Life With A Werewolf

The Lost Art of Saying No

          As much as I wanted to help, my physical health must come first. I made that decision staring at that zombie pulling his leg along slowly as he attempted to make his way towards whatever cemetery they were using for their latest gathering. I simply could not risk diving head long into alcohol addiction again. I know what Crash said about not having to drink. But if it’s there, and I’m looking at all those corpses, I’m going to be drinking. There will be no way I’ll possibly be able to say no.

          So, in essence all I had to do was put my foot down. Just simply say no. No. N. O. Sorry, but I can’t make it. My invitation was lost in the mail. I’m gone on vacation. There’s no way that I will be there. Absolutely not. No. Can’t. Nuh-huh. No way, no how, no.

          The plan was to just tell the first zombie I saw “no thanks,” hand them back the bottle of liquor, and keep walking. Don’t stop and chat. Don’t say anything else. Just keep going and pretend they don’t exist like everyone else. It works for Zack, Kris and Shawn. Why couldn’t it work for me?

          Someone much smarter than I am once said ‘no plan ever survives first contact with the enemy.’ Boy, this one certainly didn’t. This plan worked for all of twenty-five minutes. Well, I was stuck at a red light so, twenty-eight minutes. I didn’t cave though. However sad and depressing things may have gotten, I simply did not cave. My point may have gotten muddied, but I still stood my ground, as shaky as it grew to be.

          I had some bills to pay and things to do, so I prepared myself to leave the house. As for grabbing that expensive bottle of liquor, I did plan on doing it. Crash hid the darn thing from me before I could. Guess he claimed it, though he’ll swear up and down it was to prevent me from drinking it. Sure Crash. Sure.

          When I left the house, there wasn’t a single zombie on the street. But that wasn’t a strange occurrence. They seem to come in waves, with little to no timing or spacing for the waves themselves. All I can figure is a few free themselves from a cemetery, then they start moving as a group. Sort of the natural way us humans will do it when we’re in a city or something. I could be wrong; it could be some sort of self-preservation thing? Like the reason ducks fly in groups and such. But I wasn’t so sure. After all, who would want to attack literal walking rotten flesh? Who would try to eat or harm corpses that were past the point even buzzards would care about them?

          It was a short drive to the next town over. The larger community where we did most of the running around and things. Most small towns in America exist near a larger town. A place where you can bank, have access to the fast-food places you probably don’t have in your own town. Where your local Wal-Mart probably is. A bigger brother type of community, that doesn’t enjoy you being there but tolerates you mainly because mom and dad would ground him if he picked on you too much.

          I had gotten a new pair of shoes, did a few personal errands and was just leaving the bank when I saw them. Two corpses, both in suits. One was male and one was female, I think. Though the dirt covered condition of their clothing, the bloated and well, I won’t go into how they looked but suffice to say it was difficult to tell at this stage what their race even was let alone if they were male or female.

          “Look,” I said staring at the two of them. “I can’t do it. I just can’t get into drinking and all of that mess. I’m sober. I can’t slide back into that.”

          They looked at each other, then looked down, a sad, pathetic look on their faces. “God, you both stink, you know that,” I grumbled. They looked at each other, and each one of them, to my surprise held up a trash bag.

          “You want a ride.”

          They groaned in unison.

          “Fine,” I grumbled. “Keep the windows rolled down please. I don’t want the smell to linger.”

          They did the best they could with what they had, but eventually I rolled out the trash bags for them. Lord only knows what the traffic driving by on the highway saw or thought was going on, but at least it was quick. Thank God for small favors.

          They directed and I drove. Through twisting back roads and highways that only locals know. Getting stuck behind the occasional tractor going from one field to another to do….something. I’m not all that certain. I didn’t grow up in a large city, but it wasn’t exactly a farming community where I was from, so we tended to not see huge John Deere’s rumbling along the roadways. It takes some getting used to. I think I’m only five years away from getting used to it, myself.

          The zombies weren’t all that happy with the denial. They would occasionally groan as if asking ‘why’, and I’d have to tell them: “I’m sober. I can’t drink. And being around all of you, well, I’m living. I’m going to want to drink. As soon as I see it, I’ll drink again.”

          Then the ‘why’ came again.

          “Because, I’m addicted to it. I have a thing broken in my brain. And drinking, it does something to me. It changes me, makes me someone I don’t like being. Someone my friends don’t like seeing. It, well, it hurts so many.”

          Another groan that was a ‘why’.

          “It’s not as if I don’t want to help you! I do! I just, I don’t know what help I can be. Besides, playing taxi driver for you two I’m not certain you need my help. You have your loved ones here who cared for you a great deal. That means your souls on the other side, where ever they are, can’t be in that bad of place, can it?”

          The cemetery was on the side of the road. A forgotten spot that looked as if it was a family spot of some kind at one point. The shady trees gave it a nice welcoming corner of the Earth to spend a little slice of eternity in, despite being a bit overgrown. I stopped and watched as they climbed out of the road. “I would love to,” I told the zombie, “But I just can’t drink. I can’t drink.”

          I think finally my words sunk in, because they looked at each other, shared a glance that I didn’t know about then shuffled onward, towards the others. It was my one good deed. I at least gave them a ride, so I did help. Hopefully that will settle all of it. I won’t have to deal with these zombies anymore, and they will move on with their…well death I guess and find a new way to enjoy being unalive. Or something.

          There is a lost art of saying no. These days, everyone wants to shove the word down your throat, or have no ability to say it themselves. I admit, saying yes is easier than no and dealing with the repercussions later. It is after all part of how I live my life. Yes now, duck later. But, at times it’s just better to say no. Especially when it means you’ll end up doing something you’ll regret. Or something that can ruin your life. I have no regrets. I stood my ground. And now, after all this time, it’s over.

          Isn’t it?