The Color of Dying

by Carlos Colon

  The red lady brought herself down closer to me, letting her breasts rub against my chin. Whenever Stefanie did that, it stirred me into a heated frenzy where I’d take charge and flip her over. Not here. With this woman, I could neither move nor respond in any way. Red hair, red dress, red shoes, even her bra and panties were red. What was with all the red? What the hell was going on?

  She put her face up against mine. Our eyes met. I saw pleasure. Not the pleasure of sexual gratification. It was more like how I imagined my eyes looked when we’d go to Victor’s Café and I’d take in the scent of the lechón asado as it was being served.

  She kissed me. This time it was gently on the lips. When Stefanie kissed me that way and I felt her breath, I would let her essence envelop me. In this case, the tables were turned. It was the red-haired woman taking in my scent as her lips and tongue explored my shoulder. Scared as I was, it felt nice. It started to relax me. I was getting into it—the sensation of her mouth tasting my flesh. My eyes closed submissively as she licked and sucked at the base of my neck, drool oozing its way past my shoulders onto the bed sheets. Fixated on one spot, she sucked away like a newborn on her mother’s nipple. The drool thickened. It had been a long day and a strange night. I was tired. The weight of my eyelids overwhelmed any effort of mine to keep them up. Red. So much red. The red lady lifted her head.

  JESUS CHRIST!

  I only had one glass of wine. That couldn’t have been it.

  Was I drugged? Impossible. Mantle’s was a reputable restaurant. How could any hallucinogenic drugs possibly make it into their food? And after that, I had nothing. Nothing that could have possibly made me see what was above me.

  The sensual seductress I followed from the lobby was gone. The red hair was now dry and straw-like. Her eyes were now dark with huge black eyeballs and no white in the surrounding area. Her skin, which before was smooth and porcelain-like, was now pale and shaded gray.

  Back at the elevator her tongue was dueling with mine as we explored every corner of each other’s mouth. Now it was licking my red blood off her cracked, broken lips. A sick expression of happiness surrounded her venomous smile as she lowered her face to continue feeding.

  There was no struggle, no fight. I laid there passively with echoes of my past clouding my consciousness—the cries of my parents as they knelt beside Dani’s lifeless body, the emptiness of the realization that Papi was never coming back, the sight of Mami on her hospital bed, knowing that she would never rise again.

  We often use colors for metaphors when describing situations in our lives. When we’re scared, we’re yellow. When we’re sad, we’re blue. When we’re envious, we’re green. My last moments were bathed in red—her hair, her silk undergarments, and my blood, which coated the lower half of her face. It’s a color that humans connect with love—red roses, red cherries, strawberries, lipstick, hearts. It’s the primary color of Valentine’s Day, the color of love. But now everything that I loved was being taken away from me.

  Again.

  Stefanie, the woman that had brought me everything I had lost all hope for—she would never again greet me at the door after a long day’s work. Her kiss, her smile, her voice, her love—never again to be mine. Having gone through the loss of Dani, Papi and Mami, the odds of me ever having a happy, normal life had to have been considered next to impossible. Somehow, Stefanie made it happen. Nothing but good came to my life after I met her. And now she was going to be left alone to raise our children Jessie and Davey. They would have to go on with their lives without a father.

  In the years that would come I would be written off by many as another selfish prick that saw an opportunity to get some hot New York pussy behind his unsuspecting wife’s back. And really, who could blame someone for thinking that? I have that same argument with myself all the time. Was I under the spell of her power or was I just under the spell of what was below her waist? Was there really nothing I could do to stop what was happening?

  My heart was beating its last few beats. My lungs were struggling to take in their last few breaths. Across the room, the red high-heeled shoes that this woman maniacally kicked away before we got in bed were lying on their side by the closet. The red bra which held those delicious looking breasts was resting quietly on the tray by the ice bucket. On the carpet, her red panties were being approached by a growing pool of my red blood.

  It’s the color of love.

  Happy Valentine’s Day.

  I knew we should’ve gone to Rusty’s.

  10

  “Excuse me sir, please don’t lock up yet. I just need to get something real quick for my friend.”

  The poor old bastard, a Black man in his late sixties, has already flipped the sign on the door. It reads “CLOSED”. No Latino’s going to turn up here at the last second before he can call it a night. It could only mean trouble.

  “We’re closed,” he grumbles.

  A couple of hundreds should get his attention. “I have cash, look. And I know exactly what I want. It’s that little sapphire pendant right there in the window. I promise I’ll be quick.”

  He’s sizing up the Porta Rican waving cash at him in front of his jewelry store. Downtown Newark tends to shut down around six to avoid characters like this. Probably some dope pusher wanting to buy a gift for his trashy girlfriend, he figures. Still, cash is cash.

  I’m in.

  As a gesture I thought it’d be nice to bring Veronica a little “thank you” gift. She saved me from the worst type of destruction imaginable—the equivalent of being burned alive. And when it came to questioning the freakish symptoms she witnessed at her apartment, she also eased up and gave me some space, showing nothing but deep concern, loyalty, and generosity of heart. Sure, her appreciation for my chivalrous protection from her rejected paramour played a part in it, but I’d be kidding myself if I weren’t acknowledging the obvious. Like it or not, I am in a relationship. It might not be a romantic or sexual one at this point, but it is a relationship. We have bonded. And it needs to be managed. Besides, hopefully this little token of gratitude will serve as a substitute for the crucifix, which will probably be exposed by a plunging neckline tonight.

  We both happen to be off tonight so she thought it would be nice for us to get together while not in uniform (although she’d probably prefer not in any clothes). There is a little balancing act I’ve had to learn mingling with society over the past twenty-seven years and truthfully, I’m not sure I’ve figured it out yet. If I become too much a part of everyone’s life, there’s a natural desire from them to develop a familiarity that will put demands on me that I can’t meet. On the other hand, if I stay too distant, curiosity could lead towards them seeking to learn more about me—also not good.

  Let’s see where tonight leads. Veronica and I still haven’t gotten into any detailed conversation about our little “episode” back at her apartment. This might be a good chance to see what’s running through her mind.

  “With tax that’s $263.94,” says the old man, wrapping up the pendant in a little designer box. If I wanted to I could have put the old bastard under my spell and just helped myself to anything here at the store. But really, why should I do that? The old guy looks like someone who’s been through a lot of shit over the years. With the economy being the way it’s been over the past ten years and the big shopping malls in the nicer areas pulling away the majority of shoppers, how well can a little jewelry store on Broad Street in Newark be doing? Undead or not, sometimes it’s best just to be a regular customer.

  “Thanks for staying open for me.”

  He shakes his head at the four hundred dollar bills I’ve laid out. “That’s too much. The total comes out to $263.94.”

  “I know. Like I said, thanks for staying open for me.” I can sense him quietly watching me as I exit the store. The old guy doesn’t know what to say. How about a “thank you”? That would have been nice, you old prick.

  #

  My judgment concerns me lately, especially since t
here is no alcoholic beverage more powerful, nor any drug on the street that can warp your judgment like sexual attraction. Some of the greatest minds of our times, many of them that even made our world a better place, still fell short when it came to making logical decisions when their hearts and genitals pointed them in obviously flammable directions.

  One of the reasons for my concern is that I actually spent time deciding what to wear, laying out shirt and pants combos on top of my coffin before making a selection (looking in the mirror to check myself out obviously is not an option). After some deliberation I settled on breaking in a stylish pair of ankle boots I picked up at Kohl’s the other night, complementing them with a black leather blazer, an aqua blue cotton shirt and a soft pair of charcoal slacks. Shit, who needs a mirror? I know I look good. The question is why am I even giving a shit? It’s not like this is a date. Is it?

  Women often like to point out how men regularly let their little heads control their big heads, even at the expense of destroying their lives. Not that they’re wrong, but they should talk. How many times have you seen a woman turn blind when attracted to a man that was clearly no good for her? It’s simple math. Love and sex, or the promise of either one, are responsible for 99% of all the questionable behavior and regrettable decisions made by the human species, making them say things and do things they would never even consider if their minds were in a clearer place.

  #

  “Hey, big guy, how are ya?”

  Veronica’s older son doesn’t look too happy opening the door to the freak that almost went into flames the other morning in their apartment. Or maybe he’s just sick of the cast of characters that have been walking through this door seeking his mom’s favors. He leaves the door open for me but runs back to rejoin his little brother in front of the TV to resume some game on their X-Box. I guess I’ll just let myself in.

  “Hi Georgie, I’ll be out in a minute.” Veronica’s little sing-song tone from the bedroom channels an air of starry-eyed giddiness. I don’t know how I’ve kidded myself into thinking this is not a real date.

  The boys are sitting right next to the burn stains I left on the carpet the other morning, thoroughly engrossed by some shooting game that fittingly pits them against (who would have guessed?) the undead. The younger one keeps turning back to sneak a peek at me. Yes, little man, one of those things on the TV is waiting in your living room to take your mother out on a date.

  “Hi, Georgie!”

  Veronica’s dress is soft, floral-patterned, and red! Again with the fucking red! She is beautiful though, gotta say that. There isn’t a man in the world who wouldn’t want to be standing where I am right now as she approaches to greet me with a kiss (well, maybe not in the Martin Luther King projects).

  “NO!”

  “Oh no, honey, are you still sick?”

  An understandable reaction, especially upon seeing your previously virile date fall backwards, knocking down a lamp from an end table like Inspector Clouseau.

  “No, no, it’s okay. I’m alright.” The kids watch me pick myself up wondering who the fuck is this guy?

  To any normal man the sight of Veronica’s satin-smooth cleavage would be more than appetizing. For me it’s a sight I cannot enjoy until we dispose of the crucifix that is swinging towards me as she reaches down to help. I must look like a complete dork facing away from her while analyzing her lamp for damage.

  “Honey if you still don’t feel good...”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Here look, I got you something.”

  “Oh my God,” squeals Veronica, yanking the nicely wrapped gift from my hand, inadvertently naming the cause of my strange behavior.

  “Open it.” Yeah, let’s move it along so you can take that other thing off your neck. And take it down a notch, will you?

  It’s not like she isn’t accustomed to receiving truckloads of baubles from previous enamorados. I know it may be a tad cynical of me but, to me, she sounds like she’s mastered the gasp that’s a little more impassioned than it should be. Is it sincere or is the reaction she thinks you’re looking for? “Try it on.” Let’s get this show on the road.

  “Here, hold this for me.” No fucking way! “Nicky?” She must really think I have issues (you have no idea baby). But no way am I taking that crucifix in my hands.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” A quick little dash to the bathroom, a grab at a piece of toilet paper, and some noises that I trust will pass as post-nasal drip, will hopefully have her set aside the crucifix while also pondering how much of a mess I am.

  “So, how do I look?” So far I have to have been the most discombobulated spazz to have ever walked through her door. Yet somehow she still seeks my approval. But hey, no crucifix in sight so yeah, baby, you look fantastic.

  #

  You can’t beat Newark’s Hot Spot Diner for versatility. It’s got a casual “diner” section, a finer restaurant section, and a bar area that features entertainment. Talk about an all-purpose location! My original intention was to eat in the casual dining area but when Miss Curves came out in that flowery red dress I figured the nicer restaurant section would be more appropriate. That’s another red flag. What kind of a path am I headed on? Man, this shit is just building up and taking on a life of its own.

  “Hello, my name is Felípe.” The host holds out a pair of menus, ready to lead us to our table. He’s a petite little fella with a pleasant Portuguese accent.

  “Pero mira quien este aqui!” booms a voice from behind us, a large muscular hombre with a pair of hench-buddies beside him.

  This apparent acquaintance of Veronica’s leans over and kisses her a little closer to the mouth than I think appropriate. The fucking guy’s acting like I’m not even here. I already don’t like him. “Y este, quien es?” He finally acknowledges me, smiling politely but seemingly unimpressed.

  “Este es mi amigo, Georgie,” replies Veronica. “Georgie, este es Hector.”

  I don’t know who Hector is and quite frankly I don’t give a shit but he seems to think he’s El fucking Exigente or the world’s most interesting man from those beer commercials. The hand he holds out for me to shake resembles a mitt that could handle a good Nolan Ryan fastball. I’ll be cordial and extend my more modest paw. “Mucho gusto, Georgie.” As expected he’s gripping it much more firmly than necessary. If I were alive the excessively forceful clasp from this typical macho posturing probably would have hurt. Instead its implied subtext, that he could have Veronica if he wants her, is just annoying the shit out of me.

  Unlike those TV vampires, we don’t bend steel with our bare hands and leap tall buildings in a single bound, but being undead does allow us to use our bodies with an abandon that wasn’t possible when we were alive. Our steady diet of blood enables us to concentrate all our energies into one area if we choose to do so. Right now I’m concentrating them on my grip. “The pleasure is all mine, Señor Hector.” El Exigente smirks at my pathetic little effort to match his brawn. Not impressed amigo? Okay, how about if I squeeze little harder?

  His eyebrows creep downwards.

  A troubled expression crosses his face. He tries to pull his hand away. Not so fast, amigo, I’m having a little fun. A little tighter maybe? “Veronica and I are going to have a little dinner. Would you care to join us?” Mr. Big remains stoic but he and I both know that his knuckles are about to break and his eyes are about to tear.

  “Georgie, what are you doing?” scolds Veronica.

  Uh-oh, I think I fucked up. I better let go.

  The perplexed glare on Hector’s face as he pulls his hand from my loosened grip is one that is familiar to me. It’s the same one Veronica’s trombone playing ex gave me outside her apartment. Felípe the host looks like he’s afraid a scene might develop as Hector’s buddies ponder whether they should step in. They’re probably figuring, though, that it would be even more humiliating for him if they do. But I’m more concerned with Veronica’s expression. For the first time since I’ve known her she is looking at me like
I’m a turd on the sidewalk. She doesn’t even know what to say to her amigo.

  Señor Grande nods sheepishly, holding his aching knuckles. “Disfrute, querida, pase una buena noche.” Veronica remains speechless, shaking her head apologetically as he exits the restaurant.

  “What was that?” she asks, looking like she suddenly doesn’t know me.

  Yeah right. I’m sure this kind of crap happens around her all the time. But if she wants me to point out the obvious, I will. “Veronica, you know how dogs piss on trees to mark their territory? Well it looks like your buddy Hector felt the need to do a little marking.”

  “So what does that mean, I’m like territory to you?”

  “Come on Veronica. Don’t pretend like you’re not used to that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Felípe dutifully stands by holding our menus wondering whether we’ll ever follow him to our table.

  “Listen, Veronica, I know the game.”

  “What game?” she asks through tightened lips.

  “Oh, come on, the whole deal with guys tripping all over themselves to get your attention. They circle around you, trying to measure up. I mean, that’s okay, that’s who you are. That’s the kind of attention you draw. Me, I’m not going to let—”

  “So that’s what you think I am?”

  “Hey, so what if you are? It doesn’t matter to me. Who am I to judge?”

  Her eyes are tearing up. Nice going, dumb ass. Shit, now I feel bad. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Veronica reaches above her chest and yanks off the pendant. “Take it.”

  My undead heart sinks as I slowly lift my hand and let her place it in my palm. The irony is that I should be happy. This couldn’t have gone any better. My brutish behavior couldn’t have disillusioned her more.

  Veronica storms out of the restaurant, making me feel more of these feelings that I shouldn’t be feeling. She rushes up the block attempting to catch up to her friend and apologize. It would now be perfectly understandable if she never wants to see me again socially, which is just how I should want it.