Jamal said, in his best pimp voice. “Shut up, Jamal. At least I finally told you about my first time.” I drained the last few drops from my coffee cup and glanced at the digital clock on my desk: 8:59 p.m. Quitting time. For a spirit guide, Jamal was pretty annoying. Sure, he was funny and smart, and even helpful most of the time. But when he got in this super-pimp mode, it was all I could do to keep from strangling him. Not that it would’ve mattered much; he was already dead. “Come on, girl, don’t be such a drag. You know I meant a different kind of first time,” he said, strolling across the room in his classic pimp-walk style. Even though he had been my spirit guide for almost five years, I never got tired of looking at him in his hundreds of different ‘pimp outfits’. Butterfly collars, in zebra print or plaid, colored in every shade of brown or one of his too-bright reds, greens, and blues. He even wore tall platform shoes, wide-brimmed hats, huge sunglasses, and used a shiny cane now and again.
