Undermined by the Undermind

I have zombie dreams every few months and they’re no fun, let me tell you. I figure they derive from a persecution complex that probably sub-derives from my family’s history as Jews in eastern Europe.

The result is a pretty standard scenario in which I’m the target of a shambling mob (at least they’re not high-speed zombies like in 28 Days Later or that Dawn of the Dead remake). Typically, it takes either the extreme end-game peril or the exertion of going all Dusty on a zombie’s skull to wake me up.

It’s not easy getting back to sleep after that, so I try to get up quietly so as not to wake my wife, take my book from the nightstand, and head downstairs to read.

Despite my susceptibility to these dreams, I don’t go out of my way to avoid zombie flicks. I don’t usually seek them out either, unless one is from a director whose work I follow (like Danny Boyle, of whom I now realize I’ve seen every U.S.-released film), but if a zombie movie’s on TV, I’ll likely watch for a bit. And Shaun of the Dead is one of my favorite movies of the past few years. (Also, I went to YouTube to search this gem out.)

Thursday night, I was working pretty hard to put together an article for my magazine (“write an article” would be putting it too charitably). It was an ugly process, made slightly easier once I made myself a Hendricks & tonic. It’s not an article that I’m happy with, but they can’t all be winners.

Amy turned in around 10, and I followed shortly after, a little buzzed and burned out. I barely had the motivation to go through my nightly ablutions.

That night, I had a zombie dream. I don’t recall a lot of the set-up, but I do remember my wife standing in our hallway looking around the corner down the stairs of our house, and running into my office to tell me that three zombies were coming up the stairs. For no apparent reason, there was a cricket bat by my door, so I grabbed that and ran over to the top of the stairs.

Shambling up at us was one of my oldest friends, who’s a bohemian in NYC nowadays. Two kinda generic art-guys were in tow (they were wearing black turtlenecks, which is all I can remember about them now). They weren’t dripping gore or anything, but they were clearly zombies.

Having the high ground as well as the advantage of a fully-functioning nervous system, I immediately went to work with the cricket bat, braining my old friend and her two undead accomplices. I remember that it took a few shots to put them down, but at least I didn’t have to resort to flinging old records and kitchen appliances at them, as Shaun & Ed did.

I woke up immediately after, heart racing from the oneiric adrenaline surge. Figuring there was no getting back to sleep, I got my book (Pride & Prejudice, if you’re wondering) from the nightstand and headed downstairs to read.

But the instant I reached the landing, I realized exactly where my dream had come from; I had left the front door of the house open. My aforementionedly witty and image-associative subconscious decided to quote Pete from Shaun of the Dead to let me know, “And the front door is open . . . AGAIN!!”

Fortunately, it also left me with that cricket bat, so I guess I can’t complain.