I see it there but don’t believe my eyes. Monday, Oct. 17. The Racetrack on Palm Coast Parkway. I’m face to face with the Ghostbusters mobile, in all its fearsome glory.
This had to be a dream.
The roof was outfitted with pipes and periscopes and horns and hoses and sirens, all practical weapons in the ongoing war against ghouls and giant marshmallow monsters. No-smoking signs were painted on the doors, with ghosts stuck behind the red bars instead of cigarettes.
And the ghosts looked scared. They were smart for that.
A discerning, no-nonsense kind of journalist, I didn’t accept this mirage at face value. I needed proof, needed to investigate.
You’ve got to wake up pretty early in the morning to get one past me, I said to no one, squinting toward the car from the corner of my eye, giving it the slow nod.
I rubbed my eyes with my fists, understanding from cartoons that this is how people see things more clearly. I opened them again, wider this time.
The Ghostbusters mobile.
I pinched myself.
Nobody was going to believe this, an issue I’d never run into if only Bill Murray, Dan Ackroyd and the gang were my friends instead of the untrusting bozos I hang with now. “We believe you” — it said so right there on the front bumper.
Everybody knows Ghostbusters make the best listeners.
I pulled out my phone to take a photo of the car and post it to Facebook, understanding from the 21st century that this is how people make things real.
Then I had an overwhelming desire to share my experience with someone verbally, anyone: maybe Matt Clay, or Spencer, or Joey or my brother.
“Hmm …” I murmured under my breath, scrolling through my phonebook, trying to find the perfect person. “… Who you gonna call?”