Eat Your Heart Out

by Dayna Ingram

  Eat Your Heart Out

  Dayna Ingram

  Copyright © 2011 Dayna Ingram.

  Published by BrazenHead, imprint of Lethe Press, at Smashwords

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A BrazenHead novella, published in 2011 by Lethe Press, Inc.

  118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018

  sentenceandparagraph.com/brazenhead

  www.lethepressbooks.com • lethepress@aol.com

  isbn: 1-59021-333-5

  isbn-13: 978-1-59021-333-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual locales, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photos: “Packing Heat” Nina Shannon / “Rotten Hand” Gerard Galvan.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ingram, Dayna.

  Eat your heart out : a novella / Dayna Ingram.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59021-333-9 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Lesbians--Fiction. 2. Zombies--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3609.N4686E28 2011

  813’.6--dc23

  2011039634

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: All’s Dead That Ends Dead

  Chapter 2: Eat You? I Hardly Know You

  Chapter 3: The Weather is Here, Wish You Were Dead

  Chapter 4: A Bird in the Hand Is Worth Two if You’re Dead

  Chapter 5: Dead if You Do, Dead if You Don’t

  Chapter 6: A Midsummer Night’s Dead

  Chapter 7: And You Will Know Us by Our Trail of Undead

  Chapter 8: A Zombie For Your Thoughts

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks go out to my sister Erin, for reading everything I write and always being gracious with her feedback; to my Dad, for his encouragement and support; to Amy Campbell and Amber Froncillo, for their long-distance writerly companionship; and to Alex Jeffers, for overcoming his intense dislike of first-person present-tense narration and zombies, and taking a chance on me.

  Chapter 1: All’s Dead That Ends Dead

  My first real-life zombie encounter is a pretty low-key affair, considering I don’t even realize at the time what I’m dealing with. I’m under a lot of pressure from all sides this morning: I have to be in early at Ashbee’s Furniture Outlet to shadow the assistant manager so he can teach me how to open; I’ve actually been shadowing Biff for a week now and think I’ve got it down but the manual says every new shift leader needs two weeks of opening training and two weeks of closing training, and there is no wriggle room with Biff Tipping. So I’m already in a hurry when my girlfriend asks me to stop by the coffee shop and get her usual breakfast—a double-mocha Frappuccino thing that I’m pretty sure can’t legally be called coffee. I can’t say no to her because, as she reminds me, she did go down on me the previous night for the first time in two months. I owe her. She has to get to work too, so I am really under a time crunch. The coffee shop is of course packed so early in the morning, and while in line I watch the minute hand of my wristwatch tick past the one, and Biff calls.

  “Ten minutes late and you won’t get paid for the hour,” he says.

  “Okay, I’ll see you at nine then.”

  “Don’t be a smartass, Devin. Just get here.”

  When it is my turn up at the counter I decide to go ahead and get a treat for Biff and the others who’ll be opening today, Cherry and Brad. I don’t know what they like so I just get three extra coffees and some sugar and powdered cream on the side. I’m trying to shuffle all of this out the door when my phone starts buzzing. I can’t maneuver my hand into my pocket very smoothly while carrying the tray of coffees and holding the door open. I’m a graceless swan, fumbling around and apologizing to the line I’m holding up in front of and behind me. Finally I get the phone out and flip it to my ear, and that’s when it happens. The real-life zombie.

  Only I don’t see him as a zombie, just an old drunk dude. He’s walking like he has a limp in both legs, keeping his eyes to the ground so all I can see is the skin along the part in his stringy brown hair, scabbed over like his scalp has rejected hair plugs. He’s moaning kind of low, the way you do when you just wake up and can’t quite face the day even though you know you gotta, and everyone in line just kind of moves out of his way without even needing to be touched. By the time he reaches me I can tell why everyone is backing off: he reeks, like cottage cheese in the underwear of a two-dollar hooker left out in the sun (the underwear, not the hooker, but probably the same odor would result).

  “Excuse me,” I say, trying to lean up against the door to allow him access. For a brief second he looks up at me and I can see the nothing in his eyes that I mistake for a drunken stupor. He stops abruptly and then kind of slowly bends toward me, but someone elbows me in the back and I stumble past him, out the door and into the waiting line of people.

  “Watch it!” someone yells.

  “Devin? Are you there? Devin!” my girlfriend squawks into my ear.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Sorry.” I push away from the coffee-shop entrance, distantly registering a surprised yelp behind me and a gruff response, which I assume signals the start of some sort of altercation between one patron and another, perhaps the old drunk guy.

  “Devin, where the hell are you? I’m going to be late.” My girlfriend’s name is Carmelle Soufflé, like the dessert. She’s never forgiven her parents for this but still hasn’t legally changed it, so I can’t feel too bad for her. We met during college, before I dropped out, when she was working at a strip club and going by the stage name Caramel Apple. Sometimes I slip up and accidentally call her Caramel instead of Carmelle and she stops speaking to me until I make some grand gesture of apology, which usually involves a significant portion of my meager paycheck.

  “I’ll be there in two minutes, honey,” I tell her. Our apartment is just on the other side of the block. This coffee shop is literally our backyard, but we’re separated by a fence so I have to walk around the whole block. We live above a small independently owned pet shop that only sells supplies for reptiles and fish, but still has kittens and puppies painted on their windows. I’ve only been inside once and there weren’t any customers and everything smelled like week-old marijuana. I think the whole store’s a front for a mild drug cartel, but no one wants to hear my theories.

  Carmelle almost knocks into me as she’s rushing out the door. “Jesus, you startled me!”

  She doesn’t strip anymore, but she does work at a sex shop so she still wears kind of revealing clothes. I don’t mind because I trust her but it’s late September and she’s still not wearing sleeves or pants so sometimes I get concerned for her health.

  “You’re not gonna wear the jacket I bought you?” I ask her. It’s barely a jacket; it’s very light fabric that only goes to her midriff and purposely doesn’t button so her cleavage is still visible.

  “Ah, baby, come on, don’t start with me.” She plucks her frozen mocha drink from the tray and presses her chest against mine to lean in and kiss me on the nose. “Don’t wait up.”

  I watch her bound down the outer staircase to the sidewalk, taking a little leap off the final step, sipping at her drink as she saunters down the block. We haven’t said “I love you” yet, even though we’ve been living together for f
our months and dating for over a year. She’s the only girl I’ve ever been with and I’ve been kind of following her lead, so I’m not sure if I should be the one to say it first. I don’t know how she’d take it.

  Since I’m at the apartment already I figure I might as well take a piss before heading on. Ashbee’s is only six blocks down the way, across from the freeway entrance, and it really doesn’t take that long to walk there. I’m sitting on the can when Biff calls again. Normally I wouldn’t answer while on the toilet, but I know it’ll just piss him off more if I don’t answer.

  “You weren’t kidding about nine o’clock, huh?”

  “I’m on my way, Biff.”

  “If you’re over an hour late, it’s a no-call no-show. I could write you up for this.”

  “I’m practically there,” I say, and flush the toilet. I can hear Biff laughing on the other end but he won’t give me the satisfaction of knowing I’ve broken his Boss Man exterior.

  “Save it,” he growls. “Ten minutes.”

  I’m there in twenty.

  Biff isn’t waiting at the side door like usual to let me in because it’s after nine and we’re already open. I go right through the automatic glass doors and walk across the sales floor. “Hey, Devin,” Cherry calls to me from one of the bedroom displays where she’s fluffing pillows.

  “Hey, Cherry. I brought coffee!”

  She follows me into the back room and snags a cup. “Thanks, kiddo.” Cherry’s only three years older than me which is why I guess she thinks calling me “kiddo” is funny. She goes back out onto the sales floor.

  Biff comes out of his office into the break room. I hold the Styrofoam cup out to him like a shield. His big hand wraps around it and lifts it to his lips. He eyes me as he gulps down about half the cup.

  “It’s cold,” he grunts, and sets the cup back on the table.

  “That’s it, I’m suing.” I stamp my foot. “Serve me tepid coffee, will they? I just bought this.”

  “Clock in and get in here,” he says, heading back into the tiny office. I punch my card and follow him. Biff Tipping is a big man, like a bear who transmogrified into a person. He moves uncertainly in his new, plastic environment, navigating around desks and chairs like he wishes he’d just stayed a frikkin’ bear.

  The orthopedic roller chair creaks under Biff’s weight as he sits himself down in front of the old Mac. He scrolls through some Excel files and shows me how to do the payroll. He takes this shadowing thing quite literally; he expects me to stand behind him and watch while he goes through the motions, and not say anything. It’s been this way for two weeks. Mostly I tune out and start thinking about things like Carmelle’s boobs or a nice plate of seafood pasta, but I haven’t had either of those things in a long time and it is getting hard to picture them.

  “All right.” Biff clicks off the computer and swivels around. “Get your vest on and get on the floor. We’ll cover daily scheduling over your lunch break.”

  “Come on, Biff, you’re gonna make me work through lunch?”

  “No, Devin, you’re making me work through lunch. Don’t make me write this up.”

  He’s not kidding, he really does take all this seriously. He’s not even middle management yet, but I’m pretty sure that’s as far as his ambition goes. Maybe someday he hopes to find a nice lady who isn’t intimidated by his bear-like exterior (or a nice gentleman who wants to dress him in some leather chaps) and settle down in a double-wide trailer park a few blocks away, raise some kids or some alpacas, and retire with just enough money to get on food stamps. I guess my offering of cold coffee does not factor into his plans anywhere.

  I give him a stiff salute. “Sir, yes sir.” A hard turn on my heel and I am out the door before he can wield his smidgen of power again.

  Out on the floor I take a sweep of the minimal activity. Ashbee’s is inside a square building but its innards are circular, a feng shui sphere of maximum efficiency. A moat of various display rooms (living, dining, bed, kitchen) encircles a hub—or castle—of register computers where I see Cherry click-click-clicking away, drawing up a contract for the young couple standing near the Baroque ottomans. The most expensive stuff at Ashbee’s is positioned nearest the entrance, fanning out into less desirable items, until finally hitting the clearance nexus—funky stains? mysterious odors? you want ’em, we got ’em!—behind the register hub. To be honest, I’m not so good at the hard sell, but I do all right on commissions simply by hovering around the clearance section, being extremely helpful.

  Cutting between the nexus and the kids’ mattresses is a hallway that leads to the customer bathrooms and our staff-only back room. Here we have a little kitchenette break room that connects to the manager’s office and the loading dock. The office—Biff’s cave—is unremarkable, except for the life-saving employee bathroom which the customers can’t know we have, otherwise we’d appear cruel in their time of crisis (“Whaddya mean, the bathrooms are out of order? Where do you go?”). The loading dock, on the other hand, is a remarkable example of poor planning as the doors leading to and from the dock aren’t quite wide enough to fit a king-sized bed through. Most of our delivery guys understand this and will pull around to the front to drop off their loads, but whenever the regional manager comes around—a twig of a man who takes himself even more seriously than Biff—we have to fill the space with as much of the smaller furniture as possible so it doesn’t look like we’re wasting space. (The furniture we deliver to your home actually comes from a warehouse on the other side of town with adequately-sized doors.) Every dollar counts and everything is dollars. That’s what the corporate sponge is constantly telling us, anyway.

  Faintly, I hear the sound of a toilet flushing and a few seconds later Brad comes out, still zipping up his requisite beige khaki pants. Cherry has printed up her documents and is going over them with the couple, making them comfortable on a purple velvet love seat. I’m tapping my fingers on the register desk, rethinking my decision to skip breakfast.

  Brad eyes Cherry with her customers and approaches me. “What the hell is she doing?”

  “Good morning, Brad. I am well, thank you for asking. And yourself?”

  “Did Cherry just sell them people a fucking couch?” He hooks his thumb in their general direction, his eyes bloodshot and screaming at me.

  “Why, you want to congratulate her?”

  “That’s my fucking sale!”

  Brad keeps his voice down when he swears, but he swears pretty much every other sentence. It’s like Tourette’s. Mostly customers ignore it, thinking it really is Tourette’s, or it makes them feel like home. The only people I know of who he’s ever offended with his colorful language are the higher ups—thus Brad is conveniently scheduled off when they make their bi-weekly visits—and Carmelle at last year’s company picnic. To his credit, he was trying to be nice—well, his version of nice—but it came out like this: “Fuck, how you doing, Carmelle? Goddamn, your girlfriend’s real sweet, a real fucking nut grabber on the floor, fucks ’em like dogs, fuck.” He was trying to tease me about how little I actually sell, but Carmelle took it the wrong way and possessively whisked me away from him, and the entire picnic, in favor of going shoe shopping.

  She said, “I don’t know how you can put up with that dick.”

  I said, “He kind of reins it in at work.”

  Now, he is saying, “That whore cunt-grabber, I fucking told her, I told her, it’s my goddamn turn, Devin, fuck.”

  There are always two or more salesfolk on the floor at a time. To keep commissions fair, we take turns on who gets to schmooze with the next customer through the door. No matter who it is. Sometimes you get stuck with the teens just stopping in to wander around on break from their fast-food gigs, but fair is fair.

  Suddenly, in Brad’s predicament, I see an opportunity to flex my fledgling shift-leader muscles. I look around the store for Biff, but he must still be in the office doing Big Boy stuff. I want him to observe how expertly I handle this squabble, so
he can write that up, and almost consider paging him over the loud speaker, but that would seriously undercut my sincerity.

  “Now, Bradley,” I say, gracelessly dropping a hand on his slumped shoulder. “Calm down. Don’t go jumping to conclusions before you have all the facts. I’m sure she just forgot the rotation schedule. Or maybe the customers approached her and she couldn’t very well give them the cold shoulder and wait until you were done taking a shit or toking up, right?”

  “I’m damn well gonna find out!” He starts toward them, but I hold him back and force him to look at me.

  “You will do no such thing,” I tell him, invoking the power of all mothers and elementary school teachers before me. “The sale is done. Look, they’re walking away. You can get the next one.”

  “She should give me her fucking commission,” Brad whines. “What if the next one’s a dud?”

  “I’ll give her a warning,” I say reassuringly. Brad looks at me like, With what authority? “I’ll tell Biff about it,” I amend. “I mean, I’ll report it.” Still getting used to the lower-middle-management lingo.

  “If this shit happens again, Devin, I swear to fuck….”

  But Brad doesn’t have time to swear to fuck because a tiny mechanized bell bleats through the sound of the automatic doors whooshing open, and we turn our heads in unison to watch an octogenarian hobble in, sporting a tweed coat and corduroy pants and two wobbly canes. Brad slowly turns back around to look at me.

  “I’m sorry.” I cringe out an apology. It’s clear this old dude is only here to escape the heat of the morning or possibly to curl up in a nice soft bed to die alone, like cats do.

  We watch him shuffle at a snail’s crawl to ease himself down into the nearest deluxe leather recliner. Finally, Brad sighs, mutters something about crotch lickers under his breath, and heads over to the man’s side.