ZOMBIE DREAMS by Peter Nolan Smith

Four springs ago Brock Dundee hired my driving services for a road trip across the Midwest. The Scottish filmmaker was seeking out the statues of a dying Irish sculptor in Middle America. His plan was to video the works and then film the the artist seeing his works for the last time.

My boss at the diamond exchange wasn’t happy with my taking off two weeks.

“He’s paying me $1000 a week.” I had been asking for a raise for the last year.

“Have a good trip.” Manny had a good head for numbers. He was saving my salary and fought off another attempt for an increase in my salary.

“Sei Gesund.” I wished the eighty year-old well in Yiddish. His only other language was almost dead.

A week later Brock and I flew to Chicago and hired a car at O’Hare. The Scot didn’t know how to drive, but he unfolded a map to plot out a route on the Interstates.

“No fucking interstates.” I ripped the map off his lap and threw it in the backseat.

“Aren’t the interstates faster?” Brock wanted to visit five statues in St. Louis, Kansas City, Des Moines, and Minneapolis and we had eight days to cover six big states.

“Only if you’re heading to shopping mall.” I-80 was rammed with SUVs and long-haul trucks. I pointed out a state trooper cruising in the opposite direction. “We want to stay far away from them.”

“Aren’t there speed traps on the back roads?” Brock’s vision of rural America had been formed by the movies DELIVERANCE and EASY RIDER.

“The cops go where the money is and that’s the interstates.” I turned off I-80 at exit for Peoria and turned to Brock. “Welcome to The Fly-Over.”

“Fly-Over?” The Scot was unfamiliar with the American term.

“This is the land you fly over from New York to LA.” The square states of the Midwest are mostly flat corn fields. They offer little for New Yorkers, Californians, and Europeans.

“I get it.” Brock relaxed in his seat. He had chosen me for my ability to take the least obvious course of action for the next week we avoided the Interstates like a plague.

Our path wandered along a flooded Illinois River down the broad Mississippi across the spring farmland of Missouri into the terra incognita of Iowa.
Sometimes my Scottish friend and I didn’t have any human contact for hours. The straight roads were devoid of cars. Everyone was on the Interstate heading to a WalMart.

South of Des Moines I remarked to Brock, “Not many people living out here.”
“No reason for anyone to live out here.” The small towns were empty and the big cities looked, as if they had been hit by a neutron bomb.

“Young people move out as soon as they finish high school.” The farmboys treated their boredom with crystal meth. They hid well of of sight.

“Leaving only the dead and the dying.”

“Like we were in a zombie movie.” It was almost as if the real world had been replaced by scenes from MAD MAX II and I accelerated to 100 mph. We hadn’t seen any police cars in days.

“I haven’t seen any zombies.” Brock scanned the bare expanse of fields on either side of the road.

“They would starve out here.” Zombies liked cities, because fat people were slower than them. “I once had a horrible dream about zombies.”

“Really?” Brock took out his camera and shot a minute of the passing void. This trip was as much about us as the sculptor.

“It was 1975. I was 23 at the time. I had caught a Trois Estellas bus from Monterrey, Mexico to Texas.” I hadn’t thought about that bus in ages. driving the car must have resurrected that memory from the grave. “It was a long ride and I was reading a book by HP Lovecraft. THE TERROR AT INNSMOUTH. The bus stopped in a small town. I ate a taco. It tasted a little funny and that night I fell sick with food poisoning. I checked into a small hotel at the border. The Mexican side was cheaper. I lay on the bed with a fever. I read my book and fell asleep. Sometime in the night I dreamed I was being chased through a garden by slow-moving zombies.”

“I hate the way zombies moved fast in RESIDENT EVIL.” My Scottish friend was a horror film buff and he turned to camera to me. A nod was the signal to start my monologue.

“Slow zombies are classic, but there were too many of turtle dead in my dream.” I had told his story a thousand times. It was like reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. “They cut off my escape and I ran to a gazebo. Old screens to keep out mosquitoes covered the windows. I locked the flimsy door. The zombies huddled around the gazebo. Their breath smelled of rotting flesh. They scrapped at the screen with long yellow fingernails. Their teeth ground in anticipation of sinking into my flesh, then a voice deeper than a six-foot grave said, “Tell us the secret of human life.”

“The secret of human life?” Brock like interrupting my spiel. He felt the breaks gave me time to collect my thoughts.

“I didn’t know what the secret of human life was and there was no stalling the zombies either. When they’re hungry, they’re hungry. They broke through the screens. I shut my eyes expecting the worse.” I usually stopped here to check, if I hadn’t lost my audience.

“You’re not supposed to die in dreams.” Brock was listening to every word. He picked up the map. We were coming to a turning.

"Freud said everything was driven by pleasure or death. Death in dreams was a way of understanding your personal sexual repression levels or you hated yourself, which wasn’t the case, since I was 23.” I put on the left-turn signal. The intersection didn't even have a name.

“Freud’s full of Oepidal shit. I’ve seen photos of his mother. She wasn’t worth killing his father for, of course Jung had a different take on death in a dream.

“Screw both of them.” My story had no place for dead psychiatrists. That territory was reserved for Woody Allen. “I tried to wake up, but couldn’t and I heard the voice say, “Tell us the secret of human life and I’ll let you live for another minute.”

“So what happened?” Brock was expecting a horrible demise.

“I realized the secret of human life was that no matter how bad the 61st second would be I still wanted the next 60. The urge to live.”

“And did you tell them to secret?”

“No, I woke up and foiled their attempt to destroy Mankind."

"A hero."

"It's not everyone who saves humanity in their sleep." It had seemed so real, but my flesh bore no teeth marks. " So I’m not really scared of zombies.”

“No?” Brock said that word, as if he wasn’t convinced about their status as myth.

“Zombies exist only in movies and video games. Not all of them bad. You ever see SHAUN OF THE DEAD?”

“That’s not a real zombie movie.” Brock was a traditionalist as was to be expected from a Scot.

I agreed that the British flick wasn't scary, but it was funny and after my dream I like funny zombies better than scary ones. We drove west toward Kansas City. They supposedly had some pretty women their according to Wilbur Harrison’s hit song from 1959.

A pretty girl had to be more fun than a zombie.

YOU BET I WOULD by Peter Nolan Smith

During our 2009 trip through the American Midlands filming Barry Flanagan statues Brock Dundee and I detoured from our route to meet Colonel Rockford Ret. in Iowa City. The three of us began the evening at a sports bar. The bartender had just returned from his third tour in Iraq. We toasted his return with tequila shots. After the third Cuevo Gold Brock Dundee, Rockford, and I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette.

A trio of Bud Lite drinkers were disparaging the President in the alley.

"I don't know how we elected a nigger."

The fattest was leading the hate parade. He looked like he had played second-string linebacker in high school, but this fat boy hadn't touched his toes in years. I clenched my fists. I hadn't seen my family in months. Thailand was on the other side of the world. I was not in a good mood.

"Don't start anything." Rockford grabbed my arm. He was still a hippie. "It's not the place."

"Assholes." I glared at the trio. I was more a punk and repeated the word louder.

This time they had heard me and turned to face us.

"What your problem?" asked the fat boy's friend. His head was shaven to the bone and his body had been morphed into a smaller steroid version of a WWF wrestling wannabe.

"That's no way to talk about the president."

"And why not?"

"John Wayne said it best about JFK," interjected Rockford, whose favorite westerns were EASY RIDER and OLE YELLER.

"And what was that?"

"I didn't vote for him, but he is my president." Brock beat Rockford to the quote, then added, "I might not be American, but I do like John Wayne."

The three of us traded opinions about our favorite John Wayne films. I picked TRUE GRIT and as a director Brock classically voted for John Ford's THE SEARCHERS, while Brock surprised us with his choice.

"WE WERE EXPENDABLE. It's set in the Philippines. A PT boat crew trying to escape the Japs." The old appellations lived long in Iowa.

I watched the three conservatives bunch together like they were discussing a stratagem, then the fat one ranted about having a black Muslim communist illegal alien as president. I clenched my fists, but remembered that I was passing through Iowa City. Tomorrow I would be hundreds of miles away.

I stubbed out my cigarette and walked toward the entrance to the bar. The skinniest of the three was feeling his oats and loudly told to his friends, "This country was founded on Conservative values; church, family, and flag."

"That's it." I stormed over and pointed my finger in his face.

"This country was founded on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, so shut the fuck up about 'Conservative values'."

"I can say anything____" The butch muscle boy started to say.

"Do yourself a favor and shut your piehole and I don't want to hear any muttering behind my back either."

I strode inside the bar and ordered a Stella. Brock and Rockford joined me two seconds later. I looked out the door. The three locals were gone from the alley.

"Fuck them."

>"What happened to the Freedom of Speech?" Colonel Rockford was a firm believer in speaking his mind.

"Fuck the Freedom of Speech. It's an amendment to the Constitution." I was more than angry after eight years of hearing Conservatives bullshit about family values. "I'll say what I want and I'll tell anyone to shut up when I want too. That's my Freedom of Speech."

"I don't think that phrasing was guaranteed by the Constitution." Brock politely said and then continued, "And to be truthful this country is very conservative. Look at what happened to your Senator Gary Hart in 1988."

"Gary Hart?" I hadn't thought about the Colorado senator in years.

"Yes, he was the frontrunner for the Democratic nomination in the 1988 election." My British friend's erudite tones had nearby drinkers listening to his every word. "Right up to the moment when the Miami Herald published photos of Donna Rice sitting on his lap."

"On the yacht MONKEY BUSINESS." Colonel Rockford had a good memory for a man in his early-60s.

"Aptly named. The Senator denied there was an 'hanky-panky'. Even his wife said the relationship was innocent."

"The wife is always the last to know." Colonel Rockford signaled the bartender for three more tequilas.

"His poll rankings sunk to the point where he only received 4000 votes in the New Hampshire primary, but if he had said, "Sure I screwed Donna and so would you all, Gary Hart would have received every male and free love vote in America, because people here and in the rest of the world are sinners. Not Conservative, but fun-loving happiness seekers. But no one likes a liar other than those people who don't want to look at themselves in a mirror."

We picked up our shots and Brock said, "America may be Conservative, but most Americans thought that Gary Hart's indiscretion had little to do with his ability to be president."

"And they got Dukakis to run against Bush." I remembered the photo of Dukakis' head sticking out of a tank like a turtle, then again he would have looked just as silly with Donna Rice on his lap.

"Now that was one unsexy guy." Colonel Rockford shivered with the memory of that election. "I voted Communist that year. Gus Hall I think. And he was even more unsexy. You're right, Brock. All Gary Hart had to have done was say, "I fucked her and so would you." and he would have been president."

"Who was Donna Rice," the bartender asked with interest.

"She was a hot blonde."

Unlike John Wayne movies the three of us were in complete agreement on that subject.

And agreeing with your friends was the beauty of Free Speech.

YOU BET I WOULD by Peter Nolan Smith

During my 2009 trip through the American Midlands filming Barry Flanagan statues for my British friend's film the two of us detoured from our route to meet Colonel Rockford Ret. in Iowa City. We began the evening drinking at a sports bar. The bartender was just back from his third tour in Iraq. We toasted his return with tequila shots. After the third Brock Dundee, Rockford, and I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. A trio of Bud Lite drinkers were disparaging the President in the alley. "I don't know how we elected a nigger." The fattest was leading the hate parade. He looked like he had played second-string linebacker in high school. I clenched my fists. Brock was alarmed by this. My fuse was short these days. I hadn't seen my family in months. Thailand was on the other side of the world. "Don't start anything." Rockford grabbed my arm. "It's not the place." "Assholes." I glared at the trio. They had heard me. I turned to my friends. "John Wayne said it best about JFK." "I didn't vote for him, but he is my president." Brock beat me to the punchline. "I might not be American, but I do like John Wayne." The three of us traded opinions about our favorite John Wayne films. I picked TRUE GRIT and Brock classically voted for John Ford's THE SEARCHERS, while Brock surprised us with his choice. "WE WERE EXPENDABLE. It's set in the Philippines. A PT boat crew trying to escape the Japs." The old appellations lived long in Iowa. I let the three locals vent their frustration at having a black Muslim communist illegal alien as president. I stubbed out my cigarette and walked toward the entrance to the bar. The skinniest of the three was feeling his oats and boasted to his friends, "This country was founded on Conservative values; church, family, and flag." "That's it." I stormed over and pointed my finger in his face. "This country was founded on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, so shut the fuck up about 'Conservative values'."

"I can say anything____" The oldest started to say, then thought better of challenging my edict. "Good idea to shut your hole and I don't want to hear any muttering either." I walked inside the bar and ordered a Stella. I hated Bud Lite. Brock and Rockford joined me two seconds later. I looked out the door. The three locals were gone from the alley. >"What about the Freedom of Speech?" Colonel Rockford was a firm believer in speaking your mind.

"Fuck the Freedom of Speech. It's an amendment to the Constitution." I was more than angry after eight years of hearing Conservatives bullshit about family values. "I'll say what I want and I'll tell anyone to shut up when I want too. That's my Freedom of Speech."

"I don't think that phrasing was guaranteed by the Constitution." My Brock politely interjected and then added, "And to be truthful this country is very conservative. Look at what happened to your Senator Gary Hart in 1988."

"Gary Hart?" I hadn't thought about the Colorado senator in years.

"Yes, he was the frontrunner for the Democratic nomination in the 1988 election." My British friend's erudite tones had nearby drinkers listening to his every word. "Right up to the moment when the Miami Herald published photos of Donna Rice sitting on his lap."

"On the yacht MONKEY BUSINESS." Colonel Rockford had a good memory for a man in his early-60s.

"Aptly named. The Senator denied there was an 'hanky-panky'. Even his wife said the relationship was innocent."

"The wife is always the last to know." Colonel Rockford signaled the bartender for tequila.

"His poll rankings sunk to the point where he only received 4000 votes in the New Hampshire primary, but if he had said, "Sure I screwed Donna and so would you all, Gary Hart would have received every male vote and free love vote in America, because people here and in the rest of the world are sinners. Not Conservative, but fun-loving happiness seekers. But no one likes a liar other than those people who don't want to look at themselves in a mirror."

We returned to our drinks and Brock said, "America may be Conservative, but most Americans thought that Gary Hart's indiscretion had little to do with his ability to be president."

"And they got Dukakis to run against Bush." I remembered the photo of Dukakis' head sticking out of a tank. He would have looked just as silly with Donna Rice on his lap.

"Now that was one unsexy guy." Colonel Rockford shivered with the memory of that election. "I voted Communist that year. Gus Hall I think. And he was even more unsexy. You're right, Brock. All Gary Hart had to have done was say, "I fucked her and so would you." and he would have been president." "Who was Donna Rice." "She was a hot blonde." Unlike John Wayne movies the three of us were in complete agreement on that subject. And that's the beauty of Free Speech. Agreeing with your friends.