Zombies of the Gene Pool

to writing a best-seller.

While George Woodard talked about his teaching job and the next issue of Alluvial, speculated on the content of the next Star Trek movie (and whether there would be one), and lamented his health, Jay Omega probed under the Concord's hood for signs of trouble. The possibilities were legion. Woodard's engine looked like he had just followed an Exxon tanker through a mud hole. Disaster Lad indeed, thought Jay Omega, but immediately he felt ashamed of himself for this harsh judgment. Surely, he told himself, if George Woodard could have afforded the maintenance on this car, he could also have afforded to trade it in for a newer model. A few moments of study told him what the trouble was.

'It's your battery cables,' he announced, fingering the wires barnacled with white corrosion at the terminals.

Behind him the conversation continued unabated. In Woodard's eagerness to discuss old times, he had apparently forgotten his car, his mechanical difficulties, and his new acquaintance. Not that it mattered. Fixing the car would take three minutes and required no assistance from the owner. Jay went back to his own car to get the wet rag and wire brush he would need to clean the battery terminals.

As he went past them, George Woodard called out, 'Found the trouble, have you? I hope it's not expensive.'

'I can fix it for nothing,' said Jay Omega.

Bunzie hated people who accepted telephone calls on airplanes, which was unfortunate, because it was a practice that Ruben Mistral indulged in quite a bit. At the moment he was conferring with his office to reschedule meetings and to see who had left messages in reply to his messages. While he had his secretary on the line, he asked how the final arrangements for the reunion had gone. The response was reassuring. The chartered plane had taken off from LaGuardia at six, and the two hotels had declared themselves ready for the reunion and the editorial contingent.

Bunzie wondered what the reunion would be like, aside from all the hype. Did he really have anything in common with those guys anymore? It. had been so long since he had talked about anything besides business that he wasn't sure he could carry on an ordinary conversation. And what if the guys were worse than boring-what if they didn't like him? Suppose they resented him for going Hollywood? Bunzie figured he had enough enemies throwing negative ions at him without inviting rejection from old friends. For one stifling moment he felt like faking an excuse not to attend and going home. But the plane full of book people had already left New York, and it was unthinkable that the auction should go on without him. The gang stood to make some nice money off this stunt, and it had been his doing. How could he think they'd dislike him?

Besides, he thought, these guys were his friends when he was broke and nobody. They had liked him then. There was even more reason to like him now. It was going to be all right.

Bunzie leaned back in his seat, watching the clouds roll by. Now maybe he could sit back and enjoy his friends and let the business take care of itself. He told Ruben Mistral to take the weekend off, and went back to reading the in-flight magazine.

Chapter 7

… One family returns every year on Memorial Day to row out and sink a wreath on what they think is the ancestral burial plot. But one of the older boys admits that he thinks an aging uncle confused the spot with his favorite fishing hole and they have for years been honoring a living channel cat.

– DON JOHNSON 'The Mayor of Butler'

'I wonder how it's going,' said Marion for the third time. 'The reunion? Fine,' said Jay Omega, spearing another forkful of barbecue. 'Are you going to eat that last hush puppy, because if not-'

After the rescue of George Woodard from the Welcome Center parking lot, Jay had returned to the Mountaineer Lodge, leaving Erik Giles to go off to his private reunion party while he and Marion drove off in search of a decent restaurant. He wasn't entirely convinced that they had found one, but Marion insisted that it would be wonderful, and as far as the food was concerned, she was right. He wasn't too sure about the ambience.

The Lakecrest Cafe, as the place was called, sat on a mound of clay too small to be termed a hill, with its back to the narrow shore of Breedlove Lake. Marion had declared that the restaurant's name was either a reassurance for customers or a neon prayer that the lake's crest should go no higher than the bottom of the slope even during the spring runoffs. She conceded that it might also be a message to hydroelectric-happy Tennessee bureaucrats: the lake stops here.

The wooden building was at least thirty years old, and sported a rusting thermometer advertising Coca-Cola, fading posters from last year's fair, and a gravel parking lot full of pickup trucks, which, according to Marion, guaranteed the best food around. Jay muttered something about cholera, but she shushed him, and they went in.

Once inside, Jay's apprehensions began to subside. The green tile floor was well scrubbed, and the pine booths were free of graffiti. Fresh wildflowers sat on red gingham tablecloths, and the jukebox was playing quiet country songs at a reasonable volume.

As they slid into the corner booth, Marion laughed at his evident relief. 'What did you expect?' she asked.

Jay pantomimed the strumming of a banjo and hummed a few bars of Dueling Banjos, the theme from Deliverance.

'Honestly, Jay! What if someone sees you? Anyway, I thought you were a little more sophisticated than that. Wait until I tell Jean and Betty in Appalachian Studies that I found another Deliverance sucker.'

Jay pretended to be studying the menu, but Marion saw him blush.

She went on. 'Everybody has seen that movie, and from the way they've reacted to it, you'd think it was a documentary, but it wasn't. It was an allegory. The author, James Dickey, is a poet. Talking to someone from Appalachia about Deliverance is like talking about Moby Dick to a member of Greenpeace. In both cases, you're confusing symbolism with reality.' Marion waved her hand to indicate the rest of the cafe. 'Do you see anybody in here who looks like one of those caricatures in Deliverance?'

Jay swallowed the last bit of hush puppy. 'Well, there's a guy coming toward us…' He nodded toward a large bearded man in jeans and a Charlie Daniels T-shirt. He looked like a cross between a linebacker and a bear.

Marion turned to look at him and her lips twitched but she said nothing.

'Don't worry, Marion!' whispered Jay. 'I'll handle this.'

'Howdy,' said the man, easing into the booth beside Marion. 'Did you all come for the show?'

'No,' said Marion. 'Is there one?'

'Well, most Thursday nights a few of us get together to do a little pickin'. Have a few beers.' He eyed Jay Omega, who was noticeably paler. 'Not too awful many knife fights, though,' he added.

'We don't want any trouble,' said Jay carefully.

Marion looked solemn. 'What's a barbarian like you doing in a nice place like this?'

Jay's jaw dropped. 'Marion!' he hissed.

She continued her scolding as if he had not spoken. 'I mean, we come all the way from southwest Virginia, hoping for a little decent barbecue or some down-home cooking, and what do we find trashing up the place? A goddamned Joyce scholar!' She threw a hush puppy at him.

The bearded man grinned. 'Shoot, Marion! What'd you wanna give the game away for? I really had your friend going there, and you know I just love Deliverance suckers!'

'Very funny, Tobe. What if somebody believed in that hillbilly act of yours? You could be perpetuating a