November 30th, 2006

Still Life with Zombie

I woke up one morning to the smell of bacon. There is nothing like it! I have to say, I feel sorry for people who don’t eat bacon, for one reason or another. Coffee is good too, of course, and then there’s cinnamon rolls. But bacon, well, you’re ready to mend fences on the ranch when you wake up to the smell of bacon, aren’t you? Rope cattles? Maybe just ride up to the edge of the plateau and look out at all the red and yellows and gentle greens and rub your hand on your jaw and it makes a raspy sound on your chin, with bacon. It’s a great way to wake up.

I went in to the dining area and Mom was already there, and of course Mr. Cosgrove our border. And the zombie. Mr. Cosgrove had that sour, pissed-off look on his face that he always had, but mom always asked him, are the eggs okay Mr. Cosgrove? And he always just grunted. I sat down at my place, and mom fetched me a plate. “How’s it goin, Zombie? I said.

"Baaaaaaayyyy," he said.

Well, I couldn’t believe it, and mom just stopped and stared too. Mr. Cosgrove didn’t seem to notice, but then he doesn’t ever seem to notice anything. He just shuffles in for his food, then shuffles back to his room and reads old books and listens to older records. But the zombie! It sounded like he was trying to say bacon!

“What was that, zombie?” I said.

“Gerald, now,” mom admonished.

‘But he was trying to say bacon, mom! Go ahead, zombie.”

The zombie rolled his eyes, like they do. “Baaaaaaayyy.” He gurgled again.

“Well I’ll be,” I said, and dug in. The eggs were really good. Peppery.

Mom bought the zombie a couple years ago, because our place is so small. That doesn’t make real sense, but it sort of does. One day I was watching TV in the living room, waiting for it to be noon when the drugstore opens and I could go get a comic book. Mom walks by and says, “where’s my purse?” “It’s over by the door, where it pretty much always is,” and I don’t know why she asks. Then she puts on her hat. “Well, I’ll be back in a while. Going to go get a zombie, and some fish for dinner.”

I didn’t pay much attention, cause the show was good. But then later I thought, did she say zombie? I must have misheard her. But what sounds like zombie? Something that sounds like zombie, but isn’t something I would recognize. We ate fish a lot on Wednesdays. What else did she always do on Wednesdays?

No, she must have said zombie, but maybe it was slang for something. Like maybe a zombie was a new kind of vacuum cleaner bag. Or maybe zombie was a kind of flower. That must be it. And it was probably spelled Tsahmbeh and it was the latest thing and the ladies at the church were talking about them. They were probably purple or yellow or maybe even a sorta burnt grey red color, which would be ironic considering the name sounded like zombie so much.

I wandered down to the drugstore, got a comic book, and asked Dr. Farm if he needed any boxes moved around. He said no but he might have some end of the week and I should come back and make a few dollars. Truth is we don’t need money on account of the pension but I like to let Dr. Farm think he’s doing me favors.

I went back home and was getting to the second half of the comic book when mom came in and sure enough, she had a zombie with her. “Gerald, take off your shoes if you’re going to sit on the couch like that. And come and meet the zombie.”

See, it was just me and mom and Mr. Cosgrove, and the dining table was just taking up space with the empty chair all the time, so I solved the problem by pushing it up against the wall, chair and all. But mom didn’t like that, she thought it looked empty. So then she tried putting some flowers and such on the empty chair’s place setting, some still-life kind of stuff, and one day I got bored and tried to draw it out, like an artist. She said that’s where she got the idea about the zombie.

He was pretty tall, taller than me. He had on dirty old pants and his flannel shirt was all ripped up. His skin was grey, with slashes in it that sorta oozed and were kinda gooshy. His fingernails were black, and his tongue was black, and he kept lolling it out and going “uuuuhhhhhrrrrruuugghghghgh” and reaching for Mom. But she just pawed his hands away.

“What the heck is he, mom?” I said. He sorta rolled his eyes around at me and reached for me too, so I stepped away.

“He’s a zombie, Gerald, didn’t I just say it? I thought we’d put him in the spare chair. Help me move the table again.”

So I did and mom pushed the zombie over and set him in the chair, him making those noises the whole time. Then we pushed the table up against him and mom rearranged the flowers, and he settled down.

I sat down at my place and sorta stared at him for a while. Mom stood there for a minute, then went into make lunch. He was sorta fidgety, like those kids in the doctor’s office when I go in for my annuals, the ones who’s eyes never look in the same direction, and they always drool, and they always sorta sway around all the time. The zombie was like that, but not as dramatic.

“What’s he eat?” I yelled into mom. It sounded like she was frying up the fish.

“Brains, silly! Don’t you know anything about zombies?” She came back in, wiping her hands on her apron. “He eats brains, mostly, but regular human flesh too if he’s in the mood. The man at the store said we don’t have to feed more than once every few months or so. Feed him more often and he gets feisty.”

“Huh.” I stared at him for a while, and then went back to my comic book.

We tried naming him, but nothing every stuck for very long. We tried his old name from when he was alive, Tom Rommel, and just Tom, and Mr. Rommel. We tried an ironic name, calling him Flowers for a few days, and for about a week straight he was Mr. Z. But he always went back to just being The Zombie.

He didn’t do much. He just sat there, and sort of made grrruughghguguh noises every once in a while, and rolled his eyes around. Mom let me feed him, out of a jar she got from the store, really stinky stuff. I’d hand him the piece of brain or strip of skin and he’d take it in both hands and shove it at his mouth like his mouth forgot how to chew, and he’d get it all smeary on his face. He didn’t have very good table manners. He got a little fidgety for a few days after he ate, but then he’d settle down.

Whenever we had the pastor over to dinner, we’d pull the table out and I’d put the zombie into the garage. Sometimes he’d take a swipe at my head, but he wasn’t very strong. Once when we locked him in there we came back and he’d busted into the old pickle jars that have been in there for ages and no human being would ever eat. But I guess he didn’t know what to do with them either because they were just in a puddle in the corner and hardly any were even chewed on.

So you can imagine my surprise that day to hear the zombie trying to talk! After all this time! But when you think about it, it really makes perfect sense. There just isn’t anything at all like waking up to the smell of bacon. I know in heaven you get to wake up to the smell of bacon every day. And when I die, if I don’t got to heaven, and I end up as a zombue in some nice family’s dining room, I can only hope they eat bacon once in a while, and that I recognize that wonderful aroma.