Book #2: Chapter 4 - Dead Men Walking

The other day, I realized that I am a zombie.

I woke up and had a blueberry muffin, like I always do on Thursdays, when suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was Old Man Peters. He was complaining that my daughter had parked her car in his space. The problem was, my daughter was dead. She hadn't died very long ago. Or even a few days earlier. And she didn't suffer. Because as it turns out, my daughter was never born at all.

He was gravely concerned that there was a green 1998 Dodge Neon parked in his parking space, registered under my name, which I had never told him as we were never properly introduced. Hello, my name is Motorbike St. Francis, and I'm an alcoholic. Nice to type words at you.

Even though Mr. Man Peters didn't have a car, he might have the notion to order one on a whim from an online dealership that is being built on the outskirts of Match.com , and he would thus need to park his vehicle in his assigned tract of land that, should the government decide to build a business bypass, could be taken from him at any time for fair market value, which as it turns out is not very much for land you don't own.

I lost my train of thought. Oh yes, the muffin. It was rather dry and boisterous, smelled like raspberries, and tasted as if it was composed of earthworms. As I discovered several hours later after I threw it up, there had actually been a few earthworms baked into its center. As well as a used condom wrapper. Though I must admit, either of those items could have been ingested by myself during a different incident later tonight.

Before that happens though, I should describe to you the long discussion I had with my pillow the other night. It turns out that he wants to travel to Europe and see the sights. Maybe backpack for a year until he decides what he wants to do with his life. Settle down in Seattle or St. Paul, Minnesota after that. The sky's the limit. If you're young, don't have many responsibilities, have dreams about seeing the world, and you're a blue flannel pillow, you can go anywhere you want. Short of traveling into space or the air, because pillows can't fly or rocket launch themselves into space - as of the writing of this publication - and thus why I mentioned earlier that said sky is in fact the upper limit, so to speak, on interplanetary travel by home furnishings.

For example, a spare water faucet would not be able to visit the van Allen belt, unless it happens to be hired by NASA in the near future. But as I hear, they have a hiring freeze. And he was designed in France so he would probably have to be really top notch to get a government job. Built in filter, gold plated. Something along those lines.

Anyway I am worried about him. He will be gone from my life for at least a year or two, but since he wants to live in places I would barely want to visit I doubt he will be back. I'll probably never see him again. What happens to people you never see. To you they're gone forever. They're almost dead. And after so much time passes, it's like you can never see them again. But you never got to really say goodbye.

And if you do ever perchance meet them again, it won't be the same. They're a ghost in the machine. The person you knew is gone. Replaced by a replica. Their shadow. They're gone. They're zombies.

Did I ever tell you about the time my daughter went to the playground? She would ride all the animals, and I would push her for hours in the swings. But she really loved the slide. She would spend hours and hours sliding down, yelling "look at meeeeee!" and climbing right back up. All the other kids didn't share her enthusiasm, but that was ok. I could always tell all the other parents were jealous. Even though she had never been born, she was happier than their kids seemed to be. She didn't get in trouble in school. She didn't get diagnosed with manic depression or colic or have this throbbing pain in her side that isn't really a disease and never goes away. She seemed to be pretty happy really. By comparison.

I hope the yen is doing well, relative to other world currencies. I feel bad for it I guess. And the broccoli farmers. Their jobs are hard. I wonder if they like StarCraft. Maybe they have to farm other vegetables so they're not so destitute. Tobacco maybe. I wonder if they sleep ok at nighttimes. I guess I should write my congressman to see if he is doing anything about the problem.

Anyway, thanks. I'll be here all week. As I said before, I am a zombie, and the undead tend to hang around for a while until they finish up whatever it is they're here to do. I mean, we're here to do. Eat brains, visit art museums, donate to the Red Cross and such.

I would like to own a painting depicting a planet where donut holes are sentient, and people don't have to be dead to seem happy.

Goodbye.

Labels: A Book for Oprah's Book Club