Zombie Monica
D. E. Fredd
STORY SUMMARY:
Can two socially and sexually inept people with little in common find happiness together--probably not.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
D. E. Fredd lives in Townsend, Massachusetts. He has had fiction and poetry appear in several literary journals and reviews. He received the Theodore Hoepfner Award given by the Southern Humanities Review for the best short fiction of 2005. A novel, Exiled to Moab, will debut this December. He teaches Writing and Literature at New Hampshire Community Technical College.
“They’re the ultimate victims. In fact zombies are victimized twice! Once when they get infected, and then as outcasts shunned by society, which always shows them as stiff-legged, moaning retards. Three times if you count when they finally die by a wooden stake.”
My dining companion for the evening was Monica Epstein. I had just received my PhD, a special occasion. Monica is always my special occasion date. In high school I went to her prom; she went to mine. I have been her date for several family weddings and celebrated the completion of her certificate program from massage school. She’s reciprocated at all my graduations. Over fifteen years time this was our fairly straightforward routine. Attend the special event, then dinner at a nice restaurant (always splitting the check), and back to the celebrant’s apartment for drinks and sex before a friendly goodbye hug the next morning.
The zombie comments I was trying to endure were apropos of my mentioning the poet Shelley which led her to Mary Shelly which led to Frankenstein which somehow transitioned to zombies. When I questioned whether Victor Frankenstein’s monster was really a zombie as such, I was given a perturbed wave of the wrist and a sarcastic ‘whatever’”.
“You know there are two zombie types: voodoo and Hollywood. I don’t know which portrayal I hate worse. Yet the public is fascinated. I’ll bet you could turn on the TV right now and find a movie.”
“The only zombie film I ever thought was any good was Shaun of the Dead, a comedy.”
“See, that’s what I mean. I’ve never seen the movie, but that’s another way they are victimized; people making fun of them, like clowns or court jesters in the olden castle days.”
“Could we change the subject?”
“I didn’t realize I was boring you, but you know how passionate I get about things. Anyway, it’s your party tonight so we’ll talk about what you want to.”
“It’s not that I want to hog the conversational spotlight; I’m just not into zombies. To tell you the truth, I’m depressed.”
“Gee, that’s not like you.”
“I think it’s because I’m done with school. I’ve taken every history and literature course out there so I probably have to start looking for a job. I don’t have the personality to teach so what do I do with all these degrees? Take an entry-level position in some stupid business and brownnose my way up the ladder?”
“I feel the same way, a big emptiness. We’re both 34. My career is about to hit a brick wall. Do you know how long massage therapists last? Eight years before the arms and wrists go. Next month will be ten years, so I’m living on borrowed time. I think we’re both at a dead end.”
“I suppose I could stay in school, maybe start studying foreign languages. I always thought Dutch was interesting.”
“You know the last time I had sex was nine months ago with you at my parents fiftieth wedding bash. I can’t get a man to save my life. Two weeks ago a client, Mrs. Baumholtz, fixed me up with her nephew. The conversation was dragging so I offered up my zombie opinions.”
“He dumped his drink on you?”
“No, he said he was going to the bathroom and never came back. I sat for twenty minutes, then asked the waiter to look if he was sick or something. I was embarrassed and probably lost a good client to boot.”
“At least you had a date.”
“You’re a guy. You have the advantage. It happens all the time in movies. Men walk up to women and get their numbers. I have to sit around, wait and hope.”
“Did you ever try a dating club?”
“Please!”
“I’ve been thinking about those speed dates, eight minutes and then someone else comes to your table.”
“Do you think we’ll ever give up looking for a soul mate, bite the bullet and just get together?”
“I don’t know; it’s possible.”
“We’re both losers, you know. I don’t like to be mean. I know I bore people to death and, if you thought the zombie topic was poison, you should have listened to your Dostoyevsky “murder” novels speech. Was that your dissertation?”
“Actually it was.”
“Well, don’t go near it if you do the speed dating thing.”
“I know I’m not very good at sex.”
“Well, however bad you are you can’t hold a candle to me. I can never concentrate on it because I get bladder issues when I’m nervous. I‘m always afraid I’ll pee on you.”
“So we’re losers.”
“I didn’t mean it in the ‘loser’ loser sense. We’re just, well, regular, normal everyday losers.”
“I suppose, if we moved in together, it would cut expenses.”
“You might not have to work. You could stay in school and learn Dutch. I have health insurance.”
“You know I don’t like to talk very much.”
“And I run off at the mouth all the time, but I don’t mind when you ignore me. I have the thickest skin of anyone I know.”
“If we did do this, you should know I’m not big on kids.”
“Oh god, could you see us as parents. Just have the child welfare people already in the delivery room to take custody right then and there.”
“Pets?”
“Can’t tolerate them, should all be exterminated starting with the cutest.”
“I guess we could begin this weekend? See how things work out, do a test run for a few weeks. I mean our families already think we are an item because every six months or so we appear at each others functions.”
“And if the trial doesn’t work out, we’ll go back to the old way.”
“I feel bad about the sex issue and making you nervous.”
“Wait until you witness my irritable bowel syndrome kick in. Where the hell’s that waiter anyway?”
