My Life as a White Trash Zombie

Page 36

“I’m trying to get my fucking life back on track,” I said. Then I shook my head. “No, it’s never been on track. I’m sick of being a loser.”
He plopped down onto the couch and shrugged. “I don’t think you’re a loser. You don’t rape old ladies or steal from welfare moms, right?”
I wiped the water off the counter. “No, but that’s not being a loser. That’s being evil.”
“I s’pose. Hey, grab me a beer since you’re up?”
I pulled the fridge open, snagged a beer, and handed it to him. “See, I think losers are people who don’t want anything for themselves. Or who don’t do the shit that needs to be done to get anywhere in life.” I handed him the beer.
He cracked it open, then glanced at me. “You’re not drinking?”
“Nah. I’m wiped,” I lied. “If I drink I’ll fall asleep.” I paused. “So what do you think?”
He took a swig and then gave me a sideways glance. “About what?”
“About being a loser.”
“Oh.” He took another swig. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He shrugged again. “I dunno. I think if you’re not hurting anybody, it’s all good.”
“But maybe being a loser is about hurting yourself,” I pressed, but I could see that I’d already lost him.
“Jesus, Angel, you’re being awfully deep.” He laughed. “C’mon, look at us. We have fun. We fight, make up, fuck. We grab a beer, smoke a joint, knock back some pills. No one gets hurt. We’re not robbing convenience stores for money.”
“But some of those pills are stolen from people who need them.”
His mouth twisted. “Maybe some, but most are prescribed to people who go from doctor to doctor. The docs don’t care, ’cause they get their money.”
I blew out my breath. “I dunno. Maybe so. You should see the drugs and pills I come across in my job now. Seems like everybody and their mom is on painkillers or anxiety drugs.”
“Whaddya mean? How do you see them?”
“Oh, when someone dies we collect any leftover prescription drugs, and then they get destroyed.”
He hadn’t moved. “So they throw out all those pills?”
“They get incinerated,” I told him. “But they get counted first,” I added, suddenly feeling strange telling Randy about the drugs. “Anyway, thanks for letting me come by,” I said, trying to change the subject. “My dad’s out of jail and being his usual dickish self.”
“You know you can always come stay here.” He pushed off the couch and went into the kitchen, returning a half minute later with the bag of pot.
He lit a joint and passed it to me. I sighed to myself and took the hit even though I knew it wouldn’t do anything. It tasted like shit, and I instantly regretted doing it as the taste faded and the color in the room dimmed. I’m fucking poisoning myself, using up my brains, I thought sourly. These are my brains on drugs.
I passed the joint back to him. “I don’t want anymore,” I said. “Toldya, I’m tired. It’s been a shitty day.”
He eyed me for a second, then leaned his head back and took a long hit. “You’re not turning into one of those squeaky-clean, moralistic fuckers, are you?”
I scowled. “Gimme a fucking break, all right? Would I be here if I was?” And would it matter if I did?
“Dunno. Would you? You’re only here right now’cause you need crash space.”
I stood and grabbed my bag. “I don’t need this tonight. I’ll find a goddamned hotel.”
He made a noise of frustration and snagged my arm. “Lighten up, willya? I don’t give a fuck why you stay.”
I stared at him for several seconds. Why didn’t he give a fuck? Shouldn’t he? Wasn’t that how normal people acted around each other? They should want the other person to be there for them. Did he really want me, or did he simply not want me to be with anyone else?
“Do you love me?” I blurted.
An expression of pure bafflement crossed his face. “You know I do, baby.”
The crazy thing was that I was fairly sure he did, in his own strange way. And I loved him, in a strange, dependent, who-the-fuck-else-would-want-me kinda way.
He stood and ran his hands up my arms, then pulled my purse out of my hand and set it back on the couch. “Is that what’s been screwing your head up? You think I don’t love you enough?”
I shook my head. “That’s not it.” He loved me enough. As much as he could ever love me, I realized. There’d never be anything more or deeper between us. It was better than nothing, though, right? But who’s to say that “nothing” is my only other option?
He slipped his arms around me. “Look, I’ve told you before that you can stay here anytime you want. All the time if you need to. It’s cool.”
I looked up at him. “So you’re asking me to move in with you?”
He looked briefly puzzled. “Huh? Well, yeah. I guess. I mean, I’m here by myself, and we’re already fucking, so it’d make sense if you wanted to stay here too.”
Wow. That was romantic. I didn’t have to look around. I knew what the trailer held. Was this really the best I could do?
“Um, I need to think about it,” I mumbled.
He gave me a squeeze. “Okay. Offer stands.” He slipped his hands lower and pulled me close to him. “I’ll even let you work off the rent,” he said with a laugh.
I knew he wasn’t trying to sound like a sleaze, so I didn’t call him on it. “I can pay,” I said.
He lifted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t like fucking me anymore?”
Shit, that really hadn’t come out like I’d meant. “Sorry. I mean, I have a job now and can split costs with you. I’m not a leech.” I fought back the grimace as the words came out of my mouth. Shit, was I agreeing to live here with him? It’s temporary, I told myself. It’s better than living with my dad.
“Um, okay,” he said, then dipped his head to nuzzle my neck. “If that makes you feel better.”
“Yeah, look, babe, I’m super tired,” I said, putting my hands on his chest. Fucking him would use up my brains like crazy. And I didn’t have any to spare. But if I moved in with him I’d need to stay tanked up on brains. Where the hell would I store brains here, anyway? Maybe get a storage unit and a freezer. Shit, there was no way this would work.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I said, realizing it was a lie as the words left my mouth. I had no desire to screw him anymore. I didn’t want to move in with him. I was using him for the night. Yeah, classy.
Luckily he didn’t seem to be offended, simply dropped his hands with a soft sigh. “Okay, I won’t be a dick. You do look pretty worn out.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said, managing a smile. He gave me a lopsided one in return, but his expression was guarded, as if he was debating whether or not to say more. I didn’t feel like prying it out of him, whatever it was. “Okay, um, I’m gonna go grab a shower, okay?”
He gave me a slow nod, then plopped back down on the couch and picked up the remote. I turned away and headed down to the bathroom, feeling like there was something hanging in the air between us, with neither of us giving enough of a fuck to care.
The morning light seemed dull and filtered as it speared through the streaked window. Dust moved sluggishly along the track of light as if reluctantly being sucked up to some higher dust heaven. I could feel Randy pressed up against me, his face tucked into the nape of my neck. His breath was warm against me, but even that felt muted. I closed my eyes and sighed. My last full meal of brains had been two days ago. By later today I’d start to smell. In another day or so I’d begin to fall apart.
I eased away from him and checked the time on my phone. Maybe I could go on in to the morgue with the excuse that I left something there. Check and see if any bodies came in.
I’m still a junkie looking for a fix, I thought with a scowl. Only now my life depends on that fix.
Randy was pretty well dead to the world, and I was able to pull clothes on and slip out before he woke up. A weird sense of relief washed over me as I drove away. Once again, I checked my rear view mirror to see if anyone was watching me go. Once again, real life failed to pay attention to how things were depicted in the movies.
It was barely eight A.M. when I pulled up to the back door of the morgue. I did my best to not act like I was slinking, but I sure felt as if I was pulling some sort of heist. My mouth was dry, and my hands shook as I swiped my card in the reader. I had no reason to be so nervous, though, right? I mean, all I had to say was that I was looking for something I’d lost. My watch. That would work. I hurriedly yanked mine off and stuffed it deep into a pocket.
I closed the door behind me and listened hard. There was only the low hum of the cooler and the scent of Pine-Sol and formalin. I headed down the hallway, cringing at the absurdly loud echo of my footsteps on the linoleum.
Pulling open the door of the cooler, I quickly slipped inside, relief swimming through me at the sight of a bag on a stretcher. I paused. Took a deep breath.
Shit.
Even before opening the bag, I knew what I would find. Still, I pulled the zipper open, confirming with my eyes what my nose had already told me. The woman had probably been pretty in life, and even through the bloat I could see that she’d maintained herself well. Toned and slender body with some fake boobs that had probably set her back quite a few grand. Carefully waxed eyebrows. I could even see the remnants of makeup. I had no idea how she’d died, but whatever the circumstance no one had found her for several days. She wasn’t crawling with maggots or anything like that, but the first few layers of her skin were already beginning to slip off and I knew that there wouldn’t be any brains worth salvaging.
“Angel? What the hell are you doing?”