The Vampirists Page 2

  I suck in my breath as she fills my vision.

  “All alone?” she says simply.

  “A loner among loners. That’s a new low, even for me,” I answer.

  “You hardly look like a loner. So what's the matter? Not your scene?” she asks.

  “No. I just–” but I pause, uncomfortable and not sure how to continue. “I don't want to offend you. I mean, I see this is your thing,” I manage weakly.

  “My thing?” she says with a slight edge in her voice.

  I really don’t want to insult her, so I try to backpedal quickly. “I mean, you know… your group, your movement,” I say.

  Her expression softens and she laughs lightly at my discomfort. I get the sense that she is toying with me and enjoying it. I’m not sure whether to be annoyed or flattered.

  “It’s okay. Try me,” she offers.

  I try to read her face to figure out how honest I can be without pushing her away. People often ask for opinions, but really they just want to hear what they want to hear. Still, there is something about her that makes me want to trust her at face value and unload my real opinions in a way that Franklin doesn’t want me to. I suck in air in preparation and let it out in a sigh.

  I decide to launch into it: “I just don't buy it. It's the same tripe that been used for generations to justify a whole host of actions that go against the government … or society. I mean, sure, corporations might spill some oil every now and then, but they are how things get made, how civilization advances. And we all know religion taken to the extreme can lead to very bad things, but for a lot of people it can bring so much hope, so much relief from their sufferings. I don’t personally really practice any one religion but I recognize its importance in the lives of many people … its role in society in helping to shape people’s actions for the better.”

  She listens–still slightly amused, I think/hope.

  “And without religion the government becomes even more important. You know, I agree, politicians suck. And they need to be monitored to keep them in line. But honestly, who wants to go back to the state of nature? Who wants to live without rules, regulations, or societal control over the undesirable elements? This all just seems like the usual trite anarchist babble. A bunch of sound bites that people can nod their heads at, but would never work in practice,” I conclude.

  I stop sheepishly, acutely aware that I have just been ranting for the last half minute. A little embarrassed, I take a breath so that she can respond.

  “Wow, tell me how you really feel. I didn't figure you for someone who had read Hobbes,” she says. I’m instantly intrigued: she understood one of my references.

  “Yeah, well, appearances can be deceiving. I dunno, I just get so frustrated sometimes. My friend, Franklin, he eats these half-formulated ideologies up. I guess they’re his opiate,” I let slip, hoping that she’d grasp (and be impressed by) this reference to Marx, too.

  I pause again briefly and consider her. Why am I opening up so much? Why do I care what she thinks of me? Why am I trying to impress her? Is it just because I have butterflies in my stomach from her extreme beauty, or is there something more? What is it about her that is both confusing and intriguing me so much? Suddenly, it’s clarified in my mind.

  She seems to see that I just came to some conclusion about her. She raises a suspicious eyebrow and asks tentatively, “What?”

  “Nothing, just you … well, I see something that makes me think you don't really buy all this either,” I say.

  “Really? What do you see?” she asks.

  There’s no turning back now–I go for broke: “Maybe … intelligence.”

  She smiles disarmingly. “Well, I have to circulate and work the room. This is my thing, after all. But I'd love to continue this. Come back next time?” she asks. I can’t tell if this is genuine, or if I’ve just scared her away.

  Not sure how to take this turn in events, I respond non-committedly. “Sure. Maybe,” I say casually.

  “It was nice to meet you …” her voice trails off expectantly.

  “Adam,” I say, offering my hand and embarrassed I hadn’t thought to introduce myself earlier in the conversation. I mean, she had to hear my views on religion’s role in society before even knowing my name.

  “Vera,” she responds softly … seductively. She ignores my hand and leans in close to give me a light hug. I feel her face near to my neck; it tickles slightly. I see Franklin watching me from across the room. I can’t read his expression, but right now, I don’t really care. I mean, I’m mingling, aren't I?

  2)

  I step outside, eager to escape the scene in the coffee shop, and walk a few paces to the street corner to look around. I hope Franklin won’t take too much longer; I’m really quite keen to get out of here, have a beer or something, and unwind from all that anarchist prattle. It really frustrates me to watch people act like robots and just blindly follow other people, especially when they’re criticizing others for doing just that. I almost wish that I didn’t hate smoking so much so I could pass the time with a cigarette. That always seems to relax people in movies.

  I hope Franklin doesn’t want to discuss this for too long; he has a way of getting fixated on something. He’s been like that since we met in high school, but now he’s moved on from addictive videogames to burgeoning revolution, I guess. I’ll need to find a way to talk him out of this, show him that it can’t lead to anything good. Maybe I’ll need to find him a distraction. If I had enough money, I could buy him that new console, but I haven’t had the funds for those kinds of luxuries recently.

  What I’d really want to chat about over a beer is Vera. What did she think of me? I replay the conversation in my head, cringing a few times when I remember what I said. Yeah, I think I definitely came off a little too hostile. But then again, she was smiling and didn’t seem mad. She was almost amused. Did she think I was an idiot? No, she hugged me at the end. I don’t think she hugs everyone she meets. Then again, maybe she does? Maybe I should go back in and observe, watch her interact with other guys. No, she’d probably see me, and that would come across as creepy.

  I’ve just resigned myself to staying outside and trying the phone move again when I see a familiar face approaching. Though I only sort of recognize him, I can’t place him exactly, and I feel a sense of menace. His stride is long, confident, and would seem almost in slow motion if he didn’t close the gap between us so quickly. He’s rocking a black suit and looks like either an insurance agent or a hit-man … or a fed from the movies. Suddenly, I realize who he is. He knows me, too. I relax momentarily.

  “Taylor, what are you doing here?” I ask.

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing. Your father know about your involvement in this crap?” he responds. I tense up again. I guess he is here in his official capacity.

  “My father is probably passed out by now. He’s not the L.T. anymore,” I remind him.

  “Adam, he has enough problems right now without adding you to the mix.”

  “Yeah, I know. I live with him and see that every single day of my life.”

  “Go easy, son. That whole business with your mother was really rough on him. The whole department knew that. We missed him when he went. Wasn’t really the same there without him to hold down the line.”

  “Yeah, well. Life, I guess,” I say. I know that’s not very eloquent, but this isn’t really my favorite subject to talk about–my father, once the proud, strong head of our family, reduced to something that he would have detested even just a few years ago.

  A few doors down behind Taylor I see Franklin exit and look around for me. I direct my attention back to the figure in front of me. “So, you just in the neighborhood, or �
� ?” I ask.

  “It’s my job to keep tabs on troublemakers like these,” Taylor states authoritatively. I feel a warning coming.

  I try to head him off. “Don’t worry, Detective, this isn’t really my scene.”

  “Good. This isn’t the right crowd for you, Adam. And it’s Special Agent now. I went Federal,” he points out.

  “That explains the suit. Almost didn’t recognize you in it.”

  “Yeah, the government is big on its regulations.”

  “Well, congrats, I guess. My dad always said you were one of his best,” I confide. Franklin sees me and begins to approach warily: I guess Taylor really does give off law official vibes.

  “You look out for your old man. He was good police. A good man,” Taylor says.

  I’ll forgive him the past tense usage; unfortunately, it’s pretty accurate.

  “Adam?” Franklin asks, still standing a few feet away.

  I turn to Taylor and say, “I should go. Take care.”

  “You, too, Adam. You, too,” Taylor says with a little too much emphasis I think.

  Franklin notices as well. Once we have some distance behind us, Franklin turns to me. “Who was that?” he asks.

  “No one. Just a former friend of my dad’s,” I say, trying to downplay it.

  “From back in his days on the force?” Franklin queries.

  “Yeah,” I try to say with finality. I hope he lets it go at this.

  “So the pigs are watching. They must be scared because they know we’re on to them,” Franklin says. This touches off the debate on the night’s events that I knew would come, but really hoped to avoid. I try to be as nice as possible, but sometimes Franklin can really get on my nerves. After a while, we both realize that we are just going in circles.

  He decides to try a new track. “Dude, you think too much. You can twist words to poke holes in anything,” Franklin says. “Sometimes you gotta use your gut: You can't let your mind make excuses for not taking action you know is needed.”

  This sounds like a very bad idea to me. “Franklin, I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of what you should do,” I say. “Don’t you realize that maybe the reason why I’m able to poke holes in everything is not so much that I’m clever with words, but more that those arguments have a lot of holes to start with? I’m just pointing them out to you. Or trying to, anyway.”

  “Well, you can’t logically prove God exists, but there are millions of people in the world, billions even, that believe in one,” Franklin retorts triumphantly. From the way his tone sounds, you’d think he’d just won the state debating championship.

  “Yeah, and you guys don’t like that, do you? I just listened to that guy Joseph rant the whole night about how bad that is,” I counter.

  “Adam, I don’t know how to explain it to you. I just feel the truth in what he says.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t just feeling something else?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Well, it’s no secret we don’t have an active social life. Maybe you kinda like having some other people around and are just buying into this whole thing to fit in?” I say cautiously.

  “That’s bull, man. I’m no conformist,” Franklin says. I can tell that he is starting to get angry. I think maybe I hit too close to home. My point has been made, though.

  “Okay, okay. Look, I think there’s some truth in what Joseph says, maybe some small, tiny kernels. But taking his arguments further, I just can't end up at the same conclusion. It's anarchy. I mean, there's a reason why people align themselves into societies,” I say.

  Just then, up ahead a group of people spill out of The Locust, one of those trendy bars with weird names that people seem to like for a year or two before deciding suddenly that it’s uncool to be seen there. The Locust is still very much in the popular phase. I recognize some of the people. At least one of the three guys went to high school with us and both of the girls did. Franklin sees them, too. Our conversation dies off quickly.

  It’s too late to cross the street, so we just try to walk by quickly. Unfortunately, that guy Brad recognizes us. He bumps hard into Franklin.

  “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you down there, lil' fella,” Brad says.

  Franklin flushes, the girls are watching. I lock eyes with the prettier one, Megan. I can see that she remembers us, or at least me. Despite what’s happening right now, that makes me happy. I look back at Franklin, I can tell he is flashing back to the high school hallways. It’s a few years later, but Brad still has several inches and tons of muscle on Franklin. On me, too, though I like to think I’ve filled out a bit since graduation.

  “Asshole,” Franklin mutters under his breath. He starts to walk on warily. I move to do the same. But Brad has other ideas.

  “What? What did you say?” Brad says. “You should watch where you’re going, bro.”

  “Dude, you’re drunk,” I say, trying to end this somehow before it can get worse for us. I really don’t want to get beat up right now, but I also don’t want to look weak in front of Megan. I step closer to Franklin to back him up a bit.

  “Oh, you’ve got friends?” Brad asks rhetorically. “Well, I’ve got friends, too.” As if on cue and straight out of a movie, his boys step forward menacingly.

  This is really not looking good. I sense I’ll have to make a decision very soon: run like hell and embarrass myself or take a few lumps, also embarrassing myself. Well, come to think of it, that’s really not much of a choice. But can I even outrun these guys, anyway? Can Franklin?

  Two to three tense seconds tick by as these half-formed thoughts race through my head.

  “Come on, guys. Let's go. We're late enough already,” Megan interjects.

  Wow, I didn’t really expect help from that front. For being maybe the most beautiful girl in our class, she was nice enough in high school. I mean, she wouldn’t really talk to me in public, but in private she was cordial, especially when I was lending her my homework. But still, I always had the impression that her type of girl secretly enjoyed it when guys tried to impress. Maybe she’s been maturing while in college.

  “Yeah, stop showing off for your ladies,” Franklin says. Sometimes he just doesn’t understand when to quit.

  “Just be cool, man. Let's walk away. We gotta catch the bus anyway,” I say, pulling him away. We just got a lucky out and I’m determined to make the best of it.

  “Listen to your boyfriend, queer,” Brad says to Franklin. Of course he can’t just let us have the last words. But I’m okay with that and continue guiding Franklin in the opposite direction from the meatheads.

  “Brad,” Megan says with an annoyed tone. She gestures with impatience and the guys reluctantly turn and head off. But surprisingly, before Megan herself turns away, she distinctly mouths Sorry to me.

  And then she’s gone. Out of my life again. Perhaps for another few years. Perhaps forever. Still … interesting. I don’t know what it meant–I never would have expected that she would care what I thought about her. Maybe she just pities me.

  “It's like they didn't get the memo that high school ended. Frikkin' bullies,” Franklin complains.

  “That's just the way the world is. You'll only get yourself hurt trying to take a stand in a situation like that,” I tell him. I mean, those guys probably will forget about this encounter before they reach the end of the block. But for Franklin, it will probably ruin the vibe of the whole night.

  After a beat in which I let that point sink in, I point out what I find to be a crucial flaw with Joseph’s anarchist ideology. “And you want to be stuck in a world with those guys and no government, no rules, and no society to keep
them under control? Doesn’t seem like it would be a very fun place for people like us to live.”

  “I guess not,” Franklin admits. But by the tension in his jaw I can see that despite our recent encounter, the message hasn’t really sunk in. I decide to change the subject.

  “Megan's still hot, though,” I say with a small grin.

  “Oh, yeah. You still have a thing for her after all these years?” Franklin asks.

  I’m just gonna ignore that one. He already knows the answer. Megan’s the kind of girl everyone has a thing for. I keep walking, not sure where to take the conversation from here. I think I hear Franklin snicker softly. I feel like he’s accusing me for the ruined mood … for the awkwardness between us.

  When I get home I fumble with my keys in the doorway. The front porch lights are off–I’m guessing my dad passed out before sunset as usual. After struggling to put the correct key in the lock, something you’d think would be easier with all my practice, I finally manage to get the door open with a satisfying click. Before opening, I cautiously check behind me in case someone sneaked up while I was distracted. I don’t live in the worst neighborhood, but it’s definitely not the best, either, and lately, all kinds of crime have been going up across the city as summer has gotten underway. Well, across the nation, actually. It reminds me of a Shakespeare quote: “For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.” Or something like that.

  After satisfying myself that no mugger is lurking in the darkness (I am the offspring of police, after all), I go inside to what I know with certainty awaits. Even with the lights off, I would know this smell anywhere. It smells worn, lived in, but comfortable: It smells like home. Across the front room, I can just make out his shape on the sofa in the deep darkness. Even if I couldn’t, the sound of his snoring would give him away. I flick on the light, knowing that it takes a lot more than this to rouse him.