Aleksandar Hemon - The Making of Zombie Wars

“Your student Ana. The good Lord knows I am no expert on ladies’ feelings, but it seems pretty clear to me she’d be more than happy to lick your balls.”

Fumblingly, Joshua pressed all the buttons on the answering machine to stop it from recording. Bushy leapt on the counter to bear witness to this suspicious behavior.

“It seems she’d really like you to come to her party. She invited me too by the way. I’m gonna have to consult my calendar.”

A flutter wing touched Joshua’s heart: he envisioned Ana at the party, and himself leaning into the curve of her neck to speak over the noise. The dimples, the warmth of her skin, the jasmine smell.

“Are you going, Jonjo? She really needs to know. You should call her.”

Finally, the machine beeped and stopped recording.

“You have my cell phone, you maniac!”

“Maniac though I may be, you can have your phone anytime you want. In fact, you can shove it up your ass like a freaking gerbil!” Stagger screamed and the line went dead. Down on his knees, Joshua banged his head against the kitchen cabinet where Kimmy kept her select Tupperware. Doubt banged back from the inside. Script Idea #48: A man with terminal cancer decides to exact revenge on all those who wronged him, including his landlord and the doctor who diagnosed him late. Title: Road to Gehinnam.

The phone rang again. Joshua stood up and shooed Bushy away.

“I beg your pardon,” Stagger said. “That was not professional.”

“I need my phone back. And my keys.”

“The door of your home is always open to you.”

“I don’t think I’m comfortable after what happened the other night.”

“What happened the other night?”

“Come on, Stagger! It’s really hard for me not to think that you’re a lunatic.”

“If this here lunatic wanted to hurt you, he would just walk up Magnolia and hurt you,” Stagger said. “I know where Kimiko Motherfucker Home lives. I walk my dog past her house every day.”

“What dog? You don’t have a dog!”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

Desperate, Joshua opened the fridge door and looked inside: there was a six-pack of beer tucked in the back.

“I tell you what,” Stagger said. “I’m about to go to a game, so I’ll leave the phone and the keys on Kimiko Motherfucker’s porch. I won’t even get in. You don’t have to invite me in or even offer me beer. How’s that for generosity and kindness?”

Kimmy never drank beer. Joshua never drank beer. He didn’t even know if Kimmy knew that.

“I’m really uncomfortable with that. I’d much prefer if you just went and fucked yourself.”

“All right then, Jonjo boy. I’ll drop your stuff off and then I’m gonna go and fuck myself,” Stagger said and hung up.

Joshua stood frozen in disbelief; when he moved to return to the sofa a sharp pain in his back stopped him in his tracks. The thought of Stagger at Kimmy’s door was terrifying. He would have to do something about it: call the police, stab him in the eyes, protect his domain and his woman. Or he could just get himself temporarily situated elsewhere, on the off chance that Stagger might get his insanity under control.

The phone rang again. Furiously, Joshua picked it up and growled into it:

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“That is not a way to show proper respect to your big sister, Jackie,” Janet said. Many years ago, she’d carefully picked a name that would inflict the most torment upon him and had started calling him “Jackie” in front of his friends and girlfriends. Everybody had names for him; it drove him crazy, and Janet was perfectly aware of it.

“What can I do for you, Jan?”

“First of all, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I called your cell number and your landlord picked up. He seems like a very nice man.”

“He’s a gentleman and a scholar, all right. You have no idea.”

“Have you moved in with Ms. Cio-Cio San?”

“It’s none of your business, Janet.”

“She is not good for you, Jackie, because she’s too good for you.”

“None of your business, Janet.”

“If you have no other place to live, you can live with me. I have plenty of space. You’ll have to live like an adult, though. Respect, responsibilities, things like that.”

“I’d rather live in a dog crate. What can I do for you?”

“Lunch with maman et moi .”

“I’m really busy.”

“With what?”

“With being really busy.”

“We’re meeting at Marcel’s.”

“That’s fancy.”

“My treat. Unlimited wine intake too, to help you along with being really busy.”

“What time?”

“God, I can always count on you being a slut, Jackie.”

* * *

Janet had a mailing list, and her little brother was on it, so whenever she managed to offload an obscenely priced Gold Coast condo onto some rich fool, Joshua would receive a postcard featuring Janet — her hair Photoshopped for extra blondness, her grin expressing the full range of the positive-thinking pathology — and a banner that read: JANET DID IT AGAIN!! The extra exclamation mark was the dagger, the infuriating extra touch of heedless superiority. He’d repeatedly begged her to take him off the list, but she never had and probably never would.

Joshua showed up at Marcel’s Cork Room in an aerodynamic bike helmet, fluorescent yellow shirt, and enhanced-crotch bike shorts. His initial intention had been to go get his bicycle, still locked by Graham’s, before lunch. But the plan was changed after Stagger had dropped off his phone and keys on the porch, and Joshua had had to interrupt erasing the recorded exchange re: Ana to check the cell phone call log, since calling his marine buddies in Iraq from Joshua’s phone was not beyond Stagger. Ana had called him a few times, and he’d listened to her tantalizingly brief messages, unable to summon any gumption to call her back. Her voice sounded throaty, the voice of a woman with spunk and depth.

He expected some pleasure from embarrassing Janet by showing up in his bike shorts, his balls bulging squeezily, at her fancy downtown French restaurant, where Armani-clad men guzzled vintage wine while devouring hundred-dollar steak frites. But Janet did it again: she was there already in full-blown yoga attire, complete with tight-ass sweat pants. Moreover, the restaurant was empty, except for Marcel at the bar, nursing his pastis, watching despondently the U.S. troops on the TV churning up sandstorms on their way to Baghdad. Noah, Joshua’s insufferable little nephew, was there as well, lining up chairs to make a convoy of trucks. Why wasn’t he in school? Marcel glared over at the unstoppable Noah, evidently tempted to say something. But he didn’t, because he couldn’t — Janet practically kept his Cork Room in business, closing many of her multimillion-dollar real estate deals with the wine from a shelf Marcel kept only for her.

Mom was contemplating her arugula, brooding over her duck breast. She was unhappy, and more so than usual. She wore a Native American necklace matching her feather earrings, her hair blown into a rigid shape. Joshua leaned in to kiss her cheek but was wise enough not to ask what was up. He saw her tumid ankles, the swelling crawling up her shins toward her knees, her burst capillaries like a tattoo of the Amazon and its tributaries. Once upon a time, he’d fallen asleep with his head in her lap, as she’d stroked the hair away from his temples. Once upon a time he’d watched her with pride as she leapt from a springboard, bending perfectly in midair to slip into the pool as into a glove.

Janet was staring at the TV over the bar — the intrepid invaders were mesmerizing.

“Marcel says he’s bleeding money because people are angry at the French for not joining the party in Iraq,” she whispered. “I’m as patriotic as the next guy, but I draw the line at boycotting wine. What are we fighting for if I can’t have my Bordeaux?”