Bad Gay: Episode 12

I don’t like zombies. I mostly hate them because they’re a terribly lazy plot device. Don’t know what to do with a character? Turn them into a zombie so that they can cause destruction without conscience and never die. Much easier to introduce an indestructible, wordless, soulless creature than to develop a character who has to navigate this ridiculous world.

Isn’t life dangerous enough without introducing zombies into the picture?

I have zombies on my mind because I got into an argument with a stranger about them this weekend. I was at a bar and grill for dinner alone and sat at the bar. I had just had a fight with my spouse — that I instigated — and was feeling emotional. I needed some superficial human contact to remind myself that I’m not a monster. So, when I ordered a beer and the bartender casually asked how I was, I burst into tears and sobbed, “I’m fine. I’m fine.” The bartender seemed unconvinced. He quickly served me a beer, took my dinner order and scurried to the other side of the bar to get distance from the scary lady who was literally crying into her beer.

What was the fight about? Well, after 8 years of marriage, what wasn’t it about? The fight took place only 48 hours ago and I can’t remember what I was so mad about. I have a vague memory that it was in response to a mild criticism about my splashing water on the bathroom sink. This triggered a fury of far worse marital crimes my spouse has committed over the years — followed by me storming out in righteous indignation. I drove around for an hour, pulling over to the side of the road occasionally to fire off a series of angry texts. Because having a temper tantrum, followed by an avalanche of hysterical texts and disappearing for hours has always worked so well in resolving past conflicts.

So, there I was at the bar — in a snit and staring at my phone, waiting for my spouse to text and apologize to me for my horrible behavior. But, instead, like a zombie, she remained wordless — a supernatural, silent specter that I can’t vanquish with my arsenal of curses and spite.

A few chairs down the bar sat a guy speaking very loudly to a couple next to him. The couple was clearly uncomfortable and it didn’t surprise me when they made a thin excuse to get away from him and find a table in the restaurant. And it also didn’t surprise me when, denied a captive audience, he surveyed the bar for his next target. I focused on my phone, hoping that my refusal to feed his attention would force him to find someone else to shower with an avalanche of nonsense. But nope! He slid a few stools closer to me and continued the lecture he was giving to the couple who escaped him.

“My wife is a zombie,” he blared. “She’s a succubus.”

“You’re confusing your monsters,” I said, still staring at my phone. I knew I shouldn’t respond to him. It would just encourage him to engage with me. But, as evidenced by my expert mishandling of an argument with my spouse, I often make poor choices that harm no one but myself. “I would think you’d enjoy being married to a succubus. A succubus would pay plenty of attention. A zombie would not.”

And that, in a nutshell, is what I hate about zombies. They don’t care about you. The only thing they want from you is to eat your life force. They will not respond to your texts. They won’t care if you storm out of the house and go to a bar alone.

Kids, here’s an important life lesson: never get into a debate with a drunk at a bar. It will never end well. This one ended with me telling him that he has no soul for his zombie wife to consume, tossing a wad of money on the bar and marching out before my dinner arrived.

I returned home, where my spouse was waiting. After 8 years of marriage, I knew she’d be there — wordlessly waiting for me to apologize. Once I did, she reanimated. A zombie no more.