I’d be delusional—I know I’m eccentric, but not psychotic—if I believed it was only ambition that chained me to that desk; sometimes I was simply killing time, so I wouldn’t have to go home to an empty apartment (this was long before my digs improved).
Listen to me.
Boo-hoo.
Jesus, can I whine?
My place wasn’t always empty. I’ve had a few boyfriends, from time to time. I’m not a fucking nun*. But those relationships were so tragically short-lived**. I’d get bored with them. Take Elden Ford, seemingly interesting mortgage broker with a full head of Patrick Dempsey waves. His hobbies: hiking, travel, and talking about himself incessantly. Or how about Reece McCallister? He was cute enough, with his sandy blond locks, chiseled jaw, and sad puppy dog eyes—eyes that were set a tad too far apart for my taste. Reece enjoyed a certain sexual proclivity that I allowed on a single occasion. An act I don’t care to elaborate on here—I just don’t like the idea of it being documented. Let’s just say, it involved an egg of Leggs pantyhose (his choice), knots, and an orifice designed for output rather than intake***.
Shall I go on?
Let’s see. There was Gregoire. Just Gregoire. He wouldn’t tell me his last name, and spoke in no detectable accent to warrant a moniker so patently French. What drew me to him, I’ll never know. He was hideous, puffy, and rouged up by alcoholism, to the point of looking like a character from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I nearly always left our dates singing, “Toot Sweet.” For that reason alone, he had to go. Well that and the whole one word name thing.
See? Anyone want to trade places?
Now that my situation is…uh…different, I plan to enjoy the hell out of it. Is that so wrong?
Let me prove my point in a more intellectual, didactic way, chock full of hands-on examples.
Take a look at your definition of zombie. Go ahead, humor me, I’ll wait…
See?
Now take a look, wherever you are (assuming you like to read in coffee shops, parks, squares, or somewhere equally public).
Do you see them? They are all around you, shuffling between work and home, home and daycare, school and soccer practice. Repeating the same motions over and over. Trying to find meaning—or escape—through monotonous cycles. Birth, life, death. It’s all so last season.
Sure, they look okay on the outside, but on the inside they’re dead.
Take vampires, for that matter. They’re definitely all around you. Ever have the feeling that someone was sucking the life out of you with incessant droning or a static condition of high drama? Vampires. They’re not just blood drinkers anymore. They’ve evolved. Now they feed on emotions. There’s one two cubes over from you. Isn’t your sister a little needy? See what I mean?
That being said, let me get down off this high horse, I think I can just reach the soapbox…
The sun rose, promptly at 6:47 A.M., as unwelcome as your aunt with the hacking cough, the one that shows up early for Thanksgiving; you remember, the one with the male pattern baldness. I knew the exact second; the clock in my condo lobby all but shouted it as I returned home. The foyer was a bit bright for my taste, too cheery. Not that I was tired—no sleep, tons of energy, oh, the opportunities.
I needed to figure out how to deal with Pendleton, Avery and the drones at the agency. I couldn’t very well just quit. I owned a third. Ricardo and his lesson four could kiss my ass. I’d sooner eat glass than walk away from that kind of money. I had an hour and thirteen minutes to plan.
If you’ll remember, I love my work and I’m damn good at it. I know you don’t hear that a lot. Most people just go through the motions. That’s not me. I was not about to allow a touch of undeadness, and the fear of discovery, to creep in and ruin my confidence.
I took my shower and sorted out the grey skin issue. Despite the seemingly cheap product the foundation went on smooth and not at all greasy. The coverage was excellent and my cheeks were smooth as a baby’s ass. I slipped from the bathroom, dropping my towel on the maple planks. The vertical blinds colluded with the dawn; the sun’s fingers tinkled a tune on the hardwood floor like piano keys. I was glad I’d opted against the wall-sized mirror in the bedroom. Despite my zombie power epiphany, I was still self-critical and avoiding direct examination of my body.
My closet was arranged by color and then in subsets by activity (work, play, exercise, etc.). The day’s look was power bitch—starched white shirt, pointy collar, French cuffs, high-waisted jet wool pencil skirt, and opaque human skin tone stockings. The black stilettos were standard, as were the Dolce and Gabbana shades. Do you get the picture? I think you do.
I chignoned my hair to the ceiling, like a doomed Hitchcock heroine, tight on the sides, coiled like a nautilus shell in the back. I snatched up my favorite black purse, the Balenciaga, and stormed off to work, feet crushing the floor like a paparazzi-lit runway. Hot, unstoppable. You can bank on that, bitches.
The drive to work was unremarkable. I suppose I could describe it once, and then you’d be able to picture every rain-flooded pothole of Seattle’s roads. The Volvo spat me out into the garage, the scene of the crime. I half-expected a fabulous chalk outline in one of those fashion editorial poses. But, all that remained to mark my death was a dark grey spot of wet, on the parking garage concrete, and a heavily trod donut box, edges gone to pulp. I snatched up the culprit of my slip and crammed it into the garbage by the elevator.
The elevator.
There was something I forgot about it, about yesterday. My memory was hazy. Had there been a man? I pressed the up arrow and watched the numbers descend, struggling for the memory.
The 14th floor lit and I dwelled on donut boxes and urine stains.
12th floor: athletic equipment, running shoes.
11th floor: uncomfortable silences.
10th floor: boundary breakers.
9th through 6th floors: overstock of fear.
(Is this list too Macy’s? Bear with me; I’m going somewhere.)
5th floor: skin care for ethnic tones, men’s suits.
4th through 2nd floors: heavy breathers.
Lobby: death rattles and rotten eggs.
P1 and P2: zombie-making machines.
I remembered, that fucker was dead—undead, but he breathed. Don’t you just love shopping?
The metal doors slid back into the wall, revealing a group of pay-per-day parking garage goons, checking watches, tapping their briefcases, sneering. Jealousy is so ugly. They made room for me, and I stepped in with a series of clicks, my personal space bubble projecting needles.
“Nineteen?” I asked, to no one in particular, more to the nonchalance of air, and rude or no, a random finger stretched out and tapped the round key. The “19” lit up like a ring of power. Lemmings.
“Thank you.”
I needed to talk to Ricardo. This was the memory. Zombie in the elevator. The thing that both Ricardo and Gil had expected to hear. He’d be able to explain why it was important. I dredged my purse and flipped open my cell. 411.
“City and state.” The voice was mechanical, by way of accent-free middle America, the regional twang sucked out by multiple viewings of the five o’clock news.
“Seattle, Washington.”
“Listing?”
“The Well of Souls,” I said, but in a whisper, covering my mouth, which instantly seemed conspicuous and idiotic. A woman on my left glared at me, her lip curled up, as if to showcase the cigarette divot in her lipstick.
I mouthed, wide-eyed and nodding with each overaccentuated and soundless word, piss—off—okay—great, as though the woman were a naughty kindergartener.
“I’m not finding a number for that listing, ma’am.”
I don’t know why that surprised me; how could it be listed, and where? Above Zombies-R-Us? Right after Undead DVD and Video? In the same list as Phantasm’s Emporium of Eccentricities? Where?
“Okay, how about a number for Ricardo…” I blanked on his last name. “Ricardo…” The bitch was l
ooking again; I started the stare down, eyes blazing white. “Forget it.” I flipped the cell phone shut and dropped it into my bag. She turned her head away and I smiled. What would they all do if I just opened my mouth and bit her? Was I even hungry? Did that matter when I was alive? I thought about donuts.
Nineteen was a long way off, but the elevator emptied out by 12.
The doors opened directly into the sprawling modern space of Pendleton, Avery and Feral. Walls of both clear and frosted glass, depending on the need for privacy, vied for time with shiny stainless steel reflecting ghost forms with each passing shape.
Marithé, our receptionist, was making that art school nostalgia thing happen, but a closer look revealed a tongue split at the end; she could strike venom with the best of them—I should know, I hired her. Her hair was bobbed, cruel and black. She wore cat-eye glasses, librarian low, and a Zac Posen frock. The effect: Sadistic Prude, Chic.
“Good morning, Ms. Feral,” she purred.
“Good morning, Marithé,” I responded. “Anything for me?” I watched her harsh eyes scan me in trademarked jugement de Marithé, her lips pursed, like a Pomeranian’s asshole. If anyone would pick up the difference in me, it was this woman. And, if she knew something, she was not letting on.
She handed over a large white envelope.
“The website CV, for your final edit.” She plucked up the stack and straightened, patting the edges with her fingertips to achieve some level of perfection of which only she was aware. “Messages arranged in order of importance.” She passed the pink slips across the desk. “And, a woman named Wendy called to confirm your attendance at a seminar. It’s at 1:00 P.M. She said she’d sent you the brochure as requested. I didn’t see it on your calendar.” Marithé fingered through a stack of papers and withdrew a black envelope printed in white, addressed to me. “This is it. Couriered this morning.”
Wendy, what are you up to?
There was no telling what the “seminar” was about, if there was one. I suspected inside the envelope, I would find a note about going on a “manhunt,” or a “fun run.” Thank God, Marithé hadn’t opened it, although her take on “manhunt” would be much more benign, or would it? I headed down the glass halls toward my office, slapping the stack of papers into my hand like a riding crop.
“Amanda, Amanda!” A familiar voice called from behind me. No. I turned to find Prissy Koch scuttling up the hall like a roach.
An assessment, from the ground up: white nurse clogs, wool socks, knee-length pleated skirt, argyle sweater set, fake pearls. Jesus Christ, like a fashion magazine had never been printed. Prissy Koch must enter a store43 and suffer immediate hysterical blindness. Her face was a shade lighter than her arms, and accented with a pink blush that could only have been created by smudging an Easter Peep across those giant apple cheeks. Her bangs stood at attention over a short forehead, like a shellacked line of defense, protecting the damaged ranks behind.
My hand settled on my hip, the loose papers whacking in time with my irritability. “Yes, Prissy?”
“I need your credit card receipts for end-of-month,” she said, just like that, like end of the month were one word. And, that single word spilled out of her ugly mouth like slosh from a urinal. The woman made me sick.
Can you tell we have history?
Six months prior, Prissy Koch marched into Jeremy Pendleton’s office like a Salem witch hunter and announced that I was embezzling funds. She slapped down a file of her “research,” and marched back out. Jeremy and I went over Prissy’s printed paranoia and found that her sticking point was my clothing allowance. Statement after statement, yellow highlighter pointed to various store purchases (Nordstrom, Barney’s, Betsey Johnson). My mother would call her an ignoramus or a buttinsky, but I prefer the classics; Prissy Koch was a c-u-n-t, cunt. Jeremy wrote her up, the following day, for insubordination. That gave me some time to spread the word, through the back door.
To Claire in the mailroom: “I’m worried that Jeremy’s gunning for Prissy.” With that, my work was done. The gossip spread like influenza at a daycare center. The rest of that day Prissy hid in her office like Anne Frank.
“I’ll get you those receipts before lunch, Prissy. Thank you for bringing them to my attention.”
“Thank you, Amanda.” Her words were terse, pecked one by one from the air. Prissy turned and clopped off the way she’d come.
“Oh…and Prissy?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Cute shoes!”
Her reply—get this—“Humph44!” Couldn’t you just die?
I set the stack of papers on my desk, sprawled out on the love seat and watched the lake like a movie. I tore open the envelope and retrieved a brochure that appeared to be handmade. It did, in fact, advertise a seminar, entitled: Getting the Most from Your Afterlife, A Field Guide for Supernaturals. I decided to just go and call it an adventure. It would also allow me to stall on what to do about the business.
I worked through messages and returned calls: Renewal clinic—check, Rigel shoes—check.
Check, check, check, check, check.
I turned my attention to the biography sample for the website.
AMANDA R. FERAL, Vice President
Graduate of UC Berkeley, where she earned a Ph.D. in Organizational Psychology, in addition to an MA in Sociology and an MBA with emphasis in Advertising and Marketing, both from Stanford.
The winner of three AdYear awards and a Copywriter of the Year for 2005, Ms. Feral’s past campaigns include:
Rigel Athletic, Cloudrunner (2005)
The 2005 Bridge the Gap Games
Peach, iMind (2006)
Arhea Home, A New Bed for Sally and Jane (1999)
Platinum Hotel, Lux (2002)
BellyBurger, Swallow (2004)
Doesn’t all that sound so super impressive? It should, I wrote it myself and some of it was even true. The education was exaggerated, a bit. I have been to Berkeley, where I spent many a hazy stoned summer evening searching for torn panties after frat keggers. I’ve also been to Stanford, where Ben Moretti, of steel-belted-radial fame and a proud Kappa Beta Pi, took me, and my drunken virginity (at least that’s what I told him). Lest you think that my only experience with education has been of the drinking and fucking nature, I did complete a degree at Seattle Community College and some work towards a BA at UW, in advertising of course. It was enough to get me started. My brazen nature (and to a lesser degree my good looks) took me the rest of the way. As for organizational psychology, I am a good judge of character45 and a highly organized person (please note my fondness for lists). Sociology? I’m a social butterfly and I think that counts (I’m going to the Well of Souls for drinks after work—or the seminar depending on how long that took—and not just anyone can get in, now can they?). The impressive array of ad campaigns were all me. Those idiots Pendleton and Avery couldn’t come up with a decent slogan if their lives depended on it; they were along for the ride.
I sketched a smiley on a Post-It and underneath wrote: Run with it. I slapped it on the form and put it in the out box. Marithé cleaned it out hourly.
My thinking: I’ll just keep working, fake it until I come up with a plan.
Thinking about drinks reminded me that I needed to talk with Ricardo about the black zombie breathing on me. What was Ricardo’s last name? I was sure he mentioned it, or Gil did. Why did I want to say peanut? It was a nut! His last name was a nut. Ricardo Macadami-no. Ricardo Brazi-no. Almond? Ricardo Almandine? Almost, Amandine, that sounded right. I reached for the phone.
411. Got me a ring.
“You’ve reached Ricardo, I’m either sleeping with the dead or too busy to pick up. Leave me a message.” Beep.
“Ricardo, this is Amanda.” I paused, waited, as though my name would be enough to make the tall dead guy pick up. I assure you in most circumstances, it’s plenty. I rethought, added, “Princess, whatever. Listen. I remembered something about my death. Give me a call.”
The Oak Alley B
usiness Park abandoned its namesake plantation roots at its ramshackle sign; a low-budget enamel-on-plywood affair, strapped across a shattered Plexiglas column. It stood unlit, shadowed, and ineffective under the dark gloom of rain clouds. It was a wonder I’d found the place. There were no oaks, as the name implied, nor any trees, at all. The site was the opposite of an oasis, a patch of bland in an otherwise evergreen landscape. The little foliage to be seen, a variegated ivy, furred the low brick structures; windows pocked their surface like mange.
6106 Suite B squatted amidst the willy-nilly cluster of buildings, like an imposter. Cars dotted the parking spaces of the other buildings, but my destination was marked by only two: a gray VW Vanagon suitable for serial killing, and a far-too-yellow Xterra, that seemed puffy, Fisher-Price, except for the heavily tented windows. Wendy’s Audi was conspicuously absent. I wheeled into the handicapped spot outside the smoked glass doors, and snatched my purse.
The lobby was humdrum; flat white paint, industrial grey carpet and dropped ceiling; boring. It could have been a prison common room. A copper-topped zombie head examining nails that wanted a French manicure, bad, stopped and glared up at me. Gerilyn would be my greeter and warden for the day’s event, and happy to be so. Though her teeth were in desperate need of veneers, she showed them off with the pride of a psychotic pageant mother, albeit a white-eyed and dead one. She sat prim-postured at a cheap plywood table skirted for the Fourth of July, in pleats of red, white and blue plastic. A handwritten table tent read:
REGISTRATION
A–Z
She extended her hand with the stiff-jointed squareness of a robot. I took it.
“Welcome to Getting the Most from Your Afterlife with Bernard Krups.” The words flowed out from monotonous practice. I could, almost, hear the italics. “I’m Gerilyn. Did you get a field guide?”
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