“You can keep knocking on that door, all you’d like. But, it’s not looking good for tonight.” He looked like I’d taken away his favorite toy. So, I finished him off29, pulled on my clothes, left him with a kiss and made off into the night.
Outside, there was an eerie silence, no cars passing, a breeze too gentle to crinkle leaves. The only atmosphere was a soft drizzle. I pretended to lock the door to the apartment building, stalling. I had the uncanny sense of being followed by a pair of eyes, a cold breeze up a wet spine. I took tentative steps, stopped to listen for unfamiliar sounds, before continuing. At the gap between Martin’s building and the next, I scanned the street for signs of human activity; I saw none. But then, a resonance came, from the direction of the darkened alley, a swishing breezy sound accompanied by fast footfalls. I scurried for my car, scrambling in my purse for keys, stupidly dropped back in, instead of fanned between my fingers like a deadly set of brass knuckles—as seen on Oprah’s self-defense show. Just three car-lengths away, I felt a brash hand circle my wrist, and lock on. My feet flew out in front of me. I was drawn backward into the darkness; a Jimmy Choo fell off, and was left teetering on the curb above a particularly mucky brown puddle. A thick, gloved hand muffled my screams; I could smell the quality calfskin. And then as quickly as my abduction had begun, it stopped.
“Ew…I’m sorry,” my attacker said.
He released his grip and I ran, or a close enough facsimile to running—more of a hobble, really, but graceful, I can assure you, as refined as a woman can be while fleeing a possible rape in a single stiletto. I clutched the Balenciaga purse to my chest, a $1,250 security blanket, and that was on sale.
“I said, I’m sorry,” the man repeated, in a surprisingly meek tone. Did you smell that? I thought. Weakness. My cue.
“You’re goddamn right you’re sorry,” I said, spinning to confront him. Odd, since he’d closed the gap with nary a sound. Quick fucker. “What the hell was that?”
“I didn’t realize. I mean, you seem so…” His arms spread out redemptively.
“Seem so…what? Realize…what?”
“Look, why don’t we go get some coffee and I’ll make it up to you.”
“Excuse me, but what the fuck? You attack me out of the blue and think we’re going to start a fucking coffee klatch? Unbelievable.” I turned to walk away and remembered I was on one shoe, so I stopped and stepped out of it.
“Listen,” he said, probably in his sincerest voice. He emerged from the shadows, revealing himself. He was beautiful. He had shiny blemish-free amber skin and dark hair; his eyes were these amazing black pools. He seemed to look through me, but not in a Helen Keller way—Latino, Cuban maybe. “I was simply hungry, I didn’t realize you were an abovegrounder, or I would have never, I swear. Scout’s honor.” He held up the three middle fingers of his right hand and grinned, revealing two-inch canines that retracted into black slits in his gum line as he shrugged.
“Jesus Christ!” I screamed and put my hands up in front of me forcing a makeshift cross out of my index fingers. “Back to Hell, you unclean spirit.”
“That’s for demons. I’m a vampire.” His smile faded. “And I’ve never been to Hell, so.” He looked off in the distance and muttered, “Although, I do have the frequent flyer miles.”
“Whatever.” I turned and dashed for my car, cursing myself for still not having my keys out. I was still struggling for them, when I reached the driver’s side door. I found them at the bottom of the purse, of course, under my Coach signature wallet, make-up bag, and a large tube of shea butter hand cream. In the end, what made it most difficult to find them, were the handfuls of loose change that populate all my bags. I promised myself to gather the change and go to the bank; I probably had enough change for a car payment. I clicked the unlock button, and looked into the window to the passenger side. The Mexivamp was sitting there, holding my Jimmy Choo. He smiled sans fangs, a little smug for my taste.
“I thought you might appreciate that I rescued this one here, just prior to a heinous plunge into a wet gutter full of used condoms and hypodermic needles.” He held the shoe like a Price Is Right blonde.
I laughed, tried to stop myself and laughed again.
“I’m Gil,” he said. “And you…sweetheart, are my new friend.”
Chapter 6
The Last Venti® Triple Decaf, Not Too Hot, Sugar-Free Vanilla Breve Latte
If it is your first time in the lovely “Suicide Capital of the World,” let your first foray into the social underground be the Well of Souls, an architectural marvel of charmed water, both flowing and solid. Welcoming, despite a tricky entrance, our clip-out instructions are simple and easy to follow…
—Way Off the Grid (Summer Issue)
I drove. Gil rode shotgun, forcing friendship down my throat like an emergency room doc with a handful of charcoal—not that I’ve ever had my stomach pumped. Suicide is so self-indulgent.
“Vampire, then?”
“Yep.” Gil nodded, twisting on the radio knob. A horrible whining issued from the speakers: Dave Matthews. Gil nodded along with the squelch, shifting his hips in the seat, snapping his fingers. Now, what kind of straight man would rock the seated dance of the uninhibited, after only minutes of knowing me? I’ll tell you what kind. The gay kind. Now, the vampire was even less threatening. I hit scan on the radio. The Pussycat Dolls were whoring themselves two digits over, while four away found some country bumpkin mooning over beer or lost poonani.
“What, you don’t like Dave Matthews?”
“Uh…no. Of course not, he’s the musical equivalent of backwash.”
Gil crossed his arms and huffed. The radio settled on the ’80s hits station, I’m in Love with a German Film Star by The Passions. I couldn’t recall ever hearing the song (or the band for that matter), and I distinctly remembered the ’80s. It was kind of a jam, though.
“Now this is shit.”
I brushed over the sour grapes and went for the subject change. “So then what am I, that you can’t take a bite, you picky bastard?”
“Why, a debutante, of course, and we’re off to your cotillion.”
“Quit fucking with me.”
“You’re a zombie,” he said.
“Am not.” Wait…did he say zombie? Mindless shuffling corpses, arms outstretched, chewing on hot intestines, bumping into shit—that sure wasn’t me. “Besides, there’s no such thing as zombies.”
He nodded, either in agreement or along with the song—so fickle. “Vampires either.” He pointed to his mouth and curled back his lips, revealing dark slits in his gums, above his canines. His jaw twitched. Thin daggers of bone slid from the black gashes, about an inch and a half long. He winked; they retracted with a slurp. “Trust me: you’re a zombie.”
“No way, it’s not possible. I just have a cold.”
“Okay, you’re a ghoul, then. But, the politically correct term is abovegrounder.”
I decided to play along. I wasn’t going to change his mind, and he was clearly insane. I mean really, Dave Matthews? I was a little chilly, though. I rubbed my arms, trying to produce warmth, but only achieved the chilling of my hands. “Well, I won’t be adding that to my everyday vernacular. Political correctness rubs me the wrong way.”
“Oh yeah? Call it what you like, debutante.”
I caught his eyes rolling and an unpleasant smirk, so I didn’t respond. The rest of the ride was silent and stuck in slow motion, like the goddamned projectionist went on break, right when the projector hit the skids. Gil played commando with the radio again, landing on some middle-aged soundtrack that kept rolling out the painful “hits.”
Me: scowling and judgmental.
Him: glib and nonchalant.
Us: stuck like that on a hanging swirl of flypaper.
Rain trickled in streams down beaded windows, at each stoplight. The air was damp, humid. It should have been cold, but wasn’t. Outside, pedestrians seemed more alive, sparkling as they passed, shimmery, almost haloed.
Inside, I felt dull. Dead. An astute observation, no30?
I drove us from outside Martin’s apartment on Queen Anne, down the hill toward the center, and through the soppy streets of Seattle, following the vampire’s one-word directions—left, right, right, straight, left, straight—until I could take it no more. Where the hell were we going? If it was for coffee, as I suggested, we passed the Starbucks on Denny, the SBC on Fifth, the Tully’s on Western, not to mention Café Lladro, City Perk, B&O, Grounds for Coffee, The Bean Tree, Jitterz, and a host of Photomat-sized percolator drive-thrus.
“You realize, we’ve easily passed twenty coffee shops.”
“Yeah?” The flat look on his face screamed boredom, his eyes nearly glazing over to punctuate.
“Yeah! This is Seattle, you know.”
“Hmm, right, and who said we were going to a coffee shop? Turn right here and find a space.” Gil checked his face in the vanity mirror and ran long fingers through his dense crop of hair.
I turned off Western, driving out of range of a pack of tipsy modern furniture purveyors; at this time of night, the employees of those stores littered the streets, like bums under wet newspaper, although it’s doubtful they’d been swigging grape Mad Dog, although, I could be wrong about that. I bowed into an alley, just past a particularly bland Danish furniture store, its front window awash in white on white.
“So where are we headed?” I slid the shifter into park and shut off the ignition.
“Just a little place, to meet a guy, and get you some coffee.”
“Would I have heard of it?”
“Unlikely,” he said and then sniggered.
Talking to him was like pulling grey hairs instead of going in for a CitySpa tint—cheap—and a complete waste of my lovely vocal timbre.
“Listen, Gil.” I lingered on his name like a freeway accident fatality. “I have specific places where I find coffee palatable. If you give me the name, maybe I can generate some enthusiasm.”
“You know, Amanda, these are treacherous times for coffee snobs. The Starbucks Gestapo will be knocking on your door.”
“Very funny, asshole.”
But he continued, “They’ll take you auf to ze camps.”
He laughed and snorted; I sneered and pretended to ignore.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I bought the whole vampire thing. There was some residual fear, although with every one of his crap-ass jokes, it dwindled. Anyone in close proximity to those fangs and his cold grip would have no difficulty with belief. What I didn’t buy was my own undeadness. When, exactly, did that happen? The fall was an obvious choice—a single lousy head-bump. No way, it wasn’t bad enough. How was that possible?
“So where were you leaving, when I ran into you? A boyfriend?” he asked.
“Yeah. Sort of.”
His gazed drifted off seeming to be lost in the black and grey swirl of cumulus. “I’d settle for a ‘sort of.’ I haven’t had a boyfriend since the ’80s. Not one that has lasted longer than a month.”
“What are you doing? Bleeding them dry?”
“No!” he snapped, then relaxed. “I don’t know. Yes, maybe, figuratively. I’m just lonely.”
Forlorn and lovesick, a pathetic vampire, he could be fun. Project!
Instead of heading off down the sidewalk, Gil led me deeper into the alley, where the stink promised piss puddles and trannylicious crack whores with butterfly knives. About halfway into the alley, amongst drifts of broken bottles, rat smear and unmarked warehouse doors, Gil turned to face an ordinary brick wall.
“Here we are, princess.”
“Suck it31.” I looked around, asked, “Where is here?”
“The Well of Souls.” He gargled the words like a ’30s horror voice-over.
“Is that your best spooky?” I asked. “I believe what you’re going for is scared shitless, not bored to tears.”
He smirked, pressed both hands flat against the wall, backed off and then traced the mortar between the bricks. His fingers found a gap there, a deeper space. He dug in. It gave a bit, releasing puffs of dust into the night. Columns of light revealed a door shape in the brickwork. The rectangle of bricks opened into a glow of fog. The incandescence spilled out, squeezing around Gil’s silhouette.
“Impressive,” I said and followed him in.
The interior was straight out of Frankenstein—the black and white one, pre-HDTV—including the centerpiece of the room, a stone well, that could have done double duty in that pseudo-Japanese horror remake a few years back. The walls were, on one side, veneered in grey stone, where a fire code travesty of sconces sputtered with gaslight. On the other a realistic forest grew from the walls. Columns of bark and roots spread out under a canopy of leafy green. The ceiling was a high dome painted to resemble the night sky. Rows of banquettes sat on levels like a stadium, which spoke to the massive size of the place, made all the more spacious by a lack of patrons. A shiny dance floor surrounded the Well; it could easily sustain two hundred grinding whores and their drunken penis-afflicted partners. To the right of the trees, a waterfall dropped into a frozen constriction of spray. The bar was carved from the block; behind it stood the tender. He was a tall man with a stare as icy as his surroundings.
Gil walked right up to the man and started talking. I straggled, taking in the atmosphere. The tall man glanced at me a few times, head tilted in interest, I thought.
I caught the tail end of their conversation.
“She’s brand spankin’ new,” Gil said.
“Well bring her over, I suppose we’ve got some talking to do.” He polished glasses from a row of highballs. He finished up and forced the blue and white striped towel through a belt loop.
“Amanda Feral,” Gil said, gesturing to me with an open palm. “Meet Ricardo Amandine, proprietor of The Well, statesman, and all-around great ghoul.”
Ricardo winced, but then softened. “Hello, Amanda, it’s a pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you.” I offered my hand.
He took it, squeezed, and lingered long enough for me to become uncomfortable.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you sense anything?” His voice was deep and soothing like a steaming mug of dark Sumatran spotted with half-and-half, sugary. “Anything between us?”
I looked around. Gil watched from nearby. The bar was between us. It seemed an inappropriate time for a pass.
“No, no,” he said, and squeezed my hand, again. Then, again, tighter. “Here. Between us.”
There was nothing, his hand was rough, and mine was, obviously, perfectly moisturized and smooth. He wore no rings, whereas, my index finger was garnished with Mother’s emerald. Silly, she thought the maid took it. What the hell was he talking about?
“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” I said. This man piqued my curiosity. He was good. “We’re the same temperature.” He squeezed my hand once more and released. “Sixty-eight degrees, Amanda. Room temperature. That’s the first lesson.”
* * *
Seattle’s Holy Communion
or
Venti® Triple Shot Decaf NTH Sugar-Free Vanilla Breve Latte
Steam 15 oz. half-and-half. Press three shots. In the mug, add 1–2 shots of sugar-free vanilla syrup.
Add cream.
Pour shots in a row, leaving three dots of stain in the froth.
* * *
Gil smiled. “The lady was hoping for a coffee, Ricardo.”
“A triple decaf, not too hot, sugar-free vanilla breve latte, if you can manage it?”
“Comin’ right up, sweetheart.” And then turning to Gil, he said, “It’ll be lesson number two.”
At that, they both broke into a disgustingly proud brand of maniacal laughter. Apparently, death has no effect on testosterone-fueled idiocy.
I came out of the bathroom cursing under my breath.
“Goddamn motherfucking dead people.”
“What’s wrong, princess? Can’t hold your coffee?” Gil asked, grinning, Cheshire-like.
> “Cut that smile, man. You look like a retard.”
I had spent twenty minutes rocking and heaving brownish fluid from my ass; it burned as though I’d been raped with the serious end of a red-hot poker. When there was nothing left to pass, I dabbed, yelping at each thunderbolt of pressure. I stood at the mirror a good five minutes, clutching the vanity, then ventured out to be humiliated.
“Lesson number two,” Ricardo said, sliding a vodka martini across the ice in front of me. “There are only two things you can consume and coffee’s not one of them.”
“No doubt. It’s a good thing alcoholism runs in the family.”
“That’s the spirit!” He either ignored my joke, or took it as sincere. “Alcohol and human flesh, blood, muscle, sweetbreads, and bone marrow is particularly tasty, but primarily for the epicure. Pig will do in a pinch but plays havoc with the bowels.”
“Are you trying to gross me out?” I asked. But I found I was not in the slightest queasy or disgusted, just kind of sad. His words meant no more pizza, garlic fries, coconut cream pie, and greasy churros dipped in hot chocolate. I would need to beef up the black in my wardrobe for the mourning period.
“Nope. Until they come out with Zombie Chow, those are your options.”
I thought back to my temptation to bite into Martin. It explained so much. The pangs in my stomach, prickling like a bag of thumbtacks; my inability to self-lubricate32; the ghostly pallor of my skin, not to mention the bluing of my veins, now visible through my foundation; and the chill coming off me, like an ice storm. It sunk in then, the death. Or I sunk into it. Either way, I was dead.
“Hungry?” Ricardo asked.
My head snapped in his direction. I was unsure how to respond.
“I guess the real question is: hungry enough, right?” As in: hungry enough to eat a person, Amanda? Hungry enough to kill? Hungry enough to go balls-to-the-wall Night of the Living Dead-savage on a human being?
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