Get Kilt: A Zombie Pill Page 2

  They reminded me of zombies.

  JANICE

  My room was dark. Tree branch shadows went up and down on the walls. So this is it, then, I thought. This is now my life. I wanted to cry again. I didn't care how stupid it made me feel. Odd sounds were all around me: Feet shuffling outside my door, snoring that turned into choking, weeping women, vomiting sounds, someone counting backwards, a distant cat being stepped on, a weatherman on TV, piano music, pills dropping to the floor, hands rubbing on balloons, splashing sounds, skating sounds...and sometimes I'd get a whiff of something bad. I forced myself not to think. No no no: The loneliness was getting to me again. Fight it; fight it. I don't need anyone anymore; I've trained myself to enjoy my own company. Sanglan popped into my head; he was leaning on his cane; he was all smiles. In my mind, I reached out for him. He waved...and vanished. The crying came easy then. I tried to make the best of it. Hey, at least I didn't have to cook anymore. In the home, I had the chance to just be lazy and have people feed me and bathe me. What the hell? Just give up all together. Just go with it, Janice. Just give up and get ready to die.

  No no no.

  I couldn't do that.

  I could take care of my own damn self. 80 or whatever, I didn't FEEL old. My body was still vibrating. All those years of being a health guru paid off, and it felt dead wrong to just...to just get lazy and piss away all that work. So I got up and did pushups in the dark, and situps, and jumping jacks, and shadowboxing. After I worked up a good sweat, sleep was easy. I dreamed that I was on a mountaintop, eating some sort of frozen treat. Eagles were all around me. Some sat on my shoulder. I felt...free.

  Alive.

  In the morning, I did the same exercises again.

  There was a terrible crash outside of glass shattering. I swung the door open and looked down the hallway. A male nurse was wrestling with an old man.

  “I'm okay! I'm okay!” shrieked the old man.

  The nurse brought up a noose.

  “Then what is this? Huh? At it again, eh, Coontang? I should report you.”

  The old man was on his knees.

  “Please don't. They'll take me away! Put me in the loony bin! Do you know what they do to old people there? I've seen movies, man. Movies. Don't let them take me away. I like it here.”

  The nurse stuffed the rope into his pocket.

  “I'm keeping this. Now don't let me see you acting a fool again. Right?”

  “Yes, right, right. I promise.”

  The nurse grinned and walked away. Coontang put his hands to the floor and began to weep. As if sensing me, he looked over his shoulder...and growled. I ran back into my room and slammed the door. He saw me. Was he sane? Was this a home for old people or a mental house? The stereotype was that the older you got, the crazier you got...the more you lost your grip on reality...your mind. Was it true? I began to worry. I shook my head and leaned against the door. No no no. I knew I was sane. I was healthy – physically & mentally. You needed to tend to both, see? That was the trick.

  A knock on the door.

  I didn't want to open it.

  Another knock.

  It was Coontang, I knew it, out to get me – angry at me because I saw him crying. He was ashamed. He felt less of a man, and now he wanted to reclaim his manliness by beating up an old woman. And then he would go all out. Sure. Why not? After committing sick murder, why stop there? I imagined him running all through the home, waving rusty, bloody butcher knives in the air and cutting off faces. He'd run outside to meet 50 police cars, lights all circling blue and red, and fall to his knees in disbelief at what he had just done – at all the faces he cut off and stuffed in his pockets. As the cops stick their guns in his face, he'd whisper how unfair life had been to his dreams, to his body.

  I opened the door.

  Coontang smiled and extended his hand for a shake.

  “Jackson Coontang,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  He had wiped the tears away from his cheeks. But his eyes were still swimming.

  JACKSON COONTANG

  That was a great morning. I showed Janice around the home. More people were up and about than usual. In fact, the place was absolutely buzzing with activity. It reminded me of a zoo, and someone let out all the snakes. I held Janice's hand as we walked, and I was delighted that she held back. I felt a connection with her. She was quiet and never interrupted...always listening. Being around her calmed my noisy brain. Being around her made the home tolerable.

  “First thing's first,” I told her. “Don't talk to anyone that doesn't smile. Sounds simple, but trust me. People here don't lie about how they feel. Whatever emotion they're feeling, they let it allll come out. The weak ones do, anyway. I, for one, try to control myself. Control. It's the only thing we old folk have left.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “I'm not old.”

  I laughed.

  “You're 80.”

  “And what?”

  “That makes you old.”

  “Are there people here who are 90? Or 81?”

  “Well, Miss Feewoy is 90...” I said, “...and Grackow is 81.”

  She waved me away.

  “As long as there's someone older than me, that makes me younger. Makes me young. Understand now?”

  She was smiling up at me: Eyes shut, all teeth.

  I saw her point – and it was a good one – and for a second I bought it. Then, as was always the problem with me, I thought of people 80 and under. The youth. I bit my tongue. They always made me feel like punching through a wall. When I was a younger man of 80, you could find me in the park everyday all day, playing soccer with the guys. Reliving my glory days was my true joy in life. After the guys all died, something in me died. The passion had faded. The joy was going away. I had no one to play with. Loneliness set in. I felt time catching up on me. For the first time in my life, I feared TIME. I started thinking about how Benway got a heart attack and collapsed in the cereal aisle, how Jamantha crashed her car into a bus of nuns because her brain just “gave out”, how Dizziton's cane broke in two and he fell into a manhole – right into the sewer and drowned in all that filth. I couldn't stop thinking. I was polluting my mind with junk. And it was right then that I got sick, got weak, got TIRED. Whenever I got into that terrible vibration, all that helped was biting my lip.

  Janice said that my lip was bleeding. I said that it was normal, and we moved on.

  We walked into the playroom.

  “This is where we go to play various games: Ping pong, chess, hide and go seek, Twister, so-forth and so-forth. Every once and a while, Jealousy The Clown comes down and tries to cheer us up by doing all these back flips and magic tricks and moonwalks. The guys usually just stare right through him. That stupid clown hates being here as much as we do. Whenever I walk by and catch him doing his act, his face is filled with rage & boredom. Once someone cracks a smile, he throws his hands up, packs up his bag of tricks and animal balloons, and says, “All right! My job is done. Smell ya folksies later.”

  “I hate being called a folksie. Makes me feel old.” “I hate that damn clown. I threw a cupcake at the back of his head once when he was leaving.”

  Janice frowned.

  “Be careful. The more you push against something, the more it pushes back.”

  That crazy old girl Heineken zipped by on her roller skates. Janice yelped and hugged me. My heart jumped. What was happening? Did she like me? Maybe this girl was the one? Was she flirting with me? Did I have to make moves on her? Did I even remember how? What was the next move? I had to say something.

  “ Heineken must be in a good mood,” I said. “She's wearing her goggles and helmet.”

  Heineken whooshed by a nurse, scaring her, and disappeared behind a corner.

  “Att'a ma way!” she went, words fading.

  Her skating girlfriends sailed by us. It was a damn platoon of old people rollerskating.

  “That looks like fun,” Janice said. “Think I could join them?” />
  “Sure. One thing, though. Heineken is their leader, and if there's anything Heineken hates, it's rollerblades. This other woman (I think her name was Yangyang Harowiski) joined them. When she showed up with rollerblades, Heinekan tore them off her feet and threw them THROUGH a window, hitting a passing dog that was last seen skating down traffic. Yangyang ran away crying and was never seen again. I think she lives in Mexico now, God help her.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I hear the water in Mexico gives you the runs, and it's just so hot there.”

  “I mean, why does Heineken hate rollerblades?”

  “Heineken was the master and commander of rollerskating back in the '70s. When the '90s came around, she met her enemy: Rollerblade queen Reena Yamatosha-Gag. There was this big tournament in Waikiki called The Roller 2000. Everything was 2000 this and 2000 that back in those days. The whole island showed up for the race. It was bigger than the Honolulu Marathon. The Roller 2000 would determine once and for all which skate was “better”. The roller skate, or the rollerblade. The race was to start in Waikiki and end at Kaneana Cave (Makua Cave). I always felt it was a bad spot to end a race. Exhausted skaters could wobble off and tumble down to the ocean. It would be a long-ass fall, indeed.

  “Right at the sound of the gun, Heineken and Reena were ahead of the pack – neck-to-neck all the way to the end. They looked very professional as they went, leaned forward and all. It started to rain later, but they just kept going, nonstop, even when two cars slipped on the road and crashed into each other right next to them, they just kept going, huffing and puffing. When they reached the cave, Reena tried to push her off the cliff. KILL HER. Just to win a race. The whole thing was caught via helicopter. Heineken tackled her and they went skating into the cave, headbutting and biting and punching each other in the gut. Long story short, Heineken got the crap beaten out of her, and Reena went to jail; but she still won the race. And Heineken's been PO'ed ever since. Sometimes I hear her skating down the hallways at three in the morning, mumbling something about “caves...caves....” No one complains. We all feel too sad for her. Just let her skate. But if you want me to introduce you to her, just let me know.”

  “Never mind,” Janice said. “I don't even know how to skate.”

  “What do you like to do?”

  “Pushups, situps, shadowboxing, normal things like that. I used to be a health instructor.”

  “Do you like...soccer?”

  She smiled.

  “I love soccer. Are you a player?”

  “One of the best,” I said, grinning. “I can teach you all my tricks.”

  Someone young screamed. A nurse ran out from a room, carrying a tray of pills and little cups of water – ran right into a wall, knocking herself out. The tray hit the floor and the sound pierced my ears. Pepper walked out of a room, pointing at her arm.

  “She tried to stick me with a needle!” she yelled. “I said NO needles! Don't you young idiots understand English?! You kids think you're so hip with your complicated shoes and lazy tongues!”

  Other nurses ran to her and put their hands up in front of her, trying to soothe. Janice came close to me.

  “Is that person crazy?”

  I moaned.

  “That's Pepper Ann. She's 90.”

  Pepper saw me and narrowed her eyes and licked her lips and rubbed her breasts in a sexy way. The nurses dragged her back into the room. I took Janice's hand and moved on.

  “Best you stay away from Pepper,” I said. “She's worse than crazy. She's a witch.”

  HAWAII MOUNTAIN POLICE

  Investigation Report - 12/01/11

  Summary: On 11/28/11, Debra Hateer was found up a tree in the Ke'eawa woods. When police tried to coax her down, Mrs. Hateer proceeded to pelt the officers with rocks and sticks and spit and wild hisses. A pebble dropped into Lieutenant Bligh Sharlamain's eye. He fell to the ground bleeding and weeping and was sent to the hospital for physical and mental evaluations. Lieutenant Clipe Whitenhoussen brought out his gun to shoot Mrs. Hateer and protect himself, but she hit him in the face with a jagged rock that sent him to the ground unconscious. The remaining officer, Lt. Dia Mamia, threw a rope up at Mrs. Hateer and lassoed her foot and dragged her out of the tree.

  In Lt. Mamia's own words, “Mrs. Hateer was like a dog with a stepped-on tail.” She continues: “It was an old woman. Another one of those THINGS. She began to eat the other officers. I tried kicking and shooing her away, but it only seemed to make her more excited. Finally, I tried shooting her body, but to no desirable effect. The old woman jumped up at me and went for my face. I ran my fingers into her skull and yanked out her eyes. I puked. Then, remembering my younger days as a rodeo clown, I got my rope and tied it around the zombie and threw the other end up a tree and pulled as hard as I could. I hung that monster good. So good, in fact, that her body disconnected from her neck and fell down like a sack of onions. The head swung, eyes moving in circles, that mouth opening and closing...spitting.”

  (Rest of report missing.)

  JANICE

  Jackson took me outside, and we played soccer for thirty minutes. He was once a champion soccer player, and world famous, too. I felt bad for not knowing. Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods...these people I knew were famous sports stars, but whoever heard of Jackson Coontang? He was teaching me all his tricks, and he was a good teacher. It's a gift. Some people are born with it. I was falling for this man. I liked being near him. He was strong, and I felt safe, like nothing could harm me. His arms were skinny, but decades of running around and doing squat thrusts and horse stances made his legs thick with muscle. He kicked the ball to prove his strength to me, and it flew all the way over the hospital, right onto the other side. A car alarm went off. A baby cried.

  I was impressed.

  As we played, a bug crawled across my brain.

  That lady...Pepper...invaded my thoughts. Why did she make those sexy moves at Jackson? Did they have something going on? Exhausted – mentally by thinking about her for too long – I asked if we could take a break from playing. Jackson agreed, and we sat down on the grass. I sipped my water.

  “Did your family dump you in here, too?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Once upon a time, my wife left me, took the kids and all my money and went to the Philippines and married some jackass game show host named Kuya Antong Lopez. The end.”

  “That's a tragic story. You should publish.”

  He gave out a laugh, and we smiled at each other.

  And then he asked me a question that I wished he hadn't: “Are you married?”

  The question brought my dead husband to my mind all over again. He was waving – always waving. Was he saying hello? Or goodbye? I was never sure.

  “I was married,” I said. “His name was Sanglan. He died two years ago.”

  “I'm sorry. May I ask how he died?”

  “He got a heart attack while ice swimming in Alaska. It was so sudden. I don't understand it. He was healthy – always exercising and doing situps. And then his heart just gives out? What? How does that happen to someone taking such good care of themselves. He was the one that got me into this whole health thing. Now I'm addicted to it. I'm afraid that if I slack off...I don't know...maybe time will catch up with me. Time will sense me giving up and come running out from behind that tree there and kill me.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “I fear time, too.”

  “That's why you play soccer all the time?”

  “That why I play soccer all the time,” he said. “I have to stay fit. Besides, I enjoy the workout. It...invigorates me. Fills me with life.”

  That was good to hear. Here was a man that I understood me. It was nice. Then I heard Sanglan's voice in my head. He was accusing me of cheating on him – betraying him. I forced him away and put my hand on Jackson's knee. He flinched.

  We chatted about favorite books and movies, then we played a little bit more. When it got dark, he walked me to my room. I was in my bed, clo
se to sleep, when there was a knock on the door. I rushed to it, expecting it to be him, but it wasn't Jackson. It was Pepper. I immediately felt threatened. I forced out a smile. No point in showing my fear. No need to insult her. I extended my hand.

  “Hello. My name's Janice. I'm new here.”

  She shook my hand.

  “Hi. I'm Pepper. Nice to meet you.”

  The mood changed. This was no witch. I smiled again, this time for real.

  “Hi, Pepper. Care to come in and sit down?”

  “That won't be necessary, but thank you for the offer.”

  “How may I help you?”

  “You're new here, yes?”

  “I am.”

  “Enjoying your stay?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Everyone has been very nice.”

  “I saw that you were playing soccer with our friend Jackson.”

  Something in my brain backpedaled to the scene earlier of Pepper massaging her breasts for Jackson. My heart sank. Something bad was about to happen, but I had to keep my smile on, to try and keep things as pleasant as possible no matter what. I just arrived. No sense in making enemies.

  “We were kicking the ball around, yes,” I said. “Jackson's a very fine man.”

  Pepper's eyes blew up.

  “Oh, I agree,” she said. “He is a very fine man, indeed.” She looked to the ground and leaned against the door frame. “But...” she continued, “...I feel I must warn you.”

  I frowned. Here it came. The big bite.

  Pepper looked at me, eyes narrowed.

  “He's suicidal, my dear. Unstable.”

  The news struck me as a flat out lie. I laughed out loud.

  “What did you just say? I don't believe you.”

  “Oh, but it's true. At least once a week he tries to hang himself. It's depressing.”

  “Why tell me this?”

  “I like helping people,” she said. “I care about people. I care about our newcomers. You're getting close to Jackson. He'll only hurt you.”

  “I can handle myself, but thanks for the warning,” I said, closing the door. “It's late. I need my sleep.”

  She put her foot to the door.

  “One day he's really gonna do it.”

  “What?”