“What’s your policy on ghosts?”
I stopped scrubbing my dollar-store cutlery and blinked at the tweet. House concerts tend to be my favorite gig flavor (with some exceptions–for instance, don’t agree to serenade a bank manager’s ex-girlfriend as part of his elaborate plot to reignite their relationship, no matter how many days your rent is overdue). Myself, I feel more comfortable with strangers than with anyone else, and a living room full of them singing my words back at me is the most intimate kiss I know.
But the possibility of apparitions hovering above my guitar case while I sing “It’s Pronounced GIF, Not JIF?” That was new. Was it a prank? A hoax? The genuine más enchilada? And how did I, your friendly neighborhood nerdy folkstress, factor into it all?
I asked @ melbartonfan1 to elaborate, which I felt was appropriate under the circumstances. “She’s very well-behaved, polite even,” the second tweet read. “But we’ve hosted house concerts before, and the idea sometimes makes performers uncomfortable.”
I told him my standard contract did not list any official position on the matter.
“We’ve been playing It’s Possible I May Be Slightly Sensitive About This for the past few weeks, and she thumped a chair in the den a few times,” he replied. “That means she thought it was something special. Will you come?”
As if I could decline.