Zombie (30 page)

At the front door, Brothers Bill, Fred, and Lee greet the guests as they arrive. This isn’t a school-sponsored event, but Byron Hall very purposefully positions themselves alongside him. The Brothers welcome a couple coming through the door—she has the skin of solid white porcelain and he has the skin of yellowing death.

Sherman holds Franny’s arm for support as they stop at the table for some juice. He wears a plaid old-timer’s cap and a heavy overcoat even though it’s still summer weather outside. His clothes swallow him whole, they’re so baggy, but he never stops moving, always putting one foot in front of the other. Franny doesn’t look like she’s all that interested in the art on the walls, but Sherman is, which makes her smile because that’s all that matters to her. They pass Father Vincent and Frank and Anthony and stop at
Greatness
nearby.

She sees me, and smiles. I hold Aimee’s hand again for Franny to see and she laughs. Sherman can’t understand what she is whispering in his ear at first, but eventually he does and looks over at
me, lifting up the brim of his hat to see better. He flashes me two thumbs up, but it’s half-hearted at best as he breaks eye contact with me first and then from Franny, moving on to the next chopographical art. Franny is pulled right along with him. She almost trips but regains her balance, looking back one more time.

I wave to her and she waves back and that is that.

T
here are exactly three different techniques one can use to survive an art exhibit.

First, there’s the
Chin-and-Lean
: cross one arm across the chest and bend the other arm up over the one across the chest and rub the chin. Then, after a good chunk of time passes, lean to the right. Hold this position, like stretching a muscle. This will make a person look retarded, but so long as you don’t say anything and continue to shift from right to left, people will think there is some serious art-soaking happening.

There’s also the
Nose-to-Art
: this starts from a standing position approximately ten feet away from the intended target. (TIP: this generally works better on larger pieces of art.) From the standing position take one exaggerated step forward, bringing both feet back together in a stationary formation. Then rest, never breaking eye contact with the art. Every three minutes take another giant step forward until you are eventually standing directly in front of the art, your nose almost touching it. Take two steps back. Rest. Then one step forward. Continue until someone approaches and follows a similar pattern of advancing and retreating. This is the electric slide of art watching.

Finally, there’s the
Soft-Laugh-and-Nod
: self-explanatory. It’s encouraged to mix nodding, smiling, a quick headshake, or a heavy sigh into the laughter. This will undercut everyone’s own bullshit art ego because they will believe that someone understands or sees something in the art that they themselves have not yet found. Welcome to the mindfuck. Yes.

I
follow Aimee around the room, rotating through my art survival techniques when I see myself on the wall. A small group gathers in front of it. Rembrandt is one of them.

I’m in an oval frame in the corner of the room, near the DJ booth. Without thinking, I execute the
Nose-to-Art
at an accelerated rate of motion. The chopographical art is of my world. Quite literally. It’s me, Jeremy, driving my father’s BMW while my father sits in the passenger seat. The photo looks too real to be a fake. I can’t place the photo at first. I’ve never driven his car, or any car for that matter. I look closer. My father’s head was cut and reattached to my body, clutching a book bag to my chest, a Limp Dick at my neck. My head on my father’s body, Windsor knot wrapped tight. There is a price. $65.00. Title of the work:
Little Men
. That fucker.

Aimee doesn’t get my frustration. She doesn’t understand why I’m upset. My arms flail about, while she executes the
Chin-and-Lean
. I tell her how I have been plagiarized and that if she doesn’t see it then she is not the girl I thought she was.

“Is that you?” she asks, shifting from her right to her left, looking retarded as one does doing the
Chin-and-Lean
.

I point to each of my heads—the real head and the chopography head. “That’s me.” I point to my bodies. “And that’s me.”

A security guard, some beefy, bald-headed fuck, approaches me. “No touching the artwork, sir.”

“Who is the other person?” she asks, noting the other dissected body and head.

“My old man,” I say. I lower my hands, which pacifies the security guard

“Mykel did such a good job. It’s so seamless,” she says. “You can’t even tell.”

“I don’t like it,” I say, tapping the canvas, first my head then Dad’s body.

“It’s art, Jeremy. It’s expressive. It’s not reality. It’s the perception of reality.”

“Hands,” the security guard shouts.

“This is me,” I say, tapping it. “Not you,” I say. I flip him the middle finger. “I don’t see a bald ass head in there, do you?” I tap the canvas again.

The guard comes at me.

“Okay,” Aimee says, taking my hand.

“This water buffalo doesn’t scare me. I have bacne that scares me more than him,” I say.

“I think it’s time to go,” Aimee says, slipping her soft hand inside mine again. “It’s time.”

I look for Frank and Anthony and Father Vincent, but all I see are the Brothers.

A fucking familiar voice oozes out behind me.

“This is such a sweet scene. Like
Sleepless in Seattle
or some shit,” Cam says. “Are you on a date?” he asks. Cam sees the chopography on the wall. “Little Men.”

Five plaid monkeys flank us, all looking at my photo. Each wears a white polo shirt and some varying base color of plaid pants.

“Look at Gay Jeremy and his Gay Dad,” Cam says. “Little Gay Men.” He lisps and limps his wrist and does other shit that makes me want to cut off his hands and feet and head and throw his body in the Chesapeake Bay.

“Jeremy, I need you to listen to me,” Aimee says. “Right now, in this moment, you need to decide what it is that you want to do.”

She is right. I can’t run forever. I can’t hide forever. I can’t pretend to go unseen. I need to stay in the moment. Have faith. Feel
love. Hope for a miracle. Then I see my bus brother from another mother, Mykel.

Mykel counts cash at the door. A group of girls in short skirts and glittery tops hang out near him. They whistle at him every time he bends over. He takes several twenties from an older woman and hands her a red dot that she places on the art she purchased. I take my wallet out, count out cash, and hand it over to him.

“What did you think?” he asks, counting a wad of cash again for his group of admirers.

“You’re good, man. I don’t know how you do it. Maybe it’s a black thing.”

“Hey, maybe it is.” He folds his cash and puts it in his pocket. “Where’s your girl?”

“She’s waiting for me. We’re leaving. I just wanted to buy the
Little Men
.”

“You can put a red dot on the frame and take it after the exhibit,” he says.

“I want to take it now.”

“Not possible,” he says.

“Extra twenty,” I say.

“After the show.”

“Extra forty,” I say.

Mykel checks his watch.

Jimmy Two stands with the group of girls off to the side, waiting for Mykel. The room is thinner now than it has been, as people make their way back down to the street. The girls move closer. They call out his name, sing-song. Sing it in songs and say what kind of lewd, sexual things they would do to him if they ever got him alone. He checks his watch again. Brother Lee steps between Mykel and the girls.

“Do not get distracted, Mykel,” Brother Lee says, “You finish here and then you can go there.”

“Not at all, Bill. I’m good. I’m right.”

Mykel and Brother Lee shake hands.

“You really liked it though?” he asks.

“Little Men?”

“Because I know how much you hate people calling you that. It was all you talked about for a minute. But I had to name it a version of that name. That is you. You are it. And I needed you to know that.”

“I am your little man,” I say. “But your little man only.”

“That’s all I needed to hear, son.” He takes back the red dot. “Just take the damn thing, while I get at these females.”

I pull the framed piece down off the wall while Cam and his bitches heckle me through the trippy thump-a-dump music. One of them says, “Like gay father, like gayer son,” or something that doesn’t make any sense like that. I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s wrong. I know I’ll regret it and will catch hell for it and know it goes against any and all art exhibit etiquette, but I hand my newly acquired art to Aimee and as we pass by the Plaid Fucks one last time and with the red mystery juice still in my hand, I flip the cup over and onto Cam’s head. The red juice splashes down, soaking his hair and staining his crisp white polo shirt.

Stained fucking Monkey.

I
run to the exit and down the stairs with Aimee following behind. We cross the cobblestone street to the abandoned police station, ducking through a hole in the fence, the same one Jackson told me about. I pull it back enough for Aimee to slip through. She passes off my art until she clears the other side and I follow. We crash through the unlocked front door, scaring a group of pigeons, putzing around inside. Feathers scatter and flutter. We close the door and press our backs to it, catching our breath. I peak through the filthy window and see the six fucks in the street looking for us. They run like the zombies in
28 Days Later
, fast, angry, though mentally they’re closer in spirit to Romero’s amblers. When they don’t find us, they give up and return to the art exhibit.

“That was not smart,” I say. “Not smart. Not smart.”

“Definitely an understatement,” she says.

Red emergency lights illuminate the station through windows on the second floor. I look up the long stairwell and listen for moaning and growling. Darkness devours everything.

“It’s dark in here,” she says.

“Horror movie dark.”

“I can’t imagine it during the day.”

“Give me your hand,” I say.

She holds out her hand and I grab it tight as we ascend the stairs from the foyer to the second floor. Cobwebs and bugs stretch and crawl along the walls. Beer bottles and condom wrappers and newspaper and rotting fruit and cans of tuna fish litter the floor.
Chairs are stacked into corners. Desks flipped over, creating forts. A mouse or a rat darts in front of us.

I feel like we’re detectives investigating a crime scene. Tensions are high. Our jobs are on the line. The killer is out there. And it is up to us to solve the crime together. For the sake of all humanity. We work together, inspecting evidence, kneeling down to look closer. Check the blood, or lack thereof. Check the spatter. Spatter tells the story of the murder. Perp might still be on the premises. I’m ready to take him down to Hell.

Detective Jeremy Barker.

Aimee guides us down hallways like she’s been here before, until we come upon a room overlooking the Inner Harbor. Light reflects off the black water in a halo. I imagine Franny and Jackson somewhere up here, grabbing at each other, sucking at each other, the way Jackson explained it happening, but when I see a rat the size of Dog I know he’s full of shit. For one, Franny would never do anything in here when his apartment is right across the street. And for two, Jackson is afraid of rodents. Like a bitch.

We stand shoulder to shoulder, holding hands, looking out into the abyss of the harbor. I can see Federal Hill across the way and the lights of
The Prince Edward
. Sailboats and speedboats drift along, spotting the black hole with dots of light.

“I wish I could press pause right now,” I say, putting
Little Men
on the floor.

“That’s sweet.” Her fingers lace further into mine.

“I want to be happy,” I say.

“That’s not asking for much,” she says.

“And I want you to be happy, too.”

We face each other. I know how to do this. I know what needs to be done. The how- to is imprinted in me like my DNA. I release her hand and rest mine at her waist.

“I collect women’s magazines,” I say. Light glints off broken glass on the floor. “I read them. I can tell you how to clean a stained toilet bowl with a can of Coke. I can tell you how to get marinara sauce out of a shag carpet. How to wear solids with stripes. Tell you
what season your skin tone is color-wise. You are an Autumn, by the way. The best approaches to breastfeeding. How to break your housework up into a manageable schedule. The proper etiquette when it comes to canceling on a dinner party. I know about sex slavery. How to fight off a rapist. Which actors have the hottest abs in Hollywood. I know all of these things. And I want you to know that about me. Not later. I want you to know that about me right now.”

“Well,” she says. “If this is true, then you just raised the bar of first kiss expectation, exponentially.”

And like a solar explosion, we kiss. Our tongues slide between lips. Stars bursting out in fading arches. It’s a solar explosion, but within that, I can feel something else. Something familiar in a way that would make me miss it if we stop. We’re tentative at first, then relaxed and exploratory. Wandering with a growing idea that we knew the way all along and we gain speed again. I’m a cosmic crash. This is the thing. I feel like everything could fall apart around us and we would outlast it all.

This kiss—one really long, really good, really French kiss.

Finally, a date.

A
imee and I wait in the foyer of the police station, peaking through the filth-stained window, looking for Cam and Plaids, but the street is empty—no one around. We leave the abandoned building and sneak back through the fence and walk along the pier of the Chesapeake. A cold breeze rolls off the chopping, black water. I take off my jacket and drape it over Aimee’s shoulders. We walk to the end of the pier and cross the street. Aimee slides out of my jacket and hands it back to me as she rifles through her purse for her keys. I put
Little Men
at my feet as Aimee revs up the engine, setting out for Camden Yards to the light rail where I will take the train home. The car smells like marshmallows, some fancy black SUV monster machine that has automatic everything—TVs, DVD player, video gaming systems, the works.