Shawn Weaver's Blog - Posts Tagged "zombies"
Chicago Undead
Feeling hung over, even though I haven’t had a drink in over a week, I stumble off of the couch, which has acted as my bed for the last sixty hours. The sheet tangles with my feet. I kick it under the coffee table, and drag myself across apartment to the kitchenette that shares the same open space with my living room.
Grabbing the coffee pot, I look down to see a thick swirl of black dredge that remained from Friday morning’s breakfast. Disgusted, I pour the stale coffee into the sink, and rinse the pot. With my elbow, I turn off the tap and look through the coffee-stained glass. I figure that it has a semblance of being clean.
I slip the pot back on the burner, check the water level in the reservoir, then pull out the filter cup. The brown filter is filled with a hard block of dark grounds that remind me of a hockey puck. Tossing the solidified mess into the small trash bin underneath the sink, I rummage with my free hand through the cupboard left of the fridge. I find my can of Folgers and set it on the counter. Knowing that the package of filters always sat next to the can, I reach for it, only to end up grasping an empty cellophane package.
Exasperated, I pick up the can of coffee and toss it back into the cupboard. Before the little container can roll out, I slam the door shut. A sharp pain slices through my head, reminding me that I’m still not well.
I grab my best friend for the weekend, a bottle of aspirin, off of the counter where I had left it the night before on one of my many excursions from the safety of the couch to the toilet. Popping the top I down two of the white pills. Dry swallowing, I think about taking a few more, though the way my stomach feels, I don't think it's such a good idea.
The last sixty hours of life-draining flu virus that had hit me as soon as I had returned from delivering Mr. White’s corpse to the North Western Baptist Ministries in Guttenberg, Iowa, had been the longest of my life. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stay awake, and couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the nausea churning in my stomach.
The longer I stand at the counter, the more my legs feel like leaden logs that do not want to cooperate. I can get up steadily now, even though my knees are weak, unlike Saturday when I had to almost crawl to get to the bathroom. Thank god my apartment isn't too large, or I would have never made it in time for the numerous gut wrenching bouts with the toilet.
Walking to the master bedroom behind the kitchenette, I grab a wrinkled pair of jeans and a white T-shirt from the laundry basket sitting on the bed. The soft comfort of my mattress calls to me to settle in for a few more hours. But I had lain on the couch for far too long, and know that I need to move about and get something to eat.
Popping on my sandals, I walk back to the living room and grab my wallet, keys and cell phone from the coffee table. Feeling warm light on my back from the wall of windows that looks out over a balcony to the Navy Pier and Lake Michigan, I head out the door.
Eleven stories up, I walk the clean hallway, decorated with photos of the Chicago skyline on the walls. On my floor, four other apartments exist in this wing of the X shaped twelve-story building. Each floor of the X has access to its own elevator, giving semblance of privacy. All of the apartments are occupied by a myriad of people who can afford such luxury.
I myself am not one of those people. I can barely afford to put gas in my car. But my grandfather, Timothy Briggs, had invested heavily in construction along Lake Shore Drive in the booming days of Chicago’s growth. And with that, he acquired ownership in numerous buildings, including the one I live in now.
At first, my apartment was to be a place for anyone in the family visiting the city to stay overnight. But after my grandfather passed away his assets had been sliced up between the children and grandchildren. I ended up with three thousand feet of prime real-estate, and a small stipend doled out every month. Not a whole lot, but enough to keep food in the pantry and gas in my car.
On top of that, I work with my dad at a job I don't necessarily want, but it pays the remainder of my bills. I help my dad at the Briggs and Sons Funeral Home, with four convenient locations in the Chicago land area, serving all of your dearly departed's needs.
My parents raised me with ethics, and the mantra that I have to earn my keep. So after graduating high school, I went to the Lincoln School of Mortuary Sciences and got my bachelor’s degree.
So here I am, twenty-three, just off a gut wrenching bout of the flu, and a hankering for coffee. I know that I should eat, but the thought of food makes my stomach churn. Maybe I could hold down some chicken soup if the café on the first floor has any today. They rotate their selection of soups daily, and I'm not in the mood for split pea.
Grabbing the coffee pot, I look down to see a thick swirl of black dredge that remained from Friday morning’s breakfast. Disgusted, I pour the stale coffee into the sink, and rinse the pot. With my elbow, I turn off the tap and look through the coffee-stained glass. I figure that it has a semblance of being clean.
I slip the pot back on the burner, check the water level in the reservoir, then pull out the filter cup. The brown filter is filled with a hard block of dark grounds that remind me of a hockey puck. Tossing the solidified mess into the small trash bin underneath the sink, I rummage with my free hand through the cupboard left of the fridge. I find my can of Folgers and set it on the counter. Knowing that the package of filters always sat next to the can, I reach for it, only to end up grasping an empty cellophane package.
Exasperated, I pick up the can of coffee and toss it back into the cupboard. Before the little container can roll out, I slam the door shut. A sharp pain slices through my head, reminding me that I’m still not well.
I grab my best friend for the weekend, a bottle of aspirin, off of the counter where I had left it the night before on one of my many excursions from the safety of the couch to the toilet. Popping the top I down two of the white pills. Dry swallowing, I think about taking a few more, though the way my stomach feels, I don't think it's such a good idea.
The last sixty hours of life-draining flu virus that had hit me as soon as I had returned from delivering Mr. White’s corpse to the North Western Baptist Ministries in Guttenberg, Iowa, had been the longest of my life. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stay awake, and couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the nausea churning in my stomach.
The longer I stand at the counter, the more my legs feel like leaden logs that do not want to cooperate. I can get up steadily now, even though my knees are weak, unlike Saturday when I had to almost crawl to get to the bathroom. Thank god my apartment isn't too large, or I would have never made it in time for the numerous gut wrenching bouts with the toilet.
Walking to the master bedroom behind the kitchenette, I grab a wrinkled pair of jeans and a white T-shirt from the laundry basket sitting on the bed. The soft comfort of my mattress calls to me to settle in for a few more hours. But I had lain on the couch for far too long, and know that I need to move about and get something to eat.
Popping on my sandals, I walk back to the living room and grab my wallet, keys and cell phone from the coffee table. Feeling warm light on my back from the wall of windows that looks out over a balcony to the Navy Pier and Lake Michigan, I head out the door.
Eleven stories up, I walk the clean hallway, decorated with photos of the Chicago skyline on the walls. On my floor, four other apartments exist in this wing of the X shaped twelve-story building. Each floor of the X has access to its own elevator, giving semblance of privacy. All of the apartments are occupied by a myriad of people who can afford such luxury.
I myself am not one of those people. I can barely afford to put gas in my car. But my grandfather, Timothy Briggs, had invested heavily in construction along Lake Shore Drive in the booming days of Chicago’s growth. And with that, he acquired ownership in numerous buildings, including the one I live in now.
At first, my apartment was to be a place for anyone in the family visiting the city to stay overnight. But after my grandfather passed away his assets had been sliced up between the children and grandchildren. I ended up with three thousand feet of prime real-estate, and a small stipend doled out every month. Not a whole lot, but enough to keep food in the pantry and gas in my car.
On top of that, I work with my dad at a job I don't necessarily want, but it pays the remainder of my bills. I help my dad at the Briggs and Sons Funeral Home, with four convenient locations in the Chicago land area, serving all of your dearly departed's needs.
My parents raised me with ethics, and the mantra that I have to earn my keep. So after graduating high school, I went to the Lincoln School of Mortuary Sciences and got my bachelor’s degree.
So here I am, twenty-three, just off a gut wrenching bout of the flu, and a hankering for coffee. I know that I should eat, but the thought of food makes my stomach churn. Maybe I could hold down some chicken soup if the café on the first floor has any today. They rotate their selection of soups daily, and I'm not in the mood for split pea.
