Zombie Lolita: (A Collection of Short Stories)

by Harmon Cooper

  ‘Did I ever tell you about clary sage?’

  ‘No,’ Dacha says.

  ‘They used to use it to get things out of people's eyes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The seeds have a coating kind of like mucus,’ her grandmother says as she closes the closet door.

  ‘Snot?’

  ‘Yes, kind of like snot. Well, people would get things stuck in their eyes and they would use a clary sage seed to get it out by sticking the seed right in their eye. It would produce mucus once it mixed with the goo that's already in your eye, and it would be easier for them to get out. Nifty, huh?’

  They enter the kitchen, past the photo of Dacha's mother and father on their wedding day, past the photo of her grandmother and her grandfather with her uncle, past the photo of Grandma's dog, Sparky, who died a year ago, past grandfather’s keys which have never left a little ceramic ashtray from Arizona, and past Dacha’s biology textbook.

  The Attar of Roses sits in the middle of the table, waiting to be opened.

  Grandma gets a big wooden bowl from the pantry along with a wooden mixing spoon and a measuring cup while Dacha separates roses from their stems, using a knife to clip the little white base at the end of each of the petals. Grandma sits down and begins measuring out four cups of sandalwood.

  ‘I love the smell of sandalwood’, she says. ‘Buddhists believe it helps you see through desire when you meditate. They carve all sorts of statues and religious items out of it over in Asia. Oh, I sure would like to go to Asia you know, but I don't think it's happening this lifetime.’

  ‘We should go together,’ Dacha says.

  ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘Maybe Tokyo? I told you about Yuka, the Japanese exchange student in my biology class. She showed us all these pictures of the Cherry Blossoms there.’

  ‘Japan? Too crowded,’ Grandma says, waving away the suggestion.

  ‘It would be like New York, not so bad.’

  ‘I think I’ll just stay here. These old bones don’t like big crowds.’

  Grandma begins to hum as she measures out the clove, the lavender, the lemon peels, and the orris root. Using the edge of her knife, Dacha scoops the dried rose petals into the bowl. Once all the ingredients have been added, she gives the bowl a few big stirs.

  ‘One more ingredient,’ Grandma says, reaching for the Attar of Roses. She looks from her granddaughter to the bottle.

  ‘Open it,’ Dacha whispers.

  ‘All right, here goes nothing.’

  Grandma presses her lips into a fine line as she uncorks the vial. A musky scent with a touch of apricot fills the air, tingling their noses.

  ‘It reminds me of Mom,’ Dacha says, inhaling deeply.

  ‘It reminds me of your grandfather.’

  Grandma closes her eyes and twists her head slightly as she inhales the Attar of Roses. A silver tear slides down her leathery cheek, followed by another larger one. With her eyes open, Dacha takes another long drag off the sweet Attar of Roses. She sees her mother and father curl out of the top of the vial, their hands locked together, their deaths forgotten. The forms swirl together like watery clouds and separate.

  Moments later, Mom and Dad sit down at the table across from Dacha and her grandmother. Mom wears that calm smile of hers capped by a single dimple on the left side of her face. Dad is laughing at Grandma and a story she's telling him about his wife, her daughter. Dacha is sitting in her grandfather's lap being bounced up and down.

  Now she has moved from her grandfather’s lap to the seat next to her mother.

  Dacha’s being passed a wicker basket filled with buttered bread sticks. She takes a breadstick and passes the basket to her grandmother. She keeps inhaling the Attar of Roses. Grandma looks over at the place where Grandpa normally sat and starts to cry. He’s gone, she says. Mom comes to the other side of the table, her single dimple lost in her tragic frown. ‘It’s ok,’ she says. ‘It’s ok.’

  Dacha is sitting next to Grandma in the kitchen.

  Both her parents are gone, that horrible accident, and she has no idea how to react. They were there and then they weren't. Just vanished. And the coffins, seeing them in coffins. She couldn't look. Those were her parents. Now they rested quietly in wooden caskets. And she, the baby who wasn't supposed to have survived, the miracle child, she has surpassed both of them.

  And Grandma is sobbing for her daughter, her son-in-law, her husband, and for Dacha. ‘Why is God so cruel?’ she's asking as she inhales the Attar of Roses. She's telling herself that God isn't cruel, that they will all meet again. Then she's telling Dacha everything happens for a reason, that they can't lose faith. Then she’s losing her grip on the Attar of Roses.

  The Attar of Roses hits the hardwood floor of the kitchen and the glass shatters.

  The thirty-two thousand roses make their escape. The sound echoes to the corners of the room like a shot to clear the masses. The fragrant oil spreads outwards, consuming the wood it touches and moving past the tiny shards of glass. It seeps into Grandma's socks and stops at Dacha's feet.

  Thank You, Mr. Tiger

  [4]They didn’t know who he was underneath all that. No one knew who he was. But they would know if he took his tiger mask off, but he wasn’t going to take the tiger mask off.

  A little girl ran towards her mom with a stick of cotton candy. She wore a blue dress and shiny black shoes. Cute, especially with her hair pulled into short pigtails. She gave her mom the cotton candy and turned towards him, towards the looming man in the tiger costume.

  That funnel cake smell sweet and sticky, the pin stripes, the autumn breeze imminent, the ting of the fair games, the carnies everywhere like walking barnacles, like pimply seahorses, the joyful cries of sweaty children blading the air – the fair was as typical as much as it was mesmerizing. He hadn’t been to one since he was a child.

  People would like this story, he thought, something tragic yet beautiful about it all. Hiding away from the world in such a visible way. Maybe he’d keep the story to himself. Just bury it away until the time was right, until the right person asked him about it. Maybe he’d use it one day in a memoir.

  The mask was hot. His peripheral vision was tinged in the orange and yellow felt of the mask. It gave everything a nativity scene glow. Biblical and wonderful. New and naïve.

  He’d already wandered around the fairgrounds aimlessly for over an hour. People stopped to take pictures with him, which was nothing new, but there was something ironic and novel about it all when he was in the costume. No one knew who was under the tiger suit and it was glorious.

  “Can I have a hug?”

  He nodded his head and extended his arms downward. The girl in the blue dress came forward. They embraced like old friends, like it meant something. She was a chubby little thing and it felt alien to pat her on the back with his big paw.

  Freedom smelled like an old tiger costume made from God knows what and previously worn by other men who sweated inside it and left their scent even after it had been dry-cleaned half a dozen times. If freedom had a taste, he couldn’t taste it, but it definitely had a stench.

  The girl’s mother approached him and held out her cell phone to take a photo. He gave her the thumbs-up with his big paw. Click. That would be a great picture and no one would ever know the difference. The girl pulled on his arm and he dropped his big furry cat ear next to her face.

  “I have a secret to tell you,” she said to him. “I’m not really who I say I am,” she said. He continued nodding his head. Neither am I, little girl.

  “Do you want to know who I am?” she asked.

  He made a playful shrug.

  “Liza, it’s time to go!”

  “I’m really a princess. I have a white horse named Dorothy. She’s named after my grandmother who died last year. Mommy doesn’t like the name but the horse told me it was her name and she said I was a princess and Dorothy never lies to me or anyone because she’s honest. Very honest.”

  He nodded
.

  “Liza, leave Mr. Tiger alone, Sweetie. He has other children to meet. Oh, your sister is calling,” her mother answered her phone. “Hello? Yes, I know. Oh, you got out early from practice? Ok, well your brother is supposed to pick you up. What? He’s busy? What’s he doing? What? Can you catch a ride home with Veronica? Well, don’t worry. Somebody will come and get you, I promise. We’re at the fair. Well, you said you didn’t want to come this year...”

  “I think I have to go,” the little girl said. “Please don’t tell anyone my secret.”

  He crossed his heart and she hugged him a final time.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tiger.”

  The girl in the blue dress turned and ran to her mother. He waved goodbye and watched as her dress flailed in the air behind her. Clouds melted, the sun hit its apex, the temperature increased, the day continued. The mother and daughter disappeared into the crowd. Cute little girl. To be idyllic and anonymous again, what he wouldn’t trade for that.

  “How goes it, Mr. Tiger?”

  His friend stood on the other side of him, eating a corn cob and keeping an eye out for college girls.

  “You can talk to me, you know. No one will know,” his friend said.

  He shrugged. Gobs of butter lined his friend’s mouth like bacteria around a scab.

  “Come on, I’m the one who set all this up. You should be thanking me, man.”

  He patted his friend on the back with his big paw. He wanted to tell his friend he was a really good friend for doing this, but he didn’t feel like speaking at the moment. Besides, it would come out muffled anyways. Better to be quiet than to be heard.

  “Isn’t that costume hot?”

  He nodded his head. He was thirsty, but he chose to ignore the impulse.

  “How much longer? One hour? Two?”

  He shrugged.

  “Well, when you get tired of being in that thing, come find me. I’ll be on those bleachers over there.” His friend turned and headed in the direction of the Ferris Wheel.

  Lots of people weren’t who they claimed to be. Everyone he’d ever met had fallen into that category at one point or another. Entire careers were built and destroyed through created identities. Fitting in was important even to a monk. To be human was to be chameleon. For some people, anonymity came at a price.

  Two young boys ran up to him.

  “Mr. Tiger,” the younger one said. “Hey, Mr. Tiger!”

  He stopped. The older one stood behind his brother.

  “I have a question,” the younger one said.

  The older one placed his hands on the younger one’s shoulder. “Leave him alone, Jake. No one wants to answer your stupid questions.”

  “It’s not stupid! Mr. Tiger, I promise it’s not stupid.”

  He nodded his head.

  “Mr. Tiger, when will Daddy come home?”

  “What did you ask him, Jake?”

  “About Daddy.”

  “He doesn’t know about Dad. He’s not really a tiger. There’s a person in there, you know.”

  “I know, but maybe he knows,’ the younger one said. ‘Daddy knows lots of people. Mom says he knows lots of people from all over the country. Maybe…”

  “How could he know? Mom says Dad will come back after a few more days. Quit worrying about it, and quit picking your nose.”

  “But he’s been gone for sixteen days!”

  “How do you know it’s been sixteen days?”

  “Because he left after Easter. I can count, you know.”

  “Quit worrying about it. I don’t know why you would ask a man in a tiger suit a dumb question like that. He’s just doing his job. He’s not magical or anything.”

  “I didn’t say he was magical! I just thought he might know.”

  “Well, Mr. Tiger, do you know?” the older brother asked.

  He shrugged at the two bickering boys.

  “Stupid tiger, don’t you see, Jake? He can’t possibly know.”

  “Oh, well I thought he might know. I miss him.”

  “The less you miss him, the sooner he’ll be back,” the older boy said. “Now stand still while I take your picture.”

  “OK.”

  Click. The younger boy turned and sulked away. The older boy looked directly into the eyes of the mask as he pocketed his digital camera. “Sorry man, I know you’re not stupid,’ the older boy said. ‘He just doesn’t know that our dad is in jail. Mom told me what he did, but she told me not to tell anyone. Anyways, sorry for calling you that.”

  He gave the boy the thumbs-up.

  “Hey, I have a question for you, is it hot in there? I always wondered if they had a little fan in there or something. Well, is it?”

  He nodded.

  “And there’s not a fan in there?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t mind the heat, but the thirst was getting to him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tiger. See you.”

  Freedom swelled around him. A man strolled by with a handful of colorful balloons. One of the balloons loosened and drifted into the aether. If only it were that easy, if only he could do what he liked to do without the pressure. If it were possible to bottle freedom, he would. Plenty of space for a bottle or two of freedom in his home. Plenty of space for a lot of things in his house. It would take more than rehab to wean him off.

  He saw the freedom in their eyes when they looked up at the mask. Damn if they weren’t blind to it. Cliché to say you never know what you have until it’s gone, but damn if it isn’t true. Maybe you could add, you never know what you have until you have everything. That would be the category he fell into. There would be a mad frenzy if they knew.

  He stopped in front of an outdoor food court. Big blue awning overhead. Fat little roly polies shoveling food into their mouths. Trash cans filled to the brim with ravaged turkey legs, crushed beer, abandoned fries, soda cans, foil wrappers, cardboard food trays, white napkins clear from grease stains. Delicious enough to look the other way.

  He felt something tugging at his leg. A small boy glanced up at him. A blue child safety harness was attached to the kid’s back. He followed the child leash until he came to the red knuckles of a hefty man holding a beer in a koozie that said PINEAPPLE.

  “Must be a bitch being in that costume,” the father burped. The sound of Jersey spilled from the man’s chapped lips like phonetic sewage. He waved the smell of beer away.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Tiger. Listen, if you’d like a sip, just let me know, will ya? I’m sure I could pour it into the mouth on the costume without spilling it. Oh hell, this thing here don’t have a mouth opening, does it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Damn wife went out with her friends today, and sent my happy ass to the fair with the little guy. Guess I shouldn’t buy a lottery ticket today, huh? You don’t have kids, do you?”

  He shook his head. The boy continued to hug his leg.

  “A word of advice: wait until you’re forty. You aren’t over forty are you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, wait until then, at least. I mean, sure, he’s cute as hell, just look at him. Yes you are, Junior, yes you are. But God does he cause us trouble every night. Kid is as nocturnal as a bat. Hasn’t been this bad since he was teething. Oh, come here.”

  The boy reached his hands up to his father. The man transferred his beer to his other hand and scooped the child up.

  “There you are, Junior. I’m just talking to Mr. Tiger here. Can he touch your mask? Yea, go ahead and touch it. He don’t mind. Touch it. You want a sip?”

  He held the beer in front of his kid’s face. The boy curled his nose and began to cry.

  “Now, don’t start all that up again. Ain’t nothing in this world worth crying about, remember that. You know I’m just kidding with you. Besides, you wouldn’t like the taste anyway. Look, Mr. Tiger, it’s been real nice talking to you, but I got to get going. Junior here is getting cranky. But hey, let me get a picture of the three of us. The wife would like that.
Can you hold my beer for a second, Mr. Tiger? Don’t let it get in the picture, though.”

  The father gave the beer to him and pulled out his camera phone. He stood next to him with the boy in between them. The man extended his camera as he prepared a toothy smile. Click.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tiger.”

  He nodded and returned the beer to the father.

  You can look at anything while wearing a mask and nobody knows the difference. Better than dark sunglasses, better than that trick we all do with our eyes when we want to look at someone, but we don’t want them to know we’re curious. One glance, two. Act like you’re looking around. Just over the shoulder. Three. Just past a point on the horizon. Now see what you wanted to see in the first place.

  The people at the fair would want to see him. The first famous person he saw was Mr. T when he was eight years old. He was just walking down the street, his gold necklaces shining in the sun that had managed to poke little slivers of light through the tall buildings of Manhattan.

  A few people pointed and said, “Hey is that Mr. T? No, it couldn’t be. It’s him! Honey, give me my purse. Did you bring the camera? Of course I brought the camera. I always bring it. You never know when you’ll need it. Hey, Mr. T., can I take a picture with you? Thanks!” Click. Click.

  It’s strange when we get a glimpse of the thing we will someday become, like when you’re a kid and you go to a fast food restaurant and later you end up working at a fast food restaurant. Suddenly all the secrets are revealed. Any job you might have held in high esteem changes when you have to clock in for that job. You see the corners others cut, and you do what you have to do to make the clock spin just like those before you, just like those that will inevitably follow. The curtain drops and damn if the crowd isn’t as horrible as you imagined.

  “Say, don’t I know you?”

  He turned quickly, frightened that his cover was blown. A high school kid stood with his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder. She was a thin thing in a purple tank top, flat-chested, shiny shouldered, petite.

  “Just, playing with you. Yo, Mr. Tiger, can you take a picture with Rochelle here? Just, make a pose or some shit.”