The Word: Get in if You Want to Live

Work written exclusively for METRO.

Image credit: John Jodzio

Recommended by the Editor

Q+A with Philip Connors

Eat, Pray, Love, Discuss

By: John Jodzio |   March 2011   |  From the print edition

Get in if you want to live. That’s what the guy in the truck that looked like a tank said to me. I hate that line. Yes, there were fireballs raining from the sky and sure, I could hear that roving band of zombies moaning in the distance, but “Get in if you want to live?” Really? I get that line like twenty times a day now. If you are trying to hook up with this sweet piece of post-apocalyptic ass you’ve gotta try way harder than that, mister.

It’s not like I’m even picky anymore, alright? This guy wasn’t really my type—he had a bunch of matted blood and trail mix in his beard and his eyes were all kinds of rapey—still, if he would have gone with something timeless, like, “Hi, what’s your name?” I probably would have hopped in his cab in a second. I tend to give non-zombies with tank-trucks a lot of latitude and with a couple of reasonable words and a smile with more than two or three teeth, I usually say let’s give our love a shot.

What I said instead was, no, no, I’m fine, I’ll just keep enjoying my walk along this beautiful piece of charred earth in my shoes that are made of duct tape, breathing this air that smells like leather and getting ready to eat my last can of pumpkin pie filling, thank you very much.

After I told him this, the man shook his head and yelled, “It’s your funeral, lady!” Then he peeled out. It’s your funeral? What the fuck? Sometimes I just get so sick of all these unoriginal men saying all these absolutely predictable things that I just want to throw something at them. Luckily in this case, there was a detached arm sitting on the ground near me and I picked it up and chucked it at him. Lately, I’ve become quite adept at throwing detached arms and legs and so I was not surprised to see the arm land on his cab with a loud smack. I figured this dude would just keep on driving away, but then I saw brake lights. And then I heard that telltale beep-beep-beeping backing up truck-tank sound. And then I did what I always do when this happens, I started running toward the gutted Applebee’s that I call home.

I didn’t quite make it there. This guy’s truck was fast and my legs were weak from only eating pie filling for the last month. When he caught up to me, he hopped out of his truck and said, “I’m your worst nightmare.”

I mean, of course he did, because what else would a dope like this say in that situation? He was coming toward me with a knife now and I blocked a couple of his wild swings with my can of pie filling. And then I turned the can on him. I smacked him with it in the temple once and then I jumped on top of him. I began to hit him in the head over and over until the can broke open and there was this big mess of pumpkin and brain everywhere. Unfortunately in the process, I ruined my favorite pair of duct tape slacks.

After I brushed myself off, I saw the tank truck sitting there and I thought to myself: why shouldn’t I live a little? The keys were in the ignition and in the glove compartment there was a Led Zeppelin CD. I started up the truck and put in the CD and then I flew off down the road, listening to Robert Plant scream “AHHHIIIAAAHHHAAA!” again and again. Whenever I saw a zombie I drove straight into them and watched their bodies totally explode.

John Jodzio is a winner of the Loft-McKnight Fellowship. His stories have appeared in One Story, Barrelhouse, Opium and various other places in print and online. His short story collection, If You Lived Here You’d Already Be Home was recently published by Replacement Press. He lives in Minneapolis.