Zombie Tales: Primrose Court Apt. 502 (2 page)

Tommy plopped down on the window sill
and leaned out as he lit his cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to smoke
in the apartment, it was in their rental agreement, but he hated
walking down all those stairs to suck down a cancer stick and then
walk all the way back up. Sure, he had signed the contract when he
was granted power of attorney over his mother and became
responsible for the lease, but Tommy and the property managers had
an understanding; they didn’t complain about his smoking in the
apartment and he didn’t to them about how the elevator hadn’t
worked in four years.

There was shouting from the courtyard
below and Tommy leaned out over the ledge to investigate. Mrs.
Grimly, from the second floor, was standing far below with her
hands on her hips. She had that odd way of weaving her head back
and forth, as she cussed out her husband in Spanish. Tommy wondered
if that attitude was genetic or if Mexican mothers pulled their
little girls off to the side and gave them lessons in
secret.

Mr. Grimly was standing in front of her
with his hands spread wide, palms up, placating. The top of his
balding head looked shiny from this angle. He had his hands full,
Tommy knew. That young Hispanic diva had the body of a goddess and
the mouth of a truck driver. Anything she wanted, she got. Marrying
a stripper probably seemed like a dream come true when Mr. Grimly
proposed, but the wedding had come and gone two years ago and Mr.
Grimly still hadn’t been able to convince Mrs. Grimly to hang up
her eight-inch, transparent stilettos.

Now he got to deal with his wife going
off and rubbing her firm tits in the face of creepy dudes while she
tried not to grind too hard on the bulge in their sweatpants. It
didn’t sound like marital bliss to Tommy, and judging from the
irate, ranting down in the courtyard, it didn’t sound like marital
bliss to the rest of their neighbors either.

Tommy watched the middle-aged Mr.
Grimly struggle to defuse the situation. He cooed soft, apologetic
words at his young wife, too soft for Tommy to make them out. Mrs.
Grimly chattered back with her thick Spanish accent at such a speed
that Tommy couldn’t follow her words either, something about a
whore and money from what he could tell.

Tommy took one last drag from his
cigarette and stamped the butt out in the ashtray he kept on the
ledge. Looked like today was a rough day for a lot of
people.

He crossed the room and
flipped on the stereo. After a few seconds of winding and clicking,
the old Panasonic began to read the CD and Tony Lommi began
hammering out one of his grinding, guitar riffs. Tommy spun the
volume knob up to drown out Barbara Walters’s tight-mouthed,
crackle of a voice. Of all his mother’s shows, he hated
The View
the
most.

“That sounds so wonderful, John,” his
mother said over the music, “You’re definitely going to make it big
someday.”

Tommy crossed back through to the
kitchen and began rummaging through the fridge. There wasn’t much
to rummage through. He hadn’t bothered to go shopping in more than
a week. He pulled a Hot Pocket from the freezer and flipped it out
of the cellophane wrapper onto a paper plate. He plugged the
microwave back in and pushed 3-3-3-START on the dial. The light
popped on and his breakfast began the rotating ride on the carousel
that would mark its final moments as a quick snack; tomorrow
morning it would begin its new existence as human waste and start
its long, dark journey through the city sewers.

Tommy rubbed his puffy eyes and moved
to the sink to get a glass of water. Maybe the roaches had more of
an effect than he had thought.

The microwave chimed and the light went
out. Tommy took the paper plate out and bumped the little door
closed with his elbow. He crossed to the kitchen table, pushed his
cigar box out of the way and took a seat. He gulped down another
swallow of water to alleviate his dry mouth, and then sunk his
teeth into the handy little snack. After two bites, he decided he
wasn’t hungry.

“Hey, Ma, you want a Hot Pocket,” he
asked over the loud music as he moved into the living room and
placed the paper plate on the little table next to her
recliner.

“Oh, it looks good, what is
it?”

“It’s a Hot Pocket, kinda like a rolled
up pizza,” he told her for like the millionth time before gulping
down the rest of his water.

“I suppose I could try it,” she said,
“I never had one before.”

That was far from the truth. In fact,
that’s about all Tommy had fed her in the last three days, but what
she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, right?

“Try it, Ma, you’ll like
it.”

The stack of bills next to the door was
growing. Tommy shuffled through them, putting them in order of
importance, but not bothering to open any. The power and the cable
were the only ones he really needed. If his mother didn’t have the
TV to occupy her day, she would get into all kinds of trouble.
Once, he tried to make a tape to run in the old VCR so he could
stop paying the cable bill, but even the long play tapes only held
about five and a half hours of programming. That left more than two
and a half hours of mischief before he got home from work. No, he
was stuck with that bill; there was no way around it.

Tommy wandered around the apartment
again, taking a few moments to straighten up the living room and
contemplating the pros and cons of dragging out the vacuum cleaner,
but in the end he decided against it. He would just have to put the
old Hoover away again when he was done and he had vacuumed less
than a month ago anyway.

He did put his bong and other
paraphernalia away though. He wasn’t worried that anyone would see
it. The doorbell never rang, they never had visitors besides Iris.
His big fear was that his mother would get to it. She had managed
to break three of his bongs already and he couldn’t say how many
pipes had gone missing.

Wandering back into the living room he
saw that The Doctors was now on the tube. A panel of three in white
lab coats were discussing the merits and drawbacks of online
databases providing medical information to the masses. Tommy leaned
towards the kitchen and glanced at the clock next to the microwave,
11:38. That was close enough to noon, Grinder wouldn’t put up too
much of a fuss about twenty lousy minutes, well not so much that he
wouldn’t still sell him some weed.

The phone was attached to the wall in
the kitchen. It was one of those cheap ones with the long coiled
cord. Tommy had spent a good chunk of money on a cordless a few
months back, but it disappeared in less than a week. He had
searched high and low for it and had questioned his mother for
hours as to its whereabouts, but to no avail.

He couldn’t even get a friend with a
cell to call the number and listen for the handset because he had
turned off the ringer. He regretted doing it, but if he hadn’t and
it rang, his mother would answer it and agree to anything the
telemarketers offered.

Tommy punched the button to bring up
his speed dial and punched the number “2”. Grinder had been listed
under the number “1”, but when Iris had found out it was like World
War III. Tommy learned a valuable lesson that day. You always put
your girlfriend’s number before your drug dealer on the speed dial,
no matter who you called more often.

The blurping tone in the little speaker
on the receiver rang in Tommy’s ear for the tenth time and he was
half a second from hanging it up when the line clicked.

“…
don’t Grinder,” a female
voice complained with a giggle, “Hello?” the voice said. It was
Iris. Tommy pulled the handset away from his ear and double checked
the number he had called, it was the right number.

“Iris?” Tommy asked, not quite sure
what was going on.

“Oh, shit.” He heard her say softly as
she covered the receiver on her end.

He waited a few more seconds, still not
sure.

“Yeah, this is Grinder, who’s
this?”

“Grinder? What the fuck man, was that
Iris? What is she doing there?”

“Hey, Tommy..., dude, what’s
up?”

“Don’t give me that shit!” Tommy said,
“Why the fuck is my girlfriend answering your phone?”

“Hey man, it’s not what you
think…”

“Bullshit, I think you’re banging my
girlfriend, Grinder. Are you telling me that’s not what’s going
on?”

There was a long pause.

“Tommy?” Iris again, “Tommy, we need to
talk.”

“You’re damn right we need to
talk!”

“Tommy, I don’t think this is really
working out between us.”

“You’re damn right it ain’t working
out,” Tommy told her, “It ain’t working out because you’re fucking
some other guy. You said you had to go home early last night ‘cause
you had class this morning and here you are answering a drug
dealer’s phone.”

“Shit, Tommy, I didn’t plan this…it
just kinda happened.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do
now?” Tommy asked in a shaky voice.

Another long pause.

“So hey, Tommy,” Grinder again, “did
you need a sack or what?”

“Fuck you, you sorry piece of shit,
take your sack and shove it up your ass! Fuck both of
you!”

Tommy slammed the phone down on the
table then threw it into the kitchen. It hit the wall near the
sink, and then the coiled cord pulled it off the countertop and
halfway back to the dinning area.

So much for being like Brad
and Angelina
, Tommy thought. His stomach
was in a knot and he felt like throwing up. His hands began to
shake and he was blinking away tears. He wondered if this is how
Jennifer Aniston had felt.

“Oh, John, did another record deal fall
through?” Tommy’s mother asked, “Don’t worry, honey, you’ll get a
deal soon enough. Someone will recognize your talent.”

“Not now, Ma,” Tommy bellowed as he
crossed in front of her and headed towards his room, “Not now you
crazy, old bitch.” He said under his breath as he slammed his door
behind him.

Tommy grabbed the shoebox off his
dresser and launched it across the room. Pictures and greeting
cards and ticket stubs fluttered everywhere like a flock of birds.
All of the keepsakes he had so lovingly stowed away, every concert
and movie he had ever taken Iris to, every snapshot of him and her
playing at Alki Beach or riding the rollercoaster at The Seattle
Center, none of it meant shit anymore. He punched the wall again,
this time leaving only a dent instead of a hole.

He stormed to his nightstand and
snatched up the framed photo there, Iris standing next to the
elephant cage at the Woodland Park zoo. Fuck her, she meant nothing
to him now, less than nothing. The picture flew and the heavy frame
punched through his vintage Hendrix poster and stuck in the
drywall.

Snatching up any and all of the little
keepsakes he went on a rampage, tearing and crumpling all of his
memories with her until his room was a cluttered mess of confetti.
He threw himself down on the bed and cried into his pillow until it
was soaked with tears, sweat, and saliva. He flipped it over and
started again. Eventually, he cried himself to sleep.

Tommy awoke to a soft knock at his
bedroom door.

“Come on, John. Don’t be like this,”
his mother said, “I know he was your friend and your drummer, but I
was drunk and he took advantage of me. You don’t have to break up
the band, honey. I’m sure the baby is yours. Just come out and talk
to me, John.”

Tommy lifted his head off the pillow
and scanned the disaster he had made of his room. After a fair
amount of searching, he found the bottle of Jack Daniels and took a
long pull. The warm contents accosted his mouth, raked his throat,
and warmed his belly.

“John,” his mother said, “The baby has
to be yours. I know you don’t think so, but all the men on my
father’s side had dark hair. That’s why his hair is black. Please
don’t go, honey. I’ll go crazy if you leave me.”

She had been right on that account,
Tommy thought as he took another gulp from the bottle.

“I won’t leave you, Betty, don’t you
worry,” Tommy told her, “You just go on out and watch the TV and
I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Alright,” she replied, “Oh and, John…,
I really am sorry.”

“I know.” Tommy said and took another
swig.

He listened as she went back to the
living room and then took a few moments to wipe the dried drool
from the corner of his mouth and wipe the crusty things out of the
corners of his eyes. He snatched his bottle off the dresser where
he had placed it and sauntered down the hall and back through the
living room.

He had been asleep for a lot longer
that he thought, the CD on the Panasonic had ended and channel four
was already broadcasting the news, something about protesters
downtown. Tommy glanced at the clock in the kitchen, 4:32. He had
slept most of the day away.

Tommy tipped the bottle up and went to
the window. He pulled a Camel from his pack and leaned out. After a
moment, he decided to crawl out onto the ledge. He couldn’t say
why; it just felt like the right thing at the time. He shuffled to
the left, careful not to knock his ashtray over the edge. He
scooted to the corner of the building, about eight feet away from
the window, and leaned his back against the cold stone wall while
letting his feet dangle over the ledge.