Breathers (31 page)

When Rita and I walk into the bedroom, Jerry is sitting on the foot of his bed with Beth. No one else is in the room. At least, no one three-dimensional.

Dozens of naked women from the pages of
Playboy
stare
out at us from the walls. Not a single square inch of plaster is visible. But it's obvious from the positions of the women, from their poses and expressions and the way they're arranged on the walls, that Jerry didn't just tack them up at random, without any thought or purpose. There's a definite design here, a creation of art that strikes me as familiar but escapes me until I look up at the ceiling.

“Oh my god,” says Rita.

It's the Sistine Chapel.

Directly above us, Miss February 1998 is accepting the forbidden fruit while two other Playmates are expelled from the Garden of Eden. Next to that panel, in the center of the ceiling, the Creation of Eve is an homage to the 1997 Playmate of the Year.

The Deluge is an erotic creation of various Playmates dripping wet in showers, bathtubs, and waterfalls, while the Separation of Light from Darkness features a fair-skinned Miss September 2000 surrounded by four nude black Playmates.

Each panel, from the Separation of Light from Darkness to the Drunkenness of Noah, is re-created with naked, beautiful women in erotic poses. There's Miss January 1994 and Miss May 2000 among the Ancestors of Christ, while the Prophets are depicted by an apparent chronological representation of the Playmates of the Year. Granted, it's not perfect. After all, you can't expect to find an exact match for every image created by Michelangelo in the pages of
Playboy.
But when you look up and see Miss June 2003 in a swirl of lingerie reaching out to an awaiting Miss January 1994, there is no doubt that you are beholding the Creation of Adam.

It's very artistic, almost spiritual. In a tits and ass kind of way.

“What do you think?” asks Jerry.

“Unbelievable,” says Rita, moving about the room to get a closer look. The two walls on either side of Jerry's bed depict the life of Moses and the life of Christ, while the Last Judgment forms the centerpiece of Jerry's work on the wall above his bed. “And I just thought you spent a lot of time masturbating.”

“Yeah, well, there's that, too,” says Jerry.

Beth giggles and squeezes Jerry's hand.

Maybe it's just the overwhelming sexuality of being surrounded by dozens of naked women, but I get the feeling Jerry won't be servicing himself tonight. True, Beth is only sixteen, but somehow I doubt anyone is going to charge Jerry with statutory rape.

Once Carl has finished cooking up Mom and Dad, everyone gathers in the dining room for dinner. All counted, there are twelve of us—including Zack and Luke, who I suggested we invite, and Ian, whom Helen invited. He's still legally a Breather. And a defense attorney. Which will both be helpful if any neighbors call the zombie patrol.

I'm sitting at one end of the room, flanked by Rita and Carl, surveying the spread of food laid out across the table. Brussels sprouts and butternut squash, mashed potatoes and Breather gravy, baked tofu in spinach with peanut sauce for Tom. And, of course, my parents, prepared and cooked in various ways for all to enjoy.

“Andy,” says Helen, “would you like to say a few words?”

I keep it brief, thanking my parents for making this meal possible. I say it perfectly. Except for an occasional problem with pronouncing soft consonants, my speech has returned to normal.

I walk without a limp.

My heart is now beating once every two seconds.

As far as I know, other than Rita and me, none of the others have had a revival of their internal organs. But they're all healing.

Tom's alien right arm has reconnected to his socket and the flaps of skin on his face have begun to reattach.

Jerry's skull has almost completely reformed.

Naomi can't put her cigarettes out in her eye socket anymore because the nerves have started firing again.

And Helen's exit wound has started to close up.

Helen adds her own words about being grateful that she's able to share this meal with all of us. “You are my family,” she says. “You are what comforts me.”

Everyone raises a glass to toast. I notice Leslie and Naomi are wiping away tears. Even Carl's eyes are moist. Helen is right. We are a family. Gathered around this Thanksgiving-like feast, we could almost pass for Breathers.

Then we all dig in.

In zombie movies, whenever the undead dine, there's no conversation, just the primal rending and devouring of flesh. True, we have vegetables and tofu and we're using plates and utensils instead of our laps and hands, but nobody says a word. All you can hear is the sound of consumption. So for once, Hollywood got it right.

After dinner is finished and the dishes are all cleaned up, the lights are dimmed and everyone gathers around the television with popcorn and Breather jerky to watch George Romero's original
Night of the Living Dead.
I snuggle up with Rita on the couch next to Carl and Leslie, while Beth sits on Jerry's lap and Zack and Luke curl up in a single chair.

When the movie starts, everyone is in a festive mood— laughing and making lewd comments, throwing popcorn at each other. It's an interactive experience. We all cheer whenever a Breather gets killed and boo whenever a zombie gets
destroyed. But when the zombies start to feed, the audience falls silent.

I'd seen
Night of the Living Dead
a few times while I was alive, but not since college. And I'd never really taken the movie seriously. This time I find it fascinating. Not from a filmmaking standpoint—plot, story, direction, all that artsy crap. I'm talking about something more spiritual.

A moment of clarity.

An epiphany about my own existence.

And I don't think I'm the only one who feels it.

While it's doubtful I or anyone else legally classified as one of the undead will ever regain our status among the living, that doesn't mean we don't have aspirations that go beyond keeping our bodies maggot-free.

The undead aspire to be Breathers. It's what we once were and what we wish we could be again. But in a world that considers us inhuman, there is no hope of reclaiming our humanity. There is no one to redeem us. We've been forsaken—by society, by friends, by family. So we have to find a way to redeem ourselves.

There are defining moments in everyone's existence, some more monumental than others:

Neil Armstrong's first step for mankind.

Bobby Thompson's shot heard round the world.

Rosa Parks refusing to give up her seat on the bus.

Each of them found their moment and seized it, turned it into an act that embodied a quest. A triumph. A dream.

Sooner or later, everyone reaches their moment. For some it passes by unnoticed or unrealized. For others, it hits them while watching a black-and-white B horror film from 1968.

This is our moment. This is our time.

hen you die, your Social Security number gets retired, which isn't a problem if you stay dead. But if you come back, become a zombie due to some latent genetic abnormality or because you consumed too many Twinkies while you were alive, well then, you're pretty much screwed. Since the undead aren't considered human beings, even by Breathers who don't belong to organized religions, the chances of reclaiming your Social Security number are about as good as a town in Wyoming electing a gay sheriff.

Without a Social Security number, you can't get a job, apply for federal or state assistance, or get financial aid to go to school. Which makes earning a living tough to do, even if you haven't reanimated from the dead and started eating human flesh. Except in Tennessee. I hear they have more relaxed guidelines there.

After some searching of my parents’ house, I find my birth certificate and driver's license in a box in the master bedroom closet. I also find a book on Kama Sutra, a bottle of massage oil, a set of leather wrist cuffs with restraints, a dildo, and three Polaroids of my naked mother.

I think I need to make another appointment to see my therapist.

In order to reclaim a Social Security number from an erroneous death, you need to prove U.S. citizenship, age, and identity. If you're over the age of twelve, you have to appear at a Social Security office in person.

Back when most people still didn't own a television, you could obtain a birth certificate, photo ID, and a Social Security number entirely through the mail. But in the post 9/11, post–Patriot Act United States, that's no longer possible.

Even if it was, I have no intention of getting my Social Security number fraudulently. I don't want to make up a fake name and a fake identity to subvert the system in order to get my life back. I want to level the playing field. I want Breathers to
know
I'm a zombie. I want them to fear my existence in a way they never considered.

As equals.

Like all government agencies, the local Social Security Administration office has about as much warmth and charm as a Turkish prison, just without the beatings, torture, executions, extortion, and occasional hostage-taking.

There are four service windows in the back, with a security door adjacent to the first window and a waiting area that consists of four rows of chairs. The rent-a-cop podium inside the front door to the left is unoccupied when I enter. Opposite the podium is a computer check-in system:

Select 0 if you have an appointment.

Select 1 if you have other business.

I didn't bother to call ahead for an appointment, which doesn't look like a problem since there's a solitary Breather sitting in the waiting area and another one standing at the only open service window, talking to the clerk. So I press 1 and the thermal printer spits out a ticket with A75 on it.

I take a seat in the third row, two chairs over and one row back from a middle-aged woman who's reading a magazine.
Less than ten seconds after I sit down, the woman shivers once and pulls her sweater close around her. Before her number is called, she gets up and leaves the building.

I have that effect on people.

The elderly man at the counter finishes up his business and walks toward the exit, turning a shade of gray as he passes me. Then the service representative calls out my number.

The first thing I do now when I see Breathers is size them up. Would they be good in a stew or are they better suited for charbroiling? Do they look more like filet mignon or more like sloppy joes? It's a matter of preference, really. Or how much effort you want to put into preparing your meal. If you can't make up your mind, you can always just club them, gloss with olive oil, add some anchovy fillets and capers, and call it carpaccio.

The Social Security service rep looks like sloppy joes.

“How can I help you?” he says with a smile that's more of a grimace.

He reminds me of Ted that way, minus the gold hoop earring and the collagen injections.

I tell him I'd like to get my Social Security number reinstated.

“Reinstated?” he asks. “Why was the number originally flagged?”

“An erroneous death,” I say.

He stares at me for several moments, that false smile still stretched across his face. “That's a little complicated.”

I show him my birth certificate and driver's license, as well as my passport, and give him my Social Security number.

He takes my documents, then types my number into his computer. Perspiration is forming on his forehead, beading up in little drops. Whatever shows up on his computer monitor drains the color from his face.

“It … it says here you're deceased,” he says, his voice cracking.

An erroneous death, I remind him.

He looks at me, then at the monitor, then turns and looks behind him. He's all alone.

“Gary!” he calls out.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“Gary!”

“Excuse me,” I say.

He turns back to me, his face ashen, then he glances at the monitor. “Our records show that you … that Andrew Warner … that he died on July fourteenth and reanimated three days later.”

“Just like Christ,” I say. “And now I'd like to have my Social Security number reinstated, if you don't mind.”