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Good Monsters
by Michael Channing
Chapter Two: "Mood for Zombies"
I guess this is my hometown. People do this, right? Go back, visit the old neighborhood. I don't really want to see that house again. I left when I was eighteen. Worked a dozen jobs, gave away my heart a few times, got it back each time more damaged than before. I've had a life between leaving and now. Wouldn't call it great, but it hasn't really sucked. I have fuck all invested in this place.
So why am I back?
Of course I'd never been here before. In this building, in this apartment. It's different enough, I suppose. Meet the new me. Same as the old me.
"You need some help?"
She was young and pale and dressed in black leather and lace. Dark purple hair, a few less piercings than a dartboard. I guess the kids these days call that goth. Reminded me of a TV fright-night host.
"No, I'm good." I was carrying a couple of boxes labeled "movies." The hall was narrow, and goth chick was in my way.
"What kind of movies you got?"
"Scary ones."
"I like scary movies," she said.
You are a scary movie. "Yeah. Me, too." I shifted the boxes in my arms, hoping she'd get the hint. She didn't move.
"You got your TV and everything set up yet?" she said.
"Not yet. But that's the first thing on my list." The only thing, really. My to-do lists tended to be easy to clear.
"Wanna watch a movie over here?" She cocked her head toward her apartment. 3G. An ankh was drawn on the door in what looked like charcoal. "Do you like tea?"
"Sure," I said, unsure of which question I'd just answered.
"Cool. I'll see you in a bit."
I dropped the boxes in the middle of my apartment, surveyed my new kingdom. Mysterious stains on the couch that came with the place. Nail holes in the walls. Threadbare carpet. Boxes full of all my collected crap. I unfolded the penknife on my keyring, slit open Box Number One, and lifted out Good Old Frankie.
"What do you think, Frankie? This place monster-free?" Frankie had nothing to say. I placed him on top the TV set, made sure he faced the door. "Up for a movie?" I asked Frankie, myself, the hopefully empty apartment. The VCR and DVD player were on the floor, the vine-work of cables ready to be reattached. And I was in the mood for zombies.
Every move I tell myself I'll label the movie boxes better. And every time I find myself wanting a certain flick on the first night but unable to figure which damn carton it was in. I slit open half a dozen before I found my stack of Romero. I dug down, pulled out Dawn of the Dead. Zombies were the only drug I could never say no to. None of my exes could stand them. So why do I keep expecting them to? And why do I keep thinking about next door?
"Come on in," she said, pointing at the couch. "I didn't know when you were coming over, so I haven't put the water on yet. You still want some?"
"Want some what?"
"Tea. You want some tea?"
"Yeah."
"What kind?
""Whatever you're having."
"Hmm." She slid open a drawer, removed tin. "What am I in the mood for?" Inside the tin were teabags.
To be honest, I was expecting a dungeon. Walls painted black, decorated with bones or stuffed birds. Maybe some skull-shaped candles and a snake in a terrarium. But the place was pretty normal. Which was weirding me out, because normal people don't wear safety pins in their ears and eyebrows.
"This one's nice. You like pumpkin?" She held up a tea bag, which looked like every other teabag I'd ever seen.
"Looks good."
She set a kettle to boil on the stove. Sat down on the floor. Looked up at me sitting on the couch. "What'd you bring?" She swiped the DVD out of my hand before I could answer. "Dawn of the Dead. This is like the Citizen Kane of zombie movies, right?"
"Some people say so. Others say Night 'cause it was the first."
"Well I've seen Night of the Living Dead. After this, we'll discuss."
"Really?"
"That's why I asked you over. Start it up, neighbor."
"What's your name? I never asked."
"Pin. What's yours?"
"Pin?"
"No, that's my name. You should get your own."
"Like a writing pen or a push pin?"
"Like a stick pin. A straight pin. Now back to you."
"I'm John."
"Really?"
"You think I'm lying?"
"No, it's just I never would have guessed John. I figured you for something else."
"Like what?"
"Don't know. Just not John."
"I'm not that thrilled about it myself."
"How come?"
"'Cause it was my dad's." Way to go champ; a whole ten minutes before you start unburdening. I think we have a new record.
"You can change it, you know."
"Yeah, but that costs money."
"Why? Just pick a new name and go with it. That's what I did."
"That's not a bad idea." Actually, it was fucking brilliant. Why hadn't I ever done that? "I wonder what my new name could be."
"We'll figure something out."
We? When did it become "we"?
The kettle whistled steam. Pin poured water into two big mugs, dropped a teabag and a stirring spoon into each. Handed one to me. The mug was pastel yellow, her fingernails black.
We sat down and sipped tea and watched zombies get shotgunned and decapitated. It was all so normal.
And good. I hadn't expected much from today. A movie and a little unpacking. Good was certainly not on my itinerary.
The movie got to the shopping mall, and the heroes started securing the building. Pin said, "If the world was full of zombies, that's what I'd do. I'd get all my friends together, and we'd board up like that. And take care of each other."
She gets it. Most of it anyway. And just like that, in less than an hour, I was home.
I slid down from the couch and sat next to her on the floor. On the TV, a zombie's head popped like a blood-filled cyst. I put my arm across Pin's shoulders and felt at rest. For a change.
