Don’t Eat Cat by Jess Walter Page A

“Don’t eat cat,” which has to be tough when every fiber of the zombie’s being is telling him Eat cat ); and in the meantime, poor Brando was humming, just about full tilt. At that point, of course, the manager should have calledthe Starbucks Financial security guards to come over from the banking side or called whatever priva-police firm had that contract, but instead he put a hand up to the dozen or so of us in the store and walked calmly over to the kid and said, “Brando, why don’t you go into the break room and relax for a few minutes.” But Brando’s red-veined eyes were darting around the room and he started makingthose deeper guttural noises, and look, I was not without sympathy for the manager, or for Brando, or for the twitchy zombie girl running the steamer, who looked over at her fish-skinned counterpart, both of them now thinking ca-a-a-at, salivating as if someone had yelled “chocolate” in a kindergarten, the girl zombie humming too now, the soy milk for my latte climbing to two hundred degrees—“Miss,”I said—and still my soy was hissing and burbling, half to China Syndrome, the boiling riling everyone up, the manager calmly saying, “Brando, Brando, Brando,” and I suppose I was still freaked by the bad news from my doctor’s appointment, because I admit it, I raised my voice: “Miss, you’re burning it,” and when she didn’t even acknowledge me, just kept humming and watching Brando, I clapped myhands and yelled, “Stop it!” And that’s when the manager shot me a look that said You’re not helping! And hell, I knew I wasn’t helping, but who doesn’t get frustrated, I mean, I wouldn’t want that manager’s life, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be some twenty-one-year-old with full-on hypo-ETE, but we all have our crosses to bear, right? I just wanted a stupid cup of coffee. And I’d have stormedout right then, but my iVice had already been debited, and I suppose there was something else, too, something personal—I’m willing to acknowledge that—I mean, how would you feel if your girlfriend got so depressed that she actually chose to start taking Replexen, knowing it could make her a slow-witted, oversexed night crawler, how would you feel if the woman you loved actually chose zombie lifeover the apparently unbearable pain of a normal life with you? So fuck me, sue me, yes yes yes, I was short-tempered! You bet your ass I was short-tempered, and I yelled at that poor pale girl, “Hey zombie! You’re scalding my fucking latte!”
    I know.
    We’re not supposed to call them zombies.
    What was I supposed to say? “Excuse me, unfortunate sufferer of hypo-endocrinal-thyro-encephalitis , please stop burning my latte”?
    I suppose it was inevitable what happened next. As it unfolded, I felt awful. I still feel awful—but in my defense, I was the only customer who didn’t turn and run right then, as Brando flashed his teeth and pit-bulled the manager, leapt right into the poor guy’s chest, both of them tumbling to the ground. Infact, I actually tried to distract him, clapping my hands and yelling as he worked over the poor, screaming manager. And to be fair, Brando didn’t get far. He bit, but he didn’t chew is I guess how you’d say it. He really wasn’t trying to eat the manager; he was just scared and agitated. Probably not a distinction the manager was making at that time, with Brando yowling, biting, and scratching,sinewy veins popping beneath translucent skin, the manager lying on his back, covering his face, weeping, “Oh God” as Brando snarled and struck and the girl zombie yowled in sympathy, still standing there, steaming my soy milk, which was like magma now, gurgling over the side of the pitcher. And if I give myself credit for anything, it’s that I thought quickly on my feet, grabbing the scaldingpitcher out of her hand and throwing the boiling milk on Brando, who reared his head like a bridled horse, snarled, and spun on me. I turned and ran