Furiously Happy (16 page)

“Well,” I said. “
That showed them.
”

“Yeah. It showed them what a drunk American looks like trying to put his shoes back on. And he did the same thing when we were in Mexico last year.
Remember when he bought two liters of hot sauce at the airport?
”

“Yeah, that was awesome,” I said, nodding. “But I'm pretty sure we were all too drunk to remember we hadn't gone through security yet. Besides, isn't hot sauce a beverage?” Victor glared at me but I bet he was laughing on the inside.

*   *   *

But in a bring-this-whole-thing-full-circle sort of way, I'm starting to suspect that maybe the reason why people are jerks at airports is
because
of the zombie apocalypse.

I'll explain:

Have you ever noticed that all of the stuff on the posters of what you can't bring into the airport terminal is pretty much
exactly
the same stuff that would come in really handy if a zombie apocalypse broke out? Swords, guns, grenades, meat cleavers, fire, disinfectant, booze, chain saws: these are all things I'd want on me if there were a zombie epidemic in Terminal B. Basically, if we get attacked inside the airport we're all fucked, so maybe people are just scared because they've been disarmed. Even the phrasing of where you're headed (the “terminal”) is another word for “approaching immediate death.”

But on the plus side, airport security probably has a giant stash of brass knuckles and grenades and chain saws that they've confiscated from people, so we could probably still arm ourselves if necessary. (Side note: Can you even
buy
brass knuckles anymore? I'd be pissed if I had to give up my brass knuckles at the airport. Those things are pricey.)

I often take photos of the posters showing the prohibited items you can't take through security to use as an outline for preparing my own zombie prep kit and it's interesting how they subtly change from airport to airport. Some of them can be quite intimidating and are filled with items you wouldn't think you'd have to put on a sign, like machine guns and dynamite. Others focus more on having too much lotion. At our airport it says you can't bring in snow globes. Swear to God.
Snow globes.
Which seems weird. It's not like you're going to be attacked by a zombie and think, “JESUS.
If only I'd had my snow globe.
”

Victor recently looked over my ever-growing list entitled “Things-Not-Allowed-Through-Security-That-Would-Be-Good-to-Have-During-the-Zombie-Apocalypse” and thought it was questionable. “Why do you have booze on your list?” he asked.

“You think I'm going into the zombie apocalypse sober?” I shook my head. “
I don't think so.
Plus, alcohol is a good disinfectant.”

“I'm pretty sure butterscotch schnapps isn't ideal for wounds.” He knew me too well. “And what's this other stuff?
Water guns? Lacrosse sticks?
This is just a list of things you want to play with.”

“
No
,” I explained, glaring in a way that said Victor was stupid. “They're weapons that don't need ammunition. You can use the lacrosse stick to keep the zombies at a distance and then you squirt them with acid.”

“Acid …
which would melt the water gun
,” Victor replied.

“Ah,” I said. “
Right.
Fine. Then we fill it with holy water in case of vampires.”

“Vampires?”

I sighed at his ignorance. “Well, I think if zombies turn out to be real then all bets are off, Victor. In fact, I think I might need to start a whole new list labeled ‘In-Case-of-Vampires.'
BECAUSE I'M A PLANNER.
”

Victor laughed and said I was getting a little defensive, but I'm pretty sure “defensive” is probably a good state of mind to be in when focused on prepping for monster attacks. Assholish and defensive. And unconcerned about babies, who will probably slow you down. And with piñata sticks you've sharpened into stakes in case of vampires. That's how you survive.

So I guess maybe the airport isn't always the worst place to be after all.

 

APPENDIX: AN INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

What I want you to know: Dying is easy. Comedy is hard. Clinical depression is no fucking picnic.

When my last book came out I spent a lot of time avoiding people who wanted to interview me because I was afraid I'd say something wrong, or because I couldn't find pants. I decided that this time around I'd just include an entire section with questions and answers, which you can use if you have a story due or need a quote. This seems like an odd use of a chapter but it's nice because there are always things that you don't get around to writing about, and apologies that need to be made, and all of that fits in here.

I realize that it's weird that this appendix is in the middle of the book instead of at the end where appendixes are supposed to be, but it works better here, and
technically
your appendix is in the middle of your body so it sort of makes sense. Probably God had the same issue when Adam was like, “I don't want to sound ungrateful, but it sort of hurts when I walk. Is that
normal
? Is this thing on my foot a tumor?” And God was like, “It's not a tumor. That's your appendix. Appendixes go at the end. Read a book, dude.” Then Adam was all, “
Really?
Because I don't want to second-guess you but it seems like a design flaw. Also that snake in the garden told me it doesn't even do anything.” And God shook his head and muttered, “Jesus, that fucking snake is like TMZ.” And then Adam was like, “Who's Jesus?” and God said, “No one yet. It's just an idea I'm throwing around.” And then God zapped Adam's appendix off his foot and stuck it in Adam's midsection instead in case he decided to use it later. But the next day Adam probably asked for a girlfriend and God was like, “It's gonna cost you a rib,” and Adam was all, “Don't I need those? Can't you just make her out of my appendix?” And the snake popped out and hissed, “Seriously, why are you so attached to this appendix idea? Don't those things occasionally explode for no reason whatsoever?” and God was like, “THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, JEFFERSON. I'M STARTING TO QUESTION WHY I EVEN MADE YOU.” And Adam was like, “Wait … what?
They explode?
” And God was all, “I'M NOT NEGOTIATING WITH YOU, ADAM.” And
that's
why appendixes go in the middle and should probably be removed.

I've asked Victor to play the role of interviewer because no one else is here except the cats, who are crap at sticking to the subject. (Victor is the one in bold who is not entirely happy about being dragged into this. I'm the one not in bold who isn't wearing pants.)

What am I even doing here?

You are pretending to be a reporter for prestigious publications. I need you to ask me interview questions so that other people can steal these quotes when I'm too weird to talk to them.

I have no idea what you want from me.

Luckily, I'm here to help. Start with a compliment. Something about my hair, maybe.

Okay. Is that your real hair?

Some of it. But it's rude to ask that.

Oh. Sorry.

It's fine. I forgive you. Just remember this act of kindness when you review my book. Also remember the word “revolutionary” and the phrase “buy a dozen copies for everyone you know.”

Why would I review your book? I'm your husband.

You're supposed to be a reporter.
My God. You are terrible at role-playing.

Fine. It seems like by this point in a book about depression you would have explained what depression is.

It's hard to define.

Well, this is a book,
so maybe try.

Fine.

Depression is like … it's like when you meticulously scroll up through hundreds of pages in a Word document to find a specific paragraph you need to fix, and then you try to type but it automatically takes you right back down to the bottom because you forgot to place your cursor where you wanted to type. And then you bang your head against the desk because you just totally lost your place and then your boss walks in while you have your head planted on your desk and you see her shoes behind you so you immediately say, “I'm not sleeping. I was just banging my head against the desk because I fucked something up.”

Hmm.

Wait. No. That's not it. Depression is like … when you don't have any scissors to cut that thick plastic safety tie off the new scissors that you just bought because you couldn't find your scissors. And then you just say, “Fuck it,” and try everything else in the world to get the scissors to open, but all you have are plastic butter knives and they aren't doing anything, so you stand in the kitchen holding scissors that you can't use because you can't find scissors and then you get frustrated and throw the scissors in the garbage disposal and sleep on the couch for a week. And that's what depression is like.

So…?

No. Hang on.

Depression is like … when you don't want cheese anymore.
Even though it's cheese.

I want to be helpful but I don't know if that means that I should ask you to elaborate or tell you to stop elaborating.

Okay. Let me rephrase. Sometimes being crazy is a demon. And sometimes the demon is me.

And I visit quiet sidewalks and loud parties and dark movies, and a small demon looks out at the world with me. Sometimes it sleeps. Sometimes it plays. Sometimes it laughs with me. Sometimes it tries to kill me. But it's always with me.

I suppose we're all possessed in some way. Some of us with dependence on pills or wine. Others through sex or gambling. Some of us through self-destruction or anger or fear. And some of us just carry around our tiny demon as he wreaks havoc in our mind, tearing open old dusty trunks of bad memories and leaving the remnants spread everywhere. Wearing the skins of people we've hurt. Wearing the skins of people we've loved. And sometimes, when it's worst, wearing our skins. These times are the hardest. When you can see yourself confined to your bed because you have no strength or will to leave. When you find yourself yelling at someone you love because they want to help but can't. When you wake up in a gutter after trying to drink or smoke or dance away the ache—or the lack thereof. Those times when you are more demon than you are you.

I don't always believe in God. But I believe in demons.

My psychiatrist always says, “But if you believe there are demons, then it follows that there could be a God. It's like … believing in dwarves but not in Cyclopses.”

I consider pointing out that I've met several dwarves in my life and almost no Cyclopes, but I get what she's saying. There can't be dark without light. There can't be a devil without the God who created him. There can't be good without bad.

And there can't be me without my demon.

I think I'm okay with that.

Or maybe it's my demon that is.

It's hard to tell.

My psychiatrist told me that when things get rough I should consider my battle with mental illness as if I were “exorcising a demon” and I was like, “Well, no wonder I'm failing so miserably. I'm
shit
at exercising.”

Then she called me out for deflecting with humor, and explained: “You are exorcising a demon. It's not something you can do alone. Some people do it with a priest and holy water. Some do it with faith. Some do it with chemicals and therapy. No matter what, it's hard.”

“And usually people end up with vomit on them,” I replied.

I'm seeing more of a connection. I wonder if I'm the priest in this scenario. I hope not because he almost always dies just when he thinks everything is fine. This analogy is starting to creep me out.