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[Editor’s Note:] In late September, Frank left San Antonio for Kalamazoo, Michigan, where he was required to perform an all-expenses-paid, week-long project. During the other 12 hours of each day, little time was devoted to eating or sleeping, as Frank was prone to intermittent episodes of “the Fear.” Upon his return, a ruthless narrative was constructed from the shambles of his journal. All names may have been changed to protect local identities.
“Laura”
WMU Council of 13
` October 2, 2010
San Antonio, Texas
Dear “Laura”:
Upon my arrival in the hamlet of Kalamazoo, Michigan, I was greeted by a near postcard of such stunning scenery that I nearly wept...
Monday, September 27. Redeye from SAT to DTW then AZO. Considering the utter lack of anything resembling rest, my hands aren’t shaking as badly as I had hoped when the rental car clerk asked me if I would like to add the damage waiver for an additional—my water-eyed glare said enough.
Unleashed. An unfamiliar and unsuspecting town stirs in the brisk morning. Good coffee should be federally insured, this swill is useless. 0800 hours, time to get paid. 1800 hours. Well, this job should be a cakewalk.
Hotel, suitcase, shower. The thirst is powerful this evening. Local restaurant selection is impressive, everything from $5 unlabeled (front yard!) BBQ plates to 5-star haute cuisine; but my manna is classless. The first pub I stumble upon is Shakespeare’s.
Due to the unfortunate configuration of one-way streets in Kalamazoo, a six mile drive took well over an hour. Thank the gods that the local college radio station (WIDR, 89.1FM) shreds. Finally seated at the bar, local beer specials were $1 half pints, so I ordered many severals. Free popcorn, regardless of quality, is always well received. The local free newspaper detailed the upcoming week’s prey.
Closing time, oops. A strong police presence greets the weary traveler in the early morning. “NO PARKING on city STREETS from 2AM TO 6AM,” great. Sure wish this stupid car had cruise control. A tour bus fire and multi-car pileup seems to have distracted the entirety of the police and fire departments, and an hour and a half later, I finally open the hotel door.
Tuesday, September 28. Work, lame. A new friend named “Chris” meets me for some disc golf at Robert Morris. The nearby village of Comstock hosts this beautiful course, and we finish the round at sunset.
Shakespeare’s welcomes me warmly. Tonight considers a trip to nearby Oshtempo Township and Western Michigan University (WMU), where a rumored “zombies versus humans (ZvH)” game is underway. Eight more pints and I’m convinced. A quick stop at Wal-Mart, and I’m armed to the teeth.
An uneventful drive parks me near Bigelow Hall on campus. Luckily, Michigan sells both liquor and beer at the gas station until 2AM. 2 30-packs of MGD for $13 each and a liter of Jagermeister round out my last cash. The ZvH is supposedly happening at Miller Auditorium. Wonder where that might be.
A mostly slurred conversation with an irish-italian political activist wearing an Italian soccer jacket and a soft black driving cap revealed no zombie activity recently. Maybe the undead are unsleeping. I keep walking.
Four hours later, no zombies or additional humans were encountered, and 14 beers seem to have fallen out of my bag and into my stomach. A quick nap in the car, and good to go. What’s this? A parking ticket. Good thing I locked myself in the trunk.
Wednesday, September 29. Yeah, work. Later, I spend an hour trying to drive back to campus. What is the deal with these one way streets, crapsandwiches. Free parking available at the parking garage for Homecoming/Parent’s Weekend, zombie fodder population explosion. Good, A-lamo-Rent-a-Car doesn’t need any more parking tickets.
A quick walk provides the first zombie sighting of the week! With my trusty nerf six-shooter holstered and my heavy-again satchel replenished, I boldly walk into the group of five ghouls. The first shot sails wide right, I dodge that direction. Strafing back sinister, I catch zombie #1 right in the forehead with a hip shot, but the suction cup wouldn’t stick. Zombies #2 and #3 are closing in behind, my spin was not well balanced, and I’m the meat in zombie sandwich.
Zombie #3 asks me for my token, I shrug. They inform me that I need to register at the flagpoles. We all walk to the flagpoles. Registration complete, I drink some pure zombie blood to confirm my virulence. I stow my gun and the change ensues...
Hunting the ultimate prey is not as easily accomplished as one first imagines. At least I had the foresight to dress in some [BRAINS] homemade urban camouflage while still human. The newly enlarged zombie horde disperses in all directions. My undead companions and I shuffle off to somewhere. A little stalking music was highly in order so I opted for B-Boys: “Sabotage” on repeat. I had considered Mr. Cash or Creedence singing about Kalamazoo, but my sickness wouldn’t allow it.
The rats ambushed the ambushers! As I was skulking into position and enjoying a refreshing beverage, my [BRAINS] zombie pals got nuked at the food cache we were staking out. These sober humans seem to be good at tactical seamanship. Excellent, we will see...
Flying solo, I have gathered two kills. Apparently, the campus PD is well aware that several hundred of the most inept ninjas ever are prowling about looking for trouble and damaging private property. A fellow zombie Texan named Tobin shows up ranting about geology and how Kalamazooan rhymes with bryozoan or something, but he talks too much, so I ditch him, too.
A spectacularly beautiful elf-vixen wearing a black hoodie and a nosering was nearly my next meal, but pity and fate intervened. She confessed that she wanted to play the ZvH game, but did not know of or care for the rules of engagement; she just wanted to shoot zombies. I offered her [BRAINS] beers, and I nearly donated my gun to her, but she said she was meeting some people and will murder me later. “Farewell, evenstar” I may have muttered.
Four hours and the rest of the 30 pack led to some interesting encounters with both living and undead. The human population had been dwindling quickly as “the Rooster” had apparently re-animated, a group of stealth zombies and I attempted various sorties with Jagermeister, and the humans were increasingly demanding in their enforcement of the Treaty of [BRAINS] Versailles or something weak like that.
Finally, near midnight, I was being tracked by two Australian aborigines and a Lakota medicine man. Thirty feet up in a pine tree says they can’t catch me—Wow, who knew eleven ounces of beer could be so noisy when hitting the ground. A brutal shimmy and leap lands me on a balcony, then I drop into a bush. They probably didn’t hear me. Not too much blood.
“Laura” has shattered my zombie heart. The elvin empress repeals her hoodie to reveal alabaster skin and waist-length fiery curls and her position on the Council of 13, the governing body of ZvH. I have been exiled. WMU is a dry campus, and I’m all wet (literally, a few of the beers must have exploded upon impact with my torso, and I reek of beer and BRAINS, where’s the Jagermeister?). Additionaly, I have been cited for: climbing, jumping off of and/or over walls, etc., and general malaise of sportsmanship. Game Over. Shakespeare’s will drown my sorrows.
Thursday, September 30. Work almost complete. Losing track of what day it is. A two hour drive eat affords me a look at Lake Michigan. The dark waters of the Great Lakes are surprisingly cold in late September. Upon completion of my four-yard breaststroke, the coughing and shivering seems to have subsided, but the smell won’t. Soggy driving, but at least I’m not thirsty anymore.
Downtown Kalamazoo reminds me of downtown Austin. Yippies, blue collars, hipsters, gangsters, crackheads, you name it. Everyone is here to enjoy the great foods, live musics, bar scenes. This town seems a gem of scenic beauty lit by a diverse and friendly population. The land of moustaches is a great place to be when there are not feet of snow covering everything.
Shakespeare’s wants to know what that odor is, but I just tell them stale beer. Pints are delicious. I read in the paper that a Bigfoot movie begins filming inKalamazoo tomorrow. Sounds fun.
Friday, October 1. Project Complete. Peace, work. Friday night! Where first? Obviously. Pints with strangers and we discuss an entire spectrum of topics in a couple of hours. “Ryan” virtually eye-rapes me the whole conversation, so we finish our beers and walk through downtown.
A stop at Fandango’s to return the disc golf park pass to “Chris,” and Robert Downey, Jr. and I [Frank imagined “Ryan” looking exactly like the actor]barhopped until last call. Beer, double Crown Royal rocks with neat water back, cigars, headaches. Need to be at the airport in three hours.
Four young urban campers offer to keep me company until my flight, so I accept. They help me finish off the remaining 26 beers and Jager. I give them my hotel key and say enjoy the shower and bed for tonight. So long “Airica,” “Ben,” “Matt,” and “Stephany;” y’all were some of the most genuinely real people I’ve met during my travels. Live Free.
Seventy minutes of driving lands me at the Kalamazoo airport. I pseudo-park the rental car and pour out my belongings onto the street. Hasty inventory says I’ve only lost two items thus far: my desperately necessary chap-stick, and my trusty pocket knife. Oh well. A bit of Sherpa wrestling attains zipperdom, and upon remittance of the various luggage fees, taxes, duties, and a reverse-dowry, the airlines quickly deposit me into an aisle seat at the rear of the plane, out of plain view of the regular passengers. The Fear has no home in the air.
Likely violent sleep separates the flights. All of the sudden, my bulbous suitcase waddles down the conveyor, and I am autonomously dragging it to the parking garage. Some driving and something about a lost ticket and more driving. Sure is bright in Texas for a zombie.
And to the dear “Laura” who has captured my very being, I await our next encounter with breathless anxiety and the undying fondness of memory: a dream.
Eternally yours,
François (Frank) Dillinger
[ABOUT THE AUTHOR:] Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California. He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.
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