by Carlos Colon
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“There he is!” boomed Artie, barely acknowledging his own daughter.
“I’m here too, Papi,” laughed Stefanie, joining her mother in the kitchen.
“Yes, of course you are, baby. How was the zoo?”
“It was fun,” lied Stefanie.
“That’s what I like about you, my boy. You treat my little girl like a princess,” said Artie, not knowing that for the prior two hours at my apartment, Stefanie and I had been knotted together like pretzels.
We had been dating three months and I was now regularly invited to her family’s apartment for Sunday dinners. Stefanie loved that her father had taken to me. He was one of those big, muscular dark-skinned Boricuas that gave suffocating bear hugs to everyone that he liked. If my disfigured ribs were any indication, he loved me—especially after the string of bums (his words) that had courted Stefanie’s attention before.
Artie was a hard-working guy that always smelled like dough when we came home from his job at a wholesale bakery on Castle Hill Avenue. When he learned about my story, he became such an admirer of mine that he’d regularly steal me away for a good part of the night to have a drink and chat. He had enormous respect for how I took care of things on my own and was working my way through college. And since by that time of the night he’d be working on his third glass of Bacardi and Coke, it would soon become bear-hug city. Artie was one of those I love you, man drunks.
“Dominic,” he called out to his son. “Nicky’s here!”
Dominic yelled back at us from the living room. “Hey, get over here, man. Duffy Dyer just hit another homer!” I couldn’t resist. I had to check it out.
Stefanie introduced me to her older brother shortly after we started dating. Dominic and I immediately bonded over the Mets. He was one of those crazy, trivia-obsessed fans that you’d always hear on sports talk radio. He could tell you what after-shave Jerry Koosman was wearing the day he pitched a three-hit shutout against the Astros in 1968. Shit, he could tell you what time the game ended and how many people were in attendance.
“Sit down, man,” said Dominic as I entered the living room. “Look at the replay.” Artie came in behind me shaking his head at the two Met nuts in his living room. Not that Artie wasn’t a fan, he just thought Dominic and I took it to another level.
“Two weeks ago, he’s a backup catcher,” laughed Artie. “Now, all of the sudden, he’s Babe Ruth.”
Dominic was big like his dad, even bulkier. He moved to the side on the couch to make some room. “Come on, Nick. Sit down.”
It was a new scene for me, family fighting for my attention. But it was one that I was quickly getting used to.
By that time, all of my uncles and aunts had moved back to Puerto Rico. They all had done their best to get me to move in with them after Mami died. It was difficult for them to grasp why I would want to be alone and not seek comfort from our extended family. And while their point of view was not a difficult one to understand, the losses that I suffered were something I had to deal with in my own way, so outside of birthdays and holidays, I stayed to myself and avoided their sorrowful glances.
Tío Juan was the last of the older Negróns to move back to la ísla. And though he tried hard to sway me towards starting a new life in Bayamón among relatives, he just couldn’t make the sale. Not even close. It’s not that they weren’t nice people. Quite the opposite, I loved my tios, titis, and primos. I just couldn’t bear to be around them. Every moment I spent with their families reminded me of who was missing in mine.
With la familia Torres it was different. By the time I met them, Los Ruidos for the most part had been shooed away by their radiant daughter, which made me a much more pleasant person to be around. And just the business and the life that clattered around from room to room in la casa Torres, was a welcome relief from the stillness inside the walls where I resided.
Ramona, Stefanie’s mom, was a traffic stopper. Happily, for me, her daughter looked just like her. Ramona was in her late forties, maybe even fifty. To this day, I don’t think I’ve met a more beautiful woman. She had light brown, shoulder-length hair and a petite, curvy figure that looked like she hadn’t gained a pound since high school. No wonder Artie was so happy.
Dinner was fantastic, arróz amarillo con carne guisada, y aguacate, man, that woman could cook. And though at first I thought they were all on their best behavior because there was a guest in the house, I quickly learned that the warm family atmosphere at their home was real—it was a feeling that for so long had not been a part of my life and was all but forgotten.
“Mami, that was fantastic,” said Dominic reaching for another helping.
“Dominic, you have that police physical agility test tomorrow,” said Stefanie. “Don’t you think you should let up a little bit?” In those days the NYPD Physical Agility Test had a demanding obstacle course that applicants had to complete in less than two-and-a-half minutes to qualify as a candidate.
“What are you nuts, sis? You think me having one more plate is going to make a difference?”
Artie laughed. “You see, Nicky? That’s why I have to work this hard, just to feed this guy.”
I chimed in. “You know, Dominic. She could have a point. Those few extra pounds could make a difference.”
“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Sticky Nicky, but who is the one that is always kicking your ass in one-on-one basketball?”
“Dominic, watch your mouth at the dinner table,” said Ramona.
He was right, though. Even with that additional weight he was carrying, Dominic was a tremendous athlete. All sports, too; baseball, basketball, football, you name it.
I offered a weak defense. “That doesn’t count. I suck at basketball.”
Ramona slapped me on the hand. “Nicky!” This woman took no shit.
Dominic laughed. “Come with me tomorrow. I’ll show you how I handle it.”
“You should go with him,” said Stefanie. “Maybe you can keep him from eating on the way there.”
That brought a big laugh from Artie. The guy was always laughing.
“Alright,” said Dominic, rising from the dinner table. “I’m gonna catch the rest of the game.”
“Not before you take out the garbage,” said Ramona.
“Don’t worry, Mami, I’ll take it out after the game,” replied Dominic.
“No, you will take it out now,” countered his mother.
“Call it a warmup for tomorrow’s fitness exam,” cracked Artie.
After dinner, Ramona rose and started to pick up the dishes. “Okay everyone, you all know what you have to do.” Despite her almost childlike size, it was clear that Ramona was the no-nonsense leader of the family. She managed the household like an efficiently run office. Everyone in the family had individual responsibilities after dinner. Artie cleared the table, Ramona put away the leftovers, and Stefanie did the dishes. Dominic’s part was taking out the garbage and she wasn’t about to let him delay it. Knowing him, he’d probably forget later. I observed this all from the table as an amused guest, but not for long.
“Nicky, did you enjoy your dinner?” asked Ramona.
“Uh yeah, it was great, Señora Ramona,” she liked when I called her that.
“Well good, you can now go help Stefania dry the dishes.”
I didn’t dare not comply.
I quickly took my position at the sink next to her daughter.
As we stood next to one another, Stefanie looked over at me and winked. “Welcome to the family.”
The next day, on the way to the NYPD Physical Agility Test, Dominic stopped at a nearby pizzeria and downed three slices while I stood by cursing the shit out of him. “You’re never gonna pass, you fat fuck!”
“You don’t want some?”
“No!” I refused to join him. “I can’t believe you’re doing this shit! Don’t you want the job?”
“Relax, man. You’re too up tight.”
“You’ve done nothing to prepare for this. You didn’t tra
in, you’ve been eating like a maniac, what the hell is the matter with you?”
“Man, this pizza’s good. There’s no pizza like New York pizza. Am I right?”
Later at the site of the test, when his turn came to run the course, Dominic winked at me and took off, leaving behind a heinous, acidic fart. Barreling through effortlessly, he leapt each barrier, climbed the walls and trotted to the finish line with almost twenty seconds left to go. I still don’t know how he did that.
They were my new family, Artie, Ramona, Dominic and of course, Stefanie. A family that accepted me and loved me as if I had always been a part of their lives.
Almost twenty years later, that same young man they welcomed into their family would die in another woman’s bed.
8
The time on my cell phone reads 5:49 p.m. It’s dark out, time for my kind to go out and play—or more accurately put, prey.
Veronica’s bathroom is right behind the closet. I can hear the shower running on the other side of the wall. Thankfully she respected my wishes and left me undisturbed. Hopefully, if the kids are home, they are occupied enough so that I can sneak out quietly. Enough time has passed for my capabilities to be restored, which would allow me to walk past the boys unseen.
The squeaking of the closet door hinges should be drowned out by the running water in the bathroom. Actually the shower is the only sound I hear, no TV, no video games, nothing. The boys must be out. I don’t know any kids that age that can be that quiet.
The sound of Veronica in the shower clearing her throat gives me that familiar little tickle below the belt. Dead or not, I’m still a horny bastard. Knowing that she’s in there soaping that luscious body of hers is too good of an opportunity for me to not go in and sneak a peek.
My lack of reflection on the mirror above her dresser tells me my ability to project is intact, which means I can be a perv and take a look without being seen. But what if my lust takes over? What if I lose control and end up going to bed with her? After all, she’s more than ready, willing and able.
Nah, can’t risk it. Excitement like that could put me on a plane I can’t control and result in some unsightly gashes on my pretty friend’s neck.
The things I have to deal with.
Interestingly, Veronica’s got a laptop on her bed that she’s left open with a gyrating screensaver. It’s calling my attention. Let’s give her little mouse pad a tap and see what comes up.
No surprise.
It looks like the little lady’s been Googling—a browser history with a string of misspelled variations of porphyria— close enough, though, to enable her to find a couple of articles about my disease. I probably wasn’t thinking too straight earlier today with the prospect of going up in flames and such. My saying that I had porphyria was probably a good indication of that. It might have been the best way to get her to shut up but it also raised the potential of leading her to articles that identify it as the disorder that led to legends about vampires, centuries before.
Exhibit A.
One article she browsed through was about Phillip Peele, the dumbass biochemist that claimed porphyria patients avoided sunlight, craved blood, and that their gums recessed to cause the illusion of growing fangs. He also claimed that garlic had a chemical that was harmful to those that carried the disease.
What an idiot.
What we have is not a disease. We are dead! We are the living dead. We walk the night, we drink the blood of our prey, and sometimes we even like to eat them. And by the way, I love garlic. I like it with my rice, I like it with my potatoes, and I especially love garlic salt on my pizza.
Phillip Peele was a fraud. Hell, Bram Stoker was more accurate when he wrote Dracula (which I always wondered about). There was something up with that guy. Sure, some of it was crap. We don’t turn into bats, for example. I wish we could, that would be fucking awesome! On the other hand, a lot of what he wrote was pretty close to fact. Yeah, Mr. Stoker, we sure do wonder about you.
“Oh, Georgie, are you okay?”
Busted!
I got so caught up in Veronica’s browser trail that I didn’t notice the water had stopped running. Surprisingly she seems more concerned about my condition than the fact that I’m snooping around on her computer.
“Uh... yeah... yeah, I’m good. Thank you. Thanks for everything.”
“Are you sure, honey?” She approaches with no self-consciousness, drying her hair with a pink towel that matches her terrycloth robe, underneath which she’s wearing nothing. It’s barely tied together, too. One slight turn and I get full frontal. Damn, this woman is sexy. “Let me see, baby.” Her hand on my face activates my little undead friend. Hopefully she won’t spot it. Knowing her, she might shut the bedroom door for a quickie before work.
Veronica’s baffled, feeling around my face for signs of damage from the burns I suffered earlier today. They are there, but she won’t feel it past my projection which is tangible to the human sense of touch.
Her robe opens ever-so-slightly, drawing my eyes to her cleavage. She knows it, too. She wants me to look. Man, this woman knows how to turn a guy on. Look at those beautiful-
DAMMIT! NO!
“Oh my God, baby, you’re still sick!”
What else can she conclude, seeing me back away in a panic, stumbling to the floor?
“No, get away!”
“Georgie, what’s wrong?”
“You’re right. I’m still sick. Back away, I don’t want you to get sick.”
“It’s okay, honey. You’re not contagious.” What, so now you’re an expert?
I can’t face her. I have to look away. As long as that crucifix hangs on the thin, gold chain resting against her bosom, I’ll be cowering away like a frightened little girl. “I’ll be alright. I’m just a little woozy. But I have to leave. I have to leave now.”
“Georgie listen to me,” she says, taking me in her arms like a reassuring mother. “Honey, look at me.” Fuck, no! She remains intent, turning me towards her. Thankfully her back is facing the mirror above her dresser. Otherwise she’d see herself having a firm grip on... nothing.
The Holy Cross is only inches away from me. Veronica, meaning well, is stroking my hair to calm me. “Georgie, there’s no reason to be embarrassed. We can get you help at the hospital.”
“No, no. I’m okay.”
“But, Georgie—”
“No! I’m okay!”
I abruptly break away, out of her room past the burn marks on her living room carpet. I can sense her hurt. I’m such an asshole.
Being genetically resistant and raised in a Christian home, I and others like me, recognize ourselves as the unholy abominations that we are, causing us to fear the cross as much as we fear the daylight. It can even burn us if we come in contact with it. But if you pull out a crucifix on one us who wasn’t Christian or even one of us that is not genetically resistant, then you could wind up with a cross being shoved up your ass while being drained of your blood.
9
“Honey, Dominic called,” said Stefanie as I walked through the door from a day of collecting debits for Atlantic Indemnity. “He’s got tickets for Friday’s game!”
“He’s got ‘em? Holy shit! I love that fat bastard!” That was good news to come home to, tickets to see the Mets vs. Dodgers National League playoff game at Shea Stadium.
“It’s going to be me, you, him and Papi,” she said, referring to Artie.
“No Patti?”
Dominic’s wife Patti hated baseball anyway. They also weren’t getting along very well in those days, which was pretty much the case for most of their marriage. Stefanie and I were the exact opposite, very rarely having the kind of Class A blowouts you saw over at their household. Most of their fights stemmed from Dominic’s hours at the NYPD. His exemplary police work had gotten him a promotion to homicide detective in the city, making him a rare presence at home. Whenever he was at home, a lot of that time would be spent arguing in front of their twins, Aida and Penny. So ot
her opportunities to get out of the house were always welcome to Dominic, like bowling, poker night and of course, the Mets.
Sure Stefanie and I had bouts of our own, but usually they stemmed from me being a bore. I wasn’t the most social animal and didn’t care too much for jumpin’, jivin’ and wailin’. If it were up to Stefanie, every weekend I’d pick her up from work at Fordham U with the kids staying at Artie and Ramona’s. She’d then want to spend the night clubbing and dancing until two in the morning. Not that the night wouldn’t be without its rewards. The bumping and gyrating always got her in a frisky mood but truthfully, despite that appealing coda, I was more of the what’s-on-TV-tonight type.
“The Case of the Fuddy Duddy Husband’s Ass Print on the Sofa Cushion,” was her typical reply.
But that was pretty much the worst of it. We were especially conscious of not fighting in front of our kids, pretty little Jessie and her destructive little brother, Davey.
“What about that sales meeting downtown?” asked Stefanie, concerned it might conflict with our night at the ball game.
“That’s tomorrow, Thursday.”
“So you’re going to be out late tomorrow then?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I really had some nice plans for tomorrow night after the kids went to bed,” she teased.
“What’s wrong with tonight?”
“Aren’t you watching the game tonight?” That was true, and those damn nationally televised games always end after midnight.
“So what about after the game?” That was probably the wrong thing to ask. I probably should have said something like, the hell with the game.
“Not tonight,” she quipped. “I have a headache.”