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...