Cooking With Ted in the Apocalypse

I do recall vividly the first time I saw him. It was passion made him sweat. A fire inside that desired nothing more than to engulf the earth, if only to prove it could. I do not just recall his tall and lean figure, nor the ferocity on his twisted face. A similar ferocity to the countenance encountered upon seeing him at his most demented. I recall many nights of observing his insanity and I bring them to my mind, some things enmired in fog, some things crisp as crystal or as sea water in exotic tropical climes.

I traveled in the company of five others. It was an expedition, and only I and Arnold Kent were of any note. You see, it was my duty to document the trip. It was Arnold’s to glean quality from those we came across. And it was the other four who were delegated orders of protection. For the sake of your memory, I will introduce them as they grow in importance. Or perhaps, in the moment of their death, if that is the fate they met on our journey.

But regarding my first impression of the cook, that tall, lean, sweating figure I surveyed; I did not think much of him. I was more enthralled with the region and the people. Perhaps that is why my job was what it was. I would observe the macro, scribble it down in my little notepad, ponder it all the while. It was not my job to see individuals, at least not to the extent that Arnold did.

Here we were in Boyle Heights, it was called. Before, I had never been to such a place, except maybe passing through on the way to catch a baseball game at the stadium, or to watch a parade in nearby Chinatown. A lifetime ago. That is hyperbole of course. It had only been something like four years. In terms of nailing down a date for the collapse of civilization, well, that’s rather difficult. It is a gradual process, no matter how long or short that process actually takes to run its course.

Let me clear my head. I risk alienating the reader with data, instead of recounting the details for which I’ve even sat down to write this. This is the story of how I came to know Ted Unger. You read this because you live now, through the disaster of the zombie plague. You must remember the details of what all transpired to bring us here if you are old enough, and you must know the details if you were too young to experience it yourself, for this kind of history, firsthand, is passed down. I won’t have to bore you with journalizing the events prior to Ted Unger entering my life.

As far as first impressions go, with this one I was not impressed. How I came about our meeting, let us start there. My group had set out from Marina Del Rey. There, a boat city had been created. It was a paradise of sorts, having managed to lump together a piecemeal government complete with currency, laws, politics, order, and leisure time one could fill with various activities and entertainments. You will learn the finer points of this.

We departed the boat city, traveling on foot, with one clear goal; explore and return with people of value that would serve purpose here. This is hard work mind you, finding quality human beings. Hard work, even before this violent depression we now find ourselves in. Our journey was fraught with danger. Communities had been overrun with the flesh-eaters, so in most cases, when we came across the living they were solitary or in gangs, and without fail, touched by some psychosis that four years and duress had intermixed to create.

Our days were spent finding tall buildings to peer out from in order to gain bearings and identify points of interest, or stealing through roads filled with the dead, both walking and forever still, or trekking over the hoods and roofs of cars that would never again house an occupant, would never turn over at the twist of a key or touch of a button. We were followed by stench, chased by hunger, needled by thirst, and plagued with paranoia. At night, we would hunker down and barricade ourselves in homes, or apartments, or office buildings, using our limited sterno canisters to heat up what would amount to being our only meal of the day.

Bear with me.

In the evenings, after our meal, the others would plot our escape from whatever place we’d called shelter for the night, as the creatures would amass at our doorways and windows, like curious dogs, wondering, if they could, at the activity they’d sensed and if it were imagined, or if a feast of human flesh really did wait inside for them. This is when I would put down on paper the events of the day.

Days of this, in fact, two weeks and four days of this, brought us to Boyle Heights. Terms like this have become antiquated, but what occurred to me within moments of meeting these soldiers, in clothes as dirty as our own, with weapons just as dangerous, and faces just as hard, was their ethnicity, as evidenced by their skin tones and use of the Spanish language. It is a little unnerving to enter into a community and not understand a word they’re saying, recognizing that they speak unintelligibly around you so that you cannot know the contents of their messages.

It is no exaggeration to say that everyone was Hispanic or Latin. Everyone was brown. Thinking on it now, I understand why; the community banded together to crush an encroaching enemy and fortify themselves. Perhaps I am being too specific in my analysis, not taking into account what other factors may have contributed to this, but I still firmly believe this, as it is a simple answer, and it deserves less scrutiny than even what I have afforded it here.

As we walked through walls built of trashed cars, fences, dumpsters, and other heavy objects, my heart danced in my chest. This was reminiscent of normalcy. Clothes were hung on clotheslines across major streets. Children played. Food, real food, was grilled and distributed to all. There was wealth here, not scarcity. Wealth of food, of joy, of life, of laughter, of peace. I would not let my guard drop, but seeing this teased my heart open, and against my will, the tension in my shoulders eased.

I recognized in the others of my expedition this same dichotomy, of being prepared for imminent violence, but also of experiencing this sublime and alien world that wanted nothing more to lie to you about the reality of danger, an experience that is only available within true shelter.

We will meet Ted Unger shortly.

But now, we were marched through the streets, and I do not know the name of them, because street signs had been removed and scrapped to be used as a component of security, undoubtedly. Arnold, our leader, only looked straight ahead. That was his nature, uninterested, steady, fearless, oblivious even. We were being led towards the center of this community to engage with whatever leader they’d selected. We were complete opposites in this. My eyes were on the guns in windows, the armed men and women atop buildings, the machetes and blades hanging from belts, the chickens, goats, and even cows that wandered, and piqued a curiosity in me of how they were fed. We will not see it, so I will dispel your own bubbling curiosity; a massive garden had been established on the banks of the LA River.

I will jump from here. We met the leadership. In the boat city of Marina Del Rey, we had one leader. She insisted on being called Queen, and we did so, without fuss, as most of us were just happy to be alive. Here in Boyle Heights, there was a republic of sorts. Leadership was doled out, and whether it was by means of accomplishment, or education, or societal status, I did not know. What I recognized was equal weight given to the voices present if those voices chose to be present at all.

They’d decided on allowing us to stay for three days. Upon learning that we were recruiting fine individuals, the reactions were mixed; some displayed excitement, others wariness and mistrust, and still others awe. I am certain the surprise at hearing the existence of another established community shocked some as much as this fully functioning community shocked us.

This is the most important part of our exchange; two nights from then, on the eve of our departure the day after, this community would throw a festival of arts and skill, to showcase their abilities so that all present could enjoy the celebration. This would also aid in the fulfillment of our purpose here. Arnold would make progress in his quest to scout people of great aptitude and if satisfied would propose the offer of safe passage to our boat city.

With that, we were given quarters. Arnold would stay with some in the leadership, and I was allowed a private space. Admittedly, the thought of privacy in these times was and is frightening. But, having not had such a luxury afforded me in recent history, I could not help but develop an edge of glee at the concept.

It was an actual home I was led to, with a front yard bounded by a gate, within which two benevolent dogs frolicked alone and then with me. A note here: by this time I’d eaten my share of dogs, and dogs as companions was a concept both welcome and strangely novel, as though I had not named and grew with dogs in my youth. I suppose one would suppress such things to allow for the grotesque and terrible to become accepted in daily life. I played with these hounds, and amused an audience that surveyed me with curiosity and glee. Time lost meaning, and I felt that tears would burst from within me, spurred by the feel of friendly fur beneath my outstretched fingertips, the expectant panting and lolling tongue, the kind and pleading eyes, all working to pry open the steel vault in my chest that had made me a survivor here, by any means necessary.

For my own good it seems I was led inside. I was asked to strip down and left to my room, fell into the clothes provided as they took mine away for a needed scrubbing. Razors were supplied, but I ignored them. A tub in which to bathe myself was available to me, and while I declined a clean shave, I did not deprive myself of the soaps and warm water that were brought to me. I used the soap in my beard and my hair, then onto my neck, chest, and all the other regions of my body, and at some more difficult areas, I was forced to pry up caked filth.

Between the dogs, and the bath, the day had moved forward, the sun resigned from its duties in this locality, and the moon, a crescent, took its place. By LED lamplight I surveyed my clean body, freshly styled hair, the eyes that set like dark jewels above the center of my face. I was then summoned to an evening feast.

And there he was. Ted Unger. I mentioned him being lean, but there was a frailness to him. He stood atop a large dais, built from what looked to be crushed cardboard. It was relatively massive, this dais, taking up an entire intersection of two crossing major avenues. He was there with a grill. Many grills had been established here, and behind them worked many people. They would be responsible for our feast. Later I would be told that my eyes should have been on the man named Arturo Sandoval, young and bursting with energy, a culinary chef who had been trained in France, capable of turning your cheap cut of meat into a fine dining centerpiece with nothing more than the ideas in his head, a hot fire and a sharp knife.

But I stared at Ted Unger, the first white person I had come across. I developed a profile of this man, as I gazed at him from amongst my place in a crowd that could’ve been mistaken for zombies, the way they clustered together at the foot of the cardboard dais, salivating for food that smelled far more delectable than one might imagine. These people were immersed in this experience. I noticed Ted would constantly look over his shoulder at the others, some seed of competition forcing him to move his knife a little faster, salt a bit more completely, sear with a bit more panache.

What created that spirit in him I could only guess at. Was he cooking for survival? Did he feel his difference from them? Or did he simply want to be the best?

The white curiosity that was Ted Unger fell away as I moved my attention to the Arturo character, though I did not know his name yet. He entertained the largest crowd at his corner and so I headed there. My food came quickly and it was delicious. At some point, Ted and I met eyes, and he seemed disappointed at my lack of interest, though I may have imagined that. It was tacos for dinner, made from goat, topped with things I couldn’t place and did not care to detail, so wrapped up I was in freeing my hands of the weight of the food and placing that weight inside my stomach. I devoured them, and my extraordinary hunger abated rather quickly.

I have never been a connoisseur of food, so forgive me my lack of description in this telling. I am more curious of the person Ted Unger, than most food he creates. It is rather a shame. In following the steps of this infamous chef, I will not do him justice as a cook, but you will soon see that it is not his abilities that earned my interest, but he.

With my food gone, I intended to head back to my quarters, of which, I am proud to say, I could remember the whereabouts clearly, an ability that is a must in the survival situations I’ve overcome. But this community had other plans for me. Music began, a live band, and I learned how to dance what they called a cumbia. I have sweat for many reasons over these treacherous years, but none quite so joyfully or with as much perspiration as this night, dancing to trumpets, tubas, and accordions. Without a care in the world as to how I looked and if I was moving correctly, and without judgement for it, I fully released my inhibitions and went to bed that night quite late, and with an irremovable smile on my face. As I drifted off, Ted Unger’s severe face crossed behind the black of the backs of my eyelids, but he was swiftly pushed away by dreams, not nightmares as had become the norm.