New Flash Fiction: The Ghost of Joey Ramone by Matt Handle

​What's not to love about this story: a cold, wet, winter's night in Greenwich Village, sitting in a coffee shop that could be the model for Edward Hopper's painting Nighthawks when in walks the ghost of one of the heroes of Punk Rock? The author is Matt Handle and some of his work, including his debut novel Storm Orphans, is available on Amazon. Links to more of his short stories can be found on his blog riff. You can also follow him on Twitter @Matt_Handle


Me and the Ghost of Joey Ramone
by Matt Handle


My coffee tasted like they brewed it from dirty dishwater, but on a January night in the East Village, if it was warm, you drank it. I sipped the beverage noisily as I watched the winter drizzle descend outside the storefront window.  It was less than half an hour until closing time. The place was deserted. I could have sworn the seat next to me was empty when I sat down too. A minute later a grungy dude that was probably no more than 30, but a hard 30, if you know what I mean, sat there staring at the same snow-filled view. I had to do a double-take when I saw him. He was a dead ringer for Joey Ramone.

If possible, he was even thinner and paler than Joey ever was. Same rose-colored shades though. He had the same thick black mop of hair covering most of his face too. Even his ratty leather jacket and pants looked familiar. He smiled, showing off a mouthful of crooked teeth when he caught me looking at him.  

“How’s it hanging, man?”

For what felt like an eternity, but probably wasn’t more than 20 seconds, my brain froze. I couldn’t respond. I just sat there staring at him with my mouth hanging open. I know it sounds stupid, but I’m a longtime fan.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look just like…” I finally managed to blurt out, but before I could complete the question, the guy nodded toward the trendy clothing stores across the street.

“That used to be my bar,” he stated in an accent so authentically New York, no one could ever mistake him for a tourist. “Now look at it.”

The stores looked like every other cookie-cutter establishment along the block. Pedestrians trudged past them without so much as a glance. 

“There hasn’t been a bar there in years,” I offered up. 

The guy nodded, his shaggy hair flopping over the tops of his round sunglasses. “Yeah, it’s been awhile,” he agreed. “I just stopped by to see the old neighborhood.”

“You move away, I guess?” I asked as I turned to face him. I didn’t want to come off as creepy, but I needed a better look. Joey had been dead for well over a decade, but this dude was an absolute doppelganger. 

The leather-clad punk chuckled as he scratched at the back of his head. “You could say that. I got the band back together. Regular gig. Packed house every night.”

“Oh yeah?” I replied. “Where do you play?”

He gave me a mysterious smile. Like he knew a private joke that he was just dying to tell. Before I could convince him to share it, the store’s sound system kicked in. The opening notes of “I Wanna Be Sedated” blared across the shop. I jumped a little in my seat, goosebumps popping out on my arms. For no more than a second, I turned to look toward the direction the music was coming from. When I looked back, Joey was gone.

I glanced around the room to figure out where he went. When I didn’t see him, I actually stepped outside the front door, bitter cold and all. I looked up and down the street, but there wasn’t even a hint of the lanky echo of a man. There was only falling snow filling up shallow footprints, burying any trace of the past.