Chapter 5.
Spike Grindstone. The biggest ear chomping, baby eating marauder ever to enter the squared circle. This, of course, was before he became a zombie. I met him in the Phoenix Airport. At the time, I was a parking valet for Treasure Island up in Vegas. I made a meager living parking cars. Given my lithe, ballerina-esque school girl physique, I was a shoe in for the job. The whole idea behind the scenes in a parking garage is you need to squeeze the cars in as close as possible. A small guy like me could park 4 cars together where my co-workers could only park 3. I'd jam ‘em in like sardines. It also meant it took me longer to get them in and out, so in the end I made no more money parking cars than the next guy.
I did, however, make enough to travel down to Phoenix for the annual Pigeon Fancier's Convention, held each summer in August. I migrated down there like birds fly south for the winter, like clockwork. That year was no different. I take that back, that year was like no other year ever experienced in the history of mankind (save for that one time when Lazareth rose from the dead, but that's another story in another book, and a good book too, you heathens should take notes on it).
That year was bizarre. Now, there are some that say the zombies came about because of a space probe that orbited Venus and crashed into Earth. That would be the George Romero club. It's alluded to in “Night of the Living Dead.” Great movie, very inaccurate when it comes to the zombies, but great plot. One of those stories that deals more with the horror inside the barricaded house then the shuffling goons lollygagging around outside.
There are others that say the zombies came about because of a mad cow disease type virus. These are the zombie "documentaries" that so many people used to follow with gusto. Braving long lines and over-buttered popcorn, making some fool Hollywood ensemble of makeup caked pretenders rich. These were devoted followers who the Romero followers would scoff and mock.
"Too many differences!" they would shout.
"Zombies don't run! They shamble, like this!"
Then they would dress up en mass and act out ‘Dawn of the Dead’ at the nearest mall. They would dress the part, but miss the point. All the zombie movies did was pique people's interest until the market was saturated. Thankfully, the zombie craze that consumed movie goers had reached its saturation point. People finally quit talking about zombies.
And THAT'S when things got interesting. It didn't happen like in the movies. Didn't happen like in the books, or on the blogs, or Orson Wells stirring up the pot. It definitely wasn't a virus. Let me back up. It was a virus in the sense that people are generally stupid in a contagious way, but not in the usual good, harmless way. Not in the, "How's the weather by you?" way.
You're preoccupied, bills need to be paid. Standing in line buying a gallon of milk and a box of Oreos, and some dummy behind you says, "Boy, this weather is something else!" and the cashier starts talking to him. You’re exchanging cash, and she’s exchanging pleasantries without including you. Amazing!
You're left out in the cold, and rather than grab your milk and cookies and be on your way, you have to chime in your two cents too.
"Yeah, it sure is hotter this year than last!"
That's good stupid. Very easy to catch, very easy to shake the stupidity. The cure is simply getting in your car and driving away. This other stupid contagion, wow. More in the way of, I don't know... war. Or politics and elections. Or Occupy Wall Street. Since it happened around that time anyways, let me use the OWS analogy peg to hang my zombie hat on.
I’m on a plane. Roughest five hours on a plane ever. Mind you, back then flying to Phoenix from Las Vegas usually took no more than two hours doorstep to doorstep, and that was with the security screening they had. We were stuck on the tarmac for three hours because those Occupiers somehow made it onto the runway and formed a human chain.
Times were tough back then. I only had one bag of peanuts and a Sprite the whole time waiting for them to peel the occupiers off the runway. It being the height of summer, I don't think it was their intention to literally stick to the runway. But that's how it happened, and it took, like I said, a minimal amount of snacks to get me through the ordeal. Never again.
The same thing happened when we approach Phoenix. They said that it was on account of a monsoon, but that's not what the kid sitting next to me was seeing on his iPhone. Oh, a monsoon is what they call thunderstorms during the summer in the southwest. The kid was seeing all sorts of commotion at the Phoenix airport, and since there were not a cloud in the sky...
"This is your captain, uh, we're going to circle a bit more, uh, just waiting for this storm to clear up, uh, and we'll be landing, uh, momentarily. Uh. Uh? Oh yeah, uh, thank you for not flying US Airways and flying us instead. Uh."
All lies. The kid's iPhone shows more occupiers in Phoenix. The stupidity is catchy, so I go along with everyone else with the weather story.
I see the flight attendant walking down the aisle, collecting earphones in a pillow case. I try to get her attention, but she's answering questions as she goes row to row.
The same question, "How soon will we be landing?" We tilt. We fly level. We tilt again.
Each row asks, as if the answer is going to change from row to row. She gets up to my row, I'm on the aisle, kid's in the middle (not my kid, I don't have kids…I do, but I don’t want to get into it now), his mother is gazing out the window. The plane is perpetually going around and around in a circle, and our wing is pointed down at the checkered brown desert right outside of Phoenix.
She's collecting the earphones from the people across the aisle, none of them ask anything. She lowers the pillow case towards me. I couldn't afford the earphones. The kid has his iPhone earphones plugged in, and the lady by the window is daydreaming. I figure now's my chance to get another bag of peanuts and a Sprite.
I clear my throat, "Excuse me miss-"
"Do you know when we'll be landing?" asks the witch at the end, and she's stretching as she asks it.
“No.”
The pillow case goes up, and the flight attendant goes to the row behind us. I turn around, and I go to tap her on her back, but we hit an air pocket, and somehow I end up poking her butt. That doesn't even get her attention, because everybody's screaming one second, then laughing the next.
Somewhere in the back of the plane I hear, "A bunch of first time fliers on this one!"
So I turn back to the kid with the iPhone, and he offers me an earphone, and I'm obliged to take it and a little scared that I may return it with a lot of ear wax. Back then, I wasn't very hygienic. I'm still not, but at least now I have a better excuse than, "I can't afford Q-Tips, so I just make do with my pinky and a wash cloth."
The situation is the same. No monsoon to wash away the Occupiers, and that smug white haired Granite Copper gets on the screen, so I heard enough and hand back the earphone. The kid puts it in his ear, then takes it out and wipes the earphone on his shirt and cleans his ear out with his pinky. He throws me a sideways glance.
That's when the kid gets all excited. He starts waving the iPhone at his mom, and I'm interested what he sees, so I start looking over. His mom is giving me the evil eye. I shrug, and crane my neck over even further. She's got these massive thighs, and they're jiggling every time the plane shudders with turbulence. She covers up, because I guess I’m staring a bit too much at her cleavage, so she's tightening her blouse with the plunging neckline all puritan like.
Anyway, on the screen is Granite Copper, and he's flapping his gums, and cuts away to some blurry footage of three zombies chewing away on some helpless sap. And that's it.
They eventually rounded up all the Occupiers. We land, and the airport is filled with a bunch of hippies wearing zip-lock bracelets chanting "Occupy! Occupy!"
That same footage is playing on the TV's they have all over the Phoenix airport as we get out of the plane. Then everybody's quiet.
We're all staring at the footage on the screens. I'm not amused, I am just concerned if the pigeon convent
ion is going to get canceled or not. It's not like I make bank parking cars, and this trip is my biggest expenditure of the year. I don't even own pigeons, can't afford the bird seed. Back then, right when the zombies hit, I was dreaming about someday owning them.
I make my way to one of the last remaining phone booths (and boy, let me tell you, did we make a big mistake getting rid of those things...as soon as the zombies took over, the satellites and the cell phones were useless. The walkie-talkie features didn't even work. Working phones today are a miracle, but expensive, and they are all land lines).
Sure enough, Spike Grindstone is hogging the phone booth. He's a regular at these conventions. He's the spokesman for the beloved flying rat. He even got on the cover of Pigeon Fancier magazine once. He autographed it a few years back.
Oh. When I say, "I met Spike Grindstone", it's not like "I saw Spike Grindstone eating pizza at Sbarro’s in the Phoenix Airport."
No.
It's more like, "I met Spike Grindstone at the Sbarro’s in the Phoenix airport, me and him ate pizza together, then we went to the pigeon convention."
Only now, he's hogging the phone booth. I'm perturbed because first, he doesn't even acknowledge me. When I wave hello, he shoos me off like a gnat. I have this effect on people normally, but rarely amongst fellow pigeon enthusiasts. He's talking to his agent.
"Get me one. I don't care what the cost. No, it's not like the tiger. No. Like Robin? Is she a zombie? What do you mean you don't know? Listen, I don't care, listen. I want a zombie. You get me Robin as a zombie, that's icing on the cake. What do you mean you don't know any zombies? Get me the GC 360 guy's zombie. The old guy on the news. I want his. Make it happen. I don't care. Listen. Why is it when I say 'listen' you don't listen? I am not being unreasonable. Oh? I'm being unreasonable now? Here, ask this guy-"
Spike grabs my shirt, and pulls me over to the phone. Well, lifts is more like it. My feet are not touching the ground, and he jams the phone in my ear.
"Tell the man I'm reasonable!" he says, snarling at me.
"He's being reasonable, will you listen to him already!" I plead. I've been through this before with Mr. Grindstone, he's a very reasonable man.
He puts me down (he throws me several feet).
"You tell Zircon King this. You tell him get me Sander. I'm going to fight Sander as a zombie. No. As a zombie, not with a zombie. Pay attention. Not him. Me. I'm gunna be a zombie. I already made up my mind. It’s so cheap I don’t even need to buy one. I will be immortal. I'm killing myself and coming back as the undead. Make it happen? I will make it happen. No. Listen to me. I already thought this through. I did. Yes. No. Just now. It's brilliant. You're not listening to me. We're going to have Sander's big milk dud head on a billboard, looking down at me. I'm knocked flat. And the billboard's gunna read 'Spike Grindstone down for the count...or is he?! Stonyfield vs. Zombie Spike Grindstone' Yeah. It will be spectacular. No. It's not believable? What's not believable? The part where I give him top billing or the part where he's knocked me out? The zombie part. OK, you take care of the billboard, I'll see you in the second coming. No. Other people want to use the. Listen. Will you listen to me? Other people want to use the phone. You will have to. No. You will have to excuse. Listen. STOP. Let me talk. OK. Will you let me talk? You will have to excuse my bad manners, but others are waiting to use the phone, so I am hanging. Listen. I am hanging up now. Yes. A zombie. Well either get me one or I'm becoming one. As my agent, I trust you have my best interests at heart. Yes. Yes, I do mean that. You're welcome. OK. OK, I'm hanging up now. OK. Goodbye."
I'm about to ask Spike Grindstone about the pigeon convention, but I can see that it's now firmly on the back burner. With him at least.
I mutter out, "So Spike-"
He walks past, waving frantically at me, "Not now, I am in deep thought."
I stand there. A big guy goes up to use the phone. Mind you, anyone over 5'6" is a big guy in my book, but this guy is rather large. But I'm quicker. I'm on the phone. Dialing frantically. The phone is ringing. Ringing.
"Come on pick up. Pick up," I'm muttering. The big guy is staring holes into the back of my head, I can practically feel his breath on my neck.
The phone picks up, and I talk a mile a minute. "Ma. Ma. Yeah. I know, it's all over the news. Ma. No, I'm fine Ma. No, the flight was delayed. I know. Ma. No, don't worry."
My mother is visiting from New York. She's at my apartment in Vegas…
OK, I'm lying. I'm living temporarily at the 55+ community condos just outside of Vegas. Gala Vista fifty-five and older. Gated Community. Not all is lies, though. I do park cars at Treasure Island. If I were to lie about anything, at least I would make myself some sort of pimp, or hustler, or big time poker gambler.
I've been living with my mother temporarily the past four years until I get enough scratch together to hire a lawyer to help me clean up my credit. In all honesty, my credit rating ain't all that great. But now, it's dawning on me that maybe I don't have to worry about my credit that much anymore?
Worry.
Worry?
That's right; I'm talking to my mother.
"Don't worry, Ma. Just. Yeah, I know, just like in the movies. I don't. I don't know, Ma. I'll see if I can get a flight back tonight. No. No, Ma. I can't rent a car. Right. My credit. Do we have to get into that now? We got more important things to worry about. Listen. Ok, ok, I mean, don't worry, everything is fine. Just. Yes. Just put the chain lock on the door. Yes, and the dead bolt. No. No Ma, you probably ain't going to see any of them out the peep hole. Yeah. That's right. Any scratching at the door. Yeah, just ignore any scratching. Mr. Peepers? What the hell do I care about Mr. Peepers? Oh, he's outside? He'll be....Ma. Ma, stop crying. He'll be fine. They only eat people. What? They only eat...it's in the movies, Ma. Well, if you hear scratching and maybe no moaning. Yeah. Oh, sure, they moan. Listen, Ma. I need. Food? There's plenty of Oreos in the cupboard. And the other cupboard above the fridge. Well, there's milk. There's enough milk Ma. Enough to hold you over three days easy. After that? Well, there's my peanut barrel. Sure. I know. I know. Well, this is as big as a catastrophe as any, isn't it? No. It's not. Ma. Stop crying. It's not the end of the world. Ma. It's not the...well, what the hell else can I tell you when you ask why I gotta have a such a big barrel of peanuts? Yeah, see? If it's the end of the world, I want a good supply of peanuts, right? See? That worked out...Ma. Calm down. The zombies ain't...there's scratching at the door? Don't answer it. Ma. You there Ma? Ma? Hello?"
I take the phone away from my ear. The big guy behind me is gone. All around the airport, people are rejoicing. It's like a New Year’s celebration. There is electricity in the air. Like people are happy to be distracted with zombies. Like their dreams have come true. I got more important things on my mind; I can't buy into the idiocy. Not just yet.
I pick up the phone again.
"Ma? Oh, it was Mr. Peepers. Well you're set then. Yeah. Save me some peanuts. How are you? How are you going to eat a barrel of peanuts without me? I'll be there. Sissy will be fine. Sissy. Oh, you gotta call her now? Ma. Wait. There's something important. I need a phone number. On the kitchen table. Yeah. The pigeon magazine. On the back. Yeah. The one in magic marker. 555-3464. Yes. No. I know the area code. No. Well, I gotta find out if the convention's still on first. Yeah. Yeah. Ok. Ok. I love you too, Ma. No. Yes. I'll be careful. No. Ma. Why do I need a jacket? It's a hundred degrees outside. I will. I promise. Ok. Ok, goodbye. Yes. Say ‘Hi’ to Sissy for me."
I need to call Dodge. He's more than just a pigeon guy. Well, he's the pigeon guy, but he is always blathering on and on about the apocalypse, when I’m really interested in his knowledge on pigeons.