by Adam Selzer
“So it’s gonna be pretty wild?”
“Probably.”
I lean in and hold his hand. “But we’ll be able to find a nice, quiet place for number seven?”
“Totally.”
I feel a tingle all through my body as I step onto the porch. Not just because I’m thinking of #7, but because this is 1518 Bartleby Way! From what I heard when I was a kid, it’s full of old bookcases, old copies of Collier’s magazine and the dead body of a woman who died of grief when she was left at the altar. Some people say her wedding cake—or what’s left that hasn’t been eaten by mold and maggots—is still on the table. And I’m actually going to see inside.
Naturally, it’s a letdown.
The only dead bodies present are Doug and Will. Will, of course, is about the last creature in the world I want to see, but I manage to avoid him while I look around the place. It’s really nothing more than a dingy old house. It’s mostly empty, except there’re a couple of card tables set up in the kitchen, a whole bunch of Styrofoam coolers packed with beer and a pile of empties from the last party. There’s a stereo that looks like it came from Megamart, and a big, boxy old TV from the 1990s in the living room (the place must have been wired for electricity at some point) with a couple of soggy-looking couches that I wouldn’t sit on for love or money. There are stains all over that I’m not asking about, gang graffiti on the walls (some kids in town like to pretend they’re in the Crips; it’s kind of cute) and a funny-smelling armchair that’s been painted black.
In other words, it’s just a party pit.
I help set up mikes and amps and recording gear in the living room, checking to be sure that I’m making two recordings: one of the whole band and one of just the vocals. The vocal mike might also pick up some other sound that bleeds into the mike, but I figure you can probably get rid of it with computers now, right?
Gradually, all the other popular people show up and start right up tearing into the coolers full of Megamart-brand beer and wine coolers. Someone puts on a CD that plays repetitive beats really, really loudly. I think they want the music so loud because they’re all too stupid to carry on a conversation. Talking is certainly out for Doug and me. I can’t hear a thing. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone else, though. They’re just there to get trashed.
The “popular” people are all there, sending texts back and forth and critiquing each other’s outfits with their eyes. It’s a weird scene: all these people in outfits that they must have robbed a bank to afford, hanging around in the trashiest house imaginable.
I never, ever thought the day would come when I was relieved that the Sorry Marios started playing, but when they turn down the beats and we get about a minute of quiet before the awful “Margaritaville” jam gets started, it’s like heaven.
I suffer through “Margaritaville” and several bad Dave Matthews covers before Doug goes up to do “Anthem,” by Leonard Cohen, a song off the Alley playlist. He does a beautiful, heartbreaking job on it (despite the fact that when the band plays the right chord, it’s strictly a coincidence), but it wasn’t a good song to choose. It’s a slow, quiet song, and after a minute, all the dumbasses are just talking over it.
Doug notices this, though, and, even though he planned to do “Chelsea Hotel #2” next, he confers with the band for a second, and then they go into a cover of some recent pop song that no one at my lunch table would be caught dead listening to. That gets people’s attention, at least for a minute. Instead of talking over it, they shout “Woooo!” at the top of their lungs. It’s not a track I’ll be using on Doug’s album.
The article is coming along nicely in my head. I felt before it began like I was going to be a zoologist studying chimps, and they really do act like apes. To hear people talk about this party, you’d think it’s the most fun night of all time. Apparently, to some people, hanging out in a disgusting, trashy house drinking cheap beer with idiots is the be-all, end-all of human existence.
The weird thing is that no one actually looks like they’re having much fun. And there’s no one here that I’d really consider popular, per se. They’re just … well-known. Not well liked. I love Doug, and I could survive an evening hanging out with Nat, probably, but there’s no one else here I’ll be looking forward to seeing at the reunion in ten years.
Sigh.
Something about drunks just annoys me. Maybe it’s the memories of having to hold my mom’s hair while she puked. I only ever had to do that twice, but that was enough.
Doug sings a nice version of a Nirvana song, then takes a break. Before they can get the beats back on the stereo, I lean over, tell Doug how good he was, then ask if there’s a place we can be alone. He tells me there are some rooms upstairs, and I say I’ll meet him there. There are a bunch of well-wishers hanging around, wanting to pat him on the back, so he says he’ll catch up to me. I don’t really want to leave him behind, but I know it’s only polite for him to stick around for the “fans.” I just need to get the hell away from all the idiots.
Upstairs, there are several rooms, each of which seems to have a mattress in it. The first two I look into are occupied, but the third is available.
I wait there for half an hour before the door opens.
I start taking off my jacket, but it’s not Doug.
It’s Will.
“Good evening,” he says.
“Get lost,” I say.
“Doug is occupied,” he says. “It is best that you forget him. His kind will not soon be welcome in the city.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There has been, this afternoon … a disturbance. Zombies on Martin Luther King Boulevard.”
Martin Luther King Boulevard. That runs right alongside Doug’s cemetery.
“The zombies rose from the cemetery, crying for brains. They entered a restaurant and attempted to attack patrons.”
“I haven’t heard about that,” I say.
“For the news travels fast,” he says. “And the people of your town will not tolerate brain-eating zombies attacking them.”
“Doug’s not that kind of zombie!” I say.
He smiles at me. I can see his teeth. He doesn’t have fangs or anything, but his smile is just as scary as it would be if he did.
“The people will not care,” he says. “They will destroy all zombies. All of them. They will drive them out of town with torches. It happened sometimes in the Old Country.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But this is the twenty-first century. We’re a little more tolerant than that.”
I’m not sure that’s true, though. I mean, Iowa’s a lot more liberal than you’d think, but you can’t really expect people to tolerate brain-eating monsters, can you?
“Zombies will not be welcome,” says Will. “Vampires, on the other hand, will be fine….”
“Look,” I say. “I’m not going to become a vampire. So come off it and leave me alone. I have Mace!”
I don’t really, though, and Will just laughs.
“As if I could not outrun a spray bottle,” he says. “We will talk more.”
He turns and leaves the room, leaving me alone and scared.
I suddenly have a pretty good idea of who might be creating the new zombies. It has to be Will, or some other vampire who wants Doug out of the way. That bastard! Mrs. Smollet is probably involved, too. Both she and Will seem to think I’m one of those idiot girls on the message boards who just want to become a post-human. It’s never occurred to them that his being dead has nothing to do with what I like about Doug.
It’s his … well, his taste in music, for one.
And the fact that we get along really well.
I try to think of the rest, and I suddenly realize that I don’t know Doug all that well. I know enough to love him and all, but who knows how much we really have in common? I don’t know what movies he likes. What books he reads. These things haven’t come up yet. I don’t even know for sure who he would have voted for in the last election (if dead peopl
e had the vote in any city other than Chicago), and the wrong answer would be a deal breaker.
I sit in the corner and rock back and forth for what seems like hours but is probably only a few minutes, feeling the obnoxious beats rattle the floor. This is time I could be spending working on my article, but instead I’m waiting for Doug and getting nervous.
And the longer I wait, the more pissed off I get. Maybe he is a loser with terrible taste in movies and politics. Maybe the only reason I’m with him at all is that he happened to sing two songs I love on a night when I was vulnerable, what with prom coming up and all, and then had the decency not to use any lame lines to hit on me.
But when Doug finally shows up, all that melts away in a heartbeat. I can’t stay mad at him.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say, “did you know there were more zombies rising up today?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t find out.”
“This is Des Moines,” I say. “You think a bunch of brain-eating zombies can attack a restaurant without it making the news?”
He sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “I heard.”
“I think the vampires are doing it,” I say. “Do you think they’d do it just to get you out of the way so I could be with Will?”
“They might,” he says. “It could be any vampire, though. Vampires hate zombies.”
“But they came out of the coffin just to get you free from Megamart!” I say.
“Yeah,” says Doug, “but I think it was mostly an excuse to go public on their own terms. Keeping secrets was getting to be impossible for them. Most of them didn’t care about post-human rights at all. They just wanted us to be free so we’d crumble, and it was a convenient excuse to go public and look like good guys instead of just being outed by conspiracy theorists.”
“Really?”
“I’m not sure why they hate us, exactly. It’s some old-time prejudice thing or something. Like maybe zombies violated a treaty a thousand years ago and the vampires have never forgiven them. But they can’t stand zombies. And everyone knew that if Megamart kept making them, there’d be more zombies than vampires in the world soon. There might already have been.”
“So they got you free to get rid of you?”
“Exactly. They wouldn’t want to create more, but if there’s another attack, half the town’s going to be coming around with torches to kill any zombie still standing. And Mrs. Smollet will probably lead the parade.”
“We have to stop them,” I say.
Doug just shrugs. “All I can do is stay vigilant,” he says. “If any more zombies rise up, I’ll try to stop them. Or catch them doing it. If the Council of Elders finds out they’re building zombies, they’ll be in massive trouble.”
“Maybe you can build an alarm system or something,” I say.
“Maybe.”
I think I can actually see the wheels in his head turning. I let him think for a second, then move closer to him, put my hand on his leg and start kissing him, getting ready to do #7.
“Listen,” he says. “I think I’m exhausted from all the singing. Can we do number seven another time?”
“Of course,” I say. Even though I’m thinking You’ve got to be kidding me!
So we just kiss some more, then make our way through the crowd of drunken idiots and obnoxious beats and through the cemetery back to his car.
I try not to let it bug me. I know it’s nothing personal. He’s probably just nervous.
And once I’ve done #8 with him, he probably won’t be able to keep his hands off me.
12
By Saturday morning, any lingering resentment I have toward Doug for making me wait in that room is gone. Even though the radio is buzzing with talk about the zombie attack downtown and people are ranting about how we can’t allow zombies in our community, I’m not as worried about it. Doug is going to catch the vampires in the act, they’ll all get in trouble and off my back, and people will forget all about zombies again.
And anyway, I’m too excited to be upset. It’s prom day.
It’s also the day I’m filling out forms for Drake. I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I’ve officially decided to stick around in Iowa a little longer to be with Doug. Seattle will just have to survive without me. I should probably ask any new zombies who show up whether they can confirm that hell has, in fact, frozen over.
The first thing I do Saturday morning, even before I go downstairs and make myself a coffee, is finish the forms. It’s exciting, really. The first step toward starting to carve out a new life for myself and the guy who I can’t imagine won’t be the love of my life.
Sadie comes over at three to start getting ready. I’ve decided to take Marie’s advice and go for the zombie look. I text Doug to make sure he’s cool with it, and he texts back that he thinks it’ll be hilarious.
This really is the kind of teenage life I was promised by TV and movies. My best friend is coming over to do my makeup before I do hers, so we can both be ready for a big date. I didn’t quite imagine I’d be putting fake blood and gray eye shadow on as part of it, but, well, life is supposed to be unpredictable, not as bland and repetitive as the rows and rows of corn along Interstate 80.
We’re almost done when Sadie notices the forms on my desk.
“What the hell?” she asks. “You’re not going to Seattle?”
“It’s only undergrad, isn’t it?” I ask. “It doesn’t matter where I go. I can just go to Drake.”
“The hell you can!” she shouts. “You’ve been dreaming about getting out of town as long as I’ve known you!”
“Only so I could meet a guy like Doug!” I say.
“Gonk, you’re an idiot!” she says. “No guy is worth rearranging your life over at eighteen.”
I kind of roll my eyes, getting ready for a fight. But then I say, “It’s just an option I’m keeping open. And it’s mostly for the money. It’d be so much cheaper to do at least a year of undergrad here.”
“Still!” she says. I can see she’s disappointed in me.
“Hey, you’re going to Grandview,” I say. “We’ll still be able to hang out!”
“It’s the only school with an art program I can afford,” she says. “And we both know I’ll probably end up designing logos for insurance companies. If I’m lucky. You’re getting out! You’re, like, my proof that it’s possible!”
“It’s not definite yet,” I say. “It’s just sort of on the table.”
“You’d better move,” she says.
I feel like arguing, but I don’t want to fight. It’s prom night.
And when the doorbell rings, we both forget everything and start squeeing.
I had planned on letting my parents continue to think I was going to convert eventually, just out of spite, but I decided it would make this evening too awkward, and assured them over breakfast that I’m going to stay a regular human. I can hear them being very friendly downstairs.
“Why, there’s the man himself!” I hear Dad say.
“That’s a nice suit,” says Mom. “Is it new?”
“Yeah,” says Doug. “Just got it yesterday. I’ve only slept in it once so far.”
There’s some awkward tittering as Sadie walks down the stairs in her prom dress while I finish some last-second primping.
“Hi, Sadie,” says Doug.
“Hi, everybody,” she says. “May I now present to you, the prom-queen-to-be, Miss Algonquin Rhodes!”
And I step from my bedroom and descend the stairs into the living room, like a movie star from the 1930s making her grand entrance to a ball. In zombie makeup.
Doug is smiling so hard I’m afraid part of his face might literally break off. My dress looks awesome, if I do say so myself. Elegant, classy and just a little suggestive, since it shows off my figure really well.
“Did you rent a limo?” Mom asks Doug as we go through the hideous “posing for pictures” ritual.
I answer for him. “Hell no,” I say. “That’s just for people
who use prom as an excuse to show off how much money their daddies make.”
“We’re taking my car,” says Doug.
“It’s a form of protest against extravagance,” I say. “And we’re going for ice cream instead of a fancy dinner.”
Mom shrugs. “I understand,” she says. “I imagine some restaurant owners are being pretty narrow-minded about zombies after yesterday.”
“That’s just awful,” says Dad. “No one even got hurt!”
There’s also the matter that there’s no point going to a fancy restaurant when Doug can’t really eat anything, anyway.
We pile into Doug’s car, then swing by Peter’s house, where Sadie goes inside to pose for pictures. Doug and I make out in the car. My zombie makeup gets smeared, but the more smeared it gets, the better it looks.
I feel like I could just melt into him. And I fully plan to right after prom.
Sadie and Peter come out and get into the backseat.
“How was it?” I ask.
“I’ve never seen my mom so happy,” says Peter. “I thought the woman was going to cry.”
“What for?” I ask.
“She pretty much knows I’m gay, deep down,” he says. “But I think this gives her reason to believe I’ll still be fathering some grandchildren for her.”
I turn to Sadie. “No pressure or anything, huh?”
“Hey,” says Sadie. “It’s prom.” She turns to Peter. “You realize that part of that is that you have to do me tonight, right?”
“Can you wear a Johnny Depp mask?” asks Peter.
“If you’ll talk in a Southern accent and quote The Glass Menagerie,” says Sadie.
We go to Snookie’s Malt Shop, where Doug and I went before, and make small talk and trade brilliant zingers, but all the while, I just keep thinking of how Sadie was so freaked out that I was planning to go to Drake, not Seattle.
And some of that stuff I wondered about last night is coming back. But when I look at Doug, none of it matters. There’s no fighting love. Or lust. Or whatever.
After we have our ice cream, we head out to the Science Center, which is just a couple of blocks away from Doug’s cemetery downtown. I thought it was a big joke when they announced that prom was going to be at a science museum—we spent weeks making cracks about it at lunch. I mean, is Iowa really so boring that we don’t have any place nice enough to hold a prom, so we have to go hold it in front of a pile of dinosaur bones? Instead of a band, will they have a guy demonstrating how snakes eat?