The Making of Zombie Wars Page 12

  “Somebody, somewhere has such a life, even if it’s not you. You’ve got to believe that. That’s what the pursuit of happiness is all about.”

  She didn’t understand, but she was used to not understanding what was said in English. She stood up to loom over him. She was a brave woman. It took courage to sail over here from some fucked-up elsewhere. It took courage to have sex with your English teacher, to follow through with your desires, wherever they might take you. Joshua had desired often, but seldom followed through. He’d always waited for the first move to come from the lusted-after. Ana fixed her hair, raking it with her fingers. Joshua loved that it was hennaed, that it wasn’t real, that he didn’t know what the real color of her hair was. She was true to herself by being different from herself.

  “What’s your real hair color?” he asked.

  “White.”

  “Gray.”

  “No. White.”

  “We say gray hair. Not white hair. Even if it’s white.”

  “We. Who is this we? You and your girlfriend?”

  “Americans.”

  All of Joshua’s sex fantasies were about that first move: young women spreading legs on the El to exhibit the shimmer of their moist vaginas; married women moving their manicured hands along the inside of his thigh, from his knee to his dick, while sitting across the dinner table from their innocent husbands; tipsy best girlfriends in the elevator offering a threesome between the fifth and tenth floors. The aphrodisiac of someone else’s courage.

  “We can’t do this, Ana. I can’t do it. I have a girlfriend. I’ve got problems. I’ve got happiness to pursue.”

  “What does it mean pursue?”

  “Chase.”

  She grabbed her coat out of his closet. The hanger swung and then fell; she picked it up. He wanted to tell her it didn’t matter: things land where they fall; things eventually take care of themselves.

  “Teacher Josh, don’t be afraid. I will not have tell to your girlfriend. I understand.”

  “Thank you,” Joshua said. He waited for her to say something else, to blame him or to shrug this whole thing off as merely sex. But she put her high-heel shoes on and thus fully resumed the shape he’d known from the classroom. There was no noise downstairs and a bubble of hope floated to the surface of the present: what if Stagger was gone, from his apartment, from this building, from Joshua’s life?

  “Do you know my last name?” Ana asked.

  “Of course I do. You’re in my class,” Joshua said. “It’s difficult to pronounce, though.”

  “But that’s from my husband. Do you know my real last name?”

  “No,” Joshua said. It had never occurred to him that she’d had a life before what she was now.

  “It is Osim,” she said. “It means: ‘except.’”

  “Except?”

  “Yes. Like, everybody except me. Svi osim mene.”

  She bent over to kiss him on the forehead. “I will not go to your class no more. By the time you forget Ana Osim, you will have had good life. With everybody except me.”

  She walked out without looking back and closed the door. It surprised him that he felt no regret, no loss. The stasis was instantly restored, even with Joshua there, the ceiling fan perfectly motionless. The hook was still there, but he was now relaxed. He picked up a pair of clean underwear from the floor and put it on. My soul, return to your resting place, because the Lord has rewarded you.

  * * *

  The moment he stepped off the last creaking step, before he could even touch the front lock, Stagger’s door opened. This time, Stagger donned an untied bathrobe, tiny spectacles on the bridge of his nose, as if he’d just been reading small-print poetry. In his hand, however, there was a long samurai sword. There were shards on the floor as far as Joshua could see inside his apartment. He glanced at Stagger’s feet expecting them to be shredded, but he wore a pair of frog-green Crocs.

  “How was it?” Stagger asked.

  “How was what?”

  “Rolling in the hay with Ana. How was it? Good? Sounds like you’ve got some techniques, Jonjo.”

  “None of your business.”

  Stagger poked Joshua’s duffel bag with the tip of the sword, as if to inspect it. Joshua pressed his back against the wall, closely monitoring the sword, now between the door and him. Strangely, he was not afraid—he was, rather, going through the habitual motions of fear, as if he had yet to learn to live without it.

  “It has to be my business, because you were banging away up there,” Stagger said. “All I was trying to do in my humble corner was enjoy some relaxing music.”

  He casually leaned on the sword like Fred Astaire on a cane.

  “You let her up there. You let her into my place without my permission. That was none of your business.”

  “I was just being your friend, Jonjo! I’m the kind of guy who’d do anything for his buddies.”

  “Could you put that sword away, please?” Joshua asked. “It looks ridiculous.”

  Stagger looked at the sword in his hand as if he’d just discovered it was there and liked it too.

  “Would you like to step in?” Stagger said. “Hang out?”

  “You’re a fucking freak, Stagger! I need to go now.”

  “I’m a freak? Look who’s talking! Don’t you have a girlfriend? One Kimiko Motherfucking Home? Would she be familiar with your techniques?”

  Stagger now started throwing the sword up and then catching it by the blade. Joshua foresaw his hand being cut, but evidently Stagger had practiced, making a face as if to say: “How about this?”

  “I’m moving out,” Joshua said.

  “When?”

  “This instant.”

  “Your lease is not up yet.”

  “I don’t care. I’m out.”

  “I’m gonna have to keep the deposit.”

  “Keep the damn deposit. In fact, keep all of my stuff. I’ll just send someone for the books.”

  “Come on, Jonjo,” Stagger said, still holding the sword by the blade. “I like having you around.”

  “I’m out. It was fun while it lasted.”

  Stagger squeezed the blade and a trickle of blood spread along it.

  “Maybe you want to keep a place for screwing your lady friend on the sly? I’ll lower the rent. You can tell Kimiko you moved out. It could be your love den. How about that?”

  “It’s over, Stagger,” Joshua said and pushed past him to open the door.

  “Let’s just have some beer and discuss it like men!” Stagger said. He followed Joshua onto the porch and then down the steps. “Hey! Jonjo! Don’t go! I’m your buddy!”

  * * *

  All across the wide world, spring was landing on its fairy feet. Everywhere, trees were budding and coming into leaves, ground thawing and earthworms stirring, dog shit defrosting and releasing the pungent stink that brought back memories of springs past. There was a whiff of awakening even in Chicago, where the April thaw was forever behind schedule, where the relentless winter made everything more sharp-edge real. All the living things on Magnolia—trees, squirrels, people—seemed to be involved in some secret chatter, readying themselves for the demands of rebirth. This is the gate to the Lord, the righteous shall walk through.

  Once he’d stepped out of the gloom of the Stagger palace, Joshua felt his chest fill up with new air. Exhaling, he felt no guilt. None. He’d just cheated on his girlfriend, soon to be an official live-in one, for the first time ever; he went beyond his cowardice and crossed the line into a different Joshualand. And many years from now, after the evil cell had perhaps evolved into a mature goyter, he would have no regrets about missed chances. Feeling no remorse was a new and powerful sensation: the frigid snap in his lungs, the tingling fingertips on the duffel bag handle, the vapor of his own breath washing over his face. This was real, this Joshua in this aftermath, for whose actualization sex was just a prompt. It was like finding a new, big room in the overfurnished house of his self. This was freedom. The Lord
provides food to all flesh, because His kindness is without end.

  Buses stopped at stop signs; birds flew overhead without falling down; clouds floated like meringue zeppelins; sirens wailed; people moved on the outskirts of his life as mindlessly and reliably as movie extras. Leave when at the top, Michael Jordan taught us, retire while winning. Joshua had an urge to call Bernie to talk man to man, or even Bega, to brag, to assert himself. And what about me? Am I not entitled to this presence in the world, to myself as I am? May the conqueror conquer if capable of conquest. This was, he understood, why men cheat, why all mankind are liars—the power of acting without regret, the destruction of remorse. It wasn’t the sex: it was the freedom to take or do what you want. The presence of death, the gaping void, afforded entitlement. This was what wars were for.

  Ana was gone, leaving no traces or demands. He went in, he went out, no harm done. And there was more: he was now someone with secrets, someone simultaneously operating in the inner and the outer world, like an actor or a spy. He was now possessed of shamelessness, like Ulysses responding “Nobody” to a Cyclops asking for his name. He acquired the unknowable, variable depths; he could be anyone he wanted to be, and if he didn’t like who he became, he could switch again, going in, going out. And who the fuck are you? he wanted to ask the random passersby. Who the fuck do you think you are? You are nothing but your lousy self! He walked up Magnolia with a determination he anticipated would look sexy to Kimmy. Tonight might be her turn to be handcuffed and beg a little. Oh, Jo! she’d say. Jo’s gone, baby, he’d say: I’m Levin. Joshua Levin.

  EXT. LAKE SHORE DRIVE — DAY

  The waves roll against the shore, disintegrating bodies sloshing in the shallows, bobbing on the lake as far as the eye can see. Major Klopstock, Woman, and Boy track along Lake Shore Drive, clogged with abandoned vehicles. Major K has a samurai sword in his hand. Boy moves slowly and whimpers, as he’s overweight. Woman picks him up with some effort, puts him on her back, and continues. A black helicopter emerges menacingly from behind tall buildings. Major K quickly makes Woman and Boy duck. They slip under an incinerated truck at the wheel of which is a charred corpse. The helicopter hovers over Lake Shore Drive, then creeps along it, as if looking for someone.

  MAJOR K

  Make no move.

  Boy whimpers suddenly, slips out of Major K’s grasp, and runs out from under the truck.

  WOMAN

  No!

  She tries to get up, but Major K pulls her back down. The helicopter descends very slowly until it hovers over the boy, who waves frantically at it.

  MAJOR K

  Fuck! There is nothing we can do now.

  The very night after his tryst with Ana, Kimmy crowned Joshua with the silver cock ring. She must have recognized the new quality in him, the depths and the exponentially increased fuckability factor; he was happy to let her bestow his well-deserved reward. He changed, but, boy, so did she. In the middle of the furious coitus, his cock vibrating with pleasure at the previously unthinkable frequency, he could not recognize Kimmy at all—what was supposed to be routine intrarelationship intercourse appeared like an insane one-night stand. She bit his cock’s root; she screamed gibberish like a magic incantation; she growled: “Fuck me, Levin.” I must be dreaming! Levin thought. Just before his climax, she grabbed him by the throat, cutting off his air supply, and looked into his eyes with a fury that scorched the inside of his skull. For a long, ecstatic minute he was dying and coming at the same time.

  Kimmy took a day off and they spent their Thursday morning splitting and parsing the newspapers, a commodious couple interrupting the earned silence only to brief each other on what they were reading: The Vagina Monologues had been successfully performed in Islamabad; a twenty-pound carp had shouted apocalyptic warnings in Hebrew to a Hasidic fish cutter in New York; Saddam Hussein was undergoing major ass destruction. He could see himself in her eyes: funny, smart, handsome, and deep. He liked that guy.

  Then they went out to Ann Sather’s for brunch. Brunch was an abominably monstrous compound noun, Teacher Josh insisted, but they still shared poached eggs and Swedish sausage and cinnamon rolls. He performed for her the John Wayne joke. Standing up in the narrow passage between the tables to act out the punch line, he was fully aware of the danger of appearing crass, but did it anyway, and she nearly pissed herself laughing. Not once did he think of Ana, not once. Kimmy suggested they invite his family for dinner, Janet included (“Even Janet”) and he had to tell her that, on top of the acrimony between his parents, Bernie also had “prostate problems.” She didn’t quite understand whether that meant Bernie should or shouldn’t be invited, but she deferred the question, so a day was provisionally chosen and she was going to call them. They watched Dawn of the Dead in the bedroom—required research for his script, he claimed, even if he’d seen the movie a thousand times. He outlined Zombie Wars for her as if pitching it to some big shot in LA: the virus and the apocalypse, Major K, the loyal cadet and the rogue soldiers, the woman and the boy. He heard the confidence in his own voice; she couldn’t wait to read the script; he enjoyed the weight of her body against his. I will walk with the Lord in the lands of the living, and the rest of yous can go fuck yourselves. He was so far beyond feeling guilty: having sex with Ana may have been the best thing he’d ever done; it definitely made him a better man. Farewell, Ana Except, thank you for everything! May you have a kind trip back to elsewhere. And I shall always cherish your dimples. Before the movie ended, Joshua and Kimmy had more furious intercourse and then passed out intertwined, Bushy snug as a bug between them.

  On Friday, he kissed Kimmy’s still-wet hair at the door, waved at her in loving slow motion as she drove off to work, and scooped Bushy off the porch. It was a bright, balmy morning. The spring had hit the ground running: the sunlight bent at an angle more favorable to all the warm colors, the shadows were sharper and leaner, the trees were taking their leaves seriously. He was going to call Bernie, see how he was doing, maybe set up another lunch; he was now capable of dealing with that particular situation. Then he was going to call Mr. Strauss and resign from his teaching job at the PRT Institute, and, thus relieved, write Zombie Wars at least part of the day, and then spend the rest of his life writing what he was meant to write. He could see an open, straight path stretching all the way to his horizon; he could see the horseman coming.

  Before all that, he needed to undergo proper cleansing—metaphorical and real—and have a shower. Undressing, he inhaled the residual smells of last night’s copulation. He had Kimmy-inflicted battle wounds all over his thoroughly fucked body: two parallel scratches across his thigh; a ring mark on his dick and balls; his throat still sore from strangulation.

  He examined his face in the mirror and appreciated the relaxed maturity, the conspicuous new peace, the overbite retreated to a mere bite. Janet had once confessed to him that she’d had a dream in which she’d shot up heroin. She’d been so overcome by the tranquil well-being that, when she’d woken up, she’d tracked down a drug dealer. She’d bought a little pouch of heroin—the starter kit, the dealer called it. But Janet had never shot it up. The needle aspect had been too unsettling, while snorting was too cocaine-eighties, which she despised. She might well still be hoarding the heroin in her drawer. The episode had provided him with Script Idea #87: A woman scientist develops an experimental sex-changing drug she tests on herself; she transforms into a violent man who exacts revenge on all the assholes who disrespected her, including her lecherous ex-husband. Title: Mrs. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Well, here were Mr. Levin and Mr. Sexy, joined in a happy union, looking at each other through the mirror.

  He heard the phone twittering downstairs and a rush of unexpected terror surged through him: what if it was her? He was very proud of not having thought of her. And he was certainly not going to talk to her. But the phone rang again and the thought of her—of Ana Except saying, I will have been happy for you, of her tug on his thigh, of her body—the thought of her could not be abolished
now, even if the phone eventually shut up. He stepped under the stream of water with a hard-on, which happened to come in handy for excising the thought.

  Pissing in the shower afterward, he decided he needed to put some funny stuff in Zombie Wars. The undead are always so damn dour, and the global cataclysm is a superdowner, to say the least. How about zombies at a disco club, dressed for Saturday Night Fever, tottering about to “Stayin’ Alive”? He also didn’t know how to end it, whether Major K’s vaccine would save humanity or provide the hope for survival of a small unit of humans. Hope sold, of course, and well; it was the corn syrup of existence, fast burning and addictive. On the other hand, it was cheap and everywhere. Hope and war: the ping and the pong of America.

  He consulted the mirror again: time to shave, even if he liked the weary-warrior scruffiness. The thing was that Kimmy would always get a rash from his facial hair, even on the inside of her thighs after he ate her. Wouldn’t zombies have long hair and nails, given that these keep growing for a while after death? Perhaps there could be degrees in the state of undeadness. Some zombies could be more conscious, so that the vaccine could work differently for them. He put a towel around his waist—it made him feel porny and husbandly at the same time—and went down to the kitchen to get some coffee. Kimmy had turned on the coffee machine this morning while he was sleeping, and now it was ready. She also left a Post-it with a smiling little sun; Have a lovely day! it simply read. With Kimmy there was no stasis. She made sure his life flowed in his absence, an intimation of immortality.

  At the kitchen table, there sat a huge, large-headed man, with a barbed-wire tattoo going around his neck, Bushy purring on top of his crossed legs. The man’s feet were not only large but enormously wide, like snorkeling fins. Before Joshua recognized him as Esko, the man appeared—for a split, foolish second—as a cable guy with some kind of an emblem on his chest. Next to him, in a T-shirt that read, “If there’s no God, who pops up the next Kleenex?” there was Bega, complete with an unkempt smile on his swollen, undershaven face, his blue eyes bright and watery, a cigarette in one hand, the other one on Esko’s shoulder, as if trying to keep him down. They shouldn’t have been there, the two of them, yet they were right there.