jubilantly as if you had just caught the last second touchdown pass in Superbowl You. But that is short lived as you realize the song has nothing to do with your para-swag and you drop the ball.
You curse at Corey Hart and chuck the sunglasses across the room.
You glance angrily at the clock. It's 7:00 p.m. You have one hour to get to the investigation. Where the hell is it, you ponder. You snap out of your pity party and crank up the laptop, find the email from your group's case manager and search for the location details.
Ok, got it.
You race through the notes of the case looking for the good stuff.
Let's see. Blah. Blah. Hears bumps. Blah. Blah. Sees shadows. Blah. Blah. Lights flicker on and off by themselves. Blah. Blah. 24 year old female.
"24 year old female," you exclaim loudly in your head. You purposely put quotes on it in case a ghost was reading your mind.
Although your eyes are still moving through the case information, your fleshly minicomputer had separated from your "sunglassess-less" head the moment you spied those words.
You find yourself as Zak Bagans. Dressed for para-success and ready to take the ghost out of this 24 year old beauty's...you pause to find the most climatic word, dang it, whatever. You ring the doorbell. The song "Sunglasses at Night" oddly plays in the background.
The door is opened just enough for you to find two perfectly round and pretty blue eyes peering back out at you.
You flick your sunglasses up to get a better look as you flip your head from one side to the other readjusting your fabio-like hair in the process. Although the flicking of hair should take just a millisecond, you give it a good ten second flick for effect, complete with slow-motion.
All the while the song "Let's Get It On" by Marvin Gaye has replaced Corey Hart's, somewhere five seconds into the hair adjustment.
You exaggerate the tilt of your head to the left and give her that smile that you know she won't be able to resist.
She cracks the door open a bit more and smiles back except she appears to be missing quite a few teeth.
Your sunglasses fall back onto your nose. Part of her turns, which part you are not sure, and she beckons at you with her index finger to follow.
You came to put your sexy into her horror but it appears that her horror is about to be put into your sexy.
You desperately pinch yourself.
Pinch. Pinch. Pinch. Come on. Pinch. Pinch. Pinch. You hear, "Come on in" that sounds like a male's deep voice on a 45-record at low speed. Pinch. Pinch. Pinch.
Time is running out as your frantically keep pinching yourself. Pop. Finally, you are back.
You wipe the sweat off your foreheard and think, Oh thank God. Your mind then synchronizes with your eyes again as you finish the investigation notes.
Blah. Blah. Father passed away last year. Blah. Blah. Don't be late. Crap.
You glance at the time, it's 7:30 p.m. and you know it will take a good 30 minutes to get there.
You slap the laptop shut and attempt to get up. You trip over the chair and fall flat on your back. You hear a crackling noise. Was that your back, you wonder. You slowly get up, brush yourself off and realize it's those damn sunglasses. You giggle at the irony but realize you don't have time for this.
You pick up your equipment bag and rush out the door. Seconds later your rush back in the door to fetch your keys.
You arrive at the destination at 7:59 p.m. thinking as if there was any doubt you'd be late. But no one is here. A quick call to your group leader solves the mystery.
"The investigation isn't until next Friday. It was in the email notes the case manager sent you," said the group leader.
You sit back and think, how the hell did I miss that. I read that email from start to finish.
.
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