The worst part of applying for jobs – besides the application process, the interviewing, and the possibility that this place may be your future job – has got to be the post-app waiting game. Having never been to actual Hell, I don’t have much to go on here, but I imagine there is a part of Hell that resembles the perpetual stress that accompanies waiting to hear back from a potential employer. All logic and reason go out the door. All confidence is forgotten. All normal bowel functions are disrupted.

I have to pee constantly, and I freak out thinking that they might call me while I’m pissing. I don’t even drink that much (wait, that’s a lie, but I’m talking about the half glass of OJ, not the seven beers before bed thing). But I can’t take the phone into the bathroom because it is all echo-y in there and what if I pick up and there is still some flushing sound? It could be devastating. Basically I sit around all day holding it in until the last possible second. It’s really quite uncomfortable. If I had health insurance I could tell you that my doctor said, “that is really unhealthy,” or something like that, though it would sound a lot more professional and technical, you know, because he’s an MD and all. But I don’t have any insurance.

The phone is my enemy. So is the mailman, and e-mail and pretty much all human interaction. This is pretty unfortunate, since I’d ideally spend a good amount of my day engaged with those things. They surround me in a vacuum of information that may or may not even exist yet. They are relentless reminders of my situation, yet offer no helping hand, just the potential for future disappointment and/or fulfillment. I am accepted and rejected at the same time. A “worthy candidate” and a “best of luck in your future endeavors” all at once.

I am Schrodinger’s Cat.

Open the box. Am I dead or still alive?

Trying to wrap my head around the idea of working at a place called the “Department of Undead Management” really got the ol’ gears cranking. Thoughts like, “I wonder if they have a good dental plan,” and “how much time off would I get,” plodded around my cerebral cortex.

Those thoughts, by the way, came three or four weeks after I handed over my application. The first three weeks were spent trying to grasp the following basic English statement which the existence if D.U.M. presumes: “Zombies exist.”

I recognize both words. I’ve used them in sentences before. I can define each word without using the word in the definition. But together, I wasn’t prepared for what that would do to me.

The exact moment that your world changes is hard to pin down (Malcolm Gladwell should publish a book called, “The Zombie Point.”). Usually it’s comprised by a series of events over time that culminate in a “woah” headfuck moment. Humans tend not to be so basic that one single incident is likely to have a profound change in behavior. We’re more complicated than that. Aren’t we?

I stood up from my couch and by the time I blinked I was standing in the kitchen holding a highball glass full of ice and a bottle of Svetka. Three fingers later I blinked again and put the empty bottle down. I have to stop drinking. This is serious.

If zombies exist, then I have to be coherent. Zombies exist. I need to be coherent. I have to be alert and ready. Where is my 7-iron? Fuck, it’s in the closet. I better hang that on the wall by the door. Should I get a gun too? Fuck, I hate guns. I better stick with golf clubs.

I went to the hall closet and dug around for the golf bag, which turned up behind my vacuum and a trash bag filled with other trash bags. The golf bag was kind of moldy and it was missing the 6-iron, but was otherwise intact. Poking around a little more, I found a nasty old glove and an unopened bottle of Yuengling Light with a rusty cap – estimated age: 28 months. Tasty. I guess I have to throw that out? Would that be alcohol abuse?

This is one of the few times that having a caddie would be worth the money. Which is better as an anit-zombie device, the 3 or the 7? The sand wedge? Decisions, decisions. I played around with my driver for a bit, then put it back in the bag. I was never really any good with it, and it is probably way too light to do the kind of damage I’m hoping for.

Hollowed out titanium ain’t no good for hollowing out zombie cranium.

Right? Damn I wish Steve Williams was here.

Two and a half hours later I had strategically placed my clubs around my apartment, maximized for quick access at key locations. Front door mixed in with my umbrellas, behind the couch with my reserve booze stash, duct taped under my bed (on both the driver’s and passenger’s side), and one in the corner of the bathroom behind the toilet. It was a seamless armament. The only difficulty was finding an acceptable home for the nasty scrubber brush displaced by the putter behind the toilet. I settled for the back of the vanity next to the dusty bottle of 409. I was fortified!

Progress had been made, and I was feeling thirsty so I grabbed a beer. Damnit, I put the beer back down and remembered why I was doing all this in the first place. I drank a V-8 instead. I have no idea why I have cans of V-8 at home, but I do. It’s a vile fluid really. No one in their right mind drinks the stuff.

[Mental note: Buy some of that weird milk that comes in a box and stays good at room temperature. That will be really good on my cereal in case I get holed up for a while during a prolonged zombie attack.]

OK. Looks like I’ve got my apartment taken care of. Golf clubs and milk.

The next step is going to be the hard step. Stepping outside.