Tiffany pulled up to the Robbins Reef Yacht Club in her two-year-old Hyundai that she still has a jillion payments on. The neon lime green paint was already wearing thin, a fact that her mother pointed out by scraping at it. “Fiberglass,” was her only comment. Tiffany and her friend Stephanie don’t make quite enough money between the two of them to “qualify” for the apartment in Williamsburg they’re applying for, though they’d be able to make the rent by not buying a lot of the stuff they usually buy, or by running up their credit cards to the point of no return. Odds are on both approaches. So they need a guarantor for the apartment, a financial “adult” who agrees to come up with the rent in case they can’t, and they’re looking at Tiffany’s mother, who spends most Sundays drinking at the Yacht Club’s Tiki Bar with her boyfriend Clay, who keeps his motor yacht moored in a slip that’s been in his family for three generations.
The Robbins Reef Yacht Club is not as high-toned as it sounds. In 1906, when it was founded, it was frequented by the heights of local society who yachted in Newark Bay and raced in the regattas in New York Harbor. There are a couple of dusty old trophies somewhere from their exploits. But Bayonne has changed since then, the moneyed set have moved north to Westchester County with all these highways and commuter trains, and the old Club is now supported by the prosperous blue-collar Irish and German locals who keep it going despite the new marina open down the road with electricity for the cruising set and showers for the out-of-towners. For decades the old Yacht Club was the town’s principal hangout aside from the Elks Lodge on Broadway where even non-members are welcome to drink. Now it is a place where North Jersey working men can close ranks and enjoy the fruits of union wages and good-paying dirty jobs in the City.
“What a dump,” Stephanie offered. “I told you.”
They headed for the bar. The head of every man in the place turned as these two goddesses approached their domain, white legs flashing in the sun, silky hair fluttering in the slight breeze. The tank top was invented by a genius and everyone approves. As Tiffany approached, her mother shook her head. This is maybe not a good sign. As she exhaled on her cigarette, her mother said, “You need to tan.” “I haven’t had time,” said Tiffany. “I’ve been working nonstop.”
“There’s more to life than work,” offered Clay, who doesn’t mind the pale legs. He loves Tiffany. She’s getting a bit much for everything, but he is willing to accommodate that in a girl with four tattoos.
“I need to talk to you,” Tiffany started.
“Let’s go sit by the water,” said Mom, who was expecting a pregnancy announcement or something normal from an opening like this. Mom is a school teacher who’s seen plenty of everything. Stephanie meanwhile allowed Jim the mechanic to buy her a wine cooler. They both knew he didn’t have a chance, but this was his moment to look good talking to this marfy chick from somewhere else. It let the old guys entertain a vicarious hope or enjoy watching him go face down over the impossible like they would if they were his age. Or even now if she’d let them.
“Steffie and I need a new apartment,” Tiffany opened.
“What’s wrong with the Bayonne midtown arts district a block from the light rail? Not hip enough anymore?”
“We’re looking at Williamsburg,” Tiffany countered.
“Williamsburg! What’s the rent? More than a year on my mortgage?”
“Mom, that was 1985.”
“It’s finally paid off, and I’m not going anywhere near a second mortgage,” she pronounced with finality for the twenty-hundredth time.
“It’s not that much.”
“It is that much or you’d be there already.”
Tiffany knew when she was outflanked.
“You girls should go party in Williamsburg. Spend your money there, but don’t get locked into something impossible. You won’t have any fun. Look at all the fun you have. You go off to Florida anytime you want. You have a ton of clothes. It’s not going to be fun to watch every penny.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes — as if her mother ever had fun. She grabbed her mother’s cigarette and took a drag. “Quit smoking!” Tiffany demanded.
Her mother repossessed the cigarette. “Believe me. Having a little money to spend is one of the best things in life.”
Tiffany and her mother rejoined the Tiki Bar where a bar-wide conspiracy was in full swing to get the girls scared.
“There is no way,” said Stephanie.
“I swear,” said Jim. “He still haunts the place.”
“We’re back to Vance,” said Mom.
“He hasn’t been seen in years,” said Clay. “The paranormal people couldn’t scare him up with all their electronic equipment and cameras. I think the old spirit set has moved on to the next phase of existence, whatever that is.”
“Or maybe they’re just lurking, waiting for the right moment to pounce!” said Jim.
The Robbins Reef Yacht Club is the site of one of the more notorious hauntings in North Jersey. The main building was originally a Victorian mansion owned by a prominent local family whose son Vance hanged himself when his fiancé called off their wedding. Legend has it he still haunts the place, refusing to move on, and many of the old timers of the Yacht Club have not moved on, either, so powerful was his rip in the fabric of worlds.
“Some people have seen orbs,” offered Taylor, who usually drinks in silence. The Commodore added, “We have to keep the main bar closed when they get too active. It’s not safe.”
“What do they do?” asked Stephanie.
“They can move things around. You never know,” said the Commodore.
“What are they talking about?” Tiffany asked her mother.
“The ghosts. They’re part of Bayonne history.”
“Bayonne doesn’t have history. It’s just a dump.”
This is the part that Clay gets tired of. Tiffany’s Bayonne and she’d better get it through her head or get her stuff out of his garage.
“All right. I am going to investigate this bit of Bayonne history,” said Tiffy, knocking back the shot of tequila the bar has provided. She and Stephanie got up, half the place trailing them.
“All right,” said the Commodore, removing the frayed red velvet rope that bars entry to “that” part of the club. “You have to accept responsibility for anything that goes wrong.”
“Don’t we have insurance or something?” asked Clay.
“We don’t cover Acts of God, and we did warn you.”
“I accept responsibility for anything that ghost does to me,” were Stephanie’s brave words.
They passed the second floor landing where the deed was done. The Commodore pointed out the fatal light fixture that still has an electric chandelier, which he flipped on. “The lights work,” approved Stephanie. Lights are important when you are hunting ghosts.
They entered the upstairs parlor and looked around. It’s dim and dusty, and the place smells old, untended and sad. It is full of books nobody will ever read again.
“Why would a ghost want to stay here? It’s depressing,” asked Stephanie.
“Vance was depressed or he wouldn’t have killed himself,” explained the school teacher.
“This is a different kind of depressing. This is the regular kind where nobody cleans the house,” said Tiffany, glaring at the men. Part of her issue with the place is the general poor state of the housekeeping.
“We keep the Tiki Bar clean,” said Clay.
“Who doesn’t love a Tiki Bar in Jersey?” poked Stephanie.
They stared at the room. Nothing happened.
“This is nuts. Let’s go,” said Tiffany.
“Told you,” said Clay.
They all turned around and left, the general excitement for ghosts ebbing and the excitement for alcohol back in the driver’s seat. Jim had provided the excuse of the ghost and was now justified in buying Stephanie a third wine cooler, the one that has the strings attached. After all, who can’t get to 22nd street? Nothing in Bayonne is more than ten blocks away.
The Commodore took one last look at the spot where the youth gallantly died for love. “Get over it,” was his advice.
Tiffany stood a while longer looking at the room and feeling the life the house must have had. She had great-grandparents from that era, or some kind of grandparent. There are sepia-toned pictures of ladies in hats and gloves at her mother’s place, staring down the camera. Nobody ever smiled for pictures. They were oh-so tight-laced and visited each other all the time with coffee cakes. It was Facebook in person in that era, and her own German ancestors were part of it.
Suddenly she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned around and a book was dangling in the air. She couldn’t comprehend how they were doing this. Is there a lever or some kind of magic show here? She turned around and turned back, and the book was still there. Then it fell. And another book pulled itself out of the shelf and fell to the ground.
She’d been struck by the paranormal in the midst of her disbelief and couldn’t decide whether to make a deal with the ghost or run. It’s not something you can will yourself to do. Mostly you should run, but maybe you should look at which books were dangling in the air for clues to the ghost’s intentions.
No way.
Tiffany ran screaming almost tripping all the way out to the Tiki Bar where Stephanie was about to make a crappy mistake.
Mom bolted out to Tiffany and put an arm around her shoulder, bringing her down to the water. It felt like water was the right thing. She was shaking and babbling. Stephanie handed her the wine cooler, making Jim wince.
“What happened?” yells Clay.
Now Tiffany was crying. “The books were floating in the air. I thought I was crazy, but they were floating.”
“All right, all right. We’ve got to close the place down. Head out everybody,” said the Commodore.
“But it’s the Tiki Bar! It wasn’t built when they were alive! All they know is the house.”
“It could get infested. I’m not having any more liability.”
“We should smoke the place or something. Burn some of that sage stuff in it. That’ll get rid of them.”
“Been there, done that. It doesn’t work,” said the Commodore. “Go on home. See you next weekend.”
“How long is it going to be closed?”
“There’s always an aftermath,” said the Commodore. “Do you want weird luck?”
“Do you girls need some help?” asked Jim, about to lose his chance forever.
“Here, let me pay for my drink,” said Stephanie in a moment of clarity about her life.
“I got it,” said Mom, taking out a twenty. “The girls are coming home with me.”
“I don’t believe in this stuff,” said Clay, glaring at Tiffany across her mother’s dinner table. Tiffany has been the recipient of some of her mother’s post-dental medication and was comfortably stoned. Clay has decided she cooked this up for sympathy, and now his girlfriend was going to have to step away from their snorkeling vacation to pay that outrageous security deposit in Williamsburg.
“Here we go,” said the Commodore. “First you question sanity. Then you get on YouTube and hit every bit of ghost footage and every “haunted New Jersey” account out there. Then you figure out that we’re not making this stuff up.”
“It’s old news. I just didn’t think it would happen to us,” said Mom.
“I think it’s a way to sell tickets, if you know what I mean,” counters Clay.
“It would be a way to sell tickets if we ever sold any. Do you see a big line of people trying to get into the Club?”
“I see a big line of people trying to get out of it,” said Clay.
“You shouldn’t get out. It’s cool that there’s a real ghost,” said Stephanie.
“I told you there was a ghost,” said Jim. “I swore it.”
It was about time for Jim to go home. It was 2 a.m. and Stephanie was clearly staying the night at the school teacher’s house.
“Can I go to bed now?” asked Tiffany.
“You’re fine. The phenomenon is location-specific to the Club,” said the Commodore.
“Okay,” Tiffany stumbled towards her childhood bedroom.
Jim realized everyone was looking at him, so he sat there for a minute hoping for an invitation. “I’m outta here,” he lamely offered. “Good night, Jim,” said the high school teacher, hoping he was all right to drive or that there was no one out there on the road. She was not feeling generous enough to offer him one of her fourteen sofas. It might end up pregnant.
“I’d better go,” said the Commodore.
“You’re welcome to the guest room,” offered Mom.
“I’ve got to get back to the Club,” he answered.
“Are you sleeping there?” said Clay.
“I’ll probably just look over the books with a bottle of Jim Beam. They quiet down when the Commodore’s on the premises,” he said.
“Is that why I didn’t get elected Commodore?” asked Clay.
“Are you all in?” he countered.
“I don’t do this stuff,” answered Clay.
Mom kept Tiffany’s room the same in case she ever turned sixteen and lived in it again. Stuffed animals, high school pictures, sad-looking pink girl clothes. Tiffany didn’t want this junk at her place, but she was glad it was spinning around her. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe and opened her eyes. Half a dozen orbs were floating in the corner of the room making the world heavier than it humanly could be.
“Mom!!!”
Clay came running in, followed by Mom and Stephanie.
“They’re here.”
“He swore they never left the Club.”
“They were here.”
“I’ll go get the Commodore,” said Clay.
