“And
now,” the mad scientist in an old, horror flick said with a diabolical
twist to his plastic, putty lips, “I
shall play out my scheme to turn all humans into ravenous, glassy-eyed
zombies!”
“Are you getting hungry?” With
acute lack of timing, I had chosen that exact moment to query my 6-year-old son
Michael who sat cross-legged in front of the television set. As he waited
for a horde of walking dead to stagger across the screen, that little boy
didn’t even look my way; he merely raised his hand, palm out and fingers
splayed, in a gesture that could only mean SILENCE!
“With
all mankind under my power, I shall be in position to take over the whole
world,” the seedy looking madman laughed.
“Honey, would you rather have tacos
or spaghetti for supper tonight?” This time I addressed my husband Dave
who sat on the edge of his leather easy chair, looking anything but easy.
Glancing from father to son, I marveled at how much alike they were. From
their pale blond hair to the way they both watched with clenched fists and
open mouths, they could have been clones.
“I’ll take the pizza,” my
spouse mumbled without blinking. Meanwhile, the caricature on screen
began foaming at the mouth in anticipation of seeing his hideous scheme carried
out.
“Gentlemen,” I employed my most
patient voice, “which topping would you prefer on your pizza—chopped
grasshopper knuckles or deviled caterpillar warts? And do you want your
salad hard-boiled or french-fried?”
“That’ll be just fine,” Dave
grunted, while Mike managed a slight bobbling of the chin that I took to be an
“uh huh.”
By then, the film’s cameramen had
begun a panoramic sweep inside a crowded supermarket. From the number of
shoppers in the store, the scene could have only been staged the Wednesday
night before Thanksgiving. Bumper-to-bumper shopping carts jammed every
aisle, each cart manned by a lurching automaton with glassy, ravenous
eyes. Even the lobsters in the Pick-Your-Own-Seafood Dinner
tank were in zombie-like trance.
“All
the world is mine!” the villainous scientist ranted, after which huge,
white letters spelling out THE END were
superimposed across his heaving chest.
Retreating to the kitchen, I could
hear Michael and his Dad discussing the film.
“There’s no such thing as zombies,”
Mikey said.
“Couldn’t ever be,” his dad agreed.
 |
| Each cart was manned by a lurching automaton with glassy, ravenous eyes. |
