Linnea wasn’t back from school yet when he arrived home with the costume packaged in slippery plastic. The zombie apocalypse might be carrying over into after-school hours, a whole troupe of zombied-up kids fooling around downtown. He hoped that for Christ’s sake she hadn’t gotten too tangled up in what was meant to be a joke, good, clean walking-dead fun, and had freaked out. Somebody would have called, wouldn’t they?
Art hadn’t wanted to change clothes in the store’s makeshift dressing room. He struggled into the short pants, which were just a shade too small, and felt rather like a leopard-print diaper. The tunic was a better fit. He wished his arm was meatier, but he could swing the club around for menacing effect. He settled the black wig on his head and pulled the mask over his face. The eyeholes took some getting used to, but his reflection in the bathroom mirror was rather thrilling, he thought. He practiced walking caveman style, knees bent and shoulders pulled forward. “Guh,” he said, experimentally. “Guh-ugh.”
A knock on the door startled him. “Hello?” It was Christie, peering in through the front window.
He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there; she would have heard him moving around.
“Just a sec,” he called. He took the mask off and opened the door just enough to poke his head around it. “Hey Christie.”
She stared at him in wonder. Art realized the wig was still on his head. “Oh, ha.”
He pulled it off. “Halloween,” he explained.
“Let me guess. Eighties rock star.”
He scoffed at this. “Naw. Give me a break.” Not wanting to open the door further, he said, “It’s supposed to be a surprise. So, what do you . . .”
“Is Linnea here?”
“She’s not home from school yet.” He waited. “Did she do something?”
“No, she’d asked me a question, that’s all.”
It was an oddity for Linnea to have talked to Christie about anything, but he wasn’t really in a position to be inquisitive at the moment, hiding his caveman self behind a door. “OK, I’ll tell her you were asking for her.” He felt compelled to add a little small talk. “How’s the job going?”
“I’m planning this giant conference from scratch. It’s really a lot of work.”
Art thought she looked tired, though he had learned that women did not welcome hearing this kind of thing. She looked dragged down. Still pretty, sure. Now that Beata was signaling her intention of putting the hammer down on him, he looked at Christie with some of his old interest. Not that she’d ever given him the time of day. He’d better try to mend things with Beata, who was, among many good qualities, a terrific piece of ass.
He said, “Keeps you running, huh? I’m sure you’re doing some great work.” He was getting cold, holding the door open in his flimsy getup. He was going to have to rethink things like coats. “You want me to have Linnea come see you or something?”
“Sure. Happy Halloween, Art.”
Once back inside, he tried to call Linnea and got voice mail. Sometimes she’d text him back, but the phone stayed silent. He changed out of the costume and got dressed and turned on some lights as the sun began to ebb. It wasn’t unheard of for her to be this late getting home, but he felt uneasy, as if he was the one waiting for zombies to attack.
The high school wasn’t that far away—Linnea sometimes walked, taking a winding shortcut—and Art decided to drive over there to see if he could find her. A dreary dank wind was sending stray bits of paper trash skittering over the roads. Lowering clouds covered most of the sky, with the sun leaking through at the western edge. Art watched two buses pull up at the stop across the street, their lighted insides giving them the look of rooms in motion. A few people got off, none of them Linnea.
He followed the road where she might have walked, then doubled back along it. He tried the shopping center where the kids sometimes hung out. He idled in the parking lot for a time, but didn’t spot her going in or out of the Safeway or the drugstore or the smoothie shop. The school was just across the road. Cars were still pulling up and waiting there, an hour after the last classes. He crossed over and joined the end of the line, tried calling her again, no luck.
Kids were standing around talking, or leaning into car windows, or getting into cars and being driven away. Some of them were in full zombie regalia: chalk white faces, torn clothes, blotches he guessed were meant to represent decaying flesh. A couple of them were staggering around, stiff-armed and stiff-legged, while their audience hooted in approval. It looked like the apocalypse had gone well, even if the school was still standing.
Art was about to give up and go home to wait for Linnea when he saw her coming down the school’s front steps, alone. She stopped to hoist her backpack higher. The weight of it made her bend forward, as if she was walking into the wind. He thought she had earbuds attached to her ears. He could have honked, or called to her, but he watched her for another minute. She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets and walked out to the sidewalk, through the crowd of zombies and other kids horsing around under the light from the streetlamps. She didn’t speak to any of them and none of them spoke to her. She reached the bus stop and stood there waiting. Two or three buses were coming up behind him, their lights flaring in his rearview.
He could have reached her before the parade of buses, and he would have done so if she had not seemed so entirely alone, if he would not have embarrassed her by witnessing it.
• • •
The next day was Halloween and the party. He called Beata around noon to see if she was still determined to go. She was. “You have a costume?” she asked, sounding mistrustful.
“I have a costume.”
“Will I recognize you?” A note of teasing. He was glad to hear it.
“No, I’ll just be the guy who shows up at eight o’clock and ravishes you.”
Some confusion; Beata thought he’d said “radish.” She said she was glad they’d gotten that straightened out. “There will be no radishing beforehand. It will spoil my looks.”
“Afterwards, then,” Art said. “Radish, radish.”
“Such a silly man. I have to go, I have things to do to get ready.”
She hung up. “Ugh,” Art said. He thumped his chest, practicing. “Gromph.” He wondered if he was going to have to stay in character all night, talk nothing but caveman talk.
Before she left to do whatever it was with Conner she wouldn’t tell Art about, Linnea stayed in her room, playing her music. She seemed entirely uninterested in what Art had procured for a costume, and for once he was glad to be ignored. He made her promise she would at least answer texts, and she said Yeah, sure. He made a show of worrying, enough so that Linnea sighed dramatically, but even though he cautioned and harrumphed, Art had come around to appreciating that Conner was a little older. At least he wasn’t a kid with a learner’s permit and the keys to a Lexus.
After she was gone, Art got his caveman ensemble from the closet and climbed into it. He had tried to loosen the elastic waistband of the pants, ripping out a seam and restitching it. Now he had more room, but the elastic had lost some function, and just to be prudent, he pinned the pants to his undershorts. He put the tunic on and struck a muscular pose in the bathroom mirror. He wished he had thought to get body makeup, some kind of bronzer. He looked sort of pasty for an outdoor type.
He was nervous setting out, but it was a fine night. Crossing the great bridge in darkness, its views of ocean and city lights spread out beneath him, he always felt his destination invested with a certain grandeur. The metal plating made his tires thrum, the vast cables soared overhead. He found an old Tom Petty CD and played it loud, a soundtrack to the night’s adventure, singing along gustily, since there was no one there to hear: “And I’m free-ee, free falling.”
He couldn’t drive with the mask on and he pushed it up on his forehead, so that it resembled the head of a vestigial twin. He was c
heered when the car in the next lane honked at him, and he looked over to see two people in gorilla masks in the front seat, waving in a companionable fashion. Or maybe they really were two gorillas. What did he know?
At Beata’s he had to park more than a block away. He had a coat but that would spoil the effect. He had decided that his only option was to go for it. What the hell. It was Halloween. He got out of the car and balanced his foam club on his shoulder, and swung his head from side to side as he walked, caveman style. He didn’t see anyone else in costume, well, it wasn’t exactly a party neighborhood. Elderly people with shopping bags veered around him on the sidewalk. His pants took a hitch downward and he had to stop and readjust them.
Beata’s apartment was a third-floor walk-up. He rang the buzzer and the door clicked open.
On the last landing, he paused to get his breath, then bounded up the last stairs and beat on the door with his fist. It opened, and the two of them beheld each other.
Beata gave a little shriek.
She had gotten herself up as a Roaring Twenties vamp. She wore a short red dress with fringe, and a string of pearls. Her hair had been lacquered into tight flat curls and there was a jeweled band across her forehead. Red red lipstick and black-rimmed eyes.
Art spoke first, forgetting to be a caveman. “Wow. That is some fancy getup.”
The mask made his voice come out muffled.
“And you. You are very . . .”
“Very what?” He pushed the mask off his face. It was hot and he could tell there was going to be a sweat issue.
“I don’t suppose you brought a pair of pants. Real pants.”
Art looked down at his bare legs. He couldn’t remember her complaining about his legs before. Beata said, “In case of, what is it, wardrobe malfunction.”
“Pants? Cavemen don’t wear pants.” He waved the club over his head.
“Please be careful with that.”
“Hey, you wouldn’t tell me what you wanted me to wear.” He was sensing a quality of reserve in her attitude that did not augur well.
“We should go, the party is already started.”
“I haven’t had a chance to look at you yet.” Art dropped his club, which bounced. He caught her around the shoulders. “You are one red-hot mamma.”
“Thank you.” She ducked underneath his hands. “Do not mess up the hair. The hair is very nervous-making.”
Things got a little better on the drive to the party. Once they reached Market Street, almost everyone was dressed up. There were nun costumes, long black capes, many tutus. At Guerrero Street, three men dressed as condoms were chasing three girls dressed as Playboy Bunnies. Beata’s mood seemed to lift as she pointed out all the different revelers. Art wished he knew what she didn’t like about his costume, or maybe about him, but decided it was better to leave well enough alone. “So, is this supposed to be a big party?” he asked, just as a way of making conversation.
“It’s a pretty big apartment.”
Art waited, but she didn’t say more. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Susan. Maybe some other old friends will be there too.”
“Old boyfriends,” he said, reduced to ponderous teasing.
“Maybe so.”
Was that what this was about? Or was she saying it just to make him jealous? Was he going to have to hit people with his club? “M’booga,” he said. “Gumbo gumbo.”
Beata gave him directions. He parked and she led the way down a side street to a warehouse, or so it seemed, its street level given over to a car repair business. Overhead, lighted windows, signs of habitation. “What does Susan do?” Art asked belatedly, realizing he should have taken an interest.
“She works with taxis.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” She wasn’t going to unbend, make any effort. They were climbing the stairs and he paused. “Hey.” Beata stopped and looked back at him. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing is the matter with me.” Emphasis on “me.”
Art sighed, aiming for a tone of heavy patience, but his heart clenched up, Aw shit. Had he forgotten her birthday? He didn’t think so. Nor was it Valentine’s Day. Had she unilaterally declared some anniversary, and not told him? Whatever it was, he’d been weighed in the balance and found wanting. “What did I do? Mind giving me a hint?”
“Nothing, Art. You have done nothing. Let’s try to have a pleasant evening.” She scrutinized him. “Your pants are falling down.”
He’d shoved his wallet, keys, and phone into a small front pocket and the weight of them was dragging. It wasn’t like a caveman could carry a purse. He took the keys out and managed to tie them around his neck with a stringy piece of the tunic. “You don’t like my costume,” he suggested.
“It’s perfect for you. Primitive Man.”
“Primitive,” Art echoed. He recognized this as the opening shot in a longer battle. “How, exactly, am I primitive?”
“There is more to life than just sex, Art.”
“Huh.” He was too shocked to make any other answer, perhaps because there was no good answer. You couldn’t really argue back that no, sex is the only thing in life, or maybe in biological terms you could, but that was not what she had meant. What did she mean, and what was he being accused of? They had great sex together, didn’t they? He’d always thought so, right from the start, and if Beata did not, you could have fooled him. More to life? What did she want him to do, not have sex with her? He was bewildered, and then angry. Women never fought fair. It was always the knife in the ribs when you least expected it.
Beata had already turned and was knocking at the apartment door. Art pulled the mask over his face. The hell with everything. He might as well go for being Primitive Man.
The door opened. He couldn’t see clearly through the mask’s eyeholes, but there was a swell of noise and jazzy music. Beata was greeting people and being greeted back, voices rising in delight.
“Oh my God!”
“And you! You are the gorilla of my dreams!”
“Where did you get the . . .”
“I’m thinking of wearing it to work.”
Art pulled at the mask so there wasn’t so much of it bunched up and misaligned. Beata was having an animated conversation with a blond woman who was also dressed as a flapper, except that her shimmy dress was yellow. There was also a gorilla—on the short side, for a great ape—and a pink flamingo—that is, a man in a flamingo-head hat and a feathery pink body held up by suspenders. Beata waved a hand in Art’s direction. “And this is—”
Art leapt forward and hit the gorilla over the head with his foam club. “Ow,” the gorilla said, a girl’s voice. He reached out and pawed at the blond woman’s hair, making guttural noises of appreciation. “This is Art,” Beata said. “What a kidder. Art, that’s your hostess, Susan.” Art leaned in to sniff her neck. The woman made a faint strangled sound and pushed him away. What else did cavemen do? He was running out of ideas.
The pink-flamingo man said, “Does he eat birds? Do I have cause for concern?”
“Beer,” Art announced. “Give beer!” He whomped on the floor with his club for emphasis.
Susan and Beata had taken a few steps back and were watching him in a way that did not seem friendly. “Sorry,” Art said. “Got a little carried away.”
“The bar’s over there.” Susan pointed. “Please, help yourself.” Art was startled to realize that she was older than Beata, older than he himself. The blond hair he’d been fondling was a shiny wig.
“Thanks,” he said, and headed bar-ward, doing a little bit of the old caveman swagger. Screw em if they couldn’t take a joke. He heard the gorilla girl behind him, asking, “Is he the one with the master’s degree?”
“Yes,” Beata said. “That is he.” Not, “Yes, that’s my boyfriend, he has a master’s degree.” Although technically,
he was ABD.
The pink-flamingo man said, “Grad school. Not everybody gets through it unscathed.”
Screw him. Screw them all. He needed a drink and he needed it now. The apartment was one big open room with a baby grand piano at one end, a number of angular sofas and modern chairs, and at the far end, a kitchen. This was where the bar was set up. The party wasn’t crowded yet, and he felt self-conscious about his bare arms and legs, the way he might not have if the place had been packed with more and drunker people. The floors were glossy varnished wood and his sandals squeaked on it. He nodded to a couple dressed up as robots, he guessed. Their costumes required a great deal of aluminum foil, and they might also have been a pair of oven-ready baked potatoes.
There were wine bottles and liquor bottles on a kitchen counter, and a cooler with bottles of water, also beer of the expensive sort bought by people who did not drink beer themselves: Harp, Anchor Steam, Beck’s Dark. Art settled for a Beck’s and took it back to one of the sofas to drink. Beata was still by the door, ignoring him. New guests had arrived. A man in a white nurse’s uniform complete with starched cap and white stockings. Another who was either on his way to a leather bar or was just trying on the look for tonight. Whatever else people thought about his costume, at least he didn’t think it said gay.
Art pushed his mask up and out of the way so he could drink his beer. He took his phone out to check it, nothing. He sent Linnea a text: How’s it going kiddo?
After a couple of minutes his phone chimed back: R U the life of the party?
Yeah, I M killing em.
She didn’t send anything back, but it cheered him to hear from her. He drank the beer down as fast as he could manage, which made him burp. What the hell. Caveman. He got up, went to the bar, and brought back two bottles. More people were coming in now, and he toasted them from the sofa. “Beer,” he said. “Beer good.”
He’d lost sight of Beata. Someone was playing the piano. He had to find the bathroom. The couch held him in its soft grip and he struggled to stand. His pants were drooping badly and he had to use his free, non-beer hand to hold them up. The bathroom was beyond the kitchen, off a hallway with closed doors—bedrooms, he figured. After he peed, he nosed around for a minute, entertaining the notion of invading his hostess’s closet, dressing up in her clothes, and making his escape out the front door, unrecognized.
The Humanity Project Page 27