Get Zombie: 8-Book Set

by Raymund Hensley

  All they want to do is smoke The Thigh and be lost in their little, tripped-out world.

  There are some girls with us. All not very attractive. They seem rather dirty and lost. I like what they’re wearing, though: Gothic, black dresses…I’m reminded of Interview with the Vampire for some reason. I wonder if these people work at Taco Bell or Dip N’ Dots.

  Everyone seems to be dazed out of their minds, and we haven’t even tongued the dung yet, if you catch my drift. Taki’s young, male friend (a brown-skinned chubby, showing off an Iron Maiden shirt) puts the glass tube to his lips and sticks a lighter down the grassy hole. He inhales, eyes growing huge, and the grass filaments light up like electrical wires. He passes it down the line – the girls try – another tries (are these people magically materializing?) – a heavy girl tries – and then it comes to me. I don’t want to look like a goof, so I try (other tries have ended in pity and shame. It’s no fun when the people you’re doing it with are trying their damndest NOT to feel the effects). I do the motions right, but for some reason Taki’s friend says that I’m doing it wrong, and helps me. I’m grateful, but boy do I feel the eyes on me. I assume that they all think I’m some kind of Narc.

  One of the girls says:

  “Oh Taki, you look just like Jesus!”

  Taki, ever the cool one, cleaning the pipe, just mumbles something to the effect of: “Womp…womp,” smiling.

  But the girl isn’t done yet:

  “I’d like to kiss Taki on the mouth and suck his chicken.”

  Everyone laughs. It was a joke, of course, just for attention. I’m disgusted. I look around to see everyone a bit more talkative and weird. At this point, abortions are a joke. Time escapes me. My limbs have no feeling. I start to wonder what would happen if a cop caught us. These yahoos probably wouldn’t even care.

  I’m a bit envious. I’m depressed again and feel so out of freakin’ place. Who are these people? Where am I? I want something from Jack in the Box; have to remember to ask Taki to stop there after we leave this curious place.

  These people are laughing. Is it at me? Would I even be surprised? Calm down. Taki is just saying something funny about old times with old friends...I laugh to be nice...mouth numb…my giggle tumbles out with a 1-second delay...arms feel like their spinning when they’re not…meat tingling just below the skin...I’m afraid that someone who works in one of the nearby stores will see us and call the fuzz...Come on, Taki, get your jollies and let’s go back inside before the cops come! Did I only think that, or did I say it?...They laugh – not looking at me, so maybe I just thought it. Taki stands, so I stand, confident. My head spins. I can tell that Taki is not immune to these hideous effects as well. It’s comforting to know. We walk past tall white guys – beefy thick arms able to break my neck if they wanted to. I see a goofy, human male, wearing spiked wristbands and a spiked neckband with a spiked doggie leash and spiked thighbands and anklebands, showing off his butterfly knife-dancing skills in front of a group of redheaded girls in black corsets. They seem to be ignoring him as they kiss each other in a bored way. All except for one disturbing girl: A large girl with a blue Mohawk, wearing a shiny, black trench coat and Goth slippers. She stares at him like a hungry wolf. Her hands are in her dress, moving around in circles.

  I try with all I’ve got to walk straight. I feel like an idiot. I arrive.

  INSIDE.

  I’m sitting down on the couch...alone. When did I get here on this couch? Doesn’t matter. It feels good. I feel sick. My head spins spins spins. Makes my belly turn turn turn. Head, stop spinning! Stop spinning! You’re embarrassing me.

  I close my eyes for a second. Try to control this mental, washing machine. Get a grip, man. Righty-O. I can do this. I’m strong. I’m a Virgo.

  I open them:

  What just happened?

  There are at least five people on the couch now. Did I fall asleep? Can’t be. I’d know, right?? I look around in a frown, confused: Make eye contact with a young, black man. He’s thin and nicely dressed. Seems harmless enough. Wait, is he saying something to me? I lean in through the thick music and open my mouth:

  “Huh?”

  “Srjpir-0hoj3efkan.”

  “WHAT.”

  “Toot toot dingus frandj.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m from the base,” he says, smiling. Pearl Harbor. Military.”

  “Oh! Just relaxing, huh?”

  He nods, happy that I understand him. I lean back and shut my eyes again because I’m dead inside: Last thing I see is this nice soldier boy, leaning forward with his hands in prayer between his knees, looking down and about to go into some surely, dreary life story. I want to hear it, just so I don’t hurt his feelings. But…

  My eyes are heavy.

  They close.

  I open them.

  I’M ALONE.

  Did everyone just vanish suddenly? The music is different, too. Softer. Still moody, not surprisingly. Sad sad Emo music. Poo-poos my soul. I realize now that all this “sad” music is giving me the mopes. People in the murky distance, who look like Gothic Nuns, give me final glances as they float down mysterious hallways like toys on wheels. I look to my left. Good Lord! Someone’s sitting next to me, leaning on me even: Sweaty scalp on my shoulder. It’s the chubby girl from outside, one of them anyway: Taki’s pale that smoked with us. I’m too dizzy to try and wake her up. I need to use the bathroom. My bladder is mean. My back feels like my front. My eyes are biting me. My legs are kicking themselves. My neck feels bloated. Things in my stomach want to fly out from my mouth. Damn. I can’t do it. I can’t hold down my own cherries.

  This is pathetic.

  I close my eyes – maybe the world will change again and cease tumbling over itself and she’ll be off of me.

  2 seconds later (or at least what consciously feels like 2 seconds later) I open my face – eyeballs rolling while I groan in belly pains. It feels like I’m vomiting out my eyes. The girl next to me is awake. She’s moving around, doing something. Objects before my eyes are soft, unfocused, floating in the air, spinning in place.

  “Ooooooooh…” I hear, very close to my bad ear.

  I’m too ill to look at her, but I can see her in the corner of my right eye. She’s saying something again. Her arm is around mine, holding on for grim life. I see an image: We must look like an odd pair, like something out of Jerry Springer. A chubby girl and a thin fool, arm in arm, sitting alone on a couch, both gone totally sideways and inside out. She starts kissing my throat. I’m only slightly shocked.

  And then I see something that makes my heart faint and the hairs on my arms flail about.

  “Blood in stool,” I say, cursing my luck.

  I see my ex walking toward me. I can’t keep my eyes open. It’s as if she’s popping in and out of reality as she grins toward us. She says something to the girl around my arm, calls her by name. Not good, I think to myself. I don’t know why it isn’t good, but it isn’t. Jesus, does she know everybody here?

  Ex to me: (brightly) “Hi!”

  Me: (trying as hard as I can to sound normal) “…ello.”

  Ex: “It’s really good to see you here!”

  Why don’t I believe her? Sounds sarcastic.

  Me: “Thanks! I saw you at the movies earlier.”

  Did I say that right? I hope I didn’t stutter like I always do.

  She says more, but unfortunately, it all skates over my glazed eyes. I’m trying really hard to remember her face, but even that takes too much concentration. My heart is a skydiver, yanking on the ripcord wildly, shrieking, “Where’s the parachute!?”

  She leans in, smiling in a wrong way.

  Ex: “It’s-really-good-to-see-you-here.”

  It’s like she’s talking to a child – came near to sounding like a laugh. She walks away, probably went home to mentally vomit the pile of drunkenness known as Me.

  Is she really glade to see me?

  I hope so.

  Heart: “Of course not, idiot
.”

  Girl: “I don’t think she likes me.”

  And then she runs her tongue into my ear.

  I barely notice, thinking of other images. The past seems so inviting.

  I know – God I know – that I’ll remember all of this in the morning, and it will throw the next 5 months into the old, emotional meat grinder.

  I lean back wanting Taki to take me home, and close my eyes again as the tongue in my ear vibrates.

  2 Years Ago...

  I’m with my X and her gay pal at a Goth club called The Dungeon, on Halloween, near airport. There’s a long line. As you can imagine, this is an important day, and we’ve got backstage passes (later we’ll learn they were useless). She gives the fat man at desk our tickets. They seem to know each other. He studies my ID and thinks nothing of me: “Looks like anyone else.”

  Why even say such a thing?

  Asshole.

  I feel ugly but keep up the façade. At least act like it doesn’t bother you. You’ve been acting on public access for over 5 years, acting shouldn’t be a problem. My friends try to cheer me up by saying: “You’re so handsome, you’re so pretty.”

  Pretty?? Is that supposed to make me feel better? I laugh, and we head inside. A naked man wearing a tight leather mask with a zipper mouth is on a wooden, mini stage, tied to cross. A woman tugs on his penis with pliers while hunched over and scanning the area, grinning. I expected myself to be thoroughly appalled, but instead I am moderately interested. It helps that the “slave” seems to be enjoying this odd “act”. We move to the rear of this wondrous place.

  There are bottles of Zima everywhere: On vibrating speakers, the ground, in the bathroom, the tables. We just stand in the back, outside under the moonglow, looking in. My girlfriend gyrates to the music. I touch her back and she feels it...smiles...and I feel so lucky. I feel very very very lucky and normal. We go back in and she scolds me for drinking a stranger’s discarded Zima bottle. I’m told that I could get hepatitis or something. They’d know, surely, both being in the medical field.

  I’m embarrassed at the scolding. That’s what I get for trying to look cool. Like, “Hey, look at me drinking some stranger’s bottle of beer! I don’t care, since I’m so hard!”

  Come to think of it, that was pretty stupid of me.

  We stick toilet paper in our ears to soften the pounding bass. Now we’re dancing. I feel like an idiot. No one seems to care though, and soon enough I’m too drunk to care as well. The female DJ is topless. My girlfriend’s homosexual friend is dancing shirtless. My girlfriend grazes her fingers across his sweaty, muscular chest. I do the same…WHAT AM I DOING?? Get a grip, man. Don’t start going sideways on me now.

  I’m just jealous that she touched his muscles (at least I hope I’m just jealous). I’m such a child.

  Later, we’re by a staircase that’s painted black. She speaks with an older, white fellow, looks like he has money and a decent job, but ugly-ass hair. I grow jealous. Next to him, I look like a 16-year-old with far away dreams.

  I don’t want her talking with him. I KNOW what he’s thinking. I know what he’s thinking! I wanna kill him! Did mention she was wearing a black leotard?

  Uhg.

  Not thirty minutes later, we’re in her SUV with her homosexual pal at the wheel. I have no idea where we’re going. We end up in a place in Waikiki called Fusions. I only see men in this place. There’s happy, techno music and many platforms below us to dance on. There are a lot of tiny, happy lights. Is that a disco ball? Nice people here. One fellow buys me a Cosmopolitan, and it’s good.

  My girl/woman stands over a railing, looking down on barren platforms that move in disco lights. Must be a slow night. I stand next to her, dazzled by all these lights. She’s pretty…looks a little saddened by some mysterious problem. I touch the small of her back and she says, quite suddenly: “No, I don’t like that. Not here.”

  I catch my breath.

  Yeesh. I was just trying to be romantic.

  I retreat to the bar and hope some fool buys me another drink.

  Doesn’t happen.

  That night we argue in the kitchen: Trust me, love me, free me, have make-up sex with me.

  I’m growing increasingly afraid of her. Does she love me, really? One day I’m going to get hurt in a bad way, I can feel it.

  Watch out.

  2 Years Later...

  I open my eyes: The girl has vanished – thank the Lord. Taki is here with his friends (their faces are blurred – as if I’m looking through some cheap JVC camera). I stand and make my way into the bathroom, eyes low to the crazy ground. CORNER OF EYES: The dance floor is empty, save for lone dancer male. Is he dancing, or having a vertical seizure?

  BATHROOM.

  Man pisses...I make my way to the urinal...so close now...BURST OF NAUSEA RUNS UP MY BELLY AND INTO MY BRAIN.

  Uh oh. I’m falling.

  Darkness.

  Voices, distant.

  “Hey hey glasses wake up water....”

  ***

  Smell something familiar, stimulates memory…something from the past comes into my mind, something I read: Cat's urine glows under a black-light.

  Freezing wet tiles on my cheek.

  Stink of urine around sides of my mouth.

  I’m lifted up.

  I hope my black shirt’s not wet. It is, all around the right side. It better be water. My face is in the sink, hands helping me. Water blasting: Cold...splashed onto my face.

  “Are you okay?”

  For some reason, I mumble:

  “…xoowh…my name is Bomb…qiff-93-yaw…my name is Rrrrr…daoc-super 3-a….” (or did I just think it?)

  There’s a popping sound in my ears – feet dancing on bubble wrap.

  Sledgehammer punk is at my side, splashing water continuously into my face and repeating: “Are you sure, are you sure, are you sure?” I think: Please Lord, pound him with the Fist of God. Someone hands me my glasses (I don’t put them on) and I hear fats say, “Sorry, dude, but you gotts ta go.” He sounds genuinely concerned. I head outside...and…they’re following me, aren’t they? (no) And judging me, and eyeing me out, giving me the stiff one-eye: Staring at meeeeeeee!!!! (no, no one’s following you)

  Where’s Taki? Keep walking...don’t make eye contact with anyone. A few years from now, no one will remember this.

  Really?

  No.

  Fireworks go off over my shoulder, and I’m shook-up for a good 3 seconds. Where’s the fuckin car? Taki’s car? I don’t see it. What time is it? Don’t wait for him, boy. Take the bus.

  I’m a good length away from the club. Good. I sit at the bus stop and get up abruptly and vomit on a fence. I’m impressed by the volume of my regurgitation. I feel sooo much better. I smile at myself, and nod my head in approval. I hope passing cars don’t honk at me and laugh. I’m at the wrong bus stop. I cross the street to the other one, and lay back and close my eyes. My head isn’t spinning anymore. Think back on bathroom: Feelings of anger. I know that everything happens for a reason. This is no exception. All proper emotions...much to learn from this. And what did I learn? Trust your gut. I shouldn’t have gone out after that movie: I should’ve gone home, home, home. I’m really angry with that one guy. I hate feeling this way. What kind of human being feels so much anger toward a fellow human? A bad one. I’m bad. I’m bad and ugly and disgusting and disgusted at myself and so very skinny that my mum makes fun of me and looks at me in repulsion many times when I walk past her while she watches the Filipino channel. My eye hurts. Is there a pebble inside?? It really hurts. I cry, which is the body’s natural way of washing out unwanted articles.

  There must be some kind of nodule under my eyelid. I bet it’s because of that damn weed. I should check my medical dictionary when I get home.

  My bus arrives. I go in and lean against a window, covering tears of extreme PAIN due to my shit eye. Must be around 4am, since buses don’t start up ‘til around this time. I take the long walk home and lay in be
d, praying that my eye will feel better in the morning.

  “Broken Surfboards & Ugly Rent”

  HOLLYWOOD HAS FED you a major lie. Hawaii has fed you a major lie. We don’t all surf. We don’t all enjoy wearing slippers. We don’t all live in the North Shore. I was born & raised here and I’ve never even BEEN to that side of the island.

  What many humans across the globe don’t know is that Honolulu, the heart of Oahu, is a city with a taste for the modern and the sophisticated and the glam.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if many still think we have goddamn volcanoes everywhere that go off in a panic every 5 seconds.

  People are ignorant. They’re told what to expect of us and they don’t ask questions for some disturbing reason. It’s because they want to believe the fantasy, I’m sure. Believe in The Fake Hawaii. Yay.

  And the majority of Hawaii is happy with it, seeing how we feed off the tourists. So nothing changes. They’re happy with how things are. Just fine and dandy. Because it’s what humans all over the wonderful world want, right? They want to believe this dribble. They see the postcards, the commercials of women dancing in grass skirts. They want to come to a paradise that’s away from the computers and the automo-biles and the “Interweb” and every fancy doodad and nasty, dagnabbit contraption. Like automatic doors.

  This is why the typical tourist visits here, wearing irritating-to-see, rattan hats and unflattering shorts. But what they see are kids dressed as gangsters and old people wearing Gucci and little girls carrying Toki Doki bags. “Yeesh,” they think, unbuttoning their Hawaiian shirt. “Why does it feel like I never left home?”

  Oahu has always been modern…up with the times.

  There are plans for a monorail.

  Rent is skyrocketing up the ying-yang.

  The bus has jacked up the fare for adults from $1 to $2, and complain about how their jobs are more “dangerous” than cops'. Very good. I’ve yet to see a bus driver stop a speeding bullet with a dive. Driving a bus more dangerous than being a cop?