Walking, Dead

In which our Hero haunts the halls he’s mentally left behind

Given that the third season was breaking viewing records all over the place and they’re so happy with the show that they’re planning a parallel spin-off to explore the world, I feel confident assuming, Gentle Reader, that you’re at least a little bit aware of the television show called The Walking Dead. It’s a gorgeous show, very well designed in its look and feel. It really conveys the sense of a world that fell apart under a zombie apocalypse about a year (now) earlier. The writers certainly explore many of the questions of existence, and many of the questions of survival, in a world that is desolate and clearly depopulated and empty, with only debris and destruction left to hold the places of those who are gone.

The actors portray characters with tangible loss and longing and struggle to adapt to the new reality. I assume that last part, the struggle to adjust, is partly a function of the way the world has changed for them. The other part, I have to assume, is because they’re absolute morons. I find myself wanting to shout at the screen to warn them that they’re making idiotic decisions. They don’t learn from their mistakes, they take risks that make no sense. It’s very frustratating. And yet I’m going to start watching the fourth season eventually. Just to find out what happens.

Today’s my first day back at the office. Folks are mostly returned from the holidays, but the Uberprojeckt has been born from the ashes of my old project, and as a result, everyone is being marshalled at a different building to work on the future of the company. So the halls are empty, and the cubicles are quiet, but for a few others and me, a contractor with an impending end date.

Hollywood’s desk was empty when I got to work, which would not be unusual except that I know he won’t be coming back tomorrow. He sent out a farewell email at the close of the year and so people are talking to me to ask about him, and next about me. It’s painful and I know he doesn’t want to talk to anybody at all, but at the same time, I can’t be rude so I’m having these conversations to try to laugh and smile and say, yeah, you threw my brother to the wolves with no warning but that’s okay.

Of course, they had someone showing up today, and of course, Hollywood’s desk isn’t Hollywood’s desk anymore. So I had till 9am to process my grief before some poor student intern schmuck landed his unfortunate ass in the seat and will be seen by me for the remainder of my time (since I go pop before he does) as a desecrator of graves. Poor little shit won’t ever understand why I want to kill him.

As for me, my time is finite and known, the scope of my attention and care is sharply bounded. I’m going to tell people that I have a few weeks longer than I do, to avoid the good byes. And then one day, I just won’t be there anymore.

I am a dead man walking.