‘Nostalgia Zombies’

Maia Brown-Jackson has braved the myriad esoteric jobs that follow a degree in literature, strayed to Iraq to volunteer with genocide survivors, caffeinated herself through a graduate degree in terrorism and human rights, and now investigates US spending in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. Also, she does art.

Nostalgia Zombies

Derry was my best friend, but that was a long time ago.

Since then, I built my career while Derry played in a band. I saved for retirement and Derry saw the world. And when I bought a house, Derry was still burning through a revolving door of roommates. Derry always used to say, “Sam... you’re the Yin to my Yang.” Thanks to him, I had a long slew of firsts. My first girlfriend, first toke, first summer job, first suspension, first set of wheels, and so on.

Derry may have been there for many of my firsts, but not the parts of my life that were built to last. When I graduated from Stanford, Derry was backpacking in the Alps. When I purchased my Tesla, Derry was flat-broke. When I got my partner-track job, Derry was working in the kitchen at a crêperie. So once upon a time, Derry was my best friend.

I see him every year or so when I travel back home to Eugene, Oregon. We go through the motions of well-intentioned phone calls a few times each year. Sometimes, I’m quite restless after these calls. The last time we spoke to one another, I sat in bed staring at the ceiling until well after midnight. My brain kept repeating an old saying I had heard: “Time is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.”

Early in the morning, the day after our last phone call, my phone started ringing. It was Derry. We had just talked yesterday; I couldn’t possibly think of a good reason why he would be calling again so soon. I picked up and said hello. There was a long pause. Derry breathed loudly on the other end. Finally, he spoke.

“Do you remember Jesse?”

“From high school? Of course,” I replied.

“He passed away yesterday.” Derry’s words cut through the air like a knife.

Finally, I spoke. “What happened?”

Derry sighed. “It was a heart thing. I don’t want to pry, but all I know is that it came out of nowhere.”

Jesse Portsmith. The mighty cross-country runner. The third leg to our inseparable trio of long-distance misfits. Jesse insisted on rocking the shortest of shorts even in the dead of winter. He would unapologetically piss in water bottles on the bus ride to races. And the day before Thanksgiving each year, he hosted a potluck for everyone on the team. I hadn’t spoken to Jesse in years. I wasn’t expecting to ever speak to him again. A rotten corner of my brain wished I could simply unhear this news.

I felt detached from my body as it floated into the kitchen and numbly prepared my coffee. I actually went the entire week without shedding a tear. Meanwhile, Derry was profoundly shaken. We talked on the phone twice more that week. He’d regale stories I couldn’t have possibly remembered from our past. I hadn’t thought of Jesse in years, so there was little I could add other than silent nods from the other side of the phone. Every summer during high school, we would drive into the mountains for a few days. The Pacific Northwest was the one place in the country with snow-capped peaks well into the summer. Jesse stuck with Boy Scouts throughout his senior year, and he would teach the two of us survival skills. Conditions were always pretty extreme, so we would be sure to downplay the risks to our parents.

“Jesse always tried to convince us that Mount Shasta was haunted,” Derry blurted out unexpectedly during one call.

I vaguely remembered these tirades. The mountains were a sacred and mystical place for Jesse. Derry had always been eager to “yes and” any situation. So, the two of them created extensive lore. More than likely just to get a reaction out of me. The snow prints of other climbers were Yeti tracks. Cave creatures lived deep inside the crevasses. I did my best to convince them none of this scared me back in the day, but I wasn’t very persuasive. Shasta was our big adventure to top off high school. We all went our separate ways after that. I went to Stanford, Jesse to University of Oregon, and Derry hit the road. We never made it to the summit on that final adventure. At the time, we thought there would be a next one.

On the second call, I discovered that Derry had been spending a lot of time on the phone with Jesse’s mom, handling funeral arrangements. I was amazed he still talked with her. The funeral was planned for next Saturday. Derry begged me to fly back to Eugene for the service. I went back and forth on whether or not to go. I was very busy with work. There was so much to do, and I dreaded being pulled back to my hometown.

I wasn’t used to Derry needing me like this. Despite my reservations, I acquiesced to Derry’s request. The night before my 6:00 AM flight, I had a hard time getting to sleep. Finally, I slipped into a fitful nightmare. I was back on Shasta. Derry, Jesse, and I found ourselves halfway up the mountain as blood started oozing out of its snowy pores, trickling slowly. Neither Derry nor Jesse seemed perturbed by this.

I desperately needed to get off, but they kept assuring me it was fine. I just needed to lighten up. Dream Me went into his tent and stubbornly shut himself away from the others. Their voices died down and all I could hear was the wind howling outside.

An outline of a figure approached my tent. It stood there for longer than I thought possible. Finally, it crouched down and slowly unzipped the flap. It had heavy black boots and muscular legs. They were gray and covered in decomposing flesh. As dread filled my body, its knees started to creak. Each inch sounded like bones snapping. A scaly hand pulled the cover to one side. Then, a decrepit face with an ear-to-ear grin forced its way inside. It was a face that I hadn’t seen for many years, but I recognized it straight away.

Jesse smiled in the darkness as I silently screamed in horror.

Back in Eugene, Derry insisted that we share a hotel room to save money. He was already there when I got in, lying on his queen bed, leafing through a Gabriel Marcia Marquez book. I glanced at his shoes still on his feet and frowned. Ignoring this, Derry sprung up from his bed, placing me in a mighty bear hug. I squirmed uncomfortably and patted him on the back.

Derry seemed genuinely excited despite everything. I reminded him that I was flying out the next morning before glancing at my watch and informing him that we should get going.

There was a long line out front of the chapel. Derry’s face turned pale as we inched our way forward. There were too many people in front of us to make out the casket right away. Finally, we saw Jesse. I had only seen a few dead bodies before in my life. All the others were elderly and tired looking. Jesse looked as if he was still a boy, with a ruffled tuft of black, bushy hair upon his peaceful face. I realized that I had frozen still and was holding up the line. Derry also wasn’t moving. His left hand jutted out and grabbedmine, holding it tight. Normally I would have wrested my hand away from him, but he looked terrified.

“Please stay with me,” he mouthed. I swallowed and led us to the casket.

Derry hugged several old classmates as we stood next to Jesse. I vaguely recognized some of them, but Derry had specific and thoughtful words to share with each. Jesse’s mother held Derry in her arms for a whole minute when she approached us. Derry promised to visit her often.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” was all I managed to get out.

I couldn’t bring myself to say I would visit. I couldn’t imagine speaking with Jesse’s mom even prior to this tragedy. Holding this loss between us felt like an impossible feat. I desperately wanted to get back home to LA. To get away from all of this. Derry and I finally left the suffocating chapel. Outside, late spring danced playfully around us. Derry looked up at the bright, blue sky and smiled.

Finally, he gave an enthusiastic sigh and slapped me on the back. “Let’s go get drunk!”

“Perhaps one,” I reasoned. But somehow, I found myself smiling for the first time all day.

Without my consultation, Derry ordered a shot and a beer combo for each of us. His reason for this was that it was more economical. By the third round, I was ready to object, but my head was swimming. Plus, Derry was very busy explaining who was married, who had children, who had shitty partners, and who was cheating on who. I really didn’t care about any of this, but there was enough booze in my system to ask follow-up questions and nod along convincingly. Plus, the more gossip we covered, the less likelihood of covering the elephant in the room. The thing is, Derry lived for the elephant in the room. I knew there was no avoiding it.

After a long-winded story about Wendy Permoth’s shoplifting addiction, he focused his gaze on me somberly.

“Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?” he whispered. Derry didn’t need my permission, but I still nodded. He looked down meekly, as if it pained him to share what he needed to share.

“It feels like everything changed when we came down from that mountain. I’ve told myself this fairy tale for years. I’ve told myself that if we had made it to the top... if we had summited. You, me, and Jesse... we would still be friends.”

Derry’s admission was pure. I didn’t have enough time to put up my defenses. My heart started thumping in my chest. Something was all wrong inside me. I couldn’t breathe. I felt scared. So scared that I looked to Derry for help. All of a sudden, whimpers began to escape from inside of me. Tears started streaming down my face. I missed Jesse. Hell, at that moment, I missed Derry. I even missed myself. Derry held me close. He didn’t seem to mind my tears staining his dark blazer. Against all rational thinking, I let go. And it felt good.

After years of begrudging calls with my old friend Derry, after begrudgingly flying to Eugene for Jesse’s funeral, and after begrudgingly ripping the walls of my heart open for just a few minutes, I begrudgingly agreed to climb up Mount Shasta with Derry. The next morning, all these commitments flashed through my brain. I wanted to find a way to wriggle out of this crazy idea, but Derry was glowing. It was all he could talk about.

So that’s how I found myself at the trailhead of Mount Shasta a decade after my senior year of high school. One member of our trio had passed on, and the other had grown into someone unrecognizable. But the same Derry from way back then was right there in front of me.

Pickaxe, rope, crampons, boots, tents, sleeping bags, and layers upon layers of clothing were all crammed into a backpack I could barely hoist onto my shoulders. Derry insisted that we take a route starting from the north which was far less traveled than the typical southern route.

He wanted the mountain all to ourselves for a purer experience. Since this type of activity wasn’t really my thing, I just had to take his word for it. Personally, I’d much rather spend my Saturday at brunch or wine tasting like a normal person.

It was hard to believe that all this gear was necessary. The May heat was sweltering at the trailhead. I was already sweating at 7:00 in the morning. But as I looked far off into the distance, the tree line faded into rock and snow all the way up to the top. We’d be spending two chilly nights on the mountain. A lot would change in this snowy world above the clouds.

Before starting the hike, I took one final look at the peak. Jagged rocks violently protruded from the glacial snow. They looked deadly even in the distance. This wasn’t going to be an easy feat, but I had missed my chance to opt out. I looked over to Derry for wisdom.

“This is the one place where Jesse didn’t need to piss in water bottles. God bless him for that,” he remarked somberly.

With that, we started hiking. The first few hours crept along at a relaxed pace. The trees around us were ancient and tall. They protected us from the brutal overhead sun. We didn’t see another soul the entire day. The chirp of birdsong and Derry’s idle musings made the hours flow along pleasantly. Late in the afternoon, the tree line cleared out, and we began hiking on a mixture of dirt and snow. Little by little, I put on more layers of clothing. The airer was thinning and my breathing began to labor. The terrain went from solid to sloshy.

Those past few weeks had disrupted so much of my well-being. I had become one of those sad sacks who dwell on high school like it was the apex of their lives. Memories of the three of us kept coming into focus at unexpected times. We all lifeguarded in the summer prior to our Junior and Senior year. At the time, days crawled along endlessly. A five-hour shift might as well have been an eternity.

There was really one reason, and one reason only that lifeguarding mattered. We got the opportunity to hang out with female coworkers. Girls in these cases were literally being paid to hang out with us, so our risk of being abandoned or belittled was quite small for a change.

Life during those summers held a highly regarded ritual. We’d wake up at first light for cross country practice and run our hearts out. By Junior year, Jesse, Derry, and I were like agile antelopes far in front of the rest of the pack. We’d take down a few bottles of Gatorade followed by a shower and pancakes back home. After that, we’d typically make our way to the pool for work. On a lucky day, I’d be paired up with someone like Ashley Whitman for an hour on slide duty. This meant we could talk the whole time while kicking preteen pool rats down the Aqua Loop. Nine hours later, we’d be tanned, tired, and a hundred bucks richer.

The three of us would grab some well-deserved ice cream before going to bed and doing it all over again. That was the summer of The Strokes. Julian Casablancas was the coolest human being on the planet. He was pissed off, righteous, rarely sober, and singing the thoughts we all felt but didn’t know how to say.

“Time, like toilet paper, disappears faster near the end,” I muttered philosophically.

“And you don’t know how big of a roll you’ve got until it’s out,” Derry followed up.

We were now traipsing through inches of powdery snow. Derry had assured me that crampons would not be necessary on our first day. They would only slow us down until the route became pure glacier. It was hard for me to imagine going any slower. We couldn’t be covering more than a mile an hour. With the bird chirping long gone, I was once again certain that an afternoon wine tasting would have been preferable.

We arrived at Marine Camp about an hour before sunset. I am told that it got its name because Marines used to climb here for basic training. Derry also said that they stopped this practice decades earlier due to a horrible accident. A dozen or so recruits had died in a cataclysmic blizzard.

“Your ghost stories were a lot more convincing back in the day,” I retorted. But Derry assured me this was one hundred percent true. I told him he was getting worse at lying with age. Derry shrugged and gestured at our empty water bottles. There was a nearby glacial stream. I agreed to go on water duty while Derry set up camp.

I scrambled down a small boulder field leading to the shallow stream just beyond our camp. I crouched down and laid out our bottles. With a sigh, I took off my gloves and allowed the frigid air to numb my extremities. I took this as a sign to work quickly. My hands were shaking by the time I submerged the final bottle into the icy glacier water. I scanned the horizon to distract myself. It was so barren and sterile. Nature here wasn’t the most inviting. All of a sudden, I bolted upright. Someone was watching us. A human-shaped shadow stood motionlessly just beyond the mountain ridge. I looked at it, and it looked at me. Or at least I thought it was looking at me. I glanced down for a moment to grab our water. Just like that, the figure disappeared. With a shudder, I scrambled back to our campsite. I decided not to voice my paranoia just yet. After all, this was a public space.

By now, I was wearing every piece of clothing in my pack. The sun had disappeared behind the mountain, and it was freezing. Derry and I made our way into the tent and zipped ourselves into insulated sleeping bags. It wasn’t late yet, but I knew I wouldn’t be leaving that spot until the sun came out again. It felt weird to be so close to Derry. If Jesse hadn’t died, the next correspondence between us would have probably been my annual Christmas card. Or more accurately, it would’ve been me asking Derry what his latest address was so I could send him a Christmas card.

The day had been hard on my body. It needed to rest. In no time, I drifted off into a dreamless and stale sleep. Derry’s infamous bladder issues caused him to step outside twice to urinate. I’m sure that could not have been comfortable. I silently thanked myself he didn’t have Jesse’s tendency of pissing in water bottles.

The next morning, we woke up to a grisly surprise. A Coyote head had been planted on the ground in front of our tent. There was no meat left on the bones; just two hollow sockets and a taunting grin. Its front teeth jutted out like daggers. It smelled all wrong too; like it was still decomposing. I lifted my thermal over my nose and looked to Derry for advice. I could see the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

He shoved the skull off to the side with a nearby branch.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit outside, but this is new for me,” Derry stated cautiously.

My head was spinning. I couldn’t figure out how to gauge this eerie situation. This was why I liked the indoors. “We’re going back down, right?” I asked.

Sean Newman is 31 years old and lives in San Francisco. He has combined his love of literature and the outdoors for a tale about adult friendships clashing in the mountains.