Conversations with the Living and the Dead

By B. Patrick Conley

Conversations with the Dead is contemporary fiction with a slight supernatural twist. Aided by his colleagues, Mary and Angelo, and supported by his wife, Mandy, Peter still finds himself nonplussed as he deals with an uncompromising administrator. Even more disturbing to Peter is a son still fighting off the demons of war. Confronted by a boss intent on firing him and a son still feeling the effects of the war in Iraq, Peter Stonehouse sits confounded in front of the TV late at night, watching reruns of zombie flicks until a late-night visitor from his childhood stirs him to action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524611477

B. Patrick Conley

Patrick Conley enjoys living with his family, teaching his students, and writing an occasional novella. Some of his more recent works include the following: A Cool Mist Rising; The Grail: Sacra Moneta; May the Better Team; Public Schools, Private Scandals; 2044; Tales of Youth and Age; Conversations with the Living and the Dead; and Playing with Chaos.

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© 2016 B. Patrick Conley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse    05/27/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1148-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1147-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016908737

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Foreword & Forewarning

Acknowledgements

Cast Of Major Characters

Chapter One, Zombie Apocalypse

Chapter Two, Reminisces With Phil

Chapter Three, Pushing Parameters At Polypro

Chapter Four, On The Brink

Chapter Five, Just The Basics, Please: Diet And Exercise

Works Cited

Chapter Six, David And Bathsheba Revisited

Chapter Seven, A Christmas Carol Revisited

Chapter Eight, When Words Fail

Chapter Nine, A Bare Bones Plan

Chapter Ten, Fleshing Out The Bare Bones

Chapter Eleven, You’ve Gotta Have Heart

Chapter Twelve, Randy’s Raid

Chapter Thirteen, Sunday Night’s Revelations

Chapter Fourteen, Mary’s Revenge

Chapter Fifteen, Lou & Rachel

Chapter Sixteen, Phil’s Farewell—Almost

Chapter Seventeen, Tuesday, The Day Of Tiu, The God Of War

Chapter Eighteen, Wednesday, The Day Of Odin: The God Of Wisdom, War, Art, Culture, And The Dead

FOREWORD & FOREWARNING

All of the human characters in this work are fictitious. Anyone searching for resemblances to living or deceased people will be disappointed. Fiction allows us an escape from reality and a retreat from the mundane even as it teases us into believing that this world of letters is real. However, if the characters and situations remain as flights of the imagination, perhaps the story itself may provide some small element of truth.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To all of those who have put with me for all these years: my wife Donna, my children, my brother and his family, all of my colleagues, all of my students, and to all those who have heard me grumbling in the streets, and in particular to Phil.

CAST OF MAJOR CHARACTERS

THE LIVING

Peter Stonehouse—the narrator

Amanda (Mandy) Stonehouse—Peter’s wife

Magda—Mandy’s and Pete’s elder daughter

Louis (Lou)—Mandy’s and Pete’s younger son

Angelo Santana—the Stonehouse’s friend and Peter’s colleague

Yolanda Santana—Angelo’s wife

Luis Santana—Yolanda’s and Angelo’s elder son

Angela Santana—Yolanda’s and Angelo’s younger daughter

Rachel Werk—Jimmie’ sister (see below)

THE POLYPRO CAST

        Marlene Spears—Peter’s and Angelo’s boss

        Mary Hart—a co-worker and co-conspirator

        Randy—an up and coming young office worker

THE DEAD

PHIL—the gorilla

Ray Schwartz—Pete’s high school English teacher

Al Shaughnessey—Pete’s college instructor in accounting and macroeconomics

Gramma & Grandpa Stonehouse

Mom & Dad Stonehouse

Jimmie Werk—Lou’s battle buddy, killed in Iraq

CHAPTER ONE, ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE

Not another zombie (comic) book, TV show, or film, you scream in horrifying ennui, overcome as you are by yet another visual and verbal bombardment of ulcerous, wasted away corpses craving the flesh of wholesome human beings all in the pursuit of never-ending titillation. Our stalwart humans holding out with clothing ripped in the most provocative places, breasts bouncing and biceps flexing, screaming at each other in rage as the rattle of automatic weapons fire punctuates each curse in staccato fury. Not another pack of panic and paranoid isolated homo sapiens fighting among themselves as they argue the best tactics to blast those ravenous, crazed beasties from their midst. Somehow supplied with a never-ending supply of ammunition in a society deprived of necessities, they blast away with gluttonous abandon as the hordes of the walking dead limp toward them or pop out of the most secluded of spaces.

No, I’ve no stomach for the zombie trade, having been overwhelmed by my own obsessions; yet, as I got home late from work after another meeting designed to promote workplace harmony among a herd of highly educated, type A personalities all lusting after the alpha position, I flicked on the TV to a zombie scene. Not a wise choice, for the abyss of the zombies’ stomachs reminded me of my own hunger. An hour or two ago at the voluntary / mandatory departmental meeting that had delayed my trek home, we had been trick or treated into a grand finale designed to make us leave with a most definite feel good. Oh, we had been treated to kale cocktails provided by our health insurer and designed to reduce medical costs and save our employer and us, of course, money. But the vicarious, carnivorous cravings of the dead stirred my own belly to growl. I, too, must have meat as I walked stiffly to the refrigerator, eyes glazed and feet pushed mechanically. The door opened as if by magic—actually no magic was involved. I just reached for the door without thought and amazed my eyes with sights of exotic wonder: peppers from Mexico, grapes from Chile, asparagus from Peru, oranges from Chile, cheese from Wisconsin, grapefruit from Florida, remnants of baked fish from the ponds of Mississippi, and paltry portions of leftover grilled hamburger from the abattoirs of somewhere unknown (but probably Chicago). So, despite the sage advice of our health insurer, I grabbed for the leftover hamburger, threw in a can of beans, and a can of diced tomatoes, garnished it all with hot peppers and dug into a bowl of instant chili.

Well, what’s a zombie to do? I asked rhetorically as I grabbed for the hamburger, added some cheese and in a token acknowledgement to my health insurer, added some tomato, lettuce, onion, and cucumber (a slice of pickle). Yes, the zombies do know how to eat, I reflected as I tore into the hamburger I had rescued from the microwave and sent to the abyss of my stomach. I had left the TV on, so my meal resonated with the background cries of There, there, there’s another one, OMG! So I opened my food cache and started to take out yet another sacrifice to the god of my belly. But then just as a zombie was set to much down on his appetizer, the cries of Not my hand, oh no, not my hand! echoed from the recesses of my flat screen. Was my stomach flat? I wondered. Well, it certainly wasn’t as flat as my flat screen. Did I have to loosen my belt last week? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. Besides, by then the TV had apparently switched to a commercial. Tell your doctor to… The comment struck me patently absurd. Shouldn’t my doctor tell me what prescriptions to take? After all, she’s the one who stayed up late studying inorganic chemistry, pharmacology, and other arcane studies, then crammed for the MCAT, did volunteer work at hospital, then went to medical school, studied for three more years, did internship and residency. Besides, Dr. Paula Simms did hours of professional development on the most current practices and pharmaceuticals every year. Shouldn’t she be the one to tell me what drugs to take and not some nameless voice from television? At least the advertisement had held my baser instincts in check as I closed the refrigerator door without snatching another grilled patty.

Then I recalled the oath we were required to take as part of the late night departmental soiree. I may have forgotten the precise phrasing, but it went something like this:

I pledge allegiance to my firm, flat belly, and to the lower medical costs for which it stands. One healthy body under the company aegis makes for health, wealth, and wisdom. I firmly resolve with the help of my medical provider to avoid temptation and fatty, salty foods, as well as too much sugar and with the help of daily e-mail reminders and constant monitoring by my benevolent employer to stay fit as a fiddle [whatever that means] and distance myself from all sources of fat, salt, hypertension, sugar, bad cholesterol, and taste.

After an oath like that, who could intake another hamburger?

I could. By the time I had in good faith closed the refrigerator door, the commercial had ended and the cries of They want meat, our meat had boomed from the zombie show. So, I, mindful of my sin, re-opened the refrigerator door, glanced around to make sure no one else saw me, and prepared another offering to the demonic depths on my inner belly. For a moment, satisfaction graced my face as secretly rejoiced in my sin. In my carnivorous cravings I sensed a kinship with my zombie brothers and sisters. They were misunderstood, that’s all.

We humans, though, do differ from zombies in at least two respects: one, we’re not dead yet although attendance at late night departmental meetings might do us in; two, unlike our single-minded brethren, we have an almost infinite capacity for self-deception. Zombies face no such problem. They know what they want and are out to get it. I’m not so sure. Take, tonight for instance. I thought I wanted a second hamburger, but perhaps what I really wanted was just to flaunt an adolescent rebellion against the late night departmental meeting, where most politely sipped their kale cocktails, desperately hoping the session would end before they had to finish the thing. Perhaps kale cocktails might be good at another time at another place, but by seven pm they had lost whatever good graces they may have had. I could probably down one in the early morning before I had fully gained consciousness and knew not what I was doing. Perhaps at lunchtime, they would have gone well with a sandwich. But, alone and devoid of any accompaniment, the kale scratched our tongues and bit our stomachs in a most savage way.

Once bitten, you’re zombie smitten, boomed the electronic box, so it must be true. Apparently one of the characters in the Zombie TV epic, mini-series lost a chunk of her calf as the meat crazed, grey skinned ghoulish mass of skeleton, ulcerous flesh, and single-minded purpose dragged her by the foot and chomped on her leg as she screamed all the time, Just kill me, Charles. Now before it’s too late, before you become what I am becoming. Charles, her fiancé, duly obliged and with a single tear wending its way eternally down his cheek, blasted away at her with romantic abandon and, then in revenge turned his fury against her zombie captor with multiple blasts from his pump-action shotgun, followed by pointless rounds from his semi-automatic Glock revolver and at last incoherent sobs that proclaimed his undying love for his nameless true-love, another victim of the flesh-lust of the demonic zombie horde.

Peter, would you turn that down, please. I’ve got a 6:30 meeting tomorrow, pleaded Amanda (aka Mandy, Mom, Peter’s better half, etc.) Stonehouse from the second floor. I Peter obliged, for even relatively late at night, sleepy as I was, I had had enough of automatic weapons fire, shrieks, screams, and imprecations not loud but deep. Yes, the time to put the zombies to bed had come, although I wondered if the walking dead ever slept.

But, sometimes the walking dead cannot match the horrors of us, the dead men walking. We’re all condemned to die, of course. It’s just a matter of when. Supposedly, during World War I, a trooper yelled to his battle buddies who had had hugged the earth in a desperate attempt to escape the horizontal hail of machine gun fir: C’mon, you bastards, do you think you’re gonna live forever? We all know better, or at least think we do. As far as our son Lou was concerned there was a time when he thought he could live forever, actually two times: first, when he enlisted and before he shipped out for Iraq and then, after his tour was over when he came back on leave. When we’re twenty, we all assume that the world had been created for us, that we would never age—that part was reserved for our parents—that we cold eat whatever we wanted and drink ourselves to oblivion and that, in essence, we were somehow owed the gratitude and respect of all. Perhaps such assumptions reflected the residual effects of childhood where the fortunate among us had had parents who nurtured our goals and tolerated our excesses. Lou enlisted partly out of patriotic fervor. 9-11 still tolled in his mind. However, he never assumed that he would die. That realization came later as he found his trust in his immortality shaken when his ears echoed with the blast of an RPG. Then, he admitted he tried to make himself one with the mud-brick wall in a crumbling ruin of a house. Oddly, this insight into his own mortality faded once he had finished his tour. He was home on leave and, for the most part, hung out with friends or former friends. Drinking buddies are always easy to find. Then, once again, he must have figured that he had regained immortality. He had faced the worst he had ever seen and had survived. He had become the chosen one. So, he partied all night for a while and raised hell all the while. Once, when he had deigned me some moments, he took me driving west on Highway 44. It can be a scenic drive, for in twenty minutes, motorists have escaped the urban landscape of brown brick, graffiti, dull grey concrete, and swirling whirlwinds of Taco Bell wrappers, McDonald’s bags, and other assorted flotsam and emerged onto a landscape of rolling hills of oak and pine forests. Lou wanted to test the new old car he had bought, an eight year old Chevie, nothing fancy, but Lou figured it would do. He started out nonchalantly, talking about his old friends from his soccer-playing days and even joked about those fearsome experiences when I had tried to teach him how to drive, Then, for some reason, I’ll never understand, he rounded a curve and drove his right foot to the floor. The old Chevie responded as if it had been chomping on the bit. Lou didn’t say a word but stared ahead fixedly. When he was pushing ninety, I begged him to slow down. He said nothing but surged ahead as if fixed on some demonic mission. When the speedometer read one hundred, I was sure we would die. Lou still said nothing. After he had passed a convoy of trucks, he slowed down. Whatever demon it was that had possessed him left. He still said nothing. In a few minutes, he turned to me as if he were saying: Now you know what fear is. Now you know that you will die and I won’t. I didn’t see much of Lou for weeks after that episode.

Lou was nothing like his older sister Magda. According to birth order studies, the first born usually is highly driven and often close to the parents while the younger sibling(s) are more free spirited. I suppose there’s some truth in that, but whatever truth there was didn’t surface when Magda and Lou were growing up. Magda was the prankster, forever playing jokes and bringing Mandy