Guy Boy Man says, “When you reproduce, you know, for a fact, your children will die one day, right? Legally-speaking, isn’t knowingly, wilfully, okay, accidentally sometimes, causing the death of someone else called homicide or manslaughter? Isn’t that morally wrong? When you commit homicide or manslaughter more than once, isn’t that considered even worse? Now I’m not saying everybody who has children is a murderer. I’m implying it. Subtly.”
In the commercial, the scene shifts to a stately living room. A handsome young man is holding the wrists of a beautiful young woman and the two of them are struggling against each other. “What is it?” demands the young man.
“I don’t know,” cries the young woman.
The expressionless man walks between the wrestling couple and the camera. With his body sideways to the camera, he turns his face toward the lens. He whispers, “Life.” Then he walks out of frame.
Guy Boy Man says, “Condoms should be free and freely available everywhere.”
“If you’re against sex education, you’re pro-abortion.”
“If you’re against birth control and sex education, you’re personally responsible for starvation, disease, and wars.”
On TV, a naked man and a naked woman hold each other, tenderly, beneath a sheet. Suddenly the woman scrunches up her face. “Oh my god. Is that . . . ?” She and her partner push away from each other, frantically. Beneath the sheet, the expressionless man slides between them, effortlessly. He’s completely stiff. It’s as if someone pushes him into view by shoving on his feet.
“Life,” he whispers. He exits, as if someone pulls him away.
Guy Boy Man says, “Family values are zombie values.”
The final scene in the commercial is a silent shot of “Life” perfume, in bottle form, sitting on a decaying body. The body has a leathery face drawn back into a soundless scream. The camera pulls back to reveal hundreds of bottles, sitting on hundreds of similar bodies, all of which are then, presumably, covered by big mounds of dirt sitting in front of the bulldozers that start their engines simultaneously and then the images, suddenly, stop. Lately the following white words have begun appearing at the end of the commercial on a simple black background: Now, New, Life, For Men!
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Zombie Marriage Counselling
“You have to help us,” my wife tells the zombie marriage counsellor.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Him,” says Chi, turning her outstretched arms toward me, accusingly. “He was miserable. He was crying all the time. He couldn’t eat; he couldn’t sleep. Our love life suffered. One night he even took a shower.”
The zombie marriage counsellor looks up from her notes at me. Her undead eyes peer over the top of the shattered-lenses of her glasses. Then she nods. She goes back to jotting her notes. She’s wearing a shapely skirt suit: black and white and red all over. All the news that’s fit to wear; it’s fabric made to look like newspaper; it’s covered with blood. Blood is spotted on her face, too, drying in purple-black flecks. We’re the counsellor’s first appointment after lunch.
“I made him go to the doctor,” continues my wife. “The doctor prescribed anti-depressants. I was so relieved. I thought we were going to be okay. But now he says he’s not going to take them.”
“Why not, Mr. Burger?” asks the counsellor, still writing. The ragged hem of her skirt ends just above her knees. Her legs are crossed but the one on top has been lopped off in a messy diagonal cut several inches above her foot. The wound dangles long thin meat noodles. Between the strands, I can see sharp white bone.
“I can’t see the point,” I say, with a shrug.
The counsellor’s office has been trashed and trashed again. Chi and I are sitting on a love seat. The cushions are gone. The stuffing has been pulled from them. The formerly white filling is now bloodied and strewn everywhere, like gauze in an emergency room. Right now, all the rooms in my life are emergency rooms. I keep thinking about the albinos in my head. “There are albinos in my head,” I announce.
Chi frowns at me, expressionlessly.
“I see,” says the counsellor, feigning indifference. “And do the albinos in your head talk to you?”
Wait a minute. I didn’t want to announce there are albinos in my head. Did the albinos make me do it? How am I going to get out of this? “Yes, the albinos in my head talk to me,” I say. “But they mumble.” I put my finger to my ear and pretend to listen. “I’m sorry? Who do you want me to kill?”
Without changing her face, the counsellor smiles, politely.
“Please, Buck,” sighs Chi. “Now is not a good time.”
Are the albinos actively involved in this counselling session? Are they telling Chi what to say? Are they telling me what to say? Are they making me wonder about them right now? Why? For what purpose? Toward what end? We use ten percent of our brains, right? I still have that ten percent, don’t I? So, at most, I’m ten percent myself. I have to find that part and hide there. Until I can, I’ll sit on the exposed springs of this ruined love seat, staring at its exposed bloody innards and the empty skins of its cushions on the floor.
“Our sex life,” whines my wife. “It’s killing me. I’ve had to engage in the most taboo fetishes to get him even remotely interested.”
“For example,” prompts the counsellor.
“Cleaning. He wanted to watch me clean.”
“I see. Clean yourself or . . .”
“God, no. Never. I’d never go that far. I just pretended to do a little dusting.” She clarifies. “I didn’t, though. Write that down.” Chi straightens up in a futile attempt to see what the counselling is recording. “I never actually dusted anything. I’m a decent zombie. Okay? I’m not some sick-o like Mr. I’m-Just-Going-To-Jump-In-The-Shower over here.”
“Let’s keep the name-calling to a minimum, please.” The counsellor white-eyes my wife disapprovingly. She turns back to her notes.
“Doctor,” implores Chi.
“I’m not a doctor,” corrects the counsellor.
“I love Buck,” says my wife. “I really do. But I can’t unlive like this. I’m seriously thinking about leaving him.”
“So you’re at a crisis point in your relationship.”
“That’s right.” Chi is, unmistakeably, impressed by the counsellor’s assessment. “That’s it exactly.” She turns to me, nodding. “A crisis point.”
“What about you, Buck? You’ve been very quiet through all this. How do you feel?”
“Depressed. I feel depressed.” I shrug. “Aside from that, terrible.”
“But you won’t take your anti-depressants?”
“No.”
Peering at me over the top of the shattered lenses of her glasses, she says, “Do you want to be depressed?”
“No, I want to be patronized.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Burger. I offended you.”
“No, you didn’t. I’m too depressed to be offended.”
“I assure you, Mr. Burger, I only want to help.”
“Do you have a magic wand? Can you cast a spell to fix everything?”
“No. I don’t have a magic wand and I can’t cast spells.”
“Then how do you propose to help? Because I don’t know how to convince you, either of you: The problem isn’t that I’m depressed; it’s that everything is depressing.”
Resigned, I let my white eyes explore the office. I see the dark holes punched into the walls. I imagine the blind, mindless rage that caused them. Or the accidents. Or the accidents that led to the fury. I see the bloody handprints streaked down our walls.
“I’m not a supernatural creature, Mr. Burger,” acknowledges the counsellor. “I can’t make the world the way you want it. I can’t take you to Fairyland. But I am a good listener. I may be able to provide you with insight, to assist you through this turbulent time.” She starts kicking
her footless leg, up and down. It swings long purple meat strings. “Your wife is in considerable distress over the state of your relationship. How does that make you feel?”
“Depressed. Pretty much everything makes me feel depressed.”
“See?” says my wife, nodding. “This is what I have to put up with.”
“Are you ready for your marriage to end, Mr. Burger?” asks the counsellor.
“I stick to my contractual obligations,” I say.
“I don’t know you very well, Mr. Burger . . .” starts the counsellor.
“You don’t know me at all,” I interrupt.
“But I sense a sort of disconnect with you, like you feel very detached, removed, withdrawn, from this situation, and perhaps even with non-life in general.”
In a weary way, I look at the lamps knocked off desks and tables. I stare at their undersides. I examine the undecorated bases that support them. They’re horrible. “You sense it? In addition to not being a doctor are you also not a psychic?”
“Buck,” chastises my wife.
“I just don’t know how many things a person can claim not to be, while, at the same time, pretend to be,” I say, despairing. “I sense a sort of disconnect with you, counsellor.”
“This isn’t about me, Mr. Burger.”
“No, of course not,” I say, jadedly. “Why should it be? I don’t know anything about you but I’m sure my wife, Chi, who always thinks everything through, examined your credentials, compared your education and experience to other counsellors, listed and explored the pros and cons of dealing with a counsellor versus going other routes and ultimately made the best decision, concluding you, from the pantheon of available alternatives, would be the best suited to help us. Or, I don’t know, maybe her friend Deepah recommended you.”
“Do you have a lot of pent-up hostility, Mr. Burger?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s pent-up.”
“Why are you angry?”
“I think my wife is having an affair.”
“What?” cries Chi.
“I think you’re having an affair with Barry Graves.” I say it calmly, without looking at her.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re having an affair with ladies-zombie Barry Graves from my office and you only want to have sex with me all the time because you’re worried I’ll become suspicious if you don’t make yourself readily available.”
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” dismisses Chi. “I’m not having an affair with Barry Graves.”
“Then who are you having an affair with?”
“I’m not having an affair with anyone!”
“Mr. Burger,” interjects the counsellor. “When people feel guilty about something, sometimes they project their thoughts, inclinations, or behaviours onto others. Is it possible that’s what’s happening here?”
I can feel Chi examining me. If her suspicion was a plant, it’d be documented with time-lapse photography: its back would burst through dark soil and it’d emerge in the foetal position. It’d orient itself. Then it’d stand up quickly, throw wide its arms, and open its flower eyes at me.
“No,” I say.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Buck?” asks Chi, dangerously.
“No.”
“Is there something you should tell me?”
“I just want to feel alive,” I confess.
“Feeling alive, Mr. Burger,” says the counsellor, “is unnatural. It’s abnormal.”
“Are you having an affair?” demands Chi.
“Of course not.” I turn to my wife. I look at her unblinking white eyes. “I’d never do that to you, Chi.” I say it sincerely.
“If anxiety over infidelity were removed from the equation, where would that leave your relationship?” ponders the counsellor.
“I don’t know,” I admit. I tip my head at Chi. “She’s the one who’s thinking about leaving.”
“Only because the Buck Burger I knew, fell in love with, and married, seems to have left me already.” Chi turns to the counsellor. “We tried to make love last night but he couldn’t.” Chi turns back to me. “Do you know how that makes me feel?”
“That might be a medical problem,” intercedes the counsellor.
“Great,” says my wife. “Another prescription he won’t take.”
In the counsellor’s office, a bookcase has been tipped over. It’s been lifted away from what it held. The books are everywhere. The pages have been torn out. Shredded. The lies have been mixed in with other building materials. Broken bits of wall have been pulled from their holes and crumbled onto the floor. In what remains between the openings, all the wallpaper has been scratched away. It’s been pulled and peeled off. It’s made new designs on the wall. The torn pieces of wallpaper are mixed up with bloody gauze: the stuffing pulled from the love seat. All of this was done with a passion I’m not sure I ever knew.
“I love you, Chi,” I say. “But I don’t love you the way you want me to love you. Is that my problem or yours?”
“It’s our problem,” sighs my wife. “I’m just scared it’s too late. For us.”
“We were so much in love,” I tell the counsellor. “When we became zombies, we thought we could be together forever.” I throw up my hands. “Look at us now.”
“Undead people change, Buck,” says Chi.
“We’re supposed to be together forever!”
“I think maybe we have been, Buck. I really do.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
The Biohazard I Am
Even though it looks like rain, I decide to walk to the pharmacy where Fairy_26 works. I have some thinking to do. I’ve been mindless for so long. The thought of thinking is exhilarating. It’s probably so exciting because I finally have something new in my life. It’s not just the same old things with my Francis Bacon and my wife. Chi is always on my case about spending more time with Francis Bacon. “He needs his father,” she says. I still have a hard time believing it. She’s talking about me. I’m his father. Francis Bacon is fifteen now. I wonder if he’s heard of Guy Boy Man.
The religion is “awesome.” That’s what you put if you’re filling out a form. If there’s a spot where you see “religion” followed by a colon, you just write or, more likely, type, “awesome.” If someone ever asks you which religion you belong to, you don’t say, “awesome,” because, as Guy Boy Man says, “That’d be weird.” Instead, if someone asks you which religion you belong to, or, more rightly, which religion belongs to you, you say, “I’m awesome.” The faith is known as “awesome-ism” and its adherents are known as “awesome” or, alternatively, as “awesome-ists.” This is a bunch of technical information that runs through my head while I’m trying not to think of my fifteen-year-old son, Francis Bacon.
I’ve never sat him down, looked him in the eyes, put my hands on his shoulders, and said, “You weren’t my idea, Francis Bacon.” I’ve never done that for a number of reasons. Firstly, it’d be cruel. And secondly, I’d have to talk to him. I’d rather not talk to him. I do love him. He wasn’t my idea and when I learned he’d be entering our lives, screaming and bloody, it would’ve turned me hot with fear if I hadn’t already been a zombie. But I wanted this. That’s the scary part. I wanted him because his mother wanted him and I loved his mother so much I would’ve given her anything she wanted. So I wanted Francis Bacon very much. I love him. Francis Bacon isn’t the source of my unhappiness. He isn’t the root of my sorrow. I don’t know everything he’s done but I know he’s innocent of this. He didn’t cause my depression. The albinos did. Francis Bacon sits in his room. He studies. His mother and I worry. We ask him to turn up his music. We buy him violent video games and encourage him to play. We suggest he should sneak young girls into his bedroom, fool around with them, and, if possible, have safe-sex with them. “At least oral, Francis. At least oral.” We leave wine coolers o
n his desk and tell him to offer it to the girls. We leave him boxes of black-market condoms. It doesn’t work. Francis Bacon wants to be a zombie like me.
I don’t know why. What kind of example am I setting? Can’t he see I’m miserable? Why would he want to emulate me? Doesn’t he want to be happy? I want to shake him and say, “Don’t be like me! Do everything completely differently!”
He wants to get good grades like I did. He wants to go to the university I attended. He wants to not live. He wants to exist, merely exist, in eternal undead torment, like his old man. If I weren’t so scared for him, I’d probably be flattered.
Chi wanted children so much. Then she had one. Now she’s always on the go. Is she heading toward something? Is she running away? I’m not sure. But she’s always moving. It’s strange she wears business clothes. Sportswear would be more appropriate. Chi wanted to have a baby because all her friends were having babies so we had a baby. Francis Bacon. She was happy for almost two years or maybe she was just exhausted. It was hard to tell. It was hard to tell her to stop. She devoted herself to his existence, forgetting her own. She replaced herself with him. She replaced me with him in every way but one, thinking it was the only one I really wanted. Rolling away from me, immediately afterwards, like she’d just arrived and she couldn’t remember the journey, she’d done it so automatically, she’d say, “Buck? The baby is too quiet. Go wake him up.”
“Okay, Chi. Okay.” I’d stumble to the baby’s room, which the supernatural creatures kept so clean and smelling so fresh. I’d moan at the top of my lungs. “Wake up, Francis Bacon! Wake up!”
I still wish Francis Bacon would wake up.
Guy Boy Man is right: no one is ever happy. No one is ever satisfied. We keep pushing and pulling on something that isn’t going anywhere. The strain. That’s what infects us. That’s what makes us zombies.
On my way to the pharmacy, I stumble past a burning house. I can’t feel the heat but I know it’s there. The thick smoke is black, tumbling up toward the grey sky. I amble past a car accident. The front ends of two green vehicles are mashed in a recycled plastic kiss. They’ve been abandoned in the middle of the street, like a sculpture no one understands or cares about but which was produced by someone that everyone says is very good. It’s raining now but it’s too late to put out the fire.
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