Chapter 19.
I awaken to the distant voice of a referee.
"--One...two...three..."
I have a stiff neck, and I got a couple of lumps on the back of my head. Real tender. It explains my blurry vision as I try to focus where I am.
"--Six...seven...eight..."
"--Standing eight count, as required by the governing body for any fight sanctioned in the state of Nevada."
"--Flint LampStone, here with Larry Rockbent. And Stonyfield is able to recover from the punishing right of Zombie Spike Grindstone."
"--Pound for pound, Spike Grindstone is one of the heaviest hitting zombies out there, Flint. And I said it before, and I'll say it again, Stonyfield does not need to go toe to toe with this guy."
"--Pure punishment as the ref resumes the fight. Oh! And another right hand from Zombie Grindstone! It sends Stonyfield staggering. The fans are really getting their money's worth tonight."
"--My scorecard is favoring Stonyfield, but I have to give this round to Zombie Grindstone."
Ding.
"--And there's the bell. Third round over of a scheduled ten round fight. Larry, I have to say that MGM, Zircon King, E.T.A.L. really put a show together for the fans."
"--I just can't get over these show girls substituting for the usual ring card girls. They're seven feet tall!"
"—Amazons. Truly Amazons."
"--I'd hate to get in the ring and tussle with one of them."
"--I wouldn't."
"—Ha-ha. I bet you wouldn't Larry. Let's talk about Grindstone..."
I am laying on a king sized bed. Californian King. The bed takes up practically the whole bedroom. There are women’s things everywhere. There's a pink scarf thrown over the lampshade basking everything in a pink hue. The digital clock radio next to me shows 10:30, and there's a red dot next to the PM. I get up to turn the volume a little louder, but a strong arm pushes me gently back onto the bed.
"Lie back. That should of been me in there tonight," Riley says.
"Oh yeah? You think you could take on Grindstone?"
She looks uncomfortable.
"Oh come on!" I say. "You were with Grindstone?"
"It was the eighties. Times were different. Besides, that is none-ya, Mister Man...how's your noodle?"
I'm awkward with the flirting, but I'll try, "Limp. Oh, you mean my head?"
She punches my arm. Ow. She gets off the bed, and I almost bounce into the dresser.
Riley ain't nude anymore. She's dressed in pink sweatpants with "Think!" written on her butt. I don't know what to think.
"How did I get here?" I ask.
"You fainted in the office, don't you remember?"
"I wish I did. What did I miss?"
"Nothing, really. That jerk came running out from behind his desk after you went down, so I kicked him in his bad knee, then I gave him a right hook. It felt good."
"I bet...then what?"
"Knocked him out. Then I felt bad for you, after standing up for me like you did. Plus, I wasn't wearing much, so I used you as a shawl."
"Story of my life. Did I make a good accessory, at least?"
"Sure, I think so," she winks at me. "I got some popcorn in the microwave; I think I heard the bell go off a little while ago. You want to listen to the fight with me? Keep me company?"
"Are you kidding me, do I?" I go to get up again, but my egg head makes me nearly pass out. The room spins. She brings in a plastic white bowl. The popcorn is burnt, I pretend not to notice. "Just how I like it, leave no kernel unturned."
"Huh?" she says.
I gnosh, "Never mind. So Riley, what have you done since school?"
"Wait, do we know each other from somewhere? New York maybe?"
I look at her. She doesn't recognize me. Maybe that's a good thing. I'll go with it.
"No, I just mean, you look like the uh...doctor type. You know, the way you got me recuperating in your bed, me a complete stranger...I just assumed you went to med school."
She looks at me funny, so I pretend to choke on a popcorn kernel. It worked for Huck Finn, only he used chicken bones.
She pats my back. "Is my little man OK?" She winks her right eye as she says this. Holy cow, she is just amazing looking. Time has been very kind to her.
I want to ask her what else happened, how she lost her job, but it's not rocket science. She's the same age as me. She's competing against girls that are practically half her age. I don't see any jock straps hanging from the door knob; I am going to assume she's single. I've waiting my whole life for this. I have to play it suave. Bringing up a sore point topic wouldn't be suave. Instead, I get popcorn stuck in my throat and make a suave honking sound.
"You think maybe I could have some Sprite?" I ask.
"Oh wow, Sprite's my favorite," she says. Her eyes sparkle like a cool glass of Sprite on a warm summer's day.
"I know. I mean. I'm just a lucky guesser. Wait. I'm lying."
"Huh?" she says. She’s got two facial expressions. Eyes squinted, million dollar smile. And this one. Mouth partially open, pouting lower lip, pretty round white teeth poking through, like she just lost a dollar down the sewer and she's between crying and trying to figure out how to retrieve it. A real Kewpie doll face.
"What I meant to say is, I'm no lucky guesser. I could smell the Sprite on your breath."
"Aww, how sweet." She punches me again. Ow. She leaves the bedroom. I can hear the fridge door open, real close by. She's pouring soda. And she comes in with one cup.
"I hope you don't mind sharing my cooties," she says as she takes a sip and hands the cup to me. An outline of lipstick on the rim.
Wow. Cooties! I nearly faint again, and she comes to my rescue with a wet towel over my forehead! Watch me blow it.
I keep my mouth shut. I listen to the fight. She lies down next to me. My feet reach down to her knee caps, and her feet nearly reach the bottom of the bed.
"You must be six foot two," I say.
"Three," she says on autopilot.
I can feel my stock dropping. I recover, "I know, it's not fun being a height you're not supposed to be."
Misery loves company! She bites! "I was hoping you were going to mention that, Shorty!"
"Tall-ee!"
She punches me again.
"It's not fun," she says reflective like. "People just assume all I want to do is wear feathers and kick my legs up in the air all day."
I want to say, "Did you try out for the Rockettes?" But I don't. Maybe she did and they turned her down. Maybe Vegas show girls have a rivalry with the Rockettes (turns out they do, another chapter though). Regardless, I am not going to be a problem solver. If it's one thing I learned living with Ma and Sissy all these years it's that women just want to be listened to. And women are also impossible to figure out. The egg on my head prevents me from doing any figuring, so I'll just sit and listen.
We sit and listen to the fight. Grindstone is really giving Stonyfield the business. Then Stonyfield turns into the surgeon that he is in the ring. Just as things get lively in the ring, Riley starts talking.
"I don't know what the world is coming to, Shorty, do you?" she asks.
I just shrug. The part of me that wants to get laid is telling my mouth to just shut up and nod. I follow my shrug with a frantic nod. Then my brain tells me not to nod like a dumb idiot, so I say, "Mmmhmm."
"Sure," Riley says, "I mean, think about it. All these rumors how they're finding zombies turning up all over the place one minute, then the next they're gone. It sounds too impossible to believe. Where are the eye witnesses?"
I want to tell her about how me and Spike escaped the hotel. Instead I say, "Hmmm?"
"Oh sure," she goes on, "There is never any witnesses. And my friend, Renee, before all this zombie stuff? She bought a house. She's bragging, because me and her used to do laundry downstairs every Wednesday, only now she's gone, so here I go down every Wednesday alone, and I don't want any creep going through my unmentionables,
so now I sit down at the laundry mat, nothing to do. Oh, and this creep from upstairs, now that Renee is gone, suddenly Wednesday is his laundry day? So every time I'm down there he's always asking for free tickets to this and that. Reminds me how long I've been out of work. 'You look nice, Riley.' 'Pleasant day, Riley.' 'Do you think it will rain, Riley?' I swear. Every time I'm near the guy, I feel like, I dunno? Like, I'm getting dumber? You ever feel that way?"
Do I? I have a whole theory on it, why-- my brain tells me to not even think about it, just say 'Mmmhmm'. So I say, "Mmmhmm."
"I knew I was not alone. Gee, us smart people really gotta, what's the word? Unite. So as I was saying, I really wish I signed the lease with the 2A model apartment. You know, because Renee couldn't tell me she was closing on a house two weeks before I renew my lease, right? And I woulda had a month’s free rent? I try to be frugal. You ever try to save money like that?"
Is this a match made in heaven or what? I'm hearing wedding bells, I go to open my mouth, and my brain says 'Not one word you idiot, just shrug.' I shrug.
"See? Boy we'd make a cute couple. So now here I am, stuck in a two year lease, no free month's rent. My rent actually went up an extra $50 a month, and that witch Renee tells me downstairs while we're folding laundry, she says, 'Riley, I have such good news! I bought a house with Tommy! Isn't this great!' So I ask her if Tommy's name is on the mortgage, because Tommy is such a bum, Oh he just sets me off, no ambition, no plans. I mean, any fellah that moves in with me, he better have plans. Big plans, you know? Like...like...I don't know. Buying a ranch, or a farm. Raising bunnies-"
I heard nothing that she said after "We'd make a cute couple." I'm awoken out of a daydream when she says "Raising bunnies."
"Or pigeons," my mouth gets it out, and my brain is fuming. 'You better hope she punches your arm, Bozo!'
"Sure, pigeons would be nice. I guess. Or bunnies. Just goals, really. Tommy is a dead end. I tell Renee that, but she doesn't listen because Tommy is great in the sack, and he is, I would know...so anyway..."
The wedding bells now toll for a funeral. Riley goes on and on. I don't know who Tommy is, but all I hear as her mouth moves is "great in the sack." I begin to wonder how this will work out between me and her. I've carried a torch for her since as long as I can remember, and here it is she's talking and talking and...well, she's being honest, right? That has to count for something. And as she goes on, it becomes clear that her feelings for Tommy are done with. All she talks about is how rotten the guy is, and how much of a jerk Renee is. She hopes they don't work out, because that will teach Renee not to steal her man.
My brain give me the OK, "You have my permission to screw the pooch and ruin any chances of getting laid, but don't come looking for me to blame when you're all alone tonight. I'll give you a headache you will never forget! Commiserate, remember? Don't judge. Good luck, Pal. Me and the guy downstairs are rooting for you!"
I prop myself up on my elbows, and Riley pushes me back down and says, "Hey! Where do you think you're going? I haven't had anyone to talk to in ages, and you're such a good listener! Listen, I was thinking, are you hungry? I'm hungry, let's go get some food. What do you like to eat?"
This is a no brainer. I memorized all her favorite things. Favorite color? Purple. Favorite time of day? Daylight savings time. Name she wants to give her firstborn? Riley Jr. I scratch my head, and pretend to think, trying to purge the image of her and Tommy doing it as Spike Grindstone looks on, and pigeons and rabbits jump and fly on and off the bed.
"Oh, I don't know," I say. "I could go for some General T'So's spicy peanut chicken, but anywhere you want to go is fine with me."
Her eyes grow big, and she has that Kewpie doll expression, like I just told her that I know how to split atoms by clapping my hands together really fast. "No way!" she says. "That's my absolute favorite dish of all time!"
I know. 'Shrug, Dummy! You're doing great! Keep swallowing your words. Don't worry. I'll tell Stomach to save room for the chicken. The guy downstairs is giving thumbs up again, by the way. We're counting on you!'
I shrug.
"Just let me get dressed, and we'll go," she says, and gives me one of her patented winks.
Thankfully, Vegas is one of those cities that never sleeps. Really. It is. That's why they have no windows in the casinos. They don't want you to know if it's night or day. 'Just keep betting, house will win...have some free chicken.' It takes Riley two hours to put on a different pair of sweatpants and do her make up. Worth every minute. I feel like a million bucks standing next to this girl. She even got my boots back from that bozo Larry Larry.
So she has a past, who doesn't? Well, I know I don't...but she don't know that. And now, apparently, you know it too, ardent reader. Keep it to yourself, I'm trying to make a dream of mine from the 3rd grade come true. And hey, I'm no bum. Any guy on the planet that's in a relationship, if it's for only two weeks, or fifty years, he had only one thing on his mind when he sweet talks a lady. And you thought this book was going to be nothing but zombies? Give me a bit; I want to indulge myself in remembering one of the happiest times of my life.
We go to Bellagios.
"I liked this place better when it was the Dunes," I say.
She grabs my arm, "Me too!"
I'm a bit taken back. I didn't know that about her, like her favorite foods. I cataloged all of those. I think it was her affinity for peanuts that drove me over the edge. I couldn't imagine falling for a girl, settling down, then having a PB&J for lunch, and kissing her later in the evening and watching her throat bloat up like a frog because I forgot she was allergic to peanuts. But Riley? Her and I shared peanut M&M's that whole year in high school biology. I don't know the anatomy of a frog, but I know most of this girl's favorite things. No doubt downstairs is giving my brain thumbs up for staying on the ball with all that Riley trivia.
Dinner goes by quietly. She and I are not too swift in the math department, so we spend most of the evening critiquing our waiter, and trying to figure out a six percent tip. We make things difficult for ourselves, but we both agree he's no seven percenter. Just attentive enough with the Sprite to keep his hat in the ring.
Speaking of the ring, scuttlebutt on the strip is Grindstone devoured Stonyfield in the squared circle. Not literally, of course. Last round TKO. They're already talking about a rematch (The rematch never happened, things went to pot soon afterwards). He did try devouring him in the locker room, though. So plus one for the ole college try for Grindstone.
And speaking of college, me and Riley firmly agree that $20 is 6% tip of a $35 buffet. Our math shocks us both, and we agree that the spicy peanut chicken is a bit expensive. But its money well spent.
We walk through the gardens, and she holds my hand, and rests her head on the top of my head.
"Ow!" I say, "Mind the lumps, miss!"
"Only if you'll mind mine," she purrs. And a wink...and a punch in the arm!
We watch the fountains dance, and Riley says she wants to make me breakfast. I'm about to point out that not only did we just eat, but breakfast won't be for another 12 hours. And how does that work out? Do I knock on her door at 8am, or 8:30? What time does she usually make breakfast? Fortunately, this tiny voice inside me, the one that has been coaching me all along, tells me to 'Shut up and nod, Dummy! And keep that virgin sacredness to yourself...saving yourself...sheesh!'
Breakfast was great! No more to say about that. And oh, Riley Jr. was made during that month at some point during that blissful time of togetherness. "I think I'm ready to be a mom," she announced. I looked around. "Me?" She nodded yes.
Bliss. A dream come true. Until I came home from work one morning, and Riley was glowing on the sofa (I had moved in with Riley, we split the bills right down the line, and she's glowing because she's pregnant with Riley Jr.)
Only she was quasi-glowing. She had a semi-gloss luster, not her usual radiant self. Something was amiss.
"Renee got kicked out of her house," she says.
>
"Oh, wow. That sucks, how did that happen?" I pretend to care. Wait. I'm not a jerk. If Riley said she killed a roach, I'd be all questions. This Renee girl? Drama. And she always brings Riley down. I hate Renee for that. So I pretend to care about Renee, see?
"Those zombie lovers, that new law they have," she pouts.
She has a bowl resting on her swollen belly, eating Ben & Jerry's with some gummy bears and ranch dressing. All my time is spent working and scrounging up ranch dressing. A friend of mine sold me a case that fell off a truck, turned out to be blue cheese, which made Riley puke. So I've been going to the different hot wing places and bartering off the ranch. It's been about a three bottle blue cheese to ranch exchange rate, so I'm not complaining. Riley is, though. She wants her feet rubbed. She got big feet, so I get a bit of carpel tunnel in my hands as I listen to her morning.
I ask, "Which law is that? The zombie equal opportunity law or the recently deceased act?"
"The one where they throw your best friend out on the street, act."
This was when they started booting people horded up in those gated communities and started storing the zombies in there. Some people were so sentimental about killing off their loved ones; the zombies were mucking up the social machinery. Now, gated communities act as a living cemetery for the recently zombified.
I shrug. Shrugging has served me well in this relationship.
"So Tommy left her, of course. And uh, now Renee and a bunch of the girls down at work are talking about moving to South America because there ain't many zombies down there."
I shrug. Plus, shrugging keeps me from reminding Riley she no longer works with these girls. Anyhow, this was when people started exploring the idea if moving from point A to point B could get them away from all the shortages. The brown outs. The lack of phones. The high costs of food. Water rationing. The insane taxes that city hall kept rising on suckers like me who still worked. Silly. This other law, the Zombie Equal Opportunity Law had zombies working at their old jobs, even though they were zombies. What people were doing was taking their dead loved one, say their husband. He still draws a check sitting at a chair, working some desk job for Uncle Sam. Some smart lawyers argue, ’If he was warming a seat and getting paid, surely seat warming was not the job requirement.’ Sentimentality, or some type of mentality, won out.
We got zombies running around with those dog collar cones the vets put on dogs to stop them from licking themselves. Only the cones prevent zombies from taking a chunk out of you. The beauty is they put this little charged explosion in the collar, so if it ever happens to slip off, or get pulled off...bang! Decapitated zombie. Some people get rich thinking of the stupidest thing...
Riley kicks her big feet away, and she does that thing where she scrunches up that cute nose of hers. She sighs, "Let's get married."
Huh?