Zombie Versus Fairy Featuring Albinos (7 page)

I see myself—my grey-white mask of an undead face—in the big TV in my offices. It’s off. I don’t know if it’s turned off or if it’s just not turned on but I’m here and, somehow, I’m in there. I’m in the TV. I’m in the darkness.

Before he left, the director said, “Ask me if you can have smaller, less ostentatious offices.”

“I like these offices,” I protested.

“Just ask.”

“Can I have smaller, less ostentatious offices?”

“No,” said the director, tipping over his chair to the side and tumbling out. It was as if he recognized there was no way to get up gracefully, so he might as well choose his embarrassment. Clumsily, he got to his feet. “Remember you asked me that if you ever get called in to testify.”

As I think that over—alone now, in my offices—and how I, happily, get to see Fairy_26 again and I even get to speak to her in a language she’ll be able to understand but, unhappily, I have to use her to get close to Guy Boy Man, to whom I’m supposed to offer an olive branch, which sounds okay, from my personal perspective because I won’t be harming him physically although I’m concerned the albinos in my brain might take ownership of my body, possessing it, and force me to act in a way contrary to my will or that they might make it my will and I’m fearful Guy Boy Man will accept the olive branch, squeezing, intentionally or inadvertently, the oil from the attached fruit into his religion, diluting his beliefs or changing their flavour, possibly even poisoning them, infecting them with us and as I take note of the time on the collection of antique clocks in my offices, remembering my appointments with the marriage counsellor, mindlessly, I turn on the TV. I don’t understand. Any of it. That’s what it boils down to. That’s the essence.

The commercial is on zombie TV all the time. It features living actors. The star is an expressionless man. He wears a black turtleneck sweater. His hair is slicked down; side-parted. At first, you don’t see him. An attractive young woman pushes an adorable baby in a stroller. She and the baby enter an elevator. The doors close. She and the child are alone. After a moment, the attractive young woman sniffs. She makes a disgusted face. The baby starts crying.

The expressionless man starts to appear. It’s as if he’s taking his own elevator into the elevator shared by the attractive young woman and the crying baby. When he reaches their floor, he stops rising and stares directly into the camera. He whispers, “Life.” Then he descends his personal elevator out of the other elevator. The attractive young woman never notices him. The baby keeps crying. The attractive woman just stares up at the elevator’s numbers and how they get lit, so slowly, one after another.

Guy Boy Man says, “When you reproduce, you know, for a fact, your children will die one day, right? Legally-speaking, isn’t knowingly, wilfully, okay, accidentally sometimes, causing the death of someone else called homicide or manslaughter? Isn’t that morally wrong? When you commit homicide or manslaughter more than once, isn’t that considered even worse? Now I’m not saying everybody who has children is a murderer. I’m implying it. Subtly.”

In the commercial, the scene shifts to a stately living room. A handsome young man is holding the wrists of a beautiful young woman and the two of them are struggling against each other. “What
is
it?” demands the young man.

“I don’t
know
,” cries the young woman.

The expressionless man walks between the wrestling couple and the camera. With his body sideways to the camera, he turns his face toward the lens. He whispers, “Life.” Then he walks out of frame.

Guy Boy Man says, “Condoms should be free and freely available everywhere.”

“If you’re against sex education, you’re pro-abortion.”

“If you’re against birth control and sex education, you’re personally responsible for starvation, disease, and wars.”

On TV, a naked man and a naked woman hold each other, tenderly, beneath a sheet. Suddenly the woman scrunches up her face. “Oh my god. Is that . . . ?” She and her partner push away from each other, frantically. Beneath the sheet, the expressionless man slides between them, effortlessly. He’s completely stiff. It’s as if someone pushes him into view by shoving on his feet.

“Life,” he whispers. He exits, as if someone pulls him away.

Guy Boy Man says, “Family values are zombie values.”

The final scene in the commercial is a silent shot of “Life” perfume, in bottle form, sitting on a decaying body. The body has a leathery face drawn back into a soundless scream. The camera pulls back to reveal hundreds of bottles, sitting on hundreds of similar bodies, all of which are then, presumably, covered by big mounds of dirt sitting in front of the bulldozers that start their engines simultaneously and then the images, suddenly, stop. Lately the following white words have begun appearing at the end of the commercial on a simple black background: Now, New, Life, For Men!

“You have to help us,” my wife tells the zombie marriage counsellor.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Him,” says Chi, turning her outstretched arms toward me, accusingly. “He was miserable. He was crying all the time. He couldn’t eat; he couldn’t sleep. Our love life suffered. One night he even took a shower.”

The zombie marriage counsellor looks up from her notes at me. Her undead eyes peer over the top of the shattered-lenses of her glasses. Then she nods. She goes back to jotting her notes. She’s wearing a shapely skirt suit: black and white and red all over. All the news that’s fit to wear; it’s fabric made to look like newspaper; it’s covered with blood. Blood is spotted on her face, too, drying in purple-black flecks. We’re the counsellor’s first appointment after lunch.

“I made him go to the doctor,” continues my wife. “The doctor prescribed anti-depressants. I was so relieved. I thought we were going to be okay. But now he says he’s not going to take them.”

“Why not, Mr. Burger?” asks the counsellor, still writing. The ragged hem of her skirt ends just above her knees. Her legs are crossed but the one on top has been lopped off in a messy diagonal cut several inches above her foot. The wound dangles long thin meat noodles. Between the strands, I can see sharp white bone.

“I can’t see the point,” I say, with a shrug.

The counsellor’s office has been trashed and trashed again. Chi and I are sitting on a love seat. The cushions are gone. The stuffing has been pulled from them. The formerly white filling is now bloodied and strewn everywhere, like gauze in an emergency room. Right now, all the rooms in my life are emergency rooms. I keep thinking about the albinos in my head. “There are albinos in my head,” I announce.

Chi frowns at me, expressionlessly.

“I see,” says the counsellor, feigning indifference. “And do the albinos in your head talk to you?”

Wait a minute. I didn’t want to announce there are albinos in my head. Did the albinos make me do it? How am I going to get out of this? “Yes, the albinos in my head talk to me,” I say. “But they mumble.” I put my finger to my ear and pretend to listen. “I’m sorry?
Who
do you want me to kill?”

Without changing her face, the counsellor smiles, politely.

“Please, Buck,” sighs Chi. “Now is not a good time.”

Are the albinos actively involved in this counselling session? Are they telling Chi what to say? Are they telling
me
what to say? Are they making me wonder about them right now? Why? For what purpose? Toward what end? We use ten percent of our brains, right? I still have that ten percent, don’t I? So, at most, I’m ten percent myself. I have to find that part and hide there. Until I can, I’ll sit on the exposed springs of this ruined love seat, staring at its exposed bloody innards and the empty skins of its cushions on the floor.

“Our sex life,” whines my wife. “It’s killing me. I’ve had to engage in the most taboo fetishes to get him even remotely interested.”

“For example,” prompts the counsellor.

“Cleaning. He wanted to watch me clean.”

“I see. Clean yourself or . . .”

“God, no. Never. I’d never go that far. I just pretended to do a little dusting.” She clarifies. “I didn’t, though. Write that down.” Chi straightens up in a futile attempt to see what the counselling is recording. “I never actually dusted anything. I’m a decent zombie. Okay? I’m not some sick-o like Mr. I’m-Just-Going-To-Jump-In-The-Shower over here.”

“Let’s keep the name-calling to a minimum, please.” The counsellor white-eyes my wife disapprovingly. She turns back to her notes.

“Doctor,” implores Chi.

“I’m not a doctor,” corrects the counsellor.

“I love Buck,” says my wife. “I really do. But I can’t unlive like this. I’m seriously thinking about leaving him.”

“So you’re at a crisis point in your relationship.”

“That’s right.” Chi is, unmistakeably, impressed by the counsellor’s assessment. “That’s it exactly.” She turns to me, nodding. “A crisis point.”

“What about you, Buck? You’ve been very quiet through all this. How do you feel?”

“Depressed. I feel depressed.” I shrug. “Aside from that, terrible.”

“But you won’t take your anti-depressants?”

“No.”

Peering at me over the top of the shattered lenses of her glasses, she says, “Do you want to be depressed?”

“No, I want to be patronized.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Burger. I offended you.”

“No, you didn’t. I’m too depressed to be offended.”

“I assure you, Mr. Burger, I only want to help.”

“Do you have a magic wand? Can you cast a spell to fix everything?”

“No. I don’t have a magic wand and I can’t cast spells.”

“Then how do you propose to help? Because I don’t know how to convince you, either of you: The problem
isn’t
that I’m depressed; it’s that everything is depressing.”

Resigned, I let my white eyes explore the office. I see the dark holes punched into the walls. I imagine the blind, mindless rage that caused them. Or the accidents. Or the accidents that led to the fury. I see the bloody handprints streaked down our walls.

“I’m not a supernatural creature, Mr. Burger,” acknowledges the counsellor. “I can’t make the world the way you want it. I can’t take you to Fairyland. But I
am
a good listener. I may be able to provide you with insight, to assist you through this turbulent time.” She starts kicking her footless leg, up and down. It swings long purple meat strings. “Your wife is in considerable distress over the state of your relationship. How does that make you feel?”

“Depressed. Pretty much everything makes me feel depressed.”

“See?” says my wife, nodding. “This is what I have to put up with.”

“Are you ready for your marriage to end, Mr. Burger?” asks the counsellor.

“I stick to my contractual obligations,” I say.

“I don’t know you very well, Mr. Burger . . .” starts the counsellor.

“You don’t know me at all,” I interrupt.

“But I sense a sort of disconnect with you, like you feel very detached, removed, withdrawn, from this situation, and perhaps even with non-life in general.”

In a weary way, I look at the lamps knocked off desks and tables. I stare at their undersides. I examine the undecorated bases that support them. They’re horrible. “You sense it? In addition to
not
being a doctor are you also
not
a psychic?”

“Buck,” chastises my wife.

“I just don’t know how many things a person can claim not to be, while, at the same time, pretend to be,” I say, despairing. “I sense a sort of disconnect with you, counsellor.”

“This isn’t about me, Mr. Burger.”

“No, of course not,” I say, jadedly. “Why should it be? I don’t know anything about you but I’m sure my wife, Chi, who always thinks everything through, examined your credentials, compared your education and experience to other counsellors, listed and explored the pros and cons of dealing with a counsellor versus going other routes and ultimately made the best decision, concluding you, from the pantheon of available alternatives, would be the best suited to help us. Or, I don’t know, maybe her friend Deepah recommended you.”

“Do you have a lot of pent-up hostility, Mr. Burger?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s pent-up.”

“Why are you angry?”

“I think my wife is having an affair.”

“What?” cries Chi.

“I think you’re having an affair with Barry Graves.” I say it calmly, without looking at her.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re having an affair with ladies-zombie Barry Graves from my office and you only want to have sex with me all the time because you’re worried I’ll become suspicious if you don’t make yourself readily available.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” dismisses Chi. “I’m not having an affair with Barry Graves.”

“Then who are you having an affair with?”

“I’m not having an affair with anyone!”

“Mr. Burger,” interjects the counsellor. “When people feel guilty about something, sometimes they project their thoughts, inclinations, or behaviours onto others. Is it possible that’s what’s happening here?”

I can feel Chi examining me. If her suspicion was a plant, it’d be documented with time-lapse photography: its back would burst through dark soil and it’d emerge in the foetal position. It’d orient itself. Then it’d stand up quickly, throw wide its arms, and open its flower eyes at me.

“No,” I say.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Buck?” asks Chi, dangerously.

“No.”

“Is there something you
should
tell me?”

“I just want to feel alive,” I confess.

“Feeling alive, Mr. Burger,” says the counsellor, “is unnatural. It’s abnormal.”

“Are you having an affair?” demands Chi.

“Of course not.” I turn to my wife. I look at her unblinking white eyes. “I’d never do that to you, Chi.” I say it sincerely.

“If anxiety over infidelity were removed from the equation, where would that leave your relationship?” ponders the counsellor.

“I don’t know,” I admit. I tip my head at Chi. “She’s the one who’s thinking about leaving.”

“Only because the Buck Burger I knew, fell in love with, and married, seems to have left me already.” Chi turns to the counsellor. “We tried to make love last night but he couldn’t.” Chi turns back to me. “Do you know how that makes me
feel
?”

“That might be a medical problem,” intercedes the counsellor.

“Great,” says my wife. “Another prescription he won’t take.”

In the counsellor’s office, a bookcase has been tipped over. It’s been lifted away from what it held. The books are everywhere. The pages have been torn out. Shredded. The lies have been mixed in with other building materials. Broken bits of wall have been pulled from their holes and crumbled onto the floor. In what remains between the openings, all the wallpaper has been scratched away. It’s been pulled and peeled off. It’s made new designs on the wall. The torn pieces of wallpaper are mixed up with bloody gauze: the stuffing pulled from the love seat. All of this was done with a passion I’m not sure I ever knew.

“I love you, Chi,” I say. “But I don’t love you the way
you
want me to love you. Is that my problem or yours?”

“It’s
our
problem,” sighs my wife. “I’m just scared it’s too late. For us.”

“We were so much in love,” I tell the counsellor. “When we became zombies, we thought we could be together forever.” I throw up my hands. “Look at us now.”

“Undead people change, Buck,” says Chi.

“We’re supposed to be together forever!”

“I think maybe we have been, Buck. I really do.”