The señoras approached our stoop like the altar,
bowing their heads with their eyes still focused upwards. “What happened?”
And Doña Rosa screamed from her window, “He’s dead, Díos mío.”
Letí and Isabel walked towards me with faulty brooms, saying, “Who?”
Who? Who? Who? Who? Who?
The dust brothers from before, the ones playing with the dog, they showed up with purple Popsicles in each hand, a woman with a firm grip on their collars. Whatever traffic passed through the street slowed down to a crawl. The speed to catch every bit of what was going on.
More people joined the crowd. More people began to forget why they were standing there and started talking about their own business.
Isabel made a public announcement about a Tupperware party she was hosting.
Irv, the owner of the corner store, asked Compadre Mundo about the vacant lot he owned.
Comadre Vicky wanted to get together with Patricia and Leticia to make tamales like they used to.
Lucia left my grandmother and stood outside now, her hips leaning to one side, and asked Victor if his fingers were broken. How come he can’t call anyone?
Grandma was in the living room with her neck craned toward the ceiling, listening to what was the tap, tap, tap of rice water on the other side.
The elote and paleta men fought for attention using
rattling bells.
He wasn’t my real tio, but Tio Pepe asked if my grandmother had made anything to eat.
Fausto yelled from his slowly passing car about what was going on.
Norma wanted to know why Fausto wasn’t at work.
Through the group sway of people droning to one
another, I spotted my mom in her waitress gown, walking to the front of the crowd.
“Are you okay?” she said to me. “Raúl called and told me what happened.”
“What did he say? Did he tell you if the man died?”
Grandma stepped behind me with my book bag in her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow, mijo.”
We weaved through the crowd to her car. Mom would tug on my arm and I’d continue walking, and with her back facing me, she said she found the videotape of Grandpa’s
funeral in the VCR. “What were you watching that for?”
The tape I’d used to record the first half of Disclosure. I thought that tape was blank.
Doña Rosa went down the steps first, and everyone crowded even closer, making it impossible for us to leave. We both stopped as the neighborhood closed us in—stuck inside the surrounding conversations of job searches and
upcoming parties.
Church bells rang across the alleyway. The sound made its way through the streets every Sunday, and from any point in the neighborhood you could hear the calling sound pulsing from our block. Everyone knew it was no use to try to talk over it. They pulled out cigarettes, stared off at the passing cars. The bells sat in the air like the humidity, and using the opportunity, Mom pulled on my arm until I bent my knees and stumbled after her.
We would soon get home, and I would have to snatch the tape from the VCR before my mom ever had the chance to see what I had done, which was snub out her dad’s funeral with milky white tits, perky pink nipples.
My mom was already a fragile woman to live with. She took Grandpa’s death real hard. Months before all this happened, Mom changed our phones. Real fancy phones, the cordless kind that wouldn’t drop calls and had caller ID already installed. Trouble was once we got the phones our answering machine stopped working. A few weeks passed as she tried to figure out what the problem was. A man came to our home and said the phones worked fine. He checked the answering machine, and that was fine, too.
Then Grandpa died.
Voice mail is a funny little invention. Because when you have the voice mail option already activated on your phone there is no need for an answering machine. A company operator explained this to my mother. After receiving the password, Ma sifted through messages a month old. Then she heard from someone she wasn’t expecting. Her father. She sniffed and clenched her eyes shut when my grandfather’s voice came on the line and asked where the hell she was. He’d been waiting at the DMV for half an hour. Mom buried her head into her chest after she heard my grandfather’s old message, asking for a ride to church on Sunday.
In another message, my abuelito, talking from the grave, wanted to know if there were any plans for my birthday. She leaned against the wall, eased herself down to the floor. A month’s worth of her father leaving messages no one knew existed.
The paramedics tried swinging the gurney down to the first floor, the weight of the body causing the gurney to shift from side to side, smashing each paramedic’s fingers against the walls. You heard the wheels banging against the steps
before they appeared.
Mom tried to haul me into the car by pulling my arm, but she paused, too, to watch the men shimmy through the doorway and stabilize the gurney on the cracked sidewalk. One paramedic opened both ambulance doors while my uncle and the other medic held the body steady.
Crowds congested the sidewalk, but no one spoke. They all stood still, observers for the first time—witnesses to the man on the gurney. The white sheet, draped over the electrician’s head, changed his face into landscape.
My mom’s hand grazed through my hair, over my shoulder, and down my elbow, feeling for my hand again without looking.
I looked up at her, but she was somewhere else. I fitted my hand inside hers, and she gripped tight, like she was bringing me back to life.
Zombie Whorehouse
Daniel W. Broallt
Answering yes would be a lie. And I can’t lie without sweating. Answering no could create suspicions as to how I found this place.
The doctor repeats his question. “You ever fuck a zombie before?”
Lesson learned from eight years of marriage—when you don’t know how to answer, it’s better to grin and shrug.
“Well,” the doctor says, “I’m legally obligated to warn you that it’s not like fucking the living.”
“There are laws about this?” I say.
The question hovers between us and my microphone wristwatch. With luck it will capture every syllable of this
potentially Pulitzer Prize–winning investigation.
The doctor has a blond moustache and long hair. He smiles at me like I’m an old friend and says, “You ever hear about how you could cut a hole in a small watermelon and microwave it and it’d feel like a real pussy? Well, fucking a zombie is like that without the microwave. Of course, the quicker you move, the less you notice.”
“Is this a problem for a lot of clients?” I say.
Making a note on his clipboard before double clicking his pen for emphasis, the doctor replies, “Most folks are more interested in the sensation of being smothered by ten or so naked girls. Half our clients never get to stick it in.”
“Half is how many, exactly?” I say.
The doctor licks his sandy moustache and says, “If you think it’ll bother you, the red dispensers are filled with warm sensation lube.”
I slide my wedding band into my back pocket and feel a little better about explaining to my wife how I got this talk show circuit earning story. “It’s not cheating if she’s dead” becomes “It’s not cheating if I didn’t get to stick it in.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead and remind myself that concerning my career, my wife has always said, “Success
requires sacrifice.”
In 1887, Nellie Bly shocked the world with her exposé on the miserable conditions and abusive treatment of inmates in New York City’s Bellevue Hospital’s Asylum for the Insane. The facts she documented came from her personal experience, faking mental instability to become the world’s first
undercover journalist.
A little over a hundred years later and my editor tells me it’s time to revive this laudable profession. After the Food Lion fiasco, most television networks and print med
ia began calculating the cost of undercover investigation against the potential legal fees and lawsuit fines. The days of white men painting their skin black, feminists posing as Playboy Bunnies, or either sex cross-dressing to get a good story faded amidst accusations of misleading job applications, failure to perform the tasks assigned, and trespassing.
“You’ll need to sign here.” The doctor hands me a separate clipboard of twelve single-spaced pages. “Just initial the bottom of each page, and fully sign the last page. You’re agreeing any disease or injury you acquire during your visit is your responsibility. Also, while referrals are encouraged, it’s best to consider what happens in the playroom to stay in the playroom. We reserve the right to release video to ruin your life if you try to ruin our operation.”
“How important is secrecy to the daily operation of Anchor Playhouse?” I say. “Have there been incidents of attempts to expose this place?”
“In the playroom, there’re condoms available for your protection. Lord knows the girls don’t have to worry about getting pregnant.”
The last notable work of undercover television journalism ended in allegations of entrapment and a scandal involving an Internet video of an alleged pedophile being routinely raped by baseball bats wielded by several self-proclaimed neighborhood protectors inspired to proactively defend their children after the episode aired.
“You acknowledge you have been informed that the red dispensers are filled with warming lubricant and the yellow are filled with flavored syrup.”
“What is the flavor?” I ask.
“It changes. I believe it is maple at the moment.”
I ask if the flavor changes per customer request. I ask if there are many repeat customers.
The doctor informs me that the blue dispensers are filled with evaporating antibacterial disinfectant. He informs me rose oil is used to soften the skin of the girls and ensure a pleasing odor.
When an editor suggests an assignment, there is always an option to refuse. When the editor starts offering story suggestions to other reporters, the only option is to complain and seek a new profession. When the editor has limited resources and the other reporters have the ability to flirt their way into receiving more assignments, it’s best to seize the opportunities men naturally have an advantage to report. Like meatpacking plant contamination. Illegal whaling. Migrants exploited in the construction industry. Underground
zombie fucking.
The doctor continues to check boxes on his clipboard. “You agree that you are aware of the consequences of attempting to remove the mouth guards.”
“What are the consequences?” I ask.
“Don’t remove the mouth guards.” He says, “You declare that your initial physical has discovered no disqualifying conditions and that after your time in the playroom you will submit to a follow-up physical before clearance that may last up to six hours. You have indicated you desire thirty minutes alone in the playroom with our most popular option, the Maximum Variety, Maximum Amount package.”
I say, “That’s correct. How many is the maximum?”
Nellie Bly exposed herself to ten days of uncomfortable concrete quarters, being forced to wash under buckets of frigid water, subsisting on rotting meat and stiff bread, pushed into and out of rooms for contemptuous medical examinations, all while being continually yelled at and demeaned by the sanitarium staff. Her exposé initiated a public outcry that led to the improvement of the lives of thousands of the mentally ill and increased scrutiny on the unfortunate cases of women being declared insane when often they were only being women.
“When your time is complete, the bell will ring three times. You will have five minutes to free yourself from the girls and exit through the gold door. There are several ways to reach this door; you can choose which will be easiest. Remember, zombies are slow and dumb. However, if you cannot remove yourself or choose not to leave at your appointed time, our staff will enter to assist your exit. Please sign the liability release forms.”
The handwriting is mine. The name is not. Sweat wets my forehead. “Do your staff have to assist many of your clients?”
He says, “Don’t worry. As the oldest and largest operating zombie brothel, we have established the standards all the others aspire to imitate.”
I ask how many other operations exist.
He assures me I will be satisfied.
The doctor walks out as two men in white coats enter and motion for me to follow. We descend a long, cream-colored hallway. The orderlies ignore my inquiries about working hours and wages. They ask what option I’ve chosen.
“Maximum Variety, Maximum Amount,” I say.
The one on my right suggests choosing one of the
specialty packages next time, like Arabian Tights or End of the Rainbow.
He says, “They’ve painted all the girls, so it’s like this crazy interactive art museum.”
Questions for the article: Does man’s ability to personalize his deviation make it less repulsive? Easier to pursue? More likely to be shared?
We walk towards a pink door. The man on the left says he can no longer enjoy sex with living women. The one to my right nods. The men stop at the entrance, which opens, and another doctor asks me to join him in the locker-lined room. He’s heavier than the first doctor, and his hair is darker. He looks like my local grocer.
“Welcome, welcome,” he says. “Leave your personal
belongings in this room, and when you are ready, the playroom is through that door at the end.”
“Can I keep my watch on? To keep track of the time?”
“It’s not recommended,” he replies. “The girls can be rather grabby. The doctors who observe your playtime will announce how much time remains.”
“It’s a gift from my wife,” I say. Sweat collects on my forearms. “I never take it off.”
The doctor shrugs. “It’s your choice. But we are not responsible if it gets broken. And if you tear one of the girls, you lose your deposit.”
I ask how often a girl is torn.
He informs me that they have a large reserve.
I store my clothes in a spotless locker.
“We will release one girl to start. The first five minutes you can play with her however you see fit. Another couple will be released every few minutes. You’ll hear a bell to announce their entry. For thirty minutes, you can expect to see ten to twelve girls, but remember you can request as many as you like. There’s a two-way microphone on the ceiling by the observation window. But speak loud. After five girls it’s hard to hear over the moaning. It’s best to signal how many more you want with your fingers.” He laughs and says, “In my opinion, five girls is the perfect number if you want to stay
in control.”
Another doctor, portly and freckled, sticks his head in to say they’re ready. He suggests next time to try Hairy Ferry. “Nothing is shaved,” he says, whistling for emphasis before disappearing.
“What’s it like?” I ask, hoping to gather as many firsthand accounts as I can for the article.
The doctor who watched me undress says, “When I was younger I used to lay in the shallow part of the lake and hump the sand while watching my sister’s friends tan on the shore. It’s kind of like that without the water.”
Note for the article: Does facilitating zombie sex remove one’s sense of shame?
“How many people work here?” I ask, completely naked except for my microphone wristwatch.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the doctor replies. “Fifteen medical professionals, maybe. Twenty or so of general help. Sixty to seventy girls, I think.”
He laughs again and adds, “And counting.”
One of the more disturbing discoveries Nellie Bly uncovered was the presence of sane women in the insane asylum. One girl claimed she was put there by a jealous husband who assumed her refusal to satisfy his nightly wishes was proof of adultery. Another insisted her family had her locked away over an inheritance dispute. Still others found themselves declare
d mentally insane for possessing traits applauded in men but inappropriate for women. Assertiveness. Questioning authority. Self-dependence. My father could have had my sister put away for flirting with the paper delivery boy from the poor side of town. I could have
committed my wife to avoid the inevitable accusations she’ll raise when this story runs.
The playroom is the size of a half-court for basketball, with padded surfaces in the same cream color as the hallway. Waist-high geometric shapes interrupt the clinical flatness of the floor. Raised ovals. Circles. Rectangles. It’s like being in a giant, white miniature golf challenge. A grated drain covers the center of the floor.
In each corner sits a large bucket of condoms. Along each wall hang the different colored lube and flavor dispensers. Before me, two shut doors stand on either side of a steep ramp that rises to a golden door set halfway up the wall. A narrow ledge begins at the foot of the door and wraps around the room to the midway point where it is met on both sides by small ladders.
I see myself small, naked, and sweating in the reflection of the observation window in the ceiling. Two large vents whir beside the mirror window and fill the room with cool air. With my armpits moist, I tell myself, Success requires sacrifice.
A loudspeaker beside the window transmits the voice of the first doctor, which echoes throughout the chamber. “Enjoy yourself.”
A bell rings, the door to the left opens, and the first girl stumbles out.
In the reflection, I see myself move in the opposite direction.
My editor shut the door when he called me in about this story. He handed me a folded-up piece of paper and said, “Look at this.”
Scribbled at the top in blue ink was a note: I was paid 500 dollars to translate this into Russian. Discreetly. I don’t think it’s a joke.
No signature. No return address on the envelope.
Top 10 Questions Concerning Having Sex with a Zombie
The girl lumbering towards me is dark-skinned. Her black hair is pulled into two pigtails, high on her head. She wears movie star sunglasses. A plastic mouth guard covers the lower half of her face.