It’s the greasy ghost of Comrade Snarky, what we’ll have to smell every time we use the microwave. We’re breathing her spirit. Her sweet buttery stink will haunt us.

 

 The only other smell is Mother Nature’s breath, from eating a bayberry aromatherapy candle.

 

 Halfway up the center aisle, we stop.

 

 Faint and outside, we hear hail falling. Or machine-gun fire. Or a drumroll.

 

 A blizzard of snaps and bangs come on top of each other. This fast, faint rattle comes from the lobby.

 

 Us, standing there in the black plaster center of the Egyptian auditorium, with the dusty, spiderwebbed stars dim above us, we clutch the gold-painted back of the black seats for support. We stand and listen.

 

 And the gunfire, the hailstorm, it stops.

 

 Something exciting needs to happen.

 

 Something amazing needs to happen.

 

In the blue velvet lobby, the microwave oven dings once, twice, three times.

 

 The ghost of Comrade Snarky.

 

 Still tugging at her necklace, Mother Nature slides down into the rough black mohair of a seat.

 

 Saint Gut-Free looks at Reverend Godless, who looks at the Matchmaker, who looks at the Earl of Slander taking notes, who nods, Yes. And they start up the aisle, the rest of us a step behind them. Agent Tattletale’s camera spotlight following them.

 

 Through the auditorium doors, the French velvet lobby is empty. Shadows hide behind every palace chair and sofa. The light from the few bulbs we left, it’s not bright enough to show the walls on the far side of the room. The doors to the lobby bathrooms are propped open, and the tile floor inside shines with water from the toilets. Here and there, melted lumps of toilet paper are stranded in the puddle.

 

 On top of the toilet smell, the smell of rotten turkey Tetrazzini, the smell of Comrade Snarky’s cooked ass, you can still smell . . . butter.

 

 Through the smoked glass of the microwave door, you can see something white almost filling the oven.

 

 It’s the Missing Link who yelps. Our hairy man-animal. He yelps and slams both hands down on the snack bar so hard he swings his legs up to one side and vaults over it. Behind the snack bar, he yanks open the microwave, and grabs what’s inside.

 

 He yelps, again, and drops it.

 

 By then, the Baroness Frostbite is vaulted over the marble counter of the snack bar.

 

 The Countess Foresight rushes over to see.

 

 Mother Nature says, “It’s popcorn.” Her bells ringing with every word.

 

 Another yelp comes from behind the counter, and the something white bounces high up into the air. Hands follow it, volleyball-slapping it, a white paper ball, keeping it out of the reach of any one person. In the camera spotlight, it becomes a spinning, steaming white moon.

 

 Miss Sneezy is laughing and coughing. Countess Foresight, crying behind her sunglasses. All of us, reaching for it. Stretching to catch the spinning, greasy, hot smell of it.

 

 The Matchmaker shouts, “We can’t.” Waving his arms, he shouts, “We can’t eat any!”

 

 The paper ball batted between hands, it spins and bounces near the ceiling.

 

 And Countess Foresight shouts, “He’s right.” She shouts, “We could be rescued, today!”

 

 One man-animal jump, and the Missing Link has both hands on the bag.

 

 The Link passes to the Countess, who passes to the Matchmaker, who runs for the bathroom.

 

 The rest of us—the Saint and Miss America and the Sister and the Baroness—we race after, screaming and weeping. Behind us all, Agent Tattletale follows after with the camera, saying, “Please don’t let’s fight. Please don’t fight. Please . . .”

 

 The Earl of Slander, already rewinding his tape recorder to hear the drumroll sound of the popcorn still hot in the microwave oven. Then the little “ding” that says it’s ready.

 

 Behind the snack bar, only Chef Assassin and Mrs. Clark are left.

 

 To Mother Nature, her friend Lentil is our ghost. To Miss Sneezy, the ghost is her English teacher with cancer. The same way we ruined the food, our ghost might be the combined work of any two or three people. Of us.

 

 From the bathroom, you hear a toilet flush. The toilet flushes, again. A chorus of moans echo from the tile inside the open bathroom door. A fresh sheet of water fans out the doorway, lapping at the edge of the lobby’s blue carpet.

 

 The water, spotted here and there with melted paper. Paper and popcorn. Another gift from our ghost.

 

 Still staring into the open microwave oven, Mrs. Clark says, “I still can’t believe we killed her . . .”

 

 Still sniffing the buttered air, Agent Tattletale says, “It could’ve been worse.”