Vampire Vow

by Michael Schiefelbein

  Having had enough of morbid ruminating, I wandered downstairs, out to the street, past the crowd touring the cemetery, and took the streetcar to the French Quarter. Although it was still early, Bourbon Street already reeked of piss and beer. Sleazy barkers beckoned to prospective customers outside the strip clubs. Dixieland and blues blared through open doors of restaurants and bars.

  To escape the growing crowd and neon lights, I turned down a dark side street. A row of renovated shotgun houses with colorful shutters gave way to shabby brick buildings whose galleries cast shadows over the cracked, garbage-lined walks. The smell of the river rode on a breeze through the Quarter's maze of brick and wrought iron.

  "Got a light?" A shirtless boy in low-waisted jeans stepped out of a doorway. His bleached hair fell to his shoulders. His smooth face, his lustrous, innocent eyes belied his profession.

  I lit his cigarette. Then I took him around the corner, far from the nearest streetlight.