There in the middle of the parking lot, the lone man in the white pick-up truck, the one who’s not sure where he is, that’s me.
The one who can’t decide which store to go into to ask for help, who can’t figure out how to put the help into a question that might be understood by say, the manager of Panera Bread Co.
Whose mind was reeling back on I-40 just minutes ago, but still able to drive, now a slow grinding nebulous with Ishmael in a white truck inside its eye.
Imagine the plight of the lone zombie, surrounded by real humans going to the bank machine, fighting with their kids outside Costco, almost wrecking each other at the four-way stop, honking and swearing.
He gets out and tries to walk it off, he vomits, he gets back in the truck, everyone who might be looking can see him and what he is. There is no possible way out of this.
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