My Encounter With a Real Zombie
With only eight days left to save our democracy, the political scene gets even more scary
Driving from my house to town over a logging road is scary. To call it a gravel road is, to my mind, inaccurate since sharp rocks up to two inches in diameter do not make nice, crunchy gravel. Furthermore, there are potholes that become pools when it rains, occasional encounters with guys in pickups barreling around corners, and steep, lengthy drops where the guys in the pickups, or I, might end up if they don’t slow down.
So, 10 miles of rocky road, after which there is pavement all the way to Fred Meyer, where I get my milk and eggs and, yes, Rocky Road ice cream.
My last trip for groceries was scary even after I got to the paved road.
I was just turning into the parking lot at Fred’s and was fumbling around in my purse for a buck to give to the homeless man who sits at the entrance there. I rolled down the window and reached out with my offering in my hand, only to discover — not the harmless old man who smiles at me and wants God to bless me for his dollar — but a …
A zombie!
Skinny, filthy, stubbly chin, bloodshot eyes staring at me, shuffling back and forth, back and forth, and holding two signs in scarred…
