Jaya was a master of his craft. His main job: cursing. Salary: zero. Working hours: 24/7, without vacation, because he was dead. Jaya was a spirit trapped in the Grand Cinema, ironically named "The Merriment Theatre."
Jaya was a former stand-up comedian who died from swallowing too much of his own life's bitterness, not from a failed mic drop. Now, three years later, laughter was the currency in this theater, but Jaya had no wallet to keep it in. Loneliness was the eternal punchline only he could hear.
That morning, the neon lights in the foyer flickered like an old man's eyes just waking up, and Jaya watched his prey: Humans. They shuffled in, dragging their feet, carrying bags too big for the contents of their wallets, and worst of all, wearing "Sunday Morning on a Wednesday" faces.
Jaya casually drifted through a B-grade horror movie poster. He touched (with a ghostly cold sensation) the framed picture of the theater's wide, fake-smiling owner, and sighed (without lungs).
"Look at them. They don't come for a movie. They come for an alibi. An alibi not to think about their jobs, their bills, or the emptiness they feel in their chests," Jaya whispered, his voice like a thick dust particle in a vacuum. "The outside world is too honest, too demanding. Here, in this dark room, they are allowed to pretend to be happy for two hours, for $10 a head. Happiness is not created; it is purchased. Ironic, isn't it?"
He pointed (with a ghostly finger that pierced the air) toward a man at the snack machine. Let's call him Popcorn Pete. Pete was struggling with the digital buttons while holding a phone to his ear.
"Good grief, the size of that popcorn bucket is equivalent to a baby's bathtub," Jaya mused internally, rolling around without a body. "He told his phone he was dieting, five minutes ago. Look at that carbohydrate betrayal, ladies and gentlemen. This is no longer about watching a movie; it's a ritual. A ritual of ingesting manufactured, sugar-coated happiness, hoping the bitter pill of their lives will taste slightly sweeter."
Jaya gave a dry laugh.
A Spirit's Warning to the Living:
Life... Jaya hated the way humans lived it. They bought movie tickets ($10), bought popcorn ($8), bought soda ($5). Total: $23 for two hours of escape. They were so busy buying escape that they forgot how to create a home within themselves.
"You know what the funniest thing about death is?" Jaya once asked the empty seat he occupied. "It's that after I died, I realized how utterly hilarious we were when we were alive. We were too serious about the small things (like toilet queues and parking fees), and too casual about the big things (like the promises we made to ourselves)."
Jaya decided to find entertainment in the place he never dared to: the ticket booth. There sat Risa.
Risa was an anomaly at The Merriment Theatre. She was the incarnation of a recurring Monday. Her face was perpetually flat. Even when swiping a customer's credit card, her expression suggested she was contemplating whether life was worth continuing. Risa seemed to wear a mask of gloom that refused to crack. And that, to Jaya, was fantastic comedy material.
Jaya, in his routine, approached. He hovered above a stack of tickets that smelled of paper and false promises.
"Hello, Miss Risa," Jaya began his monologue, with the distinct cadence of a comedian. "Your new hairstyle... oh wait, that's the same hairstyle from last year. A year-old shag cut with defeated bangs. It's a bold statement, Risa. You're telling the world, 'I'm too busy being miserable to even wash my hair with shampoo that smells like anything more than disappointment.' I salute you. Consistency in despair is a talent."
Jaya was about to float right through the back wall of the booth, as was his custom. Suddenly...
Click.
Risa stopped pressing the keyboard. She didn't move. Her eyes, usually focused only on the monitor showing the film schedule she despised, slowly lifted and stared straight at the spot where Jaya was hovering. Her eyes were dark, deep, and humorless.
Jaya's heart (which should have stopped beating) hitched. He thought it was a coincidence. Ghosts are invisible. That was the Law of (Ghost) Physics.
Jaya tried again, landing (ghost-style, silently) on the counter. He decided to be a little louder.
"Excuse me, Miss Risa. Is there a problem? Do I look like a good punchline? I swear, this is my professional face I brought from the grave. I guarantee I'm not selling life insurance."
Risa narrowed her eyes. Her voice was low, gravelly, and dangerous, like shifting sand.
"Could... you shut up? Your comment about my hair was not helpful. I already know it's bad."
The world stopped spinning. Popcorn Pete in the distance choked on a piece of caramel. The whispered sound of Jaya's laughter, for the first time in years, was now audible to a living human ear. Jaya, the lonely Witty Spirit, had just acquired the singular audience he both craved and feared.
"Wait, you heard me?" Jaya asked, his voice a mix of shock and exhilaration. He forgot how to be cynical.
Risa snorted, returning her gaze to the monitor with a cynical stare.
"Unfortunately, yes. And you, whoever you are, will have to pay for your 'ticket' into my head."