“The beach. Twice.”
“With?”
“My parents,” Paul says. “Some friends.”
“Which beach?”
“Ocean City. You?”
“I worked for my father all summer.”
“Doing what?” Paul asks.
“Landscaping.”
I focus on keeping my breathing as quiet as possible, keeping my feet from squeaking on the toilet seat. They’re quiet now, and the more I listen to the silence, the more I can hear myself think and know I am going to do something to give myself away.
I close my eyes and think please go away, please go away, please go away, but they don’t go away and are no longer silent.
They crash into the stall next to me.
They grab and grunt and go at each other.
Their stall door closes and locks and Paul says, in a way that I know he is smiling, “Zink, let me show you what I learned on my summer vacation.”
8
The rest of the day blows by in a blur with classes and lectures and roll calls and seating assignments in neckties and khaki pants, all the while I can’t get that girl with the deadly red hair out of my head.
My teachers for the most part are old and irritatingly excited that school has started, except for one who doesn’t show for class at all—my English teacher, Mr. Rembrandt. How random is that? First day of school and already there’s a substitute in the room, putzing around with nothing to teach. In each class, the teachers seat us alphabetically in some way around the room, but in English the substitute lets us sit wherever we want. Of course, I wind up between two winners. On my left, there’s this Super Shy Kid who refuses to look at me or say his name when I introduce myself as I sit down. He even flinches when I dig into my bag for a pen. Fragile bitch. And then on my right, there’s the Dirtbag Boy who needed some serious cosmetic surgery. Maybe a chemical peel and a power scrub and a round of dermatologist appointments. Pimples so big they could be seen from space. I can only imagine what the Plaids are going to do to these sad suckers.
The substitute isn’t like any substitute that I’ve ever seen before, either. Not only is he the on-call for the entire school—here every day, waiting to sub for any teacher that calls out sick or comes in late or leaves early for a family emergency—but he’s also the head coach of the varsity football team. He says his name is Dennis Vojzischek, but we should call him Mr. Vo. He doesn’t look like a football coach, but more like a thick-necked, post-college stockbroker in a pinstriped, three-piece suit, slicked back hair, and brown leather briefcase open on the desk. A white pocket square peeks out form the breast pocket of his sport coat. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the back of a chair, revealing his vest fully buttoned up and a Windsor knot exposed. He doesn’t say much during class, except to call out our names and instruct us to read quietly. There’s no trace of an accent, despite his foreign-sounding last name. He’s soft spoken, but his voice is crystal clear, hitting every syllable hard. He never sits, but instead walks up and down each row and along the walls, his spit-shined shoes clicking with each step. At the end of class, he makes a fist and holds it in front of him.
“This is a Catholic school, gentlemen. Yes?”
No one answers.
He lowers his fist, flexes his fingers, and then raises his fist again. “This is a Catholic school, gentlemen, yes?”
“Yes,” we say.
“Yes, sir,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” we say.
“And in a Catholic school we have prayer. In this Catholic school, we pray to St. John Baptist de La Salle and we pray to Jesus Christ. You will pray every day you are here. You will pray in every class of the day. Someone will say St. John Baptist de La Salle.” He punches his fist at us. “You will say pray for us.” He retracts his fist. “Someone will say live Jesus in our hearts.” He punches his fist back out. “You will say forever.” He lowers his hand. “So let’s try this one time and then call it a day. St. John Baptist de La Salle.”
We respond, “Pray for us.”
“Live Jesus in our hearts.”
We respond, “Forever.”
“I’ll tell Rembrandt you men did fine work today.” He snaps his briefcase shut on the desk. “Get out of here.”
Rumors spread throughout the halls about Rembrandt for the rest of the day. Rumors that his flight was delayed, returning from a rehab facility for heroin addiction in Phoenix. Rumors that he was seen downtown in Fell’s Point tearing through the local bars on the harbor, working on a three-day booze bender. Rumors that this is typical first day of school behavior. That he always misses the first day of school every year as a way to put his students behind schedule, which forces them to buckle down and focus on their reading and critical writing.
The final bell rings and students flood the hallway, clamoring to escape back to summer. The hallway smells of cheap cologne and biting body odor—clusterfucked with bodies slamming into each other, swinging book bags like medieval weapons.
Honestly, it reminds me of one of my favorite zombie movies of all time—Night of the Living Dead.
George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead series has six entries of the franchise to date. I like them each less than the one before it.
The sequential order is:
Night of the Living Dead.
Dawn of the Dead.
Day of the Dead.
Land of the Dead.
Diary of the Dead.
Survival of the Dead.
The cowriter of Night, John Russo—a dickbag—rebooted the series with his own dickbag vision. Hence, Return of the Living Dead, a splintered and less affecting sequel to Night. Russo then went on to make four more with utterly dickbagish titles:
Return of the Living Dead.
Return of the Living Dead Part II.
Return of the Dead Part III.
Return of the Dead: Necropolis.
Return of the Dead: Rave from the Grave. (This is, clearly, my favorite title.)
Night has been remade twice as a standalone—the first in 1990 based on Romero and Russo’s original screenplay, but way gorier. It also portrays the character Barbara as less of a hag and more of a hero. I prefer her as a hag. The second reboot was not surprisingly made in 3-D as everything is made in 3-D these days. The 3-D reboot was called Night of the Living Dead 3-D. Shockingly original, I know. The reboots aren’t always terrible, though, like the remake of Dawn of the Dead. This film gets it right. I’d go so far as to say it’s my second favorite in the entire family tree.
The final list is as follows:
Night of the Living Dead
Dawn of the Dead
Return of the Living Dead.
Day of the Dead
Return of the Living Dead Part II.
Land of the Dead
Return of the Dead Part III.
Diary of the Dead
Return of the Dead: Necropolis
Survival of the Dead.
Return of the Dead: Rave from the Grave
Night of the Living Dead (1990)
Night of the Living Dead 3-D
Night of the Living Dead: Origins 3-D
Dawn of the Dead (2004)
At my locker, the Plaids pass by but leave me alone, partially, I think, because I make myself disappear by standing still. I try a couple of combinations to see if I can recall it from memory. I can’t and after a few failed attempts I leave everything behind. I don’t have any homework yet anyway.
Outside, the girls from Prudence re-emerge on the patio off the cafe again and walk in front of me toward the lecture hall building where the theater is. I follow them as it’s on my way to the front circle where Dad is going to pick me up. I keep a safe distance. I don’t want them to think I’m perving all over them. The girl with dark red hair shoots me more nasty glares, not smiling even a little bit. I check my shirt for embarrassing stains. I feel the outline of my hair to see if I have some kind of cowlick or menacing swoop action happening. But I fe
el nothing. The girls merge together with a small group outside of the building, reading a sign taped to the door: AUDITIONS CANCELED TODAY AND RESCHEDULED FOR TOMORROW.
At the front circle, I check my cell phone and have a voicemail from Dad. He says something’s come up and he can’t pick me up. He says for me to take the 55 bus home. He goes on to say a lot of things, but what he doesn’t ever say is I’m sorry.
II
DAWN OF THE DEAD
(Released Date: March 19, 2004)
Directed by Zack Snyder
Writers: George A. Romero (1978 screenplay), James Gunn (screenplay)
9
Jackson took the 55 bus home from school when he went to Byron Hall, and it looks like the tradition will continue. I ride the 55 home just fine and am surprised to find Dad’s car parked out front. He’s been protecting his secrets a lot lately and while he may think he’s got them all buried away, they always find a way to come tumbling out in a messy, messy flood.
Truth has a way of bitch-slapping you right in the balls when you least expect it.
Tricia sits on the deck next door, stretched out in red wrap sweater on a chaise lounge chair, reading a magazine through sunglasses the size of two grapefruits. Her dog Travis lies on the deck next to her chair. He’s one of those small fat round dogs that looks like a human head with feet.
She greets me with a smile and tells me that I look sick. She’s reading the September InStyle, an issue I don’t have yet. I tell her that I’m fine and feel normal and that nothing is wrong. Tricia talks about the weather—how pleasant it’s been lately and how the end of summer never used to be as cool as it is now and how I should never talk about the weather with a girl that I am interested in because weather is a state of environmental change, not conversation.
“You really don’t look well,” she says.
“I really don’t feel well,” I say. “I think I’m coming down with something.” I blow hot air onto my wrist before placing it on my forehead.
“Oh, sweet Jeremy,” she says, sitting at the edge of the chaise lounge chair now. “Come here, hon. Let me feel your forehead for you.” She signals me to come even closer to her. “I’m not standing up, so you have to kneel down,” she says.
I kneel on the wood deck. Travis sits and licks my fingers. Tricia places the back of her hand on my forehead. There’s perfume on her soft skin—lavender or almond milk, I think. Our house used to smell like this when Mom lived with us. Tricia holds her hand to my forehead long enough for me to have a quick fantasy about her.
“Why aren’t you back at school?” I ask, pulling away from her. “Harvard, right?”
“No fever,” she says, pushing herself back on the chaise lounge chair away from me.
Is there such a thing a being beyond embarrassment? Please note that embarrassment can be easily avoided with a simple medical procedure called a lobotomy. Not only would this help me not look like such a fucknut in front of girls, but it would help me not to sound like one either. Some slight incision in a particular brainal lobe and I’d be good to go—lobotomized. Make me a legitimate zombie, for real.
“What are you thinking about right now?” she asks.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Travis continues to lick away, like he’s going for my bones.
“Try me,” she says. “I have a pretty big imagination.” She places her glasses back over her eyes and closes her magazine, setting it on the chair next to her.
“I can’t,” I say. “I wish I could, but I really can’t. Maybe some other time?”
The porch door to her house swings open and her father, a real fatso, stands fatly in the doorway. Tricia turns toward him, offering him her profile only, not her eyes. He doesn’t say anything and just fats there waiting for her with the door wide open.
“Jeremy,” she says, “I don’t ever ask a question when I’m not prepared to hear the answer, no matter how unbelievable.” She walks to her house and before she evaporates in the darkness, she turns back to me, offering me her eyes, and says, “Feel better.”
Travis trots inside behind her.
Her father closes the door.
I think my Dad and her Dad should go bowling together.
On the chaise lounge chair, she’s left me a gift—September’s InStyle. It would make an excellent addition to my collection hidden in the closet of my bedroom.
As I cross the yard walking back to my house, I notice the grass. It’s cut low and balding in places. I wonder what story our grass tells about us.
10
I enter through the side door and know Dad’s home, but I don’t hear a single sound. He’s somewhere inside, I’m sure of it, lost in himself, not thinking about me. The house is still, but kinetic, so I keep a sharp eye and explore my house like Ben from Night of the Living Dead (“NOLD”) explores the farmhouse—nervy, lost, and waiting for zombies to attack.
The dining room is empty, the antique table owning the majority of the room with a pile of recently read newspapers at the edge. Mom told me that the table was made of cherry oak, a detail she wanted to impress me with I think, along with four matching plush chairs with fairy-green seat cushions and images of cherubs carved into the wood backs. Needless to say, I wasn’t. The cherubs look like evil little fuckers and have always made me hesitant to lean back in them, like they could come to life and bite the shit out of me at any moment. Dad is not here.
There used to be beautiful and vibrant paintings by local Baltimore artists hung on the walls. There used to be awesome, giant, silver candlestick holders, like in castles. Red and black and green beaded, handwoven, Chilean placemats. Real silver forks, spoons, and knives, all a different size, and multiple porcelain plates and bowls on display, formally and forever set on the table, like our family was prepared for a dinner party to break out at any moment. There used to be heavy and thick crystal vases filled with fresh flowers replaced every Sunday night, always the same—white lilies, pink primroses, or black dahlias.
We used to have all of these things, but none of these things matter because none of these things are here anymore. Mom took the crystal vases and candlesticks and silverware and porcelain and placemats. She took all that with her. Maybe she sold it all for pill money.
I just wish she’d taken those cherubs.
Our kitchen is not much better off than the dining room—no potholders, or salt and pepper shakers, or ceramic sauce spoon on the stove, or cookbooks, or magnets on the refrigerator holding up my artwork or high grades, or bottles of extra virgin olive oil on the counter. Mom took most of the kitchen shit. She left the plant and the carving knives. This is why Dad and I only use plasticware when we eat. Sorry, Environment.
Dog sleeps on her side in the corner like she’s been gutshot, splayed across her red plaid pillow, her chest rising and falling as she breathes. She whimpers, occasionally, dreaming, probably of hunting rabbits or squirrels or mice. I press the palm of my hand against her chest, right where I think her heart is, and feel her heartbeat. Her shiny black coat feels warm and soft and smells like dryer sheets. Dog opens her eyes and licks her snout, lapping it with her tongue.
“Good girl,” I whisper, running my hand over her ears and down to her neck. “You know where Dad is?” Dog puts her paw in my hand and groans and sighs. Mom didn’t try and take Dog when she left, but I was prepared to fight to keep her here with me—Dog, that is, not Mom.
11
Dog was a gift from Santa back when I believed in Santa, the way I used to believe in a two-parent family. It was eight years ago. I remember hearing a whimper in the middle of the night. I tiptoed downstairs to investigate. There was a cage next to the fireplace—a black Labrador puppy inside, standing, its tail shaking and whacking in every direction, its ears and paws two sizes bigger than its body. She started barking when she saw me, which woke everyone up.
Mom and Dad both came downstairs, Mom smiling in her pink robe, Dad adjusting himself in his boxers.
&n
bsp; Jackson sat at the bottom of the stairs, barely in his boxers; his head in his hands, completely uninterested, his eyes closing like a garage door.
Mom sat next to me on the floor, poking her hand inside the cage with mine.
The dog shoved its cold nose and sharp teeth at my fingers, nibbling, licking, rubbing. Its ears flopped around like two windblown flags.
“Dad, come pet it,” I said. “It’s a dog.”
“It’s a girl dog,” Mom said.
“A girl dog,” I said, repeating her words, making them my own.
“A girl dog?” Dad asked. “Corrine, you said it was a boy.”
“They were out,” she said.
“We’re going to have puppies,” he said. “I just know it. Christ.”
“Not if we get her fixed,” Mom said, rubbing my head.
“It’s a damn, dumb dog,” Dad said from his reclined position on the couch.
The dog yelped.
“See,” Dad said, pointing at the dog.
The dog yelped again.
“Shut up, dog,” he said.
“Ballentine,” Mom said. “Language.”
“Dog,” I said to myself.
“It’s too early for barking dogs and being corrected by my wife,” he said.
“Must you?” Mom whispered.
“It’ll wake the neighbors,” Dad said, throwing up his hands.
“What do you want to name her?” Mom asked.
“Dog,” I said, which I thought was her name anyway. I thought that every animal came into the world with a predetermined name, a future, a life. I thought that my dog’s name had been preset, that it was her identity in this life to be named the very thing that she was—a dog.
12
I sweep through the first floor of our house, but there’s no sign of Dad, even though I know he’s here somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. I wish someone were here with me, maybe Tricia or Zink, someone to talk to, someone to be my cover. Then again, maybe not. I’ll be honest—whenever I watch NOLD I’m reminded of how much Ben’s partner-in-crime, Barbara, fucking pisses me off. She’s a raging, crazy bitch that makes dumb decisions. Ben slapping her is the highlight of the movie.
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