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The Nurse's Opinion
The zombie costume was laid prostrate upon the treatment table, its scaly polyurethane dermis fiercely green, green as some creature's gills. The Nurses bent over him. There, now. There, there... The older turned to daub a cotton ball with isopropyl, the 91 percent kind, and apply it to the forehead, which was creased and lined deeply to effect threat, since the actor who slipped it on for performances was unconvincing and depended on interpretations generous critics termed banal. Acting school had simply not worked out. It had at first, but then one unlucky break after another sent him tumbling into lesser roles, smaller parts, until all he was fit for was caricature: that of spooky castle denizen who looms in the closet or under the bed, waay under the bed, awaiting a chance to emerge suddenly, very, very briefly, and recite his single line: Boo! Hoo! Boo Hoo! His career had been in decline for ages, everyone knew he didn't know. Some asked Nurse Marcia why she endured, when everyone knew she could work on better material, even with characters of substance. "Well, I's jus a lil lady, whadda ahs know. Is jus eezier dis way, yup. Wullen want my babies to meet up widda man like a zombie, but lez jus pray, you know. Faith, daz what I say. Faith. Action? Daz a lil too tough, don't wanna disturb the neighbors." So here she stood, applying the gentlest of astringents to the facade, the face, the features, the Fascist, the fascia, the front, the farcical, greenest unripe zombie so funny it'll make you sick. - Cesca Janece Waterfield
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