The First Day
You won’t like me at first, but bear with me: I promise you it gets better.
Why won’t you like me?
Because you’re about to read the words that passed between Sam Kranson and me on the day they called Bright Thursday.
Why did they call it Bright Thursday?
Because that was the day when—fools that they were—they thought the zombie epidemic had finally ended. (As to who “they” are, I’ll leave that to you, and I’ll pray you’re not one of them.)
* * *
“It’s a lie!” Sam Kranson screams as he walks around his apartment. Because that’s what he does when you’re in conversation with him. Eye contact and human engagement, for him, are no substitute for yelling and pacing back and forth.
His pacing, right now, has the benefit of a newspaper to go along with it. Because Sam’s the kind of guy who still reads newspapers, even though the Internet has well-by-now gobbled all that shit up.
He gets his morning coffee. He gets his morning newspaper.
And now he’s telling me this Bright Thursday shit is exactly that: excrement. No truer than the hard-on tug that got you to bed last night.
“How could you possibly know, Sam?” And my volume’s not nearly as forceful as his. You know why? Because no one’s could be.
“They couldn’t eradicate the virus with military force!” he declares, waving the newspaper with so much aggression he looks like a bird with one wing.
“If all the zombies are dead…”
“They’re not, Henry! It’s the three-day logic. The virus is smarter than our weapons could ever be. Sure, they may have killed all the apparent zombies, but who’s to say there’s not some sickly bastards walking around all dizzy, getting ready to turn into full-fledged flesh-eaters?”
* * *
Some words about Sam, and I’ll make this quick:
Sam Kranson, I’ve known since I was four. Our parents thought it would be a good idea for us to play together. I’m not convinced they were correct.
He’s always been like this. You have to understand that. Like what, you ask?
Those who don’t know him sling terms like “asshole.”
Those who do know him make a point of dispensing with such politeness.
He’s all fucked up. Fourteen years old, he got into marijuana. Anybody who prefers not to think of it as a gateway drug should have been there to see Sam charging through the gateway. Cocaine came right before college started.
It hasn’t ended yet, and we’re nearing our late twenties.
That is, if we live for another day.
’Cause you see, Sam’s not just screaming because he thinks the epidemic’s over. He’s screaming because he has what he calls “an opportunity” for the two of us.
* * *
“A hundred thousand dollars, Henry,” he says, and by now (for a limited time only) he’s seated, and actually letting his pink eyes meet mine. “I doubt you ever got a tip that big at the pizza place.”
“You don’t have to insult my job,” I say.
“I do!” he yells, and I all but flinch. “’Cause I’m offering you a replacement job. Now, it would be appropriate for me to keep sixty percent, since I’m the one who got the offer, and you’re essentially the date I brought to the dance…”
I inhale a great deal.
“But I’m willing,” he goes on, “to call it fifty-fifty, in light of the fact that you’re my best friend, and the one with the car, and probably the one who’ll be doing most of the work.”
Did I mention that Sam Kranson’s of the “asshole” variety?
And mind you, it’s not that I’m “the one with the car,” it’s that I’m The One Who Learned How To Drive. He was too busy blowing farts into his basement couch as he watched the same movies over and over again.
And one more thing I’d like to say:
* * *
He’s not the one who got the “opportunity.”
* * *
That task fell on his dad, Dan Kranson, a guy who likes to pat himself on the back for discovering the non-fact that Sam rhymes with Dan.
Which is why he gave his son that name.
Dan Kranson, in case the above doesn’t make it clear, is something of a doter, which means he likes to help his son in every and any way possible.
Add to this the fact that Dan has money, and what you have is a man-child, Sam, who never learned how to drive, never learned how to work, only gets laid in VIP rooms, and does so much coke that the ’80s would be ashamed to know him.
Anyway: Dan called up Sam and said, “Look, son, I’d like you to speak with my friends in Vegas. They have a great job offer for you. It pays enough for you to live on for a couple of years.”
* * *
Sam’s apartment: $1,200 a month.
Sam’s food expenses: $800 a month (eats out a lot).
Sam’s cable, Internet, phone, utilities, and health insurance: $550 a month.
Sam’s entertainment expenses: Call it $600 a month. Books and DVDs, most of it. He’s yet to commit to his still-sealed Kindle, and he’s less than impressed with the picture quality of streaming content.
So three grand a month, give or take. All of it gifted from Dan, so none of it’s taxable. That’s $36,000 a year to live. Which means Dan, being smart despite what a moron he is, should have known it was really more like three years that Sam would get from the deal.
* * *
Which means he probably knew Sam would invite me along.
* * *
I’m not so much a friend as a helper. This has always been the case. I’m the number to call when the imaginary emergencies start striking. And Sam is not the only dialer. Dan’s voice shows up on the other end, too, as well as that of Sheila, Sam’s drunk mother.
And how proud and excited they’d both be if I went on this adventure with their son.
Only here’s the part that will make you not like me.
It’s not that I’m not a nice guy, ’cause I am.
And it’s not that I’m not an altogether stable and useful civilian, ’cause I am that, too. I don’t use drugs. I hardly drink anymore. I’m about to propose to my beautiful girl (and if you hate me anyway, don’t worry: You’ll LOVE her). There’s even whispers of me being a manager at the pizza place, which is not too many clicks away from owning one myself.
But let’s stay focused on the present:
You may not like me because I feel a little surge inside. It’s not a good one. It says to me that I should go on this mission.
Which is unfortunate, ’cause the mission is completely immoral.
No, strike that. Amoral. As a matter of fact, I’m disgusted to my core.
And the surge inside me? It’s an ancient one, and I’m far from the first or last guy to get hit by it.
Greed.
I want that money. I could buy a ring. And fuck that: I could pay my rent for months in advance. Even put a down payment on a house (not that that means anything anymore, but still).
And Sam sees that I’ve got stars in my eyes, ’cause he’s moved from “offer” talk to “we’re gonna do this” talk.
“Will you pick me up at seven?” he asks, as I walk to the door of his apartment, having become the one who’s averting his eyes.
“I’ll text to confirm,” I say.
“No!” he screams. “I know you. That means you’re not sure.”
We look at each other.
“Are you sure?”
Christ, this guy. The problem is, we found each other during our developmental years. So I always feel like I owe him something, the same way an abused child sometimes thinks being violent is okay.
“Let me just text you.”
“Fuck! You’re gonna ask Teresa, aren’t you?”
“Not ask. Tell.”
“And get permission.”
My hand’s on the doorknob.
“I’ll call you later.”
“Oh, a call? I’m so grateful! DIPSHIT!”
I leave. I’m late for work.
And apparently late to bloom.
* * *
Relax, I’ll tell you what the mission is.
But you have to bear with me, ’cause it’s so despicable that I can’t really just get into it just-like-that. Tell you what, though: I’ll explain this whole zombie thing.
They started in the Midwest, about a month ago. The media never once used the word “zombie,” but not for any practical reason. They just probably thought it sounded immature, which it does. But in any case: That’s what the motherfuckers were.
(And are, if you’re to trust Sam Kranson.)
It was just like in the movies, only slower at the onset: People got sick on day one. Then symptomatic and “dead” on day two. Then running/jumping/biting/hissing corpses come day three.
The mode of transfer is saliva. In lieu of handing you a membership card, they simply bite you.
And mind you, the onset is the only part that’s slower than the movies. The fuckers are so fast that light should be envious. Not that I’ve seen any in person—’cause the military contained the whole thing before it reached L.A.—but there’s been enough shit on the news and YouTube to give you a sense.
To say they “run” is to glorify the concept of running. The bastards leap. Point A and Point B shouldn’t even have two different names. If you’re near one, you’re dead.
Then you are one.
And there were eighty thousand of ’em before the air force started dropping bombs.
And now: gone. Dead. You know why? ’Cause this is the United States of America. We’re the prone-to-aggression maniacs who not only shot Osama bin Laden, but actually put that bullet in his face.
So don’t tell me, Sam Kranson, that there’s still zombies in the deserts of Nevada, just outside of Vegas, and that your mommy and daddy want the two of us to go get one and…
I’m getting ahead of myself.
* * *
The pizza place is a welcome break from Sam Kranson’s universe. Things actually get done here. Actions take place. Not just talk and pacing and screaming.
Moreover—yeah, whatever, I’m wasting my college degree—it’s an honest living. The pizza tastes good. People eat it. They smile. The transaction concludes.
And I suppose what Sam’s proposing will honor the logic of the free market in the very same way, but unfortunately, it has the added element of being depraved beyond words—
“I’ve almost got it.”
This is Manny speaking. Manny is my actual best friend. Sam Kranson, we’ve gathered by now, is more along the lines of an “enemy.” And Manny—let’s be clear—in conventional terms, is strictly an acquaintance. An advanced acquaintance, but still not someone I’m close to.
Doesn’t matter. By default, he’s my best friend, unless you count Teresa, but I’m not (yet) pussy enough to call my girlfriend my best friend. In any event, she is the one I spend most of my time with, and that kind of eliminates the possibility of making “other” friends.
Enter Manny. I’m sure he has his own real best friend somewhere, but fuck him if he ever brings it up.
“What do you almost have, Manny?”
It’s both of us here with our palms slapping dough.
“The cure.”
Oh, fuck.
I try to be supportive. “You do? You found a cure for the virus?”
He nods, says, “Very close to one.”
Something tells me I failed to mention that Manny’s insane beyond belief. Sure, let him bake your pizza, but if there’s anything more complex at stake, keep Manny the fuck away from it. And fine, I’ll admit he got a science degree, and he doesn’t own a TV ’cause he spends all his free time doing experiments, but the bottom line is: He, like me, is wasting his degree. (Guess we should write a rap about it.) In fact, that’s one of the main reasons I like him.
I look him in the eyes, say, “But it’s over. The military crushed those fucks.”
Now his nod has transitioned into a head-shake. Slow one, like what’s inside that head is far more layered than what could ever show up inside of mine. “Don’t believe that, Henry,” he tells me. “They can blow things up, but you can’t drop a bomb on a virus.”
Fuck me. Now who’s my best friend?
“We’ll see,” I say, acting as nonchalant as possible. ’Cause you know what? I kind of enjoyed the whole Bright Thursday concept. Call me crazy, but you know, the whole “civilization is actually fine” bit had my spirits up.
Manny does everything he can to bring them down:
“Don’t worry,” he tells me, which makes me panic.
“I’ll have a cure,” he says, and I hope he means for his schizophrenia.
“You can come by my place tonight and see my equations.”
I smile. Try to make it look real sincere. Say to him, “I’m actually leaving town tonight.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. Vegas. With my bes— a friend of mine.”
Manny seems overtaken by hurt. But whatever he feels, I’m certain, cannot compare to the agony I just succumbed to.
* * *
’Cause: Great. Now it’s real. Not only have I told Manny I’m going, which means I’ll look deranged if I show up for work tomorrow, but now I’m explaining the whole thing to Teresa.
This is what we’re doing instead of fucking, which is what T wanted to do. I’ve been stressed out over the whole zombie thing, so I haven’t been able to hit it for the past week. That, for her, is way too long. Me? I’m comfortable with once a month. Not ’cause she’s not beautiful or anything (Christ, the sight of her can shred heart tissue), but ’cause I’ve been in a bit of a place since we went to the strip clubs.
* * *
The strip clubs, naturally, I got from Sam Kranson. This is what our whole lives have been like:
Age 7: “Henry, we should draw pictures of dicks.”
Age 13: “Henry, we should touch our dicks and balls.”
Age 15: “Henry, jerking off really is better if you smoke weed beforehand.”
Age 17: “Yeah, but you haven’t really fucked a girl till you’ve done it on coke.”
Age 18: “Yeah, but real girls are lame. Strippers are so much hotter. And they love coke.”
* * *
Calm down. I’m not about to say that because Sam Kranson brought me to strip clubs, I’m only able to fuck my hot girlfriend once a month. It’s more complex than that.
What actually happened was, I brought her to the clubs. We didn’t bring Sam with us; as you might imagine, he’s not much of an aphrodisiac. No, here’s how it went:
Me to her: “Do you like other girls?”
Her to me: “What do you mean? Like, sexually?”
“Yeah.”
“Um, I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”
“So that means you’re open to it.”
“No. It means I have to think about it.”
No, it meant she was open to it. Here was us on the same topic, six weeks later:
Her: “It was crazy. I was touching myself, and I thought of a girl…”
Me (extremely urgent): “Which girl?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?!”
“It wasn’t anybody specific. Like not someone we know.”
“Then who? You mean like a movie star? Natalie Portman? Cameron Diaz?”
“You have to calm down or I won’t discuss this with you.”
I sat there quietly.
She said, “It was just an imaginary blonde girl, okay?”
“Okay.” No, not okay. “Wait: You mean you just, like, made her up? How can you get off on that?”
“I did! Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?”
“Yes, but…”
I supposed there was no problem. I for one always needed an actual template for my fantasies, preferably a girl I knew reasonably well. If I had personality details, I could really go to town. Barring that, some remote acquaintance or girl on the street was hardly a problem. Celebrities were a little tougher, ’cause I couldn’t just fantasize about being with the person; I had to create a whole context. And it got a little tricky, in bed with my dick in my hand, coming up with legitimate ways I’d met Natalie Portman.
Apparently, none of this rigor mattered to Teresa. For all I knew, the girl-in-her-mind had green skin. But it was ultimately to my advantage, since her comfort with a certain level of unreality allowed us to go experimenting at strip clubs.
* * *
We went, I’d say, about fourteen times. At first it was no big deal. We’d share a PG-13 lap dance from some hottie, then go home and talk about it and fuck each other’s brains out (inappropriate talk in the wake of a zombie epidemic, I know—and I apologize).
But if marijuana’s a gateway drug, then strippers are a the-gateway-melted-and-fell-off-a-week-ago drug. ’Cause if you go to the right places, they’ll do more than “dance.” In fact, on some occasions, I don’t recall observing any dancing.
What they do is, if they’re bold—and if you’ve followed the Web reviews to the correct locations—they peel the female customer’s bare nipples out of her shirt and lick them in front of the observing (heart attack in progress) male.
Sometimes it’s just licking. Other times it’s full-out sucking. Sometimes one breast, sneaked out subtly. Other times, both tits are allowed to drop out in a bold reinforcement of the term “fun bags.”
It goes/went further (we’ve stopped going for a while). They fingered her pussy. They licked (knowing to avoid disease) the upper rim of her pubic hair.
One time, in Vegas, we got a pair of Czech cousins. One for me, one for her. A lot of flourless “pizza dough” got blown that night.
And then I got blown, right there in front of Teresa.
I asked her, live-on-the-spot, “Do you mind?”
And she, all smiles, told me she did not.
* * *
But I do. And I’m all fucked up about it.
It’s not guilt, though there is a touch of that (You try spending seven hours at one of those places and not thinking about your mother at least once.). It’s more like—may as well admit—I’ve become a total fucking addict.
I don’t want a chocolate cookie at home when I can get crack cocaine at a club.
And that’s made me soft in bed as of late. And damned if I know what to do to end it.
Teresa, she had an idea. She invited (she really loves me) her friend Allison to come and join us. But I rejected, told her to cancel the invite. Not ’cause I’m like Sam and can only handle fake play, but ’cause the idea of staying hard for two girls at the same time was more overwhelming than a calculus exam conducted at gunpoint.
Did you fucking read what I just said?
My girlfriend—who’s so hot that she makes mentally healthy other girls rapidly begin to contemplate suicide—was offering herself and her (12 out of 10) best friend up on a platter, and I said, “No,” ’cause that very fantasy had expended all my juice.
And right now, in our apartment, Teresa’s YELLING at me (Hi, I’m Henry. I’m apparently here to be yelled at all day.) because I want to go to Vegas.
“It’s not sexual!” I scream at her.
“It is!” she says, and her pink-painted fingernail is pointing. “You just told me what you’re going to do. And if that’s not sexual, Henry, I don’t know what is.”
* * *
Fine, I’m sorry. Sam told me. I told Teresa.
But I still have failed to lay the deets on you.
* * *
Dan Kranson is, among too many other things to list, one sick son of a bitch. I don’t have any facts to back this statement up, but I’ve arrived at it based on the look in his eye and the disconcerting rhythm of his breath.
And I’ve confirmed it based on the nature of what I’m now to share—
Dan Kranson has friends that own casinos. While Sam and I were growing up in Washington State, the Kransons were known to be the richest family in town. Hence the state of their only child, with his nonexistent work ethic, which tonight will become existent when we do the following:
1. Go to the Sharks Casino just one block off the Strip. You can tell from the name that they’ve no intention of concealing any filth.
2. Meet with Anthony Christopher, the son of the Sharks’ owner, who used to sometimes play with Sam and me when we were kids. I didn’t like how convincing Anthony sounded when he said his toy guns came with actual bullets.
3. Get specs from Anthony on where exactly to go in the Dust Pan, which, we all know, is the vast expanse of desert located just north of the area where Vegas’s glitter and lights no longer shine.
4. Get GUNS from Anthony to carry out the mission.
5. Go to the Pan and stake out a small suburban (if you can even call it that) neighborhood. Be wary of zombies. Lock eyes on a hot girl.
6. Make it so that girl gets bitten.
7. Bring her back to the Sharks.
8. Go back to L.A. and pretend they’re not shooting zombie porn.
’Cause that’s the real business the Christophers are in. Sure, the casino may generate many millions, but the porn’s got international reach, and it’s so extreme their previews go viral before your lids can even contemplate blinking.
Is this worth a hundred grand? Nay, fifty?
You ask my opinion: Probably not. ’Cause on the one (lame) hand, there probably aren’t any zombies in the Pan. I don’t care that the Christophers claim to have gotten the “intelligence” from local air force personnel with hungry pockets. I may be the biggest moron on Earth, but when it comes down to it, the media has my trust.
And on the other (exciting/terrifying) hand, if there are zombies out there, then rather than returning to the Strip with a girl, Sam Kranson and I are likely to never return.
We’re likely to just be two more numbers amidst the dawning zombie population.
But the Kransons and the Christophers both tend to disagree with my assessment. No reason, really; it’s just that the two families are locked watertight in a manic cycle of bullshit.
Each family has the other believing their son is some kind of cowboy.
Yet what the Kransons don’t tell the Christophers is their son exists with an insurance policy to help him get shit done.
That policy would be me.
* * *
“You’re NOT going!” Teresa yells, and the thing is, she’s not even grabbing at the incredibly convenient moral angles:
Not mentioning that kidnapping a girl is evil.
Not mentioning that kidnapping a girl with the intent of getting her fucked on camera is beyond evil.
Not mentioning that actually waiting for the girl to become infected before you carry out the above is enough to make Satan himself start calling for a peace treaty.
Does she actually agree with Sam here?
* * *
“It’s NOT evil!” he screamed at his apartment earlier. “If the virus is in the area, then she’s bound to get hit!”
“We’re still opportunists,” I shot back. “We’re like war profiteers.”
“Get the fuck out of here with that! Are you fucking crazy?! We’re not the profiteers, we’re the soldiers! Going out there risking our own lives.”
In some strange way, that failed to make me feel better.
* * *
Teresa, contrastingly, is focused on my “habit.” She thinks I’m only in it for a stripper detour. And she knows, of course, that Vegas is where the hard shit gets stowed.
“If I pull this off,” I say to her, “you and I will have fifty thousand dollars in cash.”
“So what? Illegally.”
“I don’t think there’s any law against kidnapping a zombie.”
“Person.”
“Zombie.”
Great, now I’m sounding like Sam. The fact is, though, our mission exists right in the center of a philosophically neutral zone:
We intend to grab someone whose ill fate is sealed. Accordingly, the factor of her getting fucked on camera—no doubt in heavy chains—is arguably a kind of dim afterthought.
See what I did just then? That’s what the Nazis did. “No harm in blowing this Jew’s brains out. He’s gonna die eventually.”
Color me fucked.
* * *
There’s a question, as I drive Sam Kranson east in my gray Volvo, as to whether Teresa still loves me. This is understandable. But if I die, I imagine she’ll cry at the funeral (closed casket, I’d bet, presuming they even attain my zombie corpse). And if I live, I imagine she’ll cry when she sees the fifty grand.
So consider this a wager worth pursuing.
What bothers me right now—more than the depraved anxiety of seeing a zombie within the next twenty-four hours—is having to spend so much time this-close to Sam. Right now, as we near the Nevada line, he’s saying to me, “Stop! We’ve gotta piss!”
There’s a rest stop ahead. I begin to curve toward it.
“You mean you’ve gotta piss,” I correct him.
’Cause when Sam and my missions are actually underway, I tend to become more defiant. This is because he’s dependent upon me for his survival. And in this case, impressing his parents.
But still, he says, “No. Both of us. Let’s go.”
* * *
It’s the urinals, side by side with Sam, when I understand why I’ve been forced to stand here waving an empty dick around. He takes another phallic unit from his coat and shows it to me.
And either I’ve succumbed to hallucinations, or this would be a gun.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask him.
“Practicing,” he says to me.
Our faces are incredibly close. Other body parts, too. I zip up. Turn to him. “Practicing for what?”
“Do you have shit in your head? The mission!”
Yep, that was an actual yell. Human beings who came in here to use toilets are now leaving because they see Sam with a gun.
“Put it away.”
“No.”
“Right now.”
“Here’s yours.”
And now I, too, have a gun in my hand. Heavier than I would have imagined. And squeezing the trigger feels like it would break my finger.
Thinking fast, I stick it in the rear of my jeans.
“Sam: If you don’t put that thing back in your coat, I am driving back to L.A. and never speaking with you ever again.”
“Henry: You take that fucking gun out of your jeans right this instant.”
Did he just say “this instant”?
And did I mention his “coat” is a “sports jacket,” and for some reason he thought putting a suit on before leaving the house wasn’t hilarious?
I start to walk away.
Then he’s behind me. Thick/close/clumsy. I hear his zipper rise.
“Henry…”
“Don’t even fucking talk to me.”
But of course he does exactly that, outside of the men’s room, near the soda machines.
“I’m just trying to get us acquainted with the STAKES!” he explains, whispering every part of the sentence until the eruption of the final word.
“We’ll deal with that in Vegas. This is a public place.”
“Exactly! We’re vigilantes now! We have to practice!”
Still, it bears mentioning that HE IS WAVING A GUN AROUND.
“How are we vigi—?”
Cutting myself off, I grab him by the cloth of his shirt and slam him against a water bottle machine. “Are you gonna put the gun away?”
Six, seven, eight, ten people looking. No security guards—yet.
“Are you gonna let me practice?”
“No. Put it away.”
“Say, ‘Yes.’”
“No.”
“Yes.”
A pause. Eye contact. His breath’s not my favorite place to be. Despite that, I hold steady, giving him an “I’ve seen you jerk off when you were twelve and I’ll tell everybody” stare.
He slides the gun into the front of his pants. Phallic symbolism in full effect. Meanwhile, I, with breathtaking appropriateness, am clenching my phallus from behind.
Start to walk away, but—
“Can we still practice now?”
I again turn to face him, say, “Not that I have any interest whatsoever, but what exactly would you like to practice?”
Trying (failing) to look as professional as possible, he takes me by the arm and leads me outside, a gesture that’s the physical equivalent of his already-classic use of the phrase “this instant.”
* * *
We’re out in front of the rest stop, watching our fellow travelers. Sam, if I’m to understand him correctly, has an interest in shooting some of them.
But that’s not how he explains it. What he says is:
“We wait, okay? We don’t have to meet Anthony till ten.”
My phone says six.
“So this gives us a chance,” he goes on, “to practice the whole vigilante thing.”
“Sam,” I say, clearing my throat even though I don’t have to, “nothing about what we’re engaged in makes us vigilantes.”
“Why not?! We’re not professionals. We’re acting alone.”
“We’re not acting alone. We were hired.”
He has to think about this for a moment. Then he’s like, “Yeah, but still, it’s for the common good.”
If I grind my teeth any harder, I’ll have to stop eating solid foods.
“How…” Lots of breath here, in and out. “…is this for the common good?”
“WELL! People like to jerk off, don’t they?”
“What Anthony’s making is for sick people.”
“Sick people like to jerk off, DON’T THEY?!”
And there—Ladies and Gentlemen—we have an authentic old woman with a walker, pushing her way past us in horror, entering the rest stop as fast (slow) as humanly possible.
“Sam: Is it possible for me to ask you to stop screaming for the next twenty-four hours?”
“Sure! I won’t listen, though.”
I look out at the people and away from him. “Fine,” I say. “But we’re not vigilantes just ’cause we’re being paid a small fortune to help sociopaths pleasure themselves. Do you read me on that one?”
More thinking for Sam here. He raises his eyebrows and says, “I thought we were.” Then says: “But anyway—it’s good we’re not! ’Cause that means we don’t have to wait to witness an injustice to practice using our guns.”
I’d like to be able to tell you that I somehow—using lightning reflexes—stop Sam Kranson from pulling his gun out at this very “instant” and aiming it right at the rear of the walker lady’s head, but that wouldn’t be truthful.
What I can say is, the moment he does so, I jump on his back and wrestle him to the ground. After no small amount of struggling, I get his upper back flattened against the sidewalk and punch Sam Kranson in the face for the thirteenth time.
* * *
Time one: 4th grade. He tried to give me a wedgie.
Time two: 4th grade. He said I smelled like ass.
Time three: 6th grade. He said I was growing tits.
Time four: 8th grade. He asked, “Do you realize you punch me every other year?”
Time five: 9th grade. He was like, “I wonder if that pattern will ever break?”
Time six: 9th grade. He emptied my book bag out in the hallway ’cause he said all the bullies had been doing it to him.
Time seven: 10th grade. He told my first real girlfriend (lie) I kept a single gay porn magazine under my bed.
Times eight through ten: Summer camp before 11th grade. I told him not to put his palms on my face right after he had pet the cat, being that I’m allergic to cats. Got him three times fast shortly after my eyes swelled up.
Time eleven: Sophomore year in college. He got jealous that different girls kept reaching me on my beeper, so he threw it out the passenger-side window.
Time twelve: Two years ago. “Everybody says Teresa’s hot, but I don’t see it.”
* * *
For the record, Sam Kranson’s never punched me back. And if he did, I predict it’d be us in the emergency room till five a.m., he with his hand in an ice bucket.
* * *
“Why’d you do that?!”
His nose is bleeding. There are drops on my upholstery. And worse yet, he’s really asking me that question.
“You insisted upon waving a gun around, remember?”
“I gave you one!”
“So I should have shot you instead of punched you?”
“No! You shouldn’t have done either!”
And now Sam Kranson, all twenty-seven years of him, is sitting in my passenger seat and starting to cry. And I’m telling him, after several moments of silence, I’m sorry I reacted that way, but he really should think about doing less cocaine.
And then he does some right then and there, exclaiming that coke is the only thing to take away the pain.
* * *
Check-in’s fast, lest you count the thousand years it takes us to walk from the Sharks’ parking lot to the front desk. They give us a big suite, which Sam is in awe of but which I’m hoping that psycho Christopher doesn’t dock from the $100k. Sam jumps up and down on the bed, nearly bashing his head against the ceiling, and exclaiming that this is the best time he’s ever had.
Which is wonderful, since every time I’ve heard Sam say that, the time we’re having goes bad with aggressive rapidness.
He then lands on the floor and—all out of breath, nostrils still caked red—says, “We really need to get you a suit. Anthony’s a serious man.”
“I’ve known Anthony since we were eight.”
“Haven’t seen him in a while, though.”
“He wouldn’t have called you for the job if he thought you were wearing suits every day.”
Sam gives me an eternal stare, reporting to me without words that he has absolutely no idea what that could mean.
* * *
But fuck it—why not? I buy a suit. There are so many clothing boutiques downstairs that the idea’s just not worth dismissing. I look good in suits, too—certainly better than my sidekick (who thinks, no surprise, that I’m the sidekick)—and I’ve got half a mind to cap off the whole package with a couple nice slaps of cologne…
And go to Virgin Gardens after our meeting.
Fuck. Goddamn it. Did I just think that?
VG is where I got the blowjob. It’s a special place for T and I (or T and A?). Or at least, it used to be, before I couldn’t hang with the cool kids’ crowd.
Christ, is it possible T wants to break up?
We both know the money’s great. But we also know any time spent with Sam Kranson presents at least a sixty percent chance of death, let alone this particular outing.
Throw in the Vegas factor, and fuck—I hope she’s not texting some other guy right now.
Or worse (better?) yet: texting Allison.
Would I be mad if she “did that” to me?
I really need to get some help. I knew things were bad with me before the zombie outbreak. When it happened, though, there was a month there where I truly thought the world was ending. That made me get a little too absorbed within my fantasies.
Problem was, I couldn’t afford to hit strip clubs, so I’d just drive past them all the time. If I’ve done anything to mislead you into thinking I’m not a mouth-breathing creep, then let me assure you that, boy-next-door looks aside, it was an ugly show.
I’d actually say from behind the wheel, “Should I go in? Just for a minute?”
My voice flat and low like the desert outside.
But I’d drive on. Go home. Say nothing to Teresa.
Though I’d wonder inside if anything other than sex was really worth living for. I mean, come on, it’s the root of all things. The basic life-creating impulse.
Which is not to say I’m any good at harnessing it appropriately.
* * *
Can I tell you how hot T is?
And it’s not just an external thing, ’cause if it were, it wouldn’t run so deep. Her IQ’s 140, all right? She can philosophize you straight down the drain. Can play on words till the alphabet’s dented.
Up all night, she’s had me, illuminating the entire landscape of mortal reality.
And then there’s that skin, which makes peaches feel coarse. And the ass like a melon on the verge of exploding. Tits so supple I think the strippers actually kind of liked it.
Face that could make you weep till dawn, then telephone Merriam-Webster when their office opened and demand they work harder on defining “gratitude.”
When it comes to looks, I’m not unworthy, but come on: The best-looking man on Earth holds no aesthetic candle to the best-looking woman.
Let’s test it: Who’s the best-looking man? Johnny Depp?
Theory proven. He looks like a female.
* * *
I won’t go to the Virgin Gardens.
Even though I might die in the desert before sunrise. Even though Sam pays for everything on these trips (suit, food, room even—he claims).
Even though Sam would love nothing more than to be a party to me cheating on Teresa for the first time.
Whispering (screaming) in my ear: “Bro, wake up! She lets you do it when she’s there! Who cares if she’s not?!”
We hit the elevator. Press the button for the 100th floor.
* * *
I have a theory that Sam keeps Anthony around just so Sam doesn’t look as crazy in comparison.
Not so farfetched when you consider I probably only keep Sam around for the exact same reason.
Oh, that and the fact that he’d kill himself if I ever betrayed him.
Anthony’s not blinking nearly as much as he should. He keeps this up, his eyes are gonna develop some kind of syndrome. His hands are folded atop his desk blotter, the presence of which is inherently amusing since I doubt the guy actually ever writes anything.
“It’s simple,” he says, his voice so mannered that no L.A. casting director would ever grant him the role of himself, “which is why we like it.”
Sam gives an apparent nod of understanding, though there’s nothing at all to understand, save for the facts that Anthony Christopher’s a menacing guy and this is a menacing office.
“There are other men we could hire,” Anthony explains, “but the Los Angeles factor is appealing to us. You complete the business and you leave. No trails of the plan within our community.”
Now Anthony’s standing and walking along the wall behind his desk, his body language bringing to mind a professor before a chalkboard with a pointer, only without the board, the pointer, or the knowledge.
He goes on, “It’s extremely time sensitive as a result of our data. The Dust Pan’s clinic reports a single resident with symptoms. Word came in on that last night. Ten hours ago, our informants confirmed the symptoms have progressed to a Day Two level. The government, of course, was called, as well. We of course cannot control the area. What we can do is count on having no federal presence right away, on account of all the fake tips they’re receiving on their hotlines.”
“What if this tip’s fake, too?” I ask.
Sam’s pupils stretch. Anthony stops walking.
Yeah, right, guys. What was I thinking? Asking a question in a context like this? Shoot me now.
“Our intelligence is good,” Anthony assures me.
“Fair enough. But why us, again? You must know others in other places.”
If I’m not mistaken, that’s actual perspiration forming on Sam’s skin. He thinks I’m talking us out of a job when in truth I’m simply deepening our qualifications. Learned it at the pizza place: The inquisitive participant earns respect, while the silent pushover generates contempt.
Even though, in Anthony’s world, respect and contempt tend to occupy neighboring brain matter.
“We have an understanding with the Kransons,” he says.
Sam nods.
Me: “And you trust us to overtake a woman?”
Now Anthony is smiling at me, a spectacle that would be unsettling were it not for the fact that it affords him half a blink.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never done that before.” He winks.
* * *
My esophagus is a greasy upward crawler as we walk back toward the elevators. Sam’s being silent, which probably means he’s angry about my questions but too scared about the mission to vent right now.
Just as well, ’cause I’d like to stew in my concerns.
They are as follows:
1. Something’s up. We’re not qualified to pull this off. Me? Yes, probably, on the basis of a decent guess. Sam? Never. He once flipped dough with me for half a morning, then had a panic attack and went home in an ambulance.
2. The moment Anthony Christopher insinuated not only that he’s committed rape, but that he expects we have, also, the grim reality of our task struck my system with all the subtlety of a guided missile.
I can’t go through with this. I need Teresa.
I need a patch of calm I can cling to.
* * *
Or a patch of garden, as the case may be.
The Virgin Gardens is still what it used to be. Crowd overflowing to the point where it’s standing room only. Décor so tacky they may as well have stopped time in the ’70s.
And yeah, Teresa wouldn’t like it one bit, but then again she’s not returning my text.
I sent her, “I love you,” right after the meeting, but my phone’s been cold for damn near two hours.
Moreover, in any case, I’m just here to watch. I’m not about to sell my soul in the VIP room. No, no, no—the soul-selling will wait till the early a.m. shift, when we descend upon the Pan in search of a captive.
But now—what’s this? An Asian stripper in my lap. Plopped down as though from a gracious cloud. And speaking of clouds, her perfume builds its own little planet around me. My cheeks are twitching upward: I am smiling.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I’m like.
She goes, “What’s your name?”
I think to lie for no reason, then say, “Henry.”
“Hi, Henry. I’m Kiki.”
I have to laugh. Teresa’s a quarter Filipino. “Kiki” means pussy in Tagalog.
“Hi, Kiki.”
“Is this your friend?”
She’s referring to the now-definitely-perspiring spectacle seated in the chair to my right, looking up at the stage as though he’s entirely unaware of the female in my lap. This is what happens; it’s the strangest thing: For our entire lives, every time I’ve shined for even the briefest moment, Sam Kranson takes leave of his senses and SOMEHOW FAILS TO NOTICE. It’s remarkable, really. He should get that checked out.
Speaking of checking out, this Kiki’s not without a body. She’s causing my blood to make a run from my heart. I know right-then that my plan has changed.
We’re soon in the VIP with a stack of Kranson bills.
* * *
Only I ask her not to dance.
“Why?” she says, seeming hurt or maybe scared. “What are we supposed to do?”
Briefly, I picture the bj from back when.
“I need to talk to you for a second,” I say to Kiki. “Can you sit down?”
She does. Says, “I still have to be paid.”
I break off two hundred bucks, and she’s suddenly the essence of Zen. Putting her hand on my thigh (Hard. On.) she asks what’s up.
“I’m addicted to you guys,” I say to her. “Or at least I’m close. Have you seen that before?”
“You’re not addicted. If you were, you’d be begging for a dance.”
“I’m only not ’cause I love my girlfriend.”
She smiles, and she seems genuinely happy. “You are?! That’s so sweet!”
I smile back, knowing full well the line between real and fake with these girls is so fine Sam could sniff it through a straw.
“Yeah,” I say. “But I’m slipping. I’m gonna fuck it up. I can’t have sex with her, ’cause…”
She’s looking at me. Deep Asian eyes. No judgment in them; for her, a chat is probably a welcome break.
“…we did some things with strippers. Like, naughty. And it was real hot.”
“Aw, that’s fun.”
“It was. But now I can’t get turned on by anything else.” I smile. “You guys do a number on people.”
She smiles back. “You can’t blame us. You have to be responsible for yourself.”
I nod. I know. “I know.”
“I’ve worked here for four months,” she says, “and there’s guys that are in here five times a week. They’re like zombies.”
We look at each other, silently acknowledging the recent headlines.
“How do I get it to not happen to me?”
“You love this girl, right?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“Well, you have to follow that. It was nice of her to let you play, but that can’t be the only item on the menu. Girls don’t like that.”
“The fucked-up thing was, she offered me a real threesome. You know, with a friend. But I couldn’t because it was too much pressure. And at the same time, I want it more than anything.”
For a moment, Kiki presses a finger against my forehead. “Aw, sweetie, you’re all mixed up. You’re getting sucked into the fantasy. But you can’t not have reality.”
I nod.
She says, “What you have to do is—and this is what my roommate told me—you have to every day, make sure that what you think, what you say, and what you do are all in alignment. That’s the only way to be happy.”
I think it over. “Sounds impossible.”
“Hey, if it were easy, everybody’d be happy as fuck. But they’re not.”
“But it’s still worth trying.”
* * *
I’m a new man after my non-lapdance.
Clapping his thighs, Sam gets up and says to me, “Are you ready to hit this?”
He means the mission.
What I think: “No.”
What I say: “Yeah.”
What I do: Go with Sam by taxi back to the Sharks.
Which is fitting since I feel like I’ll be eaten.