Something has crawled up in my head and made its home there.
Naturally, I am against this.
“You’re sick a lot,” a wit recently observed.
So I blew my nose, blinked multiple times so as to clear my line of sight, and pointed out that between the bus, the 50-floor building I work in, and yoga, I probably come into contact with 200-some different people in a day and that people are notorious little germ vessels.
And then I blew my nose again.
I see a lot of people in a day; and while I love people, love to watch them, listen to them, compare their idiosyncrasies to my own, I wish more of them would cover their mouths when they cough.
Which brings me, of course, to zombies.
There’s been a lot of talk lately of zombies: how they’re made, how they’re disposed of, whether or not they represent the blue-collar man’s unspoken desire to have the social playing field leveled by something apocalyptic.
Adding my own bit of lint to all this fluffy supposition, it’s my assertion that when the zombies do come, the infestation will most likely start on the morning bus.
Who will notice?
Look around, after all. We face forward: propelled, bus-ly, toward jobs, meetings, perhaps even zombie-like futures. Sallow; wan; pale, even, we Minneapolitans have not seen direct sunlight for several months now.
I pull out my notebook, make notes regarding the possible undead on the bus.
The woman-girl that just tottered on in three-inch heels after climbing over a smallish snow mound, the one up front there digging through her purse for correct change, could it be that she is impervious to cold because she’s a zombie?
The guy in the seat across from me has not blinked for four blocks. Do zombies need to moisten their eyes?
The woman with the notebook, noting the commuting habits and dress of her commuters, the one with the dark circles under her eyes, does she look like a zombie to you?
Light-headed and vague, I ride the bus to Target, where I buy Nyquil and cough drops.
And then I turn around and go home.
Yours in working toward a zombie-free world,