My Life as a White Trash Zombie (27 page)

He gave a dry laugh. “Okay. Just never seen you do that before.”

“I figured I’d help out, y’know?”

“Um, okay. If you say so. Doesn’t fucking matter to me.”

I found myself scowling. Did anything matter to him? I used to love how laid-back he was. About the only times he ever seemed to get worked up was when another guy showed interest in me, and even that never lasted for long—only until he was sure I wasn’t going anywhere. Then he’d be back to being all calm and laid-back, comfortable, with everything the way he liked it.

I was beginning to see that “laid-back” was simply a nice way of saying “doesn’t give a shit.”

“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.

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?”

I jerked in shock and whirled to see Nick standing in the doorway of the cooler.
Shit!
I’d been so absorbed in my pity party I hadn’t heard the cooler door.

“Jesus, dude, you scared the crap out of me!” I yanked the zipper closed, then moved to exit the cooler. I thought for a second that Nick was going to block my way, but at the last instant he stepped aside, giving me a baffled look.

“What were you doing, Angel?” Suspicion and worry darkened his voice.

I paused, took a deep breath and turned back to him. “I was looking for my watch.” I twisted my face into a grimace. “I remember having it on the last time I was here, and I’ve looked everywhere. Stupid me was thinking that maybe I dropped it in a bag. . . .” I trailed off. God, this was the dumbest thing I’d ever come up with. There was no way he was going to buy this.

But, shockingly, the suspicion in his face cleared. “Oh,” he said, brows drawing together in a slight frown.

“That must be one special watch if you were willing to wear it again after it was in the bag with a decomp.”

I mustered a weak smile. “I didn’t know that was a decomp. I guess the last one I worked on has already been picked up. I mean, it’s not a really nice watch or anything, but I hate the thought of springing for a new one, y’know?” The lie came to me with the ease of too much practice.

He shrugged. “I guess,” he said in a tone that told me he’d never really had to worry about money. “You seriously came in on your day off to look for a watch?”

I gave him what I hoped looked like a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Hey, I have no life, y’know?” And if I didn’t find brains soon, I wouldn’t have any life.

He rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

I mumbled something and then made my escape.

I sat in my car and bit my lower lip as I considered my situation. I was scheduled to work the following morning, so there was no reason for me to start panicking yet about my next brain-meal. It had only been two days since my last—longer than I usually liked to go, but I was only barely beginning to smell, and I was getting weirdly used to the gradual dulling of my senses. As long as I didn’t go crazy with activity it should be at least another full day before I started actively rotting.

Somebody would surely die in time for me to get a meal. I was going to be fine. Really.

I groaned and rested my forehead on the steering wheel.
I suck as a motivational speaker.

Screw it. I had nothing to do and nowhere to go, so maybe this was a sign that it was time for me to take the first step and see how much it would really cost to find a new place to live. Time to be a grown-up, right?

I drove to an apartment complex about five minutes from work—a nice place that looked clean and safe. It didn’t have super-fancy landscaping or a guarded gate or anything like that, so hopefully it wouldn’t be too expensive. I parked in front of the leasing office and tried to control the nervous flutters in my stomach, shamed by how clueless I was about the process. Normal people would learn this stuff from their parents. Or maybe even in school. There’d been a class called Life Skills when I was in high school—the sort of class that had once been called Home Ec, but wasn’t called that anymore because that would be politically incorrect or some crap like that. I’d even taken that class and made it through the part about how to boil eggs. But the section on how to do stuff like balance a checkbook and make a budget had been at the end of the semester. After I dropped out.

Sick anger swam dully through me. Where were the people who were supposed to make sure I grew up right and not a complete fuckup? My parents? Yeah, that was a joke. Mom couldn’t stand to be around me. Dad had actually been all right at basic dad stuff until he had to do it all himself. Then it was like he gave up doing anything at all. By that time I’d been self-sufficient enough to make sure I got fed and had clothes to wear. But there was more to growing up than that.