LOOKING FOR MR WRIGHT

There was a very real smell of death in the air.

Not just the sick, stomach-churning aroma of necrotic decay, but a palpable sense of doom. So it had been for over three years.

Barbara joined the nightly shuffle up Fifth Avenue. It was a habit as much as a compulsion. She sometimes wondered why zombies did this whole routine, forever walking aimlessly around, trying to eat anything that was still alive, man or beast, ignoring each other. Was it part of the virus that had decimated humanity, or just conditioned by years of films and television? Most New Yorkers ignored each other anyway.

They hadn’t got some things right. She was still completely aware of what was going on, at least as far as she knew, and that the ultraviolet rays of the Sun could kill her. What was that about? Sounded more like vampires.

That fact was kind of ironic. She had used SPF30+ three times every day on the pale skin that matched the flaming red hair from her Scottish genes. Now the mere glimpse of daylight could do her in. Anyway, both the skin and the hair were now a kind of mouldy green.

Even the minuscule reflected UV rays of tonight’s full moon made her and those around her uncomfortable. That’s why there weren’t as many shufflers as there usually were. Maybe she would call it a night and go inside.

She paused and looked out into Central Park, toying with the heart shaped locket hanging loosely around what was left of her neck. The Jackie Reservoir was so clogged with the floating mass of bodies that it reflected nothing, not even the full moon. Pity. That had been one of her favourite spots.

Barbara turned around and looked at the enormous fluid structure behind her, incongruously round in its totally square surroundings. Even with her mental faculties intact, she couldn’t remember the name. Something Jewish.

She noticed someone looking at her from inside, through the entry doors, still wearing a suit and tie. A live one? Barbara shuffled towards the building.

Sliding doors tended to be a little fussy in this powerless, post-Apocalyptic world, but this set had been propped open just enough for her to slip in sideways. She would never have been thin enough to do that before the plague, she thought, but now who cared? Everyone was just skin and bones. Whoever said, “You can never be too rich or too thin” could go fuck herself.

The interior was dark, but a large pool of moonlight cast from some high-up skylight spread into the distance. In the middle stood the figure of a man.

“Arrrrrghslchssss ... Blaughffffffch!” cried the figure.

“What’s with the stupid voice?” Barbara called out.

“I always do that. In case you’re a live one,” admitted the man sheepishly.

“Tell me honestly, do I look like a live one?” challenged Barbara. “When was the last time you saw a live one?”

“Quite a while, I guess,” said the man. “We don’t get many visitors.”

“We?” asked Barbara, “Are there more of you in here?”

“No, force of habit. I was the Director. My name is Richard.”

“Barbara. What is this place?”

“An art gallery. The Guggenheim. I guess I consider the works as people, friends. That’s why I said ‘we’. Can I call you Barbara?”

“Call me anything, just not late for dinner. Sorry, that was lame. So, Dick, how have you kept yourself looking nice?”

“Please don’t call me Dick. Brings back memories.”

“Oh, sorry. Richard. Insensitive of me. I guess we’ve all gone the way of Barbie and Ken in that respect.”

“I guess I keep myself looking nice because of my job, my surroundings. Keeping up appearances.”

“This is an amazing place. Guggenheim.”

“It was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, one of the world’s greatest architects. It was among his last works. He called it ‘a temple to the spirit.’ “

“I get the feeling I’m about to get the 6 bit tour.”

“Sorry, force of habit again.”

“Actually, I don’t mind. It’s been a long time since I talked to anyone, let alone someone who actually knew what they were talking about and had something to say.”

Barbara and Richard walk towards the huge centre atrium of the Guggenheim and the pool of light.

Barbara looked up into the expanse, “Your Mister Wright certainly knew how to make a big space. I thought art galleries were little rooms full of paintings and shit.”

Richard laughs. “I must say, you’ve kept yourself looking nice, too, Barbara.” “Oh! I could just kiss you, if I still had lips!”

Richard lets out a big laugh. “My mother used to say ‘I could just eat you up!’ when I said something nice, but that doesn’t seem appropriate, either.

Now it’s Barbara’s turn to laugh. “I’m really glad I decided to come in here, out of the moonlight. I miss company, companionship.”

“Me, too,” admitted Richard. “I have noticed you in the shuffle most nights. I was trying to get up the courage to say hello.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have killed you to tell me. I mean, you’re already dead, right? I did try to keep myself nice for a while, but it’s hard to find a good moisturizer that works on dead skin.”

“Maybe you should try a preservative.”

Barbara throws back her head and shrieks with laughter. This triggers a hacking cough. Richard pats her on the back to try and help, but this causes one of her eyes to pop out on its stalk.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry! Look what I’ve done!”

Barbara slowly stops coughing, waving away Richard’s concern. “Don’t worry, that always happens. Better than coughing out a lung.”

Barbara tilts her head back and carefully pops the eyeball back in.

Richard relaxes. “I’m really sorry, Barbara. I guess I’m really still getting used to all this walking dead stuff. Everyone is a lot more fragile. The first time I tried to pick my nose, I nearly gave myself a frontal lobotomy.”

More laughter from Barbara, “Let’s sit down, please. I haven’t laughed this much since the Plague hit. I feel dead on my feet, what’s left of them.”

Richard and Barbara sit on a bench near the information desk. “So, what did you use to do, Barbara?”

“Don’t laugh, but I was the manager of a Body Shop.”

“Why would I laugh? They used to smell lovely when you walked by.”

“Most people thought I worked in auto repair.”

“Oh, I see. That is funny. Business would be booming now. We’re all bodies and seriously in need of some major odor control.”

“Do you miss anything, Richard?”

He thinks for a while and saliva begins to run out of his lipless mouth. “Steak.”

“What??”

“Maybe that's why I took to this whole walking-dead-rip-out-people’s-throats thing so well. It reminds me of hoeing into a nice juicy New York Cut at Keens.”

An even more distasteful expression comes over Barbara’s lifeless face, “Ugh! That is just disgusting!”

“I didn’t just like my steak rare. I’d tell the waiter ‘Blue’” drooled Richard. “That means I still want to hear the Moo! And they used to do an aged T-Bone at Knickerbocker’s that was so big you couldn’t see the plate!”

“I’m sorry, Richard. You’re making me sick,” said Barbara, turning even greener, if that was possible. “I was a vegan.”

“What? You’re kidding!”

“That’s why I really can't bring myself to do the whole zombie thing ... Ripping out throats and gnawing on arms and legs. I mean, we really don’t need to eat.”

“Can't you just think of vegan things? Adams Apples? Cauliflower Ears? Corns? Nuts?” “Richard! Now you really are just being disgusting!”

“Sorry. No, not really. You make me feel a bit silly.”

“You are very cheeky, Richard.”

“What’s left of them.”

“Come on, Mr. Director. Give me this tour or I’m going to ask for my money back!” “I’m afraid the elevator is out of service, so we’ll have to go up the spiral backwards.” “That sounds uncomfortable, but let’s go.”

Richard leads Barbara up the spiral ramp that circles the atrium several times.

“What happened here?” asked Barbara, “A painting accident?”

“Hardy-har-har. Jackson Pollock, Number 18.”

“Ah, ‘Jack The Dripper!’

“I wish people wouldn’t call him that!”

“Sorry, Richard, I’m just pulling your leg. Oops, maybe I pulled a little too hard. Is it still attached?”

They continue up the spiral. Finally, Barbara stops in front of a small painting, “I like this one.”

“Pablo Picasso, ‘Lobster and Cat.’ It’s yours. My gift to you.” “That’s very sweet, Richard. It must be worth a fortune.”

“Millions, but to whom? You can have them all. It’s probably the only beauty left in the world. Now I’m getting maudlin. I’m sorry.”

Barbara tentatively takes Richard’s hand. He doesn’t pull away and looks into her face. “You have beautiful eyes ... eye ... oh shit.”

Barbara stands a little taller and gives Richard a kiss on the cheek. “I really am glad we finally met.”

Richard tries to smile, “I am, too. Really glad.” He guides Barbara by the hand towards a door at the top of the spiral, “I want to show you something special. It’s not on the normal 6 bit tour.”

Another door opens and Richard leads Barbara out onto the roof of The Guggenheim overlooking Central Park.

“Oh, Richard, this is lovely. Thank you.” They sit on the edge of the enormous glass dome, still holding hands.

Richard looks down at their clasped hands, “Now that I’ve given you most of the truly great works of modern art, worth over a billion dollars, what more can I offer you?”

“Keep the paintings. Just keep holding my hand. That’s about all we can do.”

“Not all. The sun's coming up in a little while.”

“I guess we'd better go inside, huh?”

“You know what, Barbara? I think I might stay. Watch the sun come up one last time.”

Barbara turns Richard, looking into his eyes, “You really know how to show a girl a good time ... for an art snob, that is. I think I’ll stay, too.”

Richard puts his other arm around Barbara, and they lean into each other as the sky begins to lighten in the east.