The Day My Imagination Went Berserk

I used to sleep with a tire-iron under my bed. Conveniently positioned within arm's reach, right behind the draping box-spring sheet-covering, next to the legit-metal hammer. "Where the hell did my hammer and tire-iron go?" my dad would ask, to which I'd keep my mouth shut. He can't have them back, I need them for safety purposes.

Up until about age 12, these were my two weapons choice, the sticks of pain and forced skull-bashing that I'd prefer. If it ever went down. The adolescent mind, such a sponge. At least once a day, I'd skip around from specific scene to scene on my dubbed VHS copy of Romero's Night of the Living Dead. I wanted to be "Ben," save the day, though I'd rewrite the ending and live, rather than catch a redneck-racist's slug to the forehead. There's anotha one fo' da fire. And in one of my favorite scenes, Ben walks out onto the front yard to dispatch of the two zombies marauding about the random farmhouse that he and stranger Barbara are holed up in for the time being. In his hand: a tire-iron. Two strikes to the first ghoul's cranium, lights out for flesh-eater number one. A similar second-demise for the other undead, loitering creep.



Even in black and white, I could see the gory impact. I loved that shit. One day, I ventured into the garage, located the tire-iron, and decided to stash it in my room, for the oft chance that a zombie invasion would spring about overnight, and I'd need to fend for myself without warning.



And why the hammer, as well? Simple, really. After smashing my way through the horde of pulse-free intruders, swinging my tool-from-hell around like I'm Ty Cobb, one-handed-homers abound. Sending rotting-flesh fragments flying off faces and raining on carpet. Once the path was clear, I'd need to board up the windows, of course, just like Ben's genius self was crafty enough to do. Hammer, put to efficient use.

The perfect plan. Air-tight, all necessary and easily-overlooked bases covered. It was such a solid approach that I'd often find myself hoping that a Romero-like apocalypse of the dead would switch from fiction to fact. Because, naturally, I'd become the Ash in reality's impromptu Evil Dead scenario. The Bruce Wayne to Gotham's Joker-devised death infestation. More of a hero than Peter Petrelli, or Claire the petite-yet-sexy-as-a-mug cheerleader. What 12, 12 year old lad in his/her right mind sits around dreaming of a zombie outbreak?

Figures that I'd---soon after this plan was put into ready-whenever-for-it action---go on to write an 80-page zombie story, in one of those binded notebooks not falling within the Marble family. Fuck if I know where the book is now, sadly. Certainly somewhere in my parents' house, but most likely beneath piles of shit and saved-merely-for-memory's-sake items....I do, though, remember, distinctly, when the mother of one of my grade-school friends read the "book," and proceeded to rave about how "maturely" it was written, especially considering that it was penned by a 12-year-old. If she'd had given me such a compliment directly, 15-year hindsight would lead me to believe that she was just blowing steam up my crapper, but it wasn't I who was told this; I'd overheard her saying such kind words to her husband, while in the kitchen.

Pretty cool, huh? And to think, it all started with a poorly-copied version of Romero's unrivaled masterpiece Night and my dad's rusty old tire-iron. Inspiration works in mysterious ways, doesn't it?