Bite Me

Bite Me

“All those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”

-Fredrich Nietzsche

Shady Lawn Hospital for People Who Have Gone Woo-woo

“Doctor Flang, your next patient is here. Mr. Z. Omby. He has insurance and his appointments are fully covered.”

“Good, good. And what’s his problem, Becky?”

“He thinks he’s a zombie.”

“Wow, the guy must really be off his rocker. Show him in.”

Mr. Omby shuffled his way into Dr. Flang’s office. He was a tall man, with weathered skin and shaggy hair. He walked stiff-legged with his arms raised above his waist. His eyes were wide open.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Omby. Would you like to sit down or would you prefer to lie down on the sofa? It’s quite comfy.”

“Thank you, but I would prefer to stand.”

“You want to stand… like that, with your arm raised in front of you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s a little unusual, but I want you to feel comfortable during our session.”

“Thank you.”

“So, Mr. Omby, I see here that… Mr. Omby, would you mind not hovering over me like that? It’s a little… intimidating.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Omby took a step backward.

“Uh, another step or two back…”

“Certainly.”

 “So, Mr. Omby, I see here from Becky’s notes that you think you are a zombie. Is that correct?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. Identity transference can be challenging.”

“No identity transference going on here, Doc. I am a zombie.”

“I see. I’ll give you this, Mr. Omby, you certainly look the part.”

“Thank you. We zombies pride ourselves on our appearance.”

The being before him was a disheveled mess- dirt on his forehead and both cheeks, dusty brown hair darting out in all directions, a sport coat torn at the shoulder and three sizes too big, trousers cut off at the knees, and barefoot.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Thank you.”

“So, can I assume you came to us to rid yourself of this delusion that you are a zombie?”

“No, sir. I am a zombie. I thought you could help me cope with the way the world treats me. Just because I’m a little different people fear me. I’m shunned out there, Doc. It’s hard to make friends. Getting girls to out with me is darn near impossible. It’s not easy being a zombie.”

This circumstance was not covered in Med School, nor had Doctor Flang encountered a case where a patient believed he was a zombie. During his twenty-seven years of practice, he had three Batmans, two Chuckles the Clown, and one chicken… but no zombies.  

 “Mr. Omby, part of what I do here is try+ to get my patients to face reality. In your case, we will work on getting you to understand you aren’t really a zombie.”

“Doc, do you think I’d look like this if I weren’t a zombie? Seriously. No, I’m a zombie alright.”

Doctor Flang glanced at Becky who was making circular motions near her head with her index finger.

“Well, let’s try this. What do you think a zombie is?”

“Half dead, half alive, not quite dead, sort of dead, dead but making a comeback. Me.”

“I see.”

“Part of the problem is the way we’re portrayed on TV and in the movies. It all started back in 1968 with the movie Night of the Living Dead. They portrayed us as a bunch of soulless monsters in search of warm human flesh to munch on. Ridiculous. I’d rather eat spinach and Brussel sprouts the rest of my life than rip a chunk of meat out of your neck, chew it up, and suck every ounce of blood out of your body.”

“That’s comforting to hear.”

“The Walking Dead sealed it. A whole generation got their impressions of zombies from that show. Zombies are always portrayed as the bad guys. And they always have hideous characters playing the roles of zombies. You never see someone like George Clooney, Brad Pitt, or Matt Damon cast in the role of a zombie. No, they take no-name, nondescript men and women, slop some dark eye shadow all over their faces, and have them walk around like they’re asleep. They don’t even have any lines. You don’t get to know them. No character development. No insights into their backgrounds, their families, their work, their likes and dislikes, their favorite color. I can understand why we are so misunderstood. I’m just having a hard time coping with it.”

“I’m beginning to understand. I can see where life as a zombie would be tough. I feel for you.”

“Thank you, Becky. Everyone worries I’m going to grab hold of them and bite them. It’s the other way around. Every nasty look I get hurts. It’s like these people are biting me.”

Doctor Flang was thinking. Does he follow a plan to convince Mr. Omby that he is not a zombie, or does he assist the poor fellow in coping with his life as a zombie? He often sought the advice of his trusted assistant, Becky.

“Becky, could you please join me in the other room? Mr. Omby, you wait right here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Doctor Flang and Becky sat down in the conference room.

“I’d like your opinion on this one, Becky. Crack the shell of his delusion, or help him to better cope with his life of a zombie?”

“Either way, the guy is bat-shit crazy. He’s kind of cute in an odd sort of way, but bat-shit crazy for sure. If he really believes he’s a zombie, it might be dangerous to shatter his delusion, so I think it would be better to help him better adjust to his zombie identity. Besides, it’s kind of funny to be dealing with a guy who thinks he’s a zombie. This could be as good as the old geezer who thought he was a chicken.”

“I agree. Let’s rejoin our zombie friend.”

“So, Mr. Omby, what kind of problems do you encounter out there in the world?”

“For starters, when people see me, they laugh, point their fingers at me, and call me names.”

“Don’t let that bother you. Ignore them. I know words can be hurtful, but remember, sticks and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt you.”

“Well, the children do throw things at me… sometimes sticks and stones.”

“I see.”

“And when I get closer, everyone runs away screaming. It doesn’t do much for my self-esteem.”

“Well, Mr. Omby, you do look a little… shall we say… different. A lot of times people have a negative reaction to anything that is different. It may make them feel uncomfortable, even afraid. You shouldn’t take it personally. It’s their problem, not yours.”

“It sure feels like my problem. It’s like people don’t think zombies have feelings.”

“And what other troubles do you encounter as a zombie?”

“Loneliness. I don’t like being alone. I think that’s the main problem. There are stores on Main Street with a sign on the door that says ‘No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service… and No Zombies.’ I have nowhere to go to meet people. There used to be a zombie bar in town, but that closed down years ago. It’s not so bad at night. That’s when a lot of people are alone. It’s the daytime hours that hurt. I see people walking on sidewalks, talking, smiling, laughing, even holding hands. That’s when I wish I weren’t… different. I feel like there’s something wrong with me. It’s no fun being alone.”

Doctor Flang’s demeanor turned serious. Becky’s mood turned sympathetic.

“Becky, into the conference again, please.”

The two puzzled professionals sat in silence at the large wooden table. Becky’s “bat-shit crazy” comment had lost some of its humor.

“What do you think, Becky?”

“I feel bad for the guy, Doctor.”

“So do I. I just don’t know what we can do for him. I feel like I’d be violating my professional duties if we would accommodate his delusions. Maybe we should go back to Plan A.”

“I’m not so sure. It seems like he’s been hurt enough. I don’t know that we should hurt him anymore. He thinks he’s a zombie. So what? Who’s hurt by that? Let him live in his world. Let’s just make life better for him. I’m sure we can come up with some coping mechanisms. That’s your specialty, Doctor.”

“I’ve already got something in mind.”

“What’s that?”

“Extreme Makeover, Becky.”

Arlene’s House of Beauty

“Thanks for taking me here, Becky.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Omby. Besides, I’m on the clock. I’ll get Arlene. We’ll be back in a minute.”

Becky found Arlene in the beauty shop’s backroom.

“We’re here, Arlene. I brought the guy I told you about. Do your best.”

“Of course.”

“And, Arlene, he’s a little sensitive about his appearance so be gentle. Don’t show any reaction. Just treat him like any of your customers”

“No problem. I judge no one.”

Arlene stopped dead in her tracks when she entered the salon.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell is that?! The guy looks like a freaking zombie!”

“Dammit Arlene!”

Mr. Omby lowered his head and headed for the door.”

“I should probably just leave. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

Arlene recovered, partly due to her basic sense of humanity and compassion, and perhaps even more likely because of the promised $100 makeover fee.

“I’m so sorry. That was rude. Please sit down, Mr. Omby.”

Another sympathetic look from Becky. Hearing about Mr. Omby’s plight upset her. Seeing it first-hand touched her heart.

City Sidewalk

A smiling Becky and an awkward Mr. Omby walked down the sidewalk. Mr. Omby's face was clean, his hair neatly trimmed and slicked back, and he was dressed in a three-piece dark blue suit. His awkward gait was barely noticeable.

“Mr Omby, you look downright dapper.”

“Thank you, Becky, but I do feel a little out of place."

“Did you notice, Mr. Omby?”

“What’s that?”

“We’ve walked by a dozen or so people, and no one was laughing.”

Doctor Flang’s Office

“Mr. Omby! I hardly recognized you. You look terrific.”

“Thank you, Doctor Flang. I guess I look better, but I feel a little funny in the new clothes.”

“You’ll get used to it. Becky, you’re doing a splendid job. Now we just need to work on… let’s say… some of your physical movements. I mean we can’t have you walking around with your extended in front of you. I think good manners and proper behavior will help the cause. Becky?”

“I’m on it, sir.”

Francine’s School of Proper Etiquette, Posture, and Grace

“No, Mr. Omby. Get those arms down lower, hands at your side. Now when you walk, swing her arms ever so gently.”

“Like this, Francine?”

“Better, but you still move like your body has been doused in starch, and your feet are encased in cement.”

“Sorry, Francine.”

Becky watched the exercise with a questioning look of concern, empathy, and worry.

“Now, let's do the ‘set the table’ exercise again. And try not to screw up the placement of your salad fork again.”

“Sorry, Francine.”

Doctor Flang’s Office

“Another big step forward, Mr. Omby. That Francine is a freaking magician. This is just like Professor Henry Higgins and Eliza Dolittle. We’re going to make a sophisticated gentleman out of a zombie! Another good job, Becky.”

“Uh… thanks, Doctor Flang.”

“Let’s see the walk one more time, Mr. Omby. And a little slower on the turn.”

“Yes, sir Doc.”

“Becky, he’s still a little stiff. His movements just need to be a little more natural… relaxed. See what you can do.”

“Yes, Doctor Flang.”

Lenore’s Dancing School for the Clumsy

“Alright, switch partners, and let’s try it again. Mr. Omby, loosen up a little. Bend at the knees, and turn your hips a little. This isn’t a walk of the zombies.”

Ouch. Mr. Omby lowered his head and looked down at the floor. Becky’s heart ached and a tiny little tear started to form in the corner of her eye.

“I’m sorry, Lenore. I’ll try to do better.”

Doctor Flang’s Office

“Tonight’s the big night, Becky. Dinner at Henri’s, the fanciest restaurant in town. The result of all of our work… mostly yours. Mr. Omby, the former zombie, will come across as a refined gentleman. What time are you meeting him?”

“Eight o’clock, in front of Henri’s.”

Outside the Front Entrance to Henri’s

Becky paced in front of Henri’s. Eight o’clock, eight-fifteen, eight-thirty. Finally, out of the shadows and under the glow of a street light, a figure emerged, tall, with disheveled hair, walking stiff-legged, and with his arms extended in front of him. A stunned Becky watched him approach.

“Hello, Becky.”

“Uh… hello, Mr. Omby.”

“I’m sorry, Becky. I just couldn’t do it. I wasn't me anymore. Are you mad at me?”

“No, Mr. Omby, I’m not mad at you.”

“I’m a zombie, Becky. That’s who I am. World, take it or leave it. Mr. Omby is a zombie.”

A slight smile appeared on Becky’s face.

“So, I guess I better be heading home. Good night, Becky.”

“Hold on there, Mr. Omby, we have a dinner date. I made a reservation, and we’re going in there for dinner.”

“You’d go in there with me looking like this, like a zombie?”

“Zombie or not, you’re Mr. Omby to me, and we’re going to dinner.”

"You won't be embarrassed to be with me?"

"If anyone doesn't like it, well... they can just bite me."

Mr. Omby smiled for the first time in years. As they walked up the steps, Becky paused and looked at Mr. Omby.

“Mr. Omby, I do have one question for you.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s your favorite color?”