You Don't Have to Be Dead to Play Spa Music in America

[Brad Rose]

A family of three ghosts lines up, ahead of me, at the U.S. customs window.  We’ve just arrived on a long transatlantic flight, and although they may be innocent enough, eerily transparent, they’ve arrived here without their passports, so even with their burning love for this, their new homeland, I can see that they’re going to have a difficult time getting admitted.  The uniformed customs agent, a smartly dressed young man with an excessive military air, eyes them with a level of suspicion usually reserved for terrorist suspects. He mockingly inquires whether they are carrying any contraband material—any drugs, firearms or child pornography—with a demeaning emphasis on the later?  The taller male ghost, evidently the father, says, “We are a simple family of musicians who love your country and wish to enter only so that we can play spa music.”  The customs agent dismissively sneers, “We don’t need any more of your kind here. Besides, anybody can play spa music. You don’t have to be dead.”