Breathers (34 page)

And now, all of a sudden, here I am.

I used to think that saviors and saints were for the religious and for those who had no faith in their own abilities, who had to believe in someone or something bigger than themselves in order to find their place in the world. But now I
realize that not every savior is holy. Not every saint is a paragon of virtue.

You can have your Jesus Christ.

You can have your Mohammed.

You can have your Krishna, your Confucius, your Buddha.

Take your Martin Luther and your Gandhi.

“Andy, what are your thoughts on world hunger?”

“Andy, do you believe in life after death?”

“Andy, how does it feel to be a celebrity?”

My savior is the American media.

t's amazing how cramped a ten-by-ten cage can get when you try to fit an entire television production crew and their equipment inside.

“I need more lighting in this corner,” shouts the production assistant. Or maybe he's a gaffer. Or a best boy. I have no idea. All I know is that I'm feeling a little insecure about going on national television with a bullet hole above my left eyebrow.

I asked the makeup artist to cover it up with concealer, but the director wants to accentuate my zombieness so the audience can feel for me, so they can understand my anguish. My anguish is that I have a hole in my forehead that looks like the world's largest blackhead.

As if that isn't bad enough, the makeup artist keeps applying too much foundation. And the concealer she used is the wrong color for my skin type. And the blush makes me look like Bozo the clown. I try to explain this to her but she just ignores me, so I don't bother to tell her that she needs to use a softer sponge.

Around my cage mills an audience of SPCA volunteers,
police officers, local news media, invited guests, and several VIPs, including the mayor of Santa Cruz. I keep looking to see if Rita or Jerry or someone from the group is in the crowd, but apparently they couldn't make it tonight.

Outside the SPCA, protesters shout their opposition to my existence:

“Zombies aren't human!”

“Death to the undead!”

And my running favorite:

“Go back to your coffin!”

Like I'm a vampire. Please. Keep your undead creatures straight.

My personal attendant, Scott, walks up to me and lets me know that Beringer just donated several cases of their 2001 Private Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon and where would I like them? He also tells me that Katie Couric is on the cell phone again and can I take her call?

“I can't,” I say. “I'm doing a live remote for
Larry King Live.
“

Over the last three days, I've appeared live via satellite on CNN,
Good Morning America, Live with Regis and Kelly
, CNBC, the
Best Damn Sports Show
, and Howard Stern. Howard even asked me to come back with Rita once I'm cleared of killing my parents because he's always wanted to have a live zombie sex act on the show. I told him I'd think about it.

“Okay, people,” says the director. Or is it the production assistant? All I know is that I'm wearing more makeup than Elizabeth Taylor in
Cleopatra.
“We've got three minutes until we're rolling, so we need everyone ready and in position in two.”

I feel concealer and powder caked on my skin, but the makeup artist keeps applying more. And she's brushing it on
in the wrong direction. And the eyeliner she used makes me look like a Las Vegas whore. I have half a mind to bite her, but that would probably kill the Larry King interview.

Initially the news programs and talk shows wanted to book me for interviews because of the hype and the sheer novelty I brought to the table. Even though the undead are considered health hazards and a public nuisance by the masses, an interview with a zombie equals big ratings. So no one wanted to get left behind.

But after the ACLU filed a class action lawsuit on behalf of the undead claiming our civil rights have been trampled for decades, I started getting calls from
Newsweek
and
Rolling Stone
, Matt Lauer and FOX News. Like I'd ever do an interview with FOX. They're about as fair and balanced as a Ku Klux Klan barbecue.

Apparently, the KKK, the AMA, the AFL-CIO, the Republican Party, and dozens of religious right groups have lined up to fight against the ACLU's claim that we, as former Breathers, are being deprived of our right to life, liberty, and property without due process.

My petition, thank you very much.

Granted, the right to life and liberty doesn't include the consumption of the living, but you can't expect Breathers and zombies to see eye to eye on everything.

“Two minutes, people!”

While most of the heavy hitters have lined up on the other side of the ACLU, there are historical precedents to back up their case. After all, at one time African Americans were considered property, not human beings. True, we haven't been enslaved but the parallels are hard to discount.

We're disparaged by a class that considers us inferior.

We're used for entertainment purposes and medical research.

We're frequently strung up and tortured for fun.

And the comparisons to the plight of African Americans is just the beginning.

Hell, less than a century ago, women weren't even allowed the right to vote. In the 1940s, Japanese Americans were rounded up and interred in camps. Then came the civil rights battle for gays and lesbians. And at the turn of the century, after 9/11, Muslims were persecuted and racially profiled.

Zombies are just the latest in a long line of those who've been oppressed by the ruling elite. Of course, that's never stopped other minorities from discriminating against us, too, which makes about as much sense as a David Lynch film.

“One minute!”

My makeup bib is removed and the lights given one final adjustment, then everyone takes their places as the director shouts out for everyone to be quiet.

I'm wearing a hunter green short-sleeved silk shirt with brown cotton slacks and black Italian leather shoes. With all of the lights on in my cage it's getting warm and I'm starting to perspire, so I hope the pancake batter of makeup I'm wearing doesn't slide off my face and into my lap. Not unless someone wants to donate a washer and dryer.

The first few times I sat down for an interview, I was nervous, like a kid going to a new school or an adolescent about to get a glimpse of his first, honest-to-god breast. Now it's routine.

Been there, done that.

Next!

Hell, I've had to turn down interview requests from ESPN and
60 Minutes
simply because I just don't have enough time. Everyone wants a piece of me. I've become the poster child for zombie civil rights.

“Okay, we're on in ten, nine, eight …”

From what I've been told, the shows I appear on get higher ratings than God on Sunday. Of course, I'm not making any money for any of these interviews because I still don't have a Social Security number. But the exposure is good.

On three, two, one …

he deliberate, gravelly bass voice of Louis Armstrong drifts through the cage, emanating from the speakers on the Sony CD Micro System donated by the local Best Buy. Personally, I would have preferred a collection of Elvis Christmas songs, but Rita is a sucker for old-time jazz.

Rita is curled up next to me under the goose down comforter on my queen-sized sofa bed. She's not wearing anything, which is how I like her best.

All of the cameras and reporters and production crews are gone, as is most of the SPCA staff. The county hired extra security to keep the protesters, autograph seekers, and fraternity pledges away, so I gave my personal attendant the night off. It is, after all, Christmas Eve.

Somehow, this isn't how I envisioned I would be spending the night before Christmas. Not six months ago. Not even two weeks ago, which is how long I've been locked up. And with all of the media attention I've had over the past week, I haven't been able to get my Breather fix, so Rita made me
a special Christmas meal of Breather and potato pancakes with a nice dill sauce. True, she had to make the pancakes at Ian's and smuggle them in and they weren't as fresh after we heated them up in my microwave, but it's not as if I can really complain.

I reach over to the side of the bed and grab a piece of the candied Breather that Leslie made for me, then wash it down with a Churchill 1985 Vintage Port. I offer some of each to Rita, who declines without saying a word, maintaining the pensive silence she's had for most of the evening. I've asked her twice if there's anything wrong but she claims she's fine.

I stroke her hair as she lies with her head on my chest while Satchmo gives way to Judy Garland's version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

“Wanna fool around?” I ask.

Nothing. She doesn't even finger my bullet hole, which has finally started to heal.

“Andy,” she says, finally. “Do you miss your daughter?”

Not exactly the type of playful bed banter I was fishing for, and definitely a deal breaker as far as having sex anytime in the next hour, but I guess it's worth considering.

Do I miss Annie?

I should. After all, it is Christmas. And watching Annie experience the magic of believing in Santa Claus was almost enough to make me believe again. But honestly, over the past three weeks, I haven't thought about her once. It's for the best, really. For her and for me. Though when Larry King asked me the same question, I lied. For all I knew, Annie might have been watching. I didn't want her to think her father was a monster.

“No. I don't miss Annie. Why?”

No response. Not even a shrug of the shoulders.

In the canine kennel, one of the dogs lets out a single, mournful howl and then falls silent.

“Do you miss your family?” asks Rita.

I wonder where she's going with this.

Family? Which family? Do I miss Rachel and Annie? I used to, but I've done my grieving and moved on. Sure, if I think about them long and hard enough, I can conjure up feelings of loss, maybe even some tears, but what's the point? Not even Oprah's going to get me to go there.