Kiss of Life

by Daniel Waters

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  Readers of this blog know that at times I have been critical of Skip Slydell and his company, Slydellco, who I have seen as profiteering off the undead without regard for the repercussions of that profiteering. I've been concerned that his cosmetics and clothing trivialize our cause rather than advance it, but after meeting Skip in his club I'm convinced that that isn't his intention. I won't go as far as to say that I am a supporter, but he isn't the greedy robber baron I originally pegged him for. His methods may be suspect, but I do think he has undead interests at heart.

  Aftermath is in an unassuming three-story building off the Bowery. In much of his media material, Skip calls the club evidence of a "cultural revolution." Typical Skip, he goes too far with his own hyperbole--but it's hard to deny that some form of cultural change is taking place there.

  The club departs from the typical cavelike, warehouse decor of most clubs, favoring instead bright primary colors that cover every visible surface (with the exception of the corridor to the bathrooms, but I'II get to that later).

  "You have to go with what's stimulating to people," Skip told me as we sat on leather chairs in a small office he keeps above the DJ booth. "Dead kids like light, they like color, they like three hundred beats per minute. We've done theme parties, ones where we keep the houselights on for the whole dance. Living kids, they dance in the dark. Why? The dark is exciting to them. It's thrilling. Dead kids, some of them spent too much time in the dark, alone. They don't want to be back there. I went to a rave in an old brick warehouse a few weeks ago

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  looking for ideas. I looked around and said: I'm in a crypt. Some of these kids have actually been in crypts; who wants to dance in one?

  "Take our furniture. All overstuffed, comfortable. Velour. Fake fur on a lot of the pillows with nice bright colors. Soft things, comforting things."

  I ask him how the club makes any money when it runs twenty four hours. Earlier in the day I talked to Simon from White Plains, a zombie who told me he'd been at the club for "at least six days."

  "Yeah, we have about twenty-five people living here," Skip said, and for a moment I think he's going to dodge the question. "I have outside funding," Skip tells me. "You'd be surprised how many people, people with means, are sympathetic to the plight of the undead. I get money from Hollywood, I get money from Washington. I kick money from my product line into the kitty; we're set up as a not-for-profit. The labor is all volunteer; the expenses are low. Electricity and rent are our biggest headaches."

  "What do you do if a dead kid can't pay the cover?" I asked.

  "We let him in," Skip said, smiling. "Living or dead. Well take a partial donation if they can't pay up in full. The living kids always, always have the money, though. And they all buy T-shirts and snacks while they're here. It works."

  We watched a band called Skeleton Crew performing from the window of his office. The members all hail

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  from New Jersey, and, their lead singer, DeCayce, is dead.

  "I don't pay the bands either," Skip said, as we watched Skeleton Crew launch into the first of a set of eight songs, which were an interesting mix of the band's competent speed punk with DeCayce's slow, dirgelike vocals that hover like the wings of bats. "They play for exposure."

  I ask Skip if there's really that much exposure to be found within the walls of Aftermath, which some people may never leave.

  He thought the question was funny.

  "It's an investment," he said, "I think it's a good one. Cultural credit is different from financial credit; you build cultural credit by trading credit with other brands and products in the hopes that they add to your own."

  I'm told I have a good poker face, but Skip could see my confusion.

  "Look," he said, "did Michael Jordan make Nike, or did Nike make Michael Jordan? And does it matter?"

  Skip has a real Michael Jordan fixation, I've noticed, even though the man has been retired for years. He pointed out a few kids in the audience who were wearing shirts that had the Skeleton Crew symbol, a yellow smiling skull emoticon.

  "It's like when certain designer clothes started appearing in retail stores, the stuff was getting shoplifted by the closet load. The designers thought they had a real problem, but then they

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  realized something. The clothes were getting boosted by fashion-conscious gang kids, and every one of those hip gangsters was like a walking billboard for their product. So the designers said, let 'em steal. They did subtle things to tie their brand into what was happening with urban chic; they did some branding with the rap stars of the day, and pretty soon the clothing was in such demand it wouldn't matter how many outfits they lost from their retail outlets.

  "Aftermath is going to be like that. Undead culture is going to be the next pervasive phenomenon in the United States and the world. Six months from now this band is going to be able to tell all the people that want their songs for movies, for television, for commercials, that they were once the house band at Aftermath. And Aftermath is going to be able to say they put Skeleton Crew in the public eye. It's like that skull T-shirt you see everywhere, the Misfits one? Where were the Misfits until Metallica started wearing their shirt onstage and talking about what a "seminal influence" they were? They were a small local band with a small cult following, right up until Metallica went crazy and became one of the biggest music acts of all time. And then the Misfits were cool because Metallica wore their T-shirts. And Metallica was cool because they were part of that select cult following of the Misfits. It's all about cultural cred."

  Skeleton Crew was a good band, the flat, pause-heavy intonation of DeCayce an element unique enough to set them apart from the dozens of bands that played in the same style.

  "You don't know how lucky you are," Skip said, and unlike

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  the songs that DeCayce sang, his words were free of irony, "To be dead in America at this point in time. This is your time."

  I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just stood in his high office and watched all the lucky people on the dance floor below as they tried to have some fun.

  I spoke to DeCayce sometime later, long after the rest of his band had left, presumably to get some sleep, to dream of being the vanguard of a new cultural revolution.

  We talked about many things--how we died, how those around us reacted to our returns. I think it's funny how we rarely reveal the circumstances of our deaths to trad people we meet, but it is usually the first thing we exchange with fellow undead, and I said so.

  DeCayce picked up on this instantly: "It's sort of the 'what do you do for a living'for the dead set," he said. "Instead, we ask, 'So, how was it that you stopped living?'"

  He told me that the other members of his band were his best friends, and had been prior to his death.

  "They all stood by me when I came back," he said. "My family had a much harder time of it--they still do. My friends, though ...they were there through it all."

  I asked him how long it took him to get the control over his speech and body.

  "I'm still trying," he said. "I'm better onstage than I am one-on-one, as you can probably tell. Something about the crowd, maybe."

  My last question was whether or not he thought there was a message in his music.

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  "No," he said first, hut then thought about it. "Well, I guess there is, but not an overt one. I guess the message in the songs is that it shouldn't matter if someone moves differently, or looks differently, or talks differently. Is biotic differently. What matters is that we're all thinking beings, and if we are thinking beings we ought to be able to find common ground somewhere. Maybe if people can see us playing, three beating hearts and a dead guy, it will inspire a little more tolerance in the country."

  Tolerance. I thought that his statement was similar in sentiment to the ideals of the Hunter Foundation. And I wondered, as I did when I first heard the Hunters speak of it, if tolerance was going to be enough.r />
  Phoebe read the blog a second time before typing reply.

  Tommy--

  Everyone here is fine. Except for George, who might be in some trouble. Something or someone has been killing animals in Winford and the police are blaming him. Karen says there's no way he would do something like that. What do you think?

  When were you at Aftermath? Was it on the 28th? That was when we were all there. Margi, Colette, Karen and I. We had such a great time dancing and meeting so many people. I couldn't believe how many trads were there!

  Did you see us?

  Phoebe

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  KAREN CALLED HER the next day and asked if she wanted to work on the Web

  site with her after school on Monday. "I'd love to," Phoebe said.

  "Great. You can come over after Undead Studies. You can eat here. I'll watch you, living vicariously the whole time."

  Phoebe smiled. "We have the field trip tomorrow, right?"

  "I know. I've got a bunch of... work to do for that...too. We're going to have an action-packed day."

  "Okay," Phoebe said, wondering what a meal at the DeSonne household would be like.

  "Sounds fun."

  "I got Tommy's e-mail last night," Karen said, "the little ...creep. Sometimes he makes me so mad."

  "It was a good blog, though," Phoebe said.

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  "I can't believe he didn't come talk to us," Karen said. "Don't tell me it doesn't burn you up."

  "A little." She was more sad than angry, though. Tommy was avoiding her, not them. She'd hurt him deeper than she'd realized.

  "Well," Karen said, "I've got to get back to work. I'll see you at school tomorrow."

  "You're still at work?" Phoebe said. "How late is the mall open?"

  "Until ten, even on Sunday," she said. "This is my second double shift. Craig asked me to stay because two people called in. I figured it was the least I could do after going dancing on the biggest shopping day of the year."

  "I should get a job," Phoebe said, thinking out loud. Really the work-study hours were enough; she could wait until the summer.

  "Wait until I open up my business," Karen said. "I'll hire you."

  "Your business?"

  "Tell you later. Craig is giving me the ...evil eye. I have to go. See you."

  "See you," Phoebe said to dead air.

  "Field ...trip!" Cooper said as he took a seat in the back of the bus. Phoebe thought he was pretty pleased with himself for having arranged it.

  Cooper claimed to have suggested the field trip so they could get out of some class time, but Phoebe suspected that

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  he'd really done it because he knew Melissa wanted to go to the Haunted House, but had difficulty getting around. She'd worn her comedy mask today, and almost looked happy as she lurched into a seat. Alish and Angela were the last two to get on the bus, and they took the seat directly behind the driver. Phoebe figured that they would be the first adults ever to be invited to the Haunted House. Unless you count the police, who were called there on the night of Adam's murder.

  She slid in the seat next to Karen, after a quick glance back at Adam, who sat in the back with Thorny and Kevin.

  "Do you really think this is such a great idea?" she asked. "Inviting Angela and Alish?"

  "I don't know, really," Karen said. "I don't know if I trust the foundation completely. I e-mailed Tommy, though, and he thought it was okay."

  "You e-mailed Tommy?"

  "Yes. That was okay, right? Me e-mailing ...Tommy?" Phoebe whirled to face her. "Of course it is. Why should I care?"

  "I don't... know," Karen said, and Phoebe thought she was using more speech pauses than usual just to be irritating. "Why ...should you?"

  "Should I find another seat?" Phoebe asked.

  "No," Karen replied, patting her on the shoulder. "I still love you. We're going to have ... a blast tonight, aren't we?"

  The bus pulled away from the curb, and the chatter grew in volume to compete with the dull growl of the engine. Thorny

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  was telling Adam and Kevin about some phenomenal play he'd made on the football field, practically shouting about his gridiron prowess even though the dead, despite their many issues, were not hard of hearing. Margi was laughing about an e-mail DeCayce sent to Colette with an MP3 attachment of a song they'd added to their live show, a cover of "So Alive" by Love and Rockets, a band they'd known from Colette's brother's vast record collection.

  "He's totally singing about you," Margi said.

  "Is ...not."

  "Is too!"

  "Is ...not!"

  Melissa was sitting alone a few seats behind them, looking out the window. Karen called over to her.

  "Hey, Melissa," she said. "Are you excited?"

  Melissa scribbled on her board and held it up. She'd drawn a large and blocky exclamation point.

  "There are lots of kids there. Hopefully you'll get to meet Mal. He's one of my best buddies. He used to stay at St. Jude's too.

  Melissa erased and wrote. FR. FITZ TALKS ABOUT MAL

  "He does? Father Fitzpatrick seems to be a pretty nice guy, for a beating heart," she said, nudging Phoebe with her elbow. Phoebe nudged back.

  I FR. FITZ

  "Tayshawn was at St. Jude's for a while," Phoebe said. "Will Takayuki and his boys be there, you think?"

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  "I think so," Karen said, "They live there. So to ...speak. I think it will be

  more ...interesting ...for everyone if they

  are."

  A banner that read WELCOME ALISH AND ANGELA hung from the slouching porch of the Haunted House. It was Karen's idea, executed by some of the zombies with black paint on an old sheet. Alish took Thorny's arm as they went up the rickety steps of the front porch.

  "Amazing," the old man said. "Simply amazing."

  There were about twenty zombies waiting for them in the foyer. Phoebe watched Karen move to the front of the group, where she asked for silence even though none of them had made a sound. She did a quick scan for Tak, but didn't see either him or Popeye, although there were a handful of the other old-schoolers around, George among them. She was surprised and happy to see that Tayshawn had stuck around to see his old classmates.

  "Hello, everyone," Karen began, "I'd like you all to meet Alish and Angela Hunter, who began the Hunter Foundation for the Advancement and Understanding of Differently Biotic Persons. That means us dead folk."

  Karen smiled, and Phoebe was gratified to see more than one stony face twitch in an attempt to smile along with her. As irritated as she was with Karen, Phoebe had to admit she'd put a lot of planning into the event. Now that they had chosen to fully accept the Hunter Foundation as a source of funding and support for the Haunted House, she'd thought it made sense for them to try and cement their relationship in a way that

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  went beyond the typical student/teacher relationship. To schmooze them, in other words. Skip Slydell would be proud.

  "I would like to introduce each of you ... to the Hunters," Karen said. "One at a time. We've also brought some new friends along from our class, Cooper Wilson and Melissa Riley."

  Cooper waved, but Melissa looked like she was trying to hide behind Adam. Karen didn't force the issue.

  "I appreciate your patience ... in advance for helping make everyone feel at home. And for you ... living ...folks, we have some refreshments in the ...unliving room. Soft drinks and chips."

  "Really?" Thorny asked, suspicion evident in his voice. "Where did you get the snacks?"

  Karen gave him a droll look. "From the cemetery, Thornton," she said. "Where do you ...think?"

  Karen stood by the Hunters and introduced them to each zombie in turn. Phoebe could tell that Alish wished that he was able to take notes to record his impressions, his hand shook as he clasped each cold, dead hand that was offered to him. His eyes kept drifting to George, who was shambling around the periphery of the gathering
like a boy at a party too shy to ask a girl to dance. George made no attempt to hide the physical aspects of his death, the rents in his skin, his missing ear, the ribs visible beneath his ripped and muddy clothing. The funny thing about George was that, unlike zombies like Tak and Popeye who used their scars for effect, it didn't even occur to him to cover them up.

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  "This is Jacinta," Karen said, introducing a young girl who was still wearing the pink dress she was almost buried in. "She's a newlydead."

  As Angela shook the blankly staring girl's hand, Phoebe took another quick scan of the room. Kevin and Thorny were looking at the CD rack by the stereo, and Margi and Colette were already making a loud nuisance of themselves with a small cluster of zombie girls in the corner. George had stopped his circumlocution of the room and was staring openly at Melissa. He took one dragging step toward her, then froze when she looked over at him.

  Oh no, Phoebe thought, hoping that the shy girl wasn't spooked by the most zombie-esque of all zombies. They couldn't be more different. George, in truly dead fashion, had no compunction at all about revealing the evidence of his death; she took as much care as possible to hide her own scars, even from herself. Phoebe wondered how many people had figured out she was wearing a wig.

  Melissa wrote something on her board and held it up in front of George.

  "And how long have you been dead?" Phoebe heard Alish ask Jacinta. Karen and Angela exchanged a quick look, as though neither could believe the question he'd just asked.