Undead and Underappreciated

My name is Mortimer Crane. I was 34 when I died. Brown hair, average height, pale blue eyes, and skin that now looks like someone microwaved it in plastic wrap. In life, I was wallpaper - bland, scuffed, and probably a bit mildewed. The kind of guy you'd forget was in the room until you needed to lean on something. In death? Still wallpaper, just a little more… peely.

I wasn't unique. I didn't save lives or invent anything. I didn't have big dreams or a larger-than-life personality. My biggest accomplishment was alphabetizing a filing cabinet so efficiently that my boss cried. Not metaphorically, actual tears.

"Elliot," he said, gripping my shoulder like he'd just watched me land on the moon, "this is what makes the world go round." I wish he knew it took me three spreadsheets, two cups of burnt office coffee, and a mild panic attack to pull it off. The applause in my head was for surviving the ordeal, not the achievement itself.

And then, I died.

Not heroically, mind you. No one's naming a park bench after me. I wasn't trying to save anyone or do anything remotely noble. Nope, I slipped off a ladder at a hardware store and impaled myself on a rake. A rake.

Do you know how hard it is to die in a way that's simultaneously mundane and completely ridiculous? My obituary could've been written in a single tweet: Mortimer Crane, 34. Death by lawn care. It wasn't a fiery car crash or an attempt to save a kitten from a tree - just me, flailing like a sitcom extra and losing a fight with rusty tines.

I remember the moment before it happened. I'd climbed the ladder to grab a box of nails from the top shelf, my hands shaky because heights weren't my thing. And the ladder - it wobbled. I froze, clutching the shelf like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. I could've climbed down but had to go for the nails. I reached too far. The ladder tipped, and the next thing I knew, I was airborne, my brain screaming, This is a stupid way to die! Then, crunch. Lights out.

You'd think death would come with perks - eternal peace, a celestial glow-up, maybe harp lessons. Instead, I got this: the same city I lived in but drained of all its color. It's like someone set the world to "grayscale" and forgot to turn the contrast back on. The streets are quieter, the people blurrier, and the pigeons are meaner.

I don't know if they've always been this aggressive or if they sense I'm just another step closer to roadkill, but they're relentless.

Turns out, pigeons don't care if you're dead. They land on me like a park bench, pecking at my shoulders and flapping their greasy wings. Their tiny claws scrape through what's left of my shirt, and I'm pretty sure one of them flew off with a button last week.

The other day, one of them took a dump on my head. Not just a polite splat on the crown - oh no. This was a direct hit that dribbled down into my exposed ear canal. I could hear it sizzling, like some cursed alchemy between bird waste and undead flesh. Ever try to shake pigeon crap out of your ear when you've got rigor mortis setting into your neck? It's a new kind of humiliating.

And smells? Let's talk about smells. Oh, I smell everything now. It's like my nose got a firmware update when I died, and let me tell you - it sucks. Wet pavement smells sharp and metallic, like the inside of a washing machine that's been left to rust. Street cart hot dogs smell so greasy they could lubricate an engine. They make my stomach - or what's left of it - churn with a vengeance.

And humans? Humans stink. You don't notice it because you're used to it, but let me break the news: you all reek of sweat, anxiety, and regret. For example, gym socks dipped in an old coffee and left to dry in a bathroom stall.

Fear, though -that's the worst. It's sharp, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore. It smells like a blend of cat pee and expired yogurt, with a hint of bleach to round out the sensory assault. I get a face full of it every time someone spots me. Their wide eyes and trembling hands might scream "terror," but the stench drives it home.

The other day, I shuffled past a guy at a bus stop. He locked eyes with me for maybe half a second before his face twisted in horror. I swear I could smell his panic before he even screamed. He bolted down the street, leaving behind his briefcase and what smelled like freshly fried guilt. It's like a chain reaction: I see them; they see me; my nose gets assaulted. I can't help but take it personally. I mean, I'm not trying to eat anyone's brains or chase them down. I'd just like a friendly wave or maybe even a "Hey, how's it going?" instead of pure, unfiltered terror.

But nope. I'm a monster now. A walking embodiment of death, decay, and apparently pigeon fertilizer. So yeah, no celestial glow-up for me. Just the same old city, the same jerks who barely acknowledged me when I was alive, and the bonus of knowing that everyone, including the damn pigeons, thinks I'm better off as part of the scenery.

It's not exactly what I'd call eternal peace.

Last week, I tried to wave at a jogger. I wasn't being creepy - just friendly. Maybe someone out there could handle a casual, non-threatening zombie wave. Apparently not. My gesture must have looked more like I was swiping at his soul because the guy screamed like he'd seen his childhood fears materialize, tripped over a trash can, and tumbled headfirst into a hot dog cart.

It was chaos. Mustard and sauerkraut exploded into the air like some grotesque confetti cannon. The hot dog vendor yelled, "My wieners!" while the jogger, now face-down in a pile of soggy buns, flailed like a fish out of water. I just stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. Helping people isn't exactly in my wheelhouse these days. But hey, I figured I'd try.

I shuffled forward, lifting my arm to offer assistance, only for my left foot to get stuck in a storm drain. I twisted, pulled, and swear I heard something pop - not good, either. When I finally yanked it free, my knee decided it had had enough of this undead nonsense and gave up on life (again). Down I went, crumpling like a cheap folding chair at a family barbecue. My arms flailed, I hit the ground with a wet thud, and half my leg twisted in a direction it really wasn't meant to go.

By the time I managed to push myself back up - bones creaking, joints screaming, bits of gravel embedded in my elbow - the jogger was long gone. All that remained was one lonely sneaker and the lingering scent of terror-sweat. I picked up the shoe, thinking I might try to return it, but then I realized how that might look. "Here's your shoe, sir!" would probably come out as "Hrrrrhhhhnnnn," and we'd just be back to square one with more screaming and running.

Still, I tried to shuffle in the direction he'd gone, even though running wasn't my strong suit anymore. Walking isn't my strong suit these days, what with the whole "bones held together by spite and possibly duct tape" situation. Every step made my ankle wobble like a loose screw, and I swear one of my ribs slid out of place. After about a block, I gave up and leaned against a streetlamp to "rest," which is just zombie code for standing still and looking sad.

I glanced at the jogger's abandoned sneaker in my hand, its fluorescent laces flapping in the breeze. It was a nice shoe, and it looked expensive. "I bet it's got great arch support," I muttered, sounding more like, "Rhhhhnnn-uhhhh." I tossed it into a nearby trash can and started the slow, creaky walk back to wherever I was going before this disaster.

Still yelling profanities about his ruined cart, the hot dog vendor shot me a look as I passed. I wanted to tell him it wasn't my fault—that I was just trying to be nice - but I figured it wouldn't help. You can't explain yourself when you sound like a broken garbage disposal. So, I kept moving, one shuffling step at a time, wondering why I even bothered anymore.

Note to self: Stop trying to make friends. It's terrible for my knees, and hot dog carts are also a problem.

I miss small talk. You'd think being undead would free me from awkward conversations, but nope. Last week, I tried to compliment a guy's dog - a schnauzer wearing a little bow tie. Adorable, right? I thought I'd start with something friendly like, "Nice dog!" But my jaw, currently held on by three stubborn tendons and a lot of hope, decided to rebel.

The guy screamed, yanked the schnauzer's leash, and bolted. Meanwhile, the dog—this tiny, bow-tied menace - started growling like it auditioned for Cujo 2: Pocket-Sized Terror. The guy chucked a rock at my head. It hit me square in the forehead, knocking me into a lamppost, while the schnauzer barked like it wanted my remaining kneecap.

If you think pain stops when you die, let me clear that up for you: it doesn't. Last week, some guy swung a crowbar at me. I don't know what I did to deserve it - maybe he thought I was after his bagel - but the blow landed square in my chest. My ribs caved in with a sound like someone stomping on a bag of potato chips.

Do you know how hard it is to fix ribs when your hands are about as strong as spaghetti? I had to wedge my back against a tree and shove until I heard the wet crunch of things snapping back into place. Well, mostly back. Now, every time I shuffle, one rib scrapes against what's left of my left lung. It sounds like sandpaper on Styrofoam. Very sexy.

Kids are terrifying. Not because they scream when they see me - that part's fine - but because they always find a way to make things worse. Last week, I saw a kid kick a soccer ball my way. I thought, Finally, a chance to connect! I crouched down, scooped it up, and said, "Here you go, buddy."

Or at least, I tried to.

The kid's eyes widened, and he bolted, leaving the ball behind. His mom came charging at me with a folding chair like she was headlining WrestleMania. She swung, and my jaw went flying into the bushes. The kid laughed so hard he fell over. I just stood there, holding the soccer ball and trying to figure out where my teeth had landed.

It's not all bad. No bills, no awkward work emails, and I'll never have to sit through another one of Mr. Crandall's lawyer jokes. But the loneliness gets to you. People don't see me for what I am: not a monster or predator - just a guy with a loose jaw and an even looser grip on dignity.

Sometimes, I stand outside my favorite coffee shop and just watch people. Last week, someone saw me and screamed, "Oh my God, it's a zombie!" Then he threw his latte at me. It hit my chest and dribbled down into my pants. I stood there, smelling like pumpkin spice and failure, wondering if this was rock bottom.

But hey, it's not like I've anywhere else to be. If you see me out there, give me a wave. Or better yet, crack open a beer and ask me how my days have been. I've got stories. Sure, they're weird, but they're mine. And if my arm falls off halfway through? Well, that's just part of the charm.