Date of the Dead: A Zombie Love Story (Part 7)
Meeting Our Crew
We found an empty spot at the end of the bar. Bartending was a woman whose breasts hung out of all three dimensions. I gave her my order and then asked Laura Lee what she wanted, but her answer surprised me. “We can’t stay here.”
“Why not? We’re safe.” I was starting to think this date was not going to work out.
“You are, but I need to go to an AA meeting.” She said and then for no reason started to tap dance.
“You want to leave now!” I said as I was started to do the Twist.
“If we stay I’ll fall off the wagon and I’ve been sober now for thirty-one years if you count the nine months in my mother’s belly.” Laura said, and then started the bunny hop.”
“That means you’ve never even had a drink. Why would you need an AA meeting?” I joined the bunny hop line a few people down from her. “Were your parents alcoholics?” I shouted.
“No.” She said as she segued into the hokey pokey.
“No,” she stammered as she stopped and stuck her right leg out— the line following her lead.
“Then why?” I stuck my left foot out and was immediately shoved out of the line into a table that fell over along with the chairs.
“Because, they were addicted to coffee and it’s one of the few places where I can smoke.” She jumped out of the line, which continued around the room.
The bartender with the rack for all ages threw a pack of cigarettes to her. “We got some coffee made and you can smoke here, I won’t let anyone toss out a cute thing like you.”
Laure Lee caught the cigarettes and spoke up. “I don’t want to mislead you, but I’m not a lesbian, I just have sex with girls because I like it better than having sex with men.”
The bartender at first looked disappointed, but fought it off. “Hey, I understand, sexual preference is genetic, something that we’re born with like the obsession for orange Jello.”
The conversation about sexual preference went on for another twenty minutes before it was decided that being a bi-sexual hermaphrodite was the way go, especially if you’re a teenager just experimenting, necrophilia came in a close second considering what might be left of the human race.
Their sexual preference debate morphed into a heated conversation on how long would take zombies to be considered part of society, and if so, at what point should they be required to file for taxes. I drifted off into my own thoughts, wondering how and why most people had become zombies and we hadn’t. I was sure I hadn’t missed a flier or an Internet ad asking us to join a new movement that involved cutting edge eating habits. Why hadn’t I become a zombie? What had I done or not done? Was it something I ate? Was it a medication I was on? Was it because I was a left-handed switch hitter who only batted from the right side? Was it because I could never whistle during rush hour, or triangulate phone signals, or is it because I have never seen an episode of Law and Order? What the hell was it? I guessed it could be anything and that there was a good chance I’d never find out the truth. Right now, we had to survive, and I had to make sure I had enough money to leave a decent tip.
I did see something that made me wonder if we weren’t any better than those things chewing on our friends, family, children, and munching on sider orders of newborn infants. Some of the bar guys had caught a couple of zombies and had them chained to the wall. But that’s not what disgusted me. No, it the midst of this chaos, my human brothers and sisters had tied a zombie up to a mechanical bull and were betting on how long it could stay on while they shot body pieces off of it. It was savagery, it was in humane, and it was frustrating since I had left all my money as a tip.
Laura Lee came over to me and gently broke a glass on my face which made me forget about my gambling addiction and how it caused me to lose, my eight wives, my family, my friends, my duck hunting dogs, my toiletries and eventually every cent I’d ever had, not to mention, all the broken bones I endured, plus the loss of one kidney, one lung and a portion of my liver I had to hand over to the mob.
“We need to get out of this place,” Laure Lee said. “You can stay if you want, I’m just asking out of politeness.”
“I was told that they have plenty of coffee and cigarettes. Why leave?”
“Marcy Phyllis Carolla,” she said pointing to the bartender. “Everyone calls her Skim Milk, because it makes no sense, says that the clientele here are nuts and it’s only a matter of time before they get so drunk they get us killed. One of the guys was talking about having a zombie wet t-shirt contest. The winner gets to eat the first one of us who dies. Skim Milk and two of her coworkers are leaving tonight. She knows how to get into the elevator that runs from a chief executive’s office, on this floor, to the sub-basement, which is closed from the outside by large metal French doors. Are you coming or should I say goodbye and tell you how I wished I could be here to see you turn into a zombie.” She smiled, winked, moved each ear separately, feigned sticking her finger down her throat, did twelve jumping jacks, five squat thrusts, a one arm handstand, a counter clock wise pirouette, and one poorly executed summersault—crashing into several bar stools, knocking herself unconscious for a few seconds. How could resist someone so adorable?
“Count me in, I’m going,” I stated, figuring Laura Lee’s display of dislike for me was just a way for her to disguise her hatred.