Stacy
After two hours of fear and fangs at the Mayan exhibit, I met a stream of white twenty’s with torn, bloody shirts moaning and groaning, staggering down the Delmar strip. Could a zombie apocalypse actually be happening? I reached out, “Go back to Pittsburgh!” “We belong dead! Ha ha ha ha ha!” A bald black guy in his 40s startled me. ‘Stacy’ wanted to sing like a troubadour. I left him and crossed the street to a two-piece combo playing on the sidewalk. He followed, close on my heels. I ventured, “What’s the plan?” “What kind of music do you dig?” “Jazz, blues, classical.” “You look like Mozart, brother.” “More like Einstein.” “I can see that. There's better music on the corner. I know the band.” He leaned in. “What you want is a black girl.” “You’re married, I can tell,” he added. “No, actually I’m not.” The look in his eyes was disbelief. “Wait’ll we get inside. You’re gonna love the music.” The zombies were at the bar. “Let’s get a couple drinks. We’re gonna