This was madness. What the hell was he thinking? Karl punched his thighs and attempted to refocus. He was out of practice in the hunger racket. He’d become accustomed to eating regularly again, and now, three days empty, he was going mental.
He stood up and did some jumping jacks and toe touches; grade school calisthenics. He looked in the mirror. Five-and-a-half-feet of solid dork. He trotted into the kitchenette and tore open a Slim Jim, devouring it in three barely chewed bites. Then another. And another. He attempted to eradicate the pungent aftertaste with two cans of Mountain Dew, then felt buzzy as the double shot of caffeine coursed through his system, accompanied by a volley of violent vurps.
An image of Mona popped into his forebrain, tan and bare bellied, radiant as Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus.” Karl snatched the Bible off the floor and contemplated swatting himself in the groin to subdue any impure thoughts. Sinners of yore were often self-flagellants. Did medieval times call for medieval measures of self-purification? The caffeine, the caffeine, the caffeine. And whatever dastardly additives there were in those Slim Jims. Oh mercy.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he groaned as he swatted himself in the ’nads.
31
“So what’s your story?” Ellen asked as Mona sat across from her. They were seated in Mona’s apartment, one by each window, Ellen slowly rocking in the Spiteri’s creaking old rocker, Mona motionless in her usual chair, feet propped on the windowsill.
“My story?”
“I don’t mean to sound confrontational. Or intrusive. I’m sorry. But yes, your story. Where are you from? Who were your parents, what is your background? Who are you, basically? How do you survive? How come the things don’t attack you?”
“I guess they don’t like me.”
Ellen frowned at Mona’s stock response. “No, I mean really. Okay, look, I don’t want you to feel like you’re on the spot. This isn’t an interrogation. Just two girls having a chin-wag, okay? Where are you from?”
“Here.”
“Here, where?”
“Around here.”
“Yorkville.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What street?” It’s like pulling teeth.
“Seventy-seventh. And Second.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. I grew up in Melville, Long Island. You know where that is? It’s near Huntington. I went to Walt Whitman High School. Where did you go to high school?”
“Didn’t finish.”
“I see. But before you didn’t finish, where did you go?”
“Talent Unlimited.”
“Really? That’s a performing arts school, isn’t it? You went there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay,” Ellen said, stretching out the second vowel, and when that produced no elaboration, added, “And what did you take? What was your talent?” Did that come out sarcastic? This girl was unbelievable. She was the most unforthcoming individual Ellen had ever met and it was really trying her patience. But she’d break her, yes she would. What was her talent? Stonewalling?
“Singing.”
“Really? And yet you’re so quiet.” Again, was that sarcastic? Ellen couldn’t tell, but apparently neither could Mona, who sat there, unruffled as ever.
“Uh-huh.”
“What kind of singing? Jazz? Gospel? Pop?” Pop? Ellen felt like an old lady.
“Opera. Mezzo-soprano.”
Unbelievable. Ellen took a few to absorb this startling tidbit. Whether Mona had been any good or not-or for that matter was still any good-was immaterial. It was almost unimaginable that this introverted girl sang opera. And what about the din always pummeling her eardrums? That wasn’t opera. Had Mona dreamt of segueing from opera to heavy metal? Hadn’t Pat Benatar done something along those lines? Who could remember? Was it a lie? Was Mona fucking with her? Why would she?
She wouldn’t.
“Isn’t this nice? Getting to know each other?” Ellen smiled hopefully, Mona looked back at her noncommittally and then gazed out the window. Ellen wanted to get out of her seat, casually step over to Mona, gently lift Mona’s chin so that they were looking into each other’s eyes, and then slap the living shit out of her. Ellen had tried, but seriously, enough was enough.
What if the embryo taking form in her uterus turned out to be like Mona? Was it something in the air? Maybe Mona had been a vital, zesty, free spirit before all this-an opera-crooning voluptuary. Maybe the same contaminant that spawned the living dead had stunted her personality. Maybe this was some kind of autism. Certain mold could cause that in developing babies. Maybe she was just displaying the symptoms before the rest of them, a result of her youth. That was a possibility. Maybe she was the first, but in time they’d all follow. Nature was all about adaptation. Mona had forged invisible armor. The zombies didn’t attack her, but maybe the cost of survival was death of the self.
It makes sense. To survive one must adapt.
But what kind of life is that?
Though it was way too early for the agglomeration of cells in her uterus to do anything independent, Ellen felt a kick in the guts nonetheless.
“I’m jerking off to paintings of a fully clothed girl’s ankles. Wow, I’m so fucking great I can’t stand it. I am the man. I am the greatest living artist and this is what it comes down to. And I had issues about doing whacking material for Eddie? I’m pathetic. Path-et-ic.” Alan tossed the soggy wad of tissue out the window. “Fresh protein, kids!” he shouted to the crowd below. One looked up as the jizz-bomb bounced off his empty eye socket. Alan laughed. “S’matter, Gomez, you don’t like daddy milk?”
He stepped away from the window, no pants, just a sweat-sodden T-shirt. Not since junior high school had he masturbated to his own art, and it didn’t feel good. This was not how he’d envisioned his thirties. But then again, none of the current climate fit the vision of his future he’d had in his past. By thirty he was supposed to have had at least one solo show in Soho, Paris, and London. By thirty he was supposed to have at least one hardbound monograph of his works. By thirty he was supposed to have found true, everlasting love. By thirty a lot of things were supposed to have happened.
Alan sat down across from his most recent canvas, a half-finished portrait of the enigmatic Ms. Luft. The painting was perched on the easel. Behind it was the wall of Mona portraits surrounded by the halo of zombie studies. Across the room were the Ellen canvases and drawings. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex. Had they done it since she’d announced her pregnancy? No. Here he was jerking off to the image of a person who was barely there when he had a real, live, fleshed-out, fully dimensional woman to love. Classic. “Fuck you, Erma Bombeck,” Alan sniped. “I gotta eat something. I gotta eat some peaches. I need a sugar fix. That’s what I’m gonna do. And I’m gonna announce it first and then do it. I’m going to speak in declarative statements announcing my imminent actions and then do them. I am going to get some canned peaches, open the can, eat the contents and then fling myself out the window. What? No. No I won’t.”
But why not?
“Mona’s right. We shouldn’t have guns. Because right about now, a 9 mm lead sandwich sounds very appetizing.”
Alan chugged the peaches, sputtering as he choked on the last couple of slices, a small, stinging upsurge of syrup leaking out his left nostril. His mother used to scold him for wolfing his food-another indication of his regression. Alan wiped the syrup off his nose and chin and then licked it off his hand, which he hadn’t washed off since he’d masturbated. Wonderful. Washed off. Bathed. There was a quaint custom gone dodo. Mona had at least scored cases of Purell, so Alan traipsed over and pumped a couple of squirts into his palm and cleaned up. He stroked some onto his wilted penis, too, which stung as the alcohol penetrated the sensitive skin. “There, all germ free,” he said, as if it mattered. “Cucumber Melon,” he mused aloud, looking at the label. “As if. Still, it smells nice.”