Pelham and the Silver Shirt, Part 1

No sooner did my eyes pop than Pelham glided into my bedroom with the morning coffee and tuck. “Your breakfast, sir.”

“I’ve sent your latest paramour on her way with toast and cab fare. I believe I was successful in giving the impression you would be abroad for the foreseeable future,” he icily intoned.

The mood had been decidedly chill about the abode since Monday. Pelham was a good man, but he sometimes overstepped. We’d butted heads a time or two before and I’d made the mistake of giving ground. Not this time.

I found a dashing new shirt that I was raring to wear out on the town, but he took exception, going so far as to say I’d be pressing it myself! As much as we Lauries avoid confrontation – I’ve a great uncle who emigrated to Canada in peacetime “just in case” – a line must be drawn.

I straightened up and eyed the man squarely. “I’ll be wanting the new shirt pressed for the evening, Pelham.”

Giving me a bit of fish-eye back, he said, “the silver abomination? No sir. You won’t be wanting that.”

Pelham Presents

God’s honest, I don’t know how the great unwashed do it. Getting through prep’s easy: grease a scholarship boy’s palm and you’ll need never iron a shirt or polish a shoe. If you’re like my best bud Biff who was a three-sport star, you don’t even need the scratch, but I was a “meritorious legacy” – which is a nice way of saying I wasn’t up to snuff but pops was an alum – so I ponied up.

After prep and a few years giving college a go, I realized I’d grown accustomed to having a caretaker. I tried dating, but that led to drama and severely inhibited the bachelor’s life I so love. Then it hit me. I was a young man of means. Why not?

I’ll be honest; your pal Trip broke not a few eggs in making that omelet. Over eight months, five valets – a rogue’s gallery of thieves and miscreants – came through Casa Laurie until I found Pelham. He’s the consummate gentleman’s gentleman, but not some stuffy old fart. There isn’t much call for valets in this day, so it was a miracle we found each other. I’d be lost without him.

Older and Bolder

Janine wanted to scream. Two and a half hours she’d been sitting in the waiting room; two and a half hours she’d been twisted and restricted and constricted in her dress. She wanted to yank it off and breathe freely, but instead sat quietly, pretending to read a six-month-old Newsweek while taking shallow breaths.

Janine heard the girl behind the desk stop typing – her enameled nails pausing their click-clack on the keys – and looked up. The frosted glass window slid open and the girl squeaked, “Janine Forester? The doctor will see you now.”

Steeling herself, Janine stood and strode to the open door where he stood.

It had been almost 15 years, but he looked the same. Better, really. His jawline was even more square than she remembered and his hair was a richer auburn. If she was afraid of him in high school, what was she now? He was still too perfect. He held out his hand and smiled – that smile – and Janine feigned boldness and shook it firmly.

“Hi, Eric. I don’t know if you’ll remember me. Janine?”

Body Spray for Dead Men

The girl at the register was too rapt in her phone, tapping messages to distant friends, to notice me duck out the door with my supplies. I put on my sunglasses and headed down the street.

As I walked, I took stock of the people around. Men and women striding with purpose, children sprinting, a few strollers. All shared one trait: none noticed the zombie in their midst. I was there, but not there. Across the street, I saw another dead man. We nodded in passing.

Taking the stolen body spray from the pocket where I’d stashed it, I misted heavily. I doubted the advertiser’s promises of beautiful women throwing themselves at me, but I needed to keep the flies at bay.

Summer of sophomore year I worked as a lifeguard at an all-inclusive resort in Cozumel. One of the cabana boys, Cisco I think his name was, broke our dance instructor’s heart. She was a voodoo priestess. It didn’t take long in the Yucatan summer for everyone to smell what she’d done.

Until I could get some formaldehyde, the Axe would have to do.

Previously in "I,Zombie".

A Day in the Death

That explained the burning in my throat at least. And Orangina wasn’t going to help it.

I should have been frightened. Mrs. Suarez was old, but had a steady hand. Just last week she’d put down the Ramirez girl when some Dominican voodoo priestess raised her to pick up a pack of Parliaments and a copy of Us Weekly. Maybe she felt sorry for me; maybe she remembered the time I shoveled snow off her stoop. All I know is she nodded once more at the door and gave me a chance to leave.

Back outside, I realized I had nowhere to go. Home was out of the question and Janet’s place was even worse. She’d let me crash, but I’d have to hear about how zombies were tools of the patriarchy and voodoo priestesses belonged in school, not a serpent god’s harem. Hell, she’d probably make me defrost her freezer.

Better to sleep in the park.

I needed supplies. I patted for my wallet, but it was gone like my internal organs. I shambled to the drug store and slipped in. First things first: I grabbed a pair of sunglasses.

Previously in "I, Zombie".

New(re)born

I’d never been so thirsty before. I must have stood at the fountain in Balboa Park for five minutes sucking up the cool, cool water, but it didn’t help. As soon as I’d lift my mouth from the stream the burning would overtake me again. Water wasn’t the answer.

I stumbled in the midday glare, where did I leave my sunglasses? to the bodega for an Orangina. Water might not quench this fire in my throat but something had to.

Hungry.

Maybe something to eat as well. Anything to make the burning, gnawing pain in my – throat? stomach? everywhere, I guess – end. I couldn’t tell where the thirst ended and the hunger started now.

I pushed open the door and heard the familiar clink of the bells. Mrs. Suarez was behind the counter reading her bible. Dogeared and filled with bookmarks, I wondered what passage she’d quote me today.

“Grrararrhr!!!”

She put down her bible and reached below the counter, coming up with a shotgun pointed it at my head. She nodded toward the door and calmly read the sign:

“No Zombies.”

Ficlets Going Away

A while back, when I had more free time for short-form fiction, I logged on to Ficlets and wrote a few pieces. The length constraints make every short piece of prose feel a bit like blank verse. The social aspects - sequels and prequels can be written for any piece by anyone - lead to interesting new experiments. So of course, Ficlets is going away.

I only wrote a few pieces there. Some of you have been subjected to them before, and they're currently linked in the sidebar. But I figure this is as good a time as any to migrate them back here to archive them for posterity. Or something. Expect to see them over the next few days or so.

Modern-day Wodehouse in 1024-characters?

I've posted a new Ficlet this evening, the second in my modern-day homage to Bertie and Jeeves. It is *hard* to ape P.G. Wodehouse in 1024-character chunks, but I'm giving it my best. Click and enjoy.

Expanding my media empire

Much like Rupert Murdoch, I started out small. Just this wee blog with its ones, maybe even tens of fans. After a time it became obvious to all that I needed to make some acquisitions to achieve my goal of total world domination. A broken down mimeograph machine, a pair of walkie-talkies, maybe even a custom license plate holder would have been a step in the right direction, but I went "bolder". I wrote a couple of Ficlets.

I know. Next thing you know I'll be buying the Wall Street Journal.

Anyway, should you want to, you can come read me over there. It's a pretty interesting site, where the pieces are limited to 1024 characters (that's right, I said characters not words) and registered users can write prequels and sequels to any pieces they so choose. I'd be deeply humbled if any of my readers were to join up and write a continuation of one of my stories sometime.

For those of you who follow me through my RSS feed, I've changed that up a bit as well. I created a Yahoo Pipe to consolidate the feed from here and my Ficlets so they'll all publish together. That's done behind the scenes, so if you're already subscribed (and if you're not I highly recommend it to always get the freshest Coyote possible) my Ficlets will soon be appearing in your reader of choice alongside all the great popculture, ranting, and sketch writing you've come to expect. If you aren't already subscribed, click here.