Breathers (14 page)

When I open the door, Jerry is standing there in the darkness with a backpack slung over one shoulder, his Oakland A's hat on sideways, and a big
surprise
grin on his face. Next to him, Tom wears a less enthusiastic expression, though he does raise his remaining arm to give a halfhearted, salutatory wave.

“Andy my man,” says Jerry. “What's shakin’?”

I motion toward the television, where Robert Shaw is sliding down the deck of his ship to his impending death, then I take a swig of Bordeaux and offer Tom a taste. He declines. Jerry doesn't wait for the offer. He reaches for the bottle and turns it nearly upside down into his upturned mouth, reminding me of a nestling about to receive a regurgitated meal. Which isn't too far from the truth.

Seconds later, Jerry's road rash face contorts and he pulls the bottle away before spraying a mouthful of red wine onto the floor.

“Dude!” he says, spitting. “What the hell is in that stuff?”

I reach into the pockets of my sweatpants and pull out two Oreo cookies.

“Oh man,” he says, continuing to spit out wine, saliva, and soggy Oreo cookie onto my floor. “That's gross.”

Tom reaches his left hand toward the cookies. “Can I have one of those?”

I hand him both, which he consumes without a trace of joy, then I take the wine back from Jerry before he drops the bottle and wastes any more wine. From the looks of it, there's already about $37.50 worth of Chateau La Tour Haut-Brion on the floor.

“Forget the wine and cookies,” says Jerry, with one final spit. “Put on your shoes. It's boys’ night out.”

It sounds tempting, but it's after 9:00 p.m. After my most recent trip to the SPCA, my father is about one more protest from dismembering me himself, so even without the midnight curfew, I'm reluctant to take an unchaperoned excursion. Then Jerry says the magic words.

“We're going to Ray's.”

In less than two minutes we're out the door and around the back of the house on our way toward the gully. Jerry explains how he thought a visit to Ray might help to cheer up Tom, give him a chance to stop freaking out about his arm. Maybe there's some truth to Jerry's motives, but I have a feeling Tom was more likely corralled so Jerry could look through more of Ray's
Playboy
collection.

Tom has a tough time negotiating the gully with his right arm missing. Even Jerry slips a couple of times and lands hard on his tailbone, letting out a curse and hitching his pants back up. Maybe it's because I'm excited to visit Ray. Maybe it's because I've made this trip dozens of times. But for some reason, I don't have any trouble at all. Not a slip or a stumble. It's as if I've finally figured out how my new body works.

We stick to the side streets and undeveloped land as much as possible, avoiding the heart of the Soquel Village altogether, coming out onto Old San Jose Road just before the field where we first saw Ray and the twins. A couple of cars pass by, but other than a belated honk and a shout of “Freaks,” we arrive at the granary without incident.

“Animal Control,” announces Jerry as he opens the back door and steps inside.

Tom follows Jerry and I bring up the rear. Light is flickering off the granary's stone walls. Even before I see Ray, I hear his voice.

“Come on in,” he says with his farm-boy twang that makes me think we'll find him milking a cow. Instead, he's sitting behind the fire facing us, a bottle of beer in one hand and a half-empty Mason jar of deer meat next to him. The twins are nowhere to be seen.

Ray takes a swig of beer and nods at us. “I see you've brought a new friend.”

“This is Tom,” says Jerry.

Tom hasn't spoken a single word since asking me for the Oreo cookies. Apparently he's hungry because he points to the Mason jar on the ground next to Ray and says, “What's that?”

“Ray's Resplendent Rapture,” says Ray, scooping out a piece with a fork. “Venison. Freshly preserved. You're welcome to a jar if you're hungry.”

“I'm vegetarian,” says Tom, with a trace of reluctance.

“To each his own,” says Ray. “But believe me when I say that you don't know what you're missing.”

Tom may not know what he's missing, but I do, so I drag myself over to the fire and sit down next to Ray, who provides me with a jar and a fork.

Jerry isn't interested in food. “I brought these back,” he says, pulling a stack of
Playboy
s from his backpack with the reverence of an archaeologist unearthing ancient manuscripts. “Could I borrow some more?”

“Sure you don't want to keep those a little longer?” asks Ray.

“Nah,” says Jerry. “I scanned all the pictures into my computer
and printed them up. I almost have enough to cover my bedroom ceiling.”

Jerry says this with a sense of pride.

If Jerry were a Breather, he could just log on to Playboy.com and download the pictures directly to his computer. But since the undead are prohibited from using the Internet, Jerry has to do it the old-fashioned way.

“Take your pick,” says Ray, motioning to the storage area behind me. “And help yourself to a jar if you're so inclined.”

While Jerry switches out his issues of
Playboy
, I dig into my jar of deer meat like a kid digging into an ice-cream sundae. It tastes kind of like chicken, but with a gamier quality that makes me think of moving stealthily through a forest in search of a meal. I never went hunting for deer or duck or anything that didn't already come prepackaged in the refrigerated section of Safeway. Never even cast a fishing line. But sitting here by the fire, shoveling preserved deer meat between my lips with the juices running down my chin, I feel almost primal.

Tom is still standing a few feet from the fire, rubbing his empty right arm socket and looking like the last kid waiting to be picked for kickball.

“Don't just stand there,” says Ray. “Pull up a beer.”

Tom considers this, then nods and sits down while Ray grabs four bottles of Budweiser from his storage. After handing one to each of us, he takes a seat across the fire from Tom.

“Here's to new friends and old habits,” says Ray, raising his bottle.

“And to pictures of naked women,” says Jerry, sitting down with half a dozen
Playboy
s.

Tom and I say nothing—Tom because he's obviously self-conscious
and me because I can't. And I'm too busy shoveling deer meat into my mouth.

For several minutes there's nothing but the sounds of eating, drinking, and the turning of magazine pages, accompanied by an occasional “Oh my God!” from Jerry.

“So Tom,” says Ray, “what's your story?”

Tom takes a sip of beer and says, “I was mauled by a pair of Presa Canarios.”

“Ouch,” says Ray. “That had to hurt.”

“Yeah,” says Tom, fingering the flaps of flesh on his face. “I probably should have stuck to poodles.”

“You part of the 'survivor’ group?” asks Ray.

“Hey, Tom,” says Jerry before Tom can respond. Jerry holds up one of the magazines to display Miss September 1997. “You want to look through one of these?”

Tom stares at the centerfold for several moments before shaking his head. Like me, I think he's more self-conscious than uninterested. What man wouldn't be curious to see more when he's looking at a two-foot, full-body, glossy image of a twenty-year-old blonde in high heels and strategically displaced lace undergarments? But when you have only one arm, it's tough to turn the pages of a magazine and drink a beer. Trying to eat venison out of a jar is hard enough. I have to wedge the jar in the crook of my right leg to keep the jar from falling over.

“So,” says Ray, “did the dog take your arm, too?”

Tom looks around, as if waiting for someone else to answer, until he realizes the question has been directed at him.

“No,” says Tom, looking down into his beer. “It was stolen.”

“Stolen?” says Ray.

Reluctantly, Tom recounts the stolen arm fiasco in the Oakwood Memorial Cemetery.

“Do you know where these frat boys live?” asks Ray.

“They belong to Sigmund Chai,” says Jerry.

“Sigma Chi,” says Tom.

“Whatever.”

Jerry has pulled a jar of Ray's Resplendent Rapture over to him and is unscrewing the lid as he continues to flip through the September 1997 issue.

“Have you tried to get your arm back?” asks Ray.

Tom shakes his head. “We talked about it, but decided it was too much trouble.”

“It's too much trouble to take back something that belongs to you?” asks Ray.

We hadn't looked at it like that before, but since he put it that way …

“Hey,” says Jerry, licking his fingers, his mouth half full of venison. “This stuff is pretty good. You should try some, Tom.”

“I'm vegetarian.”

“That's bullshit,” says Jerry. “You told me you eat fish.”

“That's not the same,” says Tom. “There's a difference between meat and fish.”

“Whatever,” says Jerry, displaying the universal gesture for masturbation.

“I've got some tuna if you want some,” says Ray, getting up. “Anyone want another beer?”

Both Jerry and I raise a hand.

“You have tuna?” says Tom in disbelief.

“Freshly caught and jarred,” says Ray, climbing into his storage area. “Though I can't take credit for catching it myself.”

“Who caught it?” asks Tom.

“Friend of mine,” says Ray, appearing with a jar and three more beers. He hands a bottle to Jerry and me, then presents the jar of tuna and a fork to Tom.

From where I'm sitting, the stuff in the jar looks just like venison, but then my vision isn't what it used to be.

Tom holds the jar up to the light of the fire, then secures the jar between his feet, unscrews the lid, and lifts the jar to sniff the contents.

“It doesn't smell like tuna,” says Tom.

“Let me know what you think,” says Ray. “I haven't sampled it myself yet.”

With his fork, Tom removes a sliver of the tuna and places it on his tongue. An expression that looks like doubt furrows his brow, but he takes another sample, using all three tines this time, and his eyebrows do a little dance above his partially devoured face.

“It's good,” he says, plunging his fork in again and removing a chunk of tuna, the juices glistening in the flicker of the fire as he slides the tuna off the fork and into his mouth. “It's really good.”

For the next few minutes the conversation stops as Tom devours the contents of his jar and Jerry returns to the hedonism of his magazines. Before I've finished my second beer, Tom has emptied the jar and is using his finger to clean out the remaining residue.

“If you want, I'd be happy to send you home with some more,” says Ray.

“Thanks,” says Tom, licking his fingers. “That would be great.”

“In fact, you're all welcome to take home a jar,” says Ray. “In return, all I ask is your help with something I'd like to remedy.”

“Sure,” says Tom.

“What is it?” asks Jerry.

“Gaack,” I say.

e're riding in a 2001 Chevy Lumina with Ray behind the wheel and Jerry riding shotgun. I'm behind Jerry while Tom sits to my left, looking nervous and uncomfortable. With my dead left arm and Tom's missing right arm, I feel like we're conjoined twins adjusting to our recent separation.

Ray has the Lumina's radio tuned to KPIG 107.5, a local central-coast station that plays a mix of country, folk, and classic rock and roll. As we drive north along the frontage road of Highway 1 on our way toward downtown Santa Cruz, the interior of the Lumina is filled with The Who's “Magic Bus.”

I've heard the song dozens of times, but coming out of the speakers behind me are unfamiliar background vocals, slightly off-key, but in harmony with one another. Still, I can barely make them out over Jerry's falsetto butchering of the lyrics.

I stare out the window as Ray turns the Lumina away from the highway and drives through some residential streets, skirting the main thoroughfares. I probably shouldn't be here, considering my fat her i s one hydrogen sulphide fart away from sending me off to a zombie zoo, but what am I supposed to do?
Sit in my room all the time channel surfing from reality TV to unimaginative sitcoms to movies edited for television with two hundred commercial breaks trying to sell me products I'm not allowed to purchase and can't use?