Get Zombie: 8-Book Set (7 page)

“These
Japanese tourists keep Hawaii on its feet! First earthquakes, now
THIS?”

I
got another beer.

That
higher part of me argued against it. I was a health instructor,
dammit. Well...before I retired. And it wasn't even my choice. Fred
(my son), made me leave the one thing I was passionate about. All
because of that night at the gym, at YEStrition. All because I broke
my hip on the treadmill. All because I broke my hip on the treadmill
and flew off and landed on a 101-year-old woman and put her in a
coma. What the heck is a 101-year-old grannie doing at a health joint
anyway? SHE'S the one that should stay at home – that should be
left in her son's ratty apartment all alone – that should be
getting stupid drunk – that should be worried about her son –
that should be wishing his new girlfriend dead. My son, dating a
stripper!

Oh.
I'm sorry.

Dancer.

Let's
move on to happier thoughts. My hip was fine. I assumed the beer
helped.
Jesus, never mind the pills, doc, just give me more beer.

I
was fine. A-Okay. So why did I have to stay there at Fred's? There in
his ratty apartment?
Take me home. Take me home to my cats, to my
fish, to my late night wrestling shows, to my TV dinners, to my
morning jogs around the neighborhood.
He didn't want me in his
place anyway. He was just pretending to care about me. I could hear
it in his voice. Whenever I asked for something – or told him
to do something – he always came off sounding annoyed. I ain't
no fool. He was only taking care of me because if he didn't, what
would everyone think of him? What would
God
think of him?
Maybe he'd toss Fred over his shoulder, send his body screaming right
down to Hell, and maybe that scared the bejesus out of Fred. Yes! I
understood it then. Praise the lord! It was all clear as crystal.
That's
why I was there – to cure Fred's damn guilt.
Never mind about how I felt. Selfish prick! (I drank another beer)
Always about him. Even then, he got me thinking about HIM. Amazing.
How did he do it? I was impressed.

A
rat zipped under the TV. Little bastard...thought he could just come
in there and not pay rent. So I got Fred's nunchucks from off the
wall and chased after the fiend – just ran after it with my
wobble-run, swinging the nunchucks all willy-nilly. I broke a few
pictures on the walls, glass going everywhere, some in my hair. I saw
the rat-bastard on the kitchen table, smiling at me, GRINNING at me.
He said:

“I
don't want you here! You don't belong here. Get out of here!”

And
I swear it was Fred's voice I heard. Even the way his voice goes up a
little in pitch when he got mad. “Get out of
here
.”

I
screamed and threw the nunchucks at the rat. Bull's eye! I hit it!
The rat did a back-flip right onto the stove, right where I was
frying some Spam. The rat was on
fire
– a ball of flame
that ran this way and that. I grabbed a broom and chased after it,
trying to whack it. The rat gave out an ear-piercing cry and ran
under the curtains. They went up in flames. The rat ran to the couch.
THAT went up in flames. The whole damn place was going up in flames!
The fire alarm was silent.

The
place was filling up with smoke right quick, and all I kept thinking
about was killing that rat. I had my hand over my mouth, coughing
into it, looking for the little, dirty, disrespectful rat. And I saw
it. Out from the black smoke, I saw its yellow, downright glowing
eyes...those two little balls of light, melting through the smoke.
The rat screamed. I screamed. We ran toward each other. It jumped on
my chest and ran all up me and went for my neck. I grabbed it and
pulled, but it had its teeth in my blouse. There was screaming
outside. Fred was trying to get in. The door kicked open.

“My
apartment!” he cried, stepping back from the smoke.

I
ripped the rat free and threw it at
him
.

It
landed on Fred's face, holding on for dear life. Fred went around and
around in circles, screaming like a little girl. His lady friend tore
at her hair, confused and crying....

I
remember thinking,
Good
.

After
this part, you'll hear my son yack to you about how much I hate all
his girlfriends. Better I tell you now. It's true. I hate them all. I
hate them because they're younger than me, and they're more
attractive than me. I'm jealous. I want my looks back. There must be
some kind of magic potion or something that I can take. Reminds me of
that movie with that actor, what's his name? John McClane? Maybe if I
exercise more, drink more water, eat less junk, eat more broccoli,
WHAT?

Sometimes
I wipe away the moisture from the bathroom mirror and forget who I'm
looking at. Is that me? Can't be. I don't look like that. That
wrinkled, droopy, OLD face isn't mine. How can this be? Is this some
kind of joke? Is this God's idea of a JOKE? I feel like I'm in a car
that doesn't wanna go faster. I feel like I'm in a prison of flesh
and bone. I have to get out. OUT.

The
rat jumped off of Fred's face and ran down his GF's dress. (That's
how these kids say girlfriend nowadays. “GF”.) Fred tore
her dress off to get at the rat. His GF gave me a horrified look and
fainted right on top of the rat, killing it. The poor fiend went like
a water balloon. Guts were everywhere.

I
have to admit, later on when the cops arrived, I found myself
chuckling.

A
cop tried questioning me, but I puked onto his lap.

The
next morning, I was hungover like a horse.

FRED
ALTAIR

Mom
burned my place down and didn't even say she was sorry. We were
minutes from the home, and I couldn't wait to put her away. She was
in the back, not saying a word. Sometimes she laughed. Just a few
more minutes and she'd be out of my life for good. No more problems.
I could live my life. I could make love to the woman I loved in my
own home. Of course, I'd have to get a new place, but that was fine.
I already had a new one picked out, in Waikiki, close to the beach.
If my mom didn't burn the other place down, I wouldn't have that
new
one. I should've thanked my mom, really. I looked at her through the
rear-view mirror. She was staring at me. No smiles.

I
had to look away quick. I shivered a little. Gadzooks. I could feel
her eyes pushing laser beams into the back of my head. It's funny.
She gave no struggle when I told her that I was placing her in a
home. She actually didn't even look at me. And so what? Am I supposed
to feel bad? This is for her own good. For her own protection. Clair
(that's my sister) and I can't take care of her. She's too much for
me. Do I have to remind you that she
burned my apartment down
?
That she drove my girlfriend to tears on so many occasions? That I
couldn't have sex in my own home because my mom lived with me? I got
no privacy; it was annoying. One time, right in the middle of sex,
the bedroom door opened and my mom fell to the ground. She said,
stuttering, “I'm just looking for some towels. Got any towels?
Oh, never you mind. I'll go look in the bathroom. You two just go on
and...pray or whatever you were going. It
looked
like she was
praying.”

Then
she left. She didn't even bother to close the door.

I
still believe she was listening to us. And WHY? Why, I ask, would
anyone listen to her own son make love? Or maybe she really was just
looking for towels, I don't know. My mind plays tricks on me
sometimes. Sometimes when I'm on the field, I throw the football at
one person but end up really throwing it into the crowd. I almost hit
a baby one time. Good thing that bird was in the way. Coach Olotto
sent me to Dr. Leeway, and he said that I got hit too many times in
the head and that I should sit down more often and drink more water.
Long story short, the old noodle's getting soft. But so what? I'm
making a lot of money playing in the game I love.

My
girlfriend said that if I didn't put my mom in a home, then it was
over. She'd walk out on me. My life was falling apart. My head going
to the dumps I can handle, but my heart? NO. I had to do something. I
had to pull my life together. Get my
mind
together. The first
step was to get rid of my mom.

When
we got to the home and I went around to open the door for my mom, she
was already outside. I guess she wanted to show that she was still
strong – maybe prove that I was wrong in thinking she was
helpless. I remember saying to myself, “So close now. Freedom.
Freedom!” Mom looked at the place. It was called Aloha Elderly
Homes #6. Compared to numbers one through five, #6 was the cheapest
and farthest. I had struck gold, Jerry,
gold
. And the
place...the place looked like a refurbished high school, and it came
complete with a playground. Some of the elderly folk were on the
swings and in the sandpit. No one laughed. They all stared at me.
Frozen. Eyes sad. Lost.

I
told my mom, “See? They even have swings here. You like to
swing. I think.”

She
said nothing; just stared up at the home – at the nurses
helping little old ladies down hallways. Come to think of it, I think
that particular elderly home was really once a high school way back
in the eighteen hundreds, or something.

And
just then something pinched me. It felt like a centipede was crawling
in my chest.

Was
I really doing the right thing?

Was
it right to just DUMP my mom into the hands of strangers because I
was too weak and too selfish with my time to take care of the woman
that gave birth to me? That took care of me? I felt evil, and I hated
it. My girlfriend materialized in front of my eyes. She was on the
swings, naked, beautiful, her breasts soft and nice.

“If
you change your mind, I'm leaving you!” She snorted and spat in
my general direction. “You'll never touch these alabaster
breasts again!”

I
shook my head, grabbed my mom's arm, and walked her into the home.
Sitting next to the sliding glass doors was an old man on a walker.
He was covered in tattoos of angels and had a black eye. Tennis balls
were on the bottoms of his walker for some reason.

“Welcome,”
he said. “We do hope you enjoy your stay.”

He
smiled, and his teeth were all silver and sparkled in the sunlight. I
was impressed.

I
walked my mom toward the front desk. An old woman was on the ground –
just on the damn ground like she was sleeping, on her face –
while a nurse rubbed the small of her back.

“Move
on. Nothing to see here,” she said to us.

The
old woman with her nose to the floor said that.

The
nurse just looked up at us. I think she was crying.

We
walked by a glass window, and in those few seconds I saw old people
arm wrestling, two nurses arguing with each other, old people playing
ping pong, old people eating spaghetti in a messy way, old folk
looking up and watching TV, and an old woman putting a cheery male
nurse in a headlock. She looked at me and licked her lips. I had to
get out of there. I wanted to be with my lady. Wanted to make love to
her. HAD to make love to her to clean my mind of all this weirdness.
Still, that nagging voice pinched me again and again.

I
can't believe you're leaving your mother here. You're a bad son. The
Devil is waiting for you.

“Shaddap,”
I mumbled. “Shaddap, shaddap.”

I
rang the bell on the desk.

I
spent twenty years of my life under the hawk-like gaze of that woman.
I was sick of her criticisms, of her judging my taste in women, of
scaring them off just because they were
dancers
. I dated who I
wanted, when I wanted, and I didn't care what anyone said, my mom or
whoever. If I got mouth-bumps, or warts in my sensitive areas, fine.
It was MY call. MY life. Right? I thought everyone felt the way I
did. Everyone wants to live their life their way. I believed in
freedom. I was a Goddamn hero! I spoke for the people! I was making a
stand. I was doing what I thought everyone in the world was too
afraid to do – that felt too guilty to do. If mom or pop tries
to make a slave out of you, try to live through you, then do whatever
you can to get them out of your way...out of your life...so you can
live, dammit, LIVE. Is that so wrong?

The
nurse was sexy. She had on gold, scorpion earrings, and a gold hoop
ran through her nose. I pointed to it as pleasantly as possible.

“They
let you wear that stuff here?”

“Yes.
I wear these for religious reasons. In my homeland, Iowa, this is
done to please our god. Like you Catholics and your various bibles.”

Only
she said it like “cat licks”.

Something
about her grabbed me the right way. She spoke with a kind of
attitude. I liked that, and the front of my pants was curious. The
old woman on the ground shot up and screamed. She was looking up at
the ceiling and her hands were shaking, held up high above her. Her
nurse was rubbing her back and whispering sweet-somethings into her
ear. The old woman calmed down and closed her eyes, and went back to
the ground. This time, she was on her back, and smiling.

The
nurse behind the desk snapped her fingers at my head and got my
attention.

“Don't
let her bother you. She's like that when her bowels are uncertain.”
Then she looked at me, confused. “Is she all right?”

I
looked at my mom.

She
was crying.

I
signed the papers and left her there. A part of me died inside, but
the man in me pushed those weak feelings aside. I did the right
thing. I was free! And all I could think about was making so much
love to my lady. As I walked toward my car, a saw a nurse lead a
crowd of old people across the street.

They
moved so slow. Many of them looked like they were gonna tip over if
touched too hard.