Follow for Follow #3
I sit with this a moment, the utter terror that’s been pumping through my veins finally subsiding a bit. I’m certainly not relaxed, but the longer I talk to Eddie, the more I can sense my fight-or-flight response dwindling.
“So I just … chauffeur you around?” I clarify.
“That’s right.”
“And then you let me go?”
“Correct.”
I hesitate, on the verge of buying into this whole thing but not quite there yet.
“You don’t believe me,” Eddie observes. “I could just force you to believe me, but I’m not gonna do that. That’s the whole point. I’m not a bad guy. I’m just a survivor.”
I can feel something within me shift. I glance over at Eddie, and for the briefest moment I see him without all the dried blood and cracked bones and bruised skin.
I see the hero I grew up listening to, the man who was always there for me, whether he knew it or not.
I knew I was queer for a very long time, but it wasn’t until I saw Eddie Michaels out there strutting his stuff that I actually felt okay with it.
Back in the ’70s and ’80s, nobody was doing it like him, flashy and funny and, most of all, proud. It gave me something to aspire to. Eddie made me want to thrive.
“Is it really you?” I ask.
The reanimated corpse gives a slight chuckle. “It’s really me.”
“I’m a huge fan,” I admit.
“You want a photo?”
I start to answer, but he cuts me off.
“Just to be perfectly clear, you can’t tell anyone what happens tonight,” he says. “That’s why I tossed your phone.”
It makes sense that Eddie wouldn’t want me running my mouth. With all the memorials and tributes that will spring up after his passing, the rumor of some occult zombie escapade through Palm Springs certainly alters the tone.
If this whole thing results in Eddie somehow rejuvenating, his flesh mending and his brain regrowing within that shattered skull of his, then the whole “made a deal with Satan” thing is still not a great look.
The particulars of tonight’s ritual are unknown to me, and that’s clearly by design, but what I already know is a lot for Eddie to entrust me with. Something about this doesn’t quite add up.
“How do you know I won’t tell?” I ask.
Eddie laughs. “It honestly doesn’t really matter. Nobody will believe you.”
His quick response makes a surprising amount of sense, but the lurking unease remains.
“Turn on the radio. Find something good,” Eddie says, causing my arm to immediately reach out and push the FM button. Static erupts through the cab: this particular setting has been mostly unused thanks to the modern power of Bluetooth connections and playlists.
I begin to move through the stations, sitting just long enough to understand what I’m hearing and then continuing on. “I thought you weren’t gonna do that,” I quip.
“Sorry, force of habit,” Eddie says, though he doesn’t undo his command.
“So you can just … tell people what to do?” I ask, hunting through the static.
“When I’d like to, yes,” Eddie confirms, wiggling his fingers in the air. “The powers of the devil, you know? Hell stuff.”
We’re in the suburbs now, rolling between evenly spaced cross streets packed with small desert homes. The residential development of Palm Springs seems to happen in waves, giving each section of town a uniform feeling within its own borders.
Many of the newer, upscale neighborhoods have arrived in the form of sprawling gated communities, typically doubling as a sort of country club with a golf course at its center and abundant pickleball courts.
Tiny pools dot these manicured landscapes of drought-resistant plants and citrus trees that host a seemingly perpetual surplus of orange and yellow fruit.
The compounds stretch for miles and miles, a giant oasis of perfectly square paradise thanks to a constant influx of fresh water—generously pumped from the Colorado River—as well as an equally steady flow of HOA fees.
This, however, is not one of those neighborhoods.
The older sections of Palm Springs, like the one we cruise through now, are much less organized and color-coded.
While the newer developments feature architecture that references a ’60s heyday, these structures were actually here for it.
These are the houses that defined this city, the blueprints that have aged and frayed over time yet still overflow with a certain charm.
My fingers finally stop turning the dial, arriving on a station that comes in loud and clear. The halt is involuntary —I’m simply obeying Eddie’s previous command—but I’m pleasantly surprised by the music my body has instinctively identified as “good.”
The driving, jangly acoustic guitar of “Carry On” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young rings out through the cab speakers, bathing us in its upbeat pulse.
I’ve caught this track at the perfect time, somehow managing to jump in halfway through the first few opening strums. I lean back in my seat, and from the corner of my eye I see a smile creeping its way across Eddie’s pale, dead face.
The emotion is so pure and genuine that, for a moment, it seems to bring some warmth back into his body.