Fat White Vampire Blues

by Andrew J. Fox

  He reached into his right pocket. The lump was the plastic case of a cassette tape. Jules lifted it quickly in front of his eyes. He could catch only a flash of yellow and the outline of a man standing by a car, but it was enough to spur his memory. Of course! It was Erato’s tape! The gift Erato had given him! He’d taken it along with him at the beginning of the evening, which seemed like a century ago, hoping he’d have a chance to listen to it once he’d retrieved his Cadillac. Then he’d forgotten all about it.

  This little cassette was the last survivor of what had been a mighty, incomparable music collection.A Cab Driver’s Blues. How fitting. Jules glanced quickly at the Lincoln’s dim dashboard. Yes, the car had a tape player of some kind. Maybe fate was beginning to smile on him once more. His best, most loyal friend had provided him with a gift that would now serve to buoy his spirits when they were at their lowest ebb. Jules thought about his friend Erato, safe in his bed in New Orleans with his family, and his eyes misted over.

  He carefully removed the cassette from its case and inserted it into the tape player’s mouth. He glanced at the dash. ThePLAY button was illuminated. Maybe Lincolns weren’t so crummy, after all. He pressed the button, anticipating the sweet blues music that would help soothe his ravaged and insulted soul.

  Nothing happened. Jules glanced at the dash again.

  “Of all the… Hell. It just damn well figures.”

  Aside from a desultory whirring of gears, the Lincoln’s eight-track tape player remained stubbornly silent.

  The deluge subsided to a thick drizzle by the time Jules reached the outskirts of Baton Rouge. The interstate was surrounded by an endless, monotonous vista of strip malls, fast-food emporiums, beige motels, and gambling casino billboards.So this is what the whole damn country turned into when I wasn’t payin‘ attention, Jules thought. He’d heard it from people who’d seen it firsthand, but he hadn’t dared believe it until now.

  The eastern sky was beginning to turn a grayish pink in his rearview mirror. He had maybe ten minutes-fifteen, tops-to find himself a covered garage and check himself in for the day. He scanned the myriad featureless buildings lined up alongside the highway. Land must’ve been cheap in Baton Rouge, because all the businesses, even the office complexes, made do with exposed surface parking lots. Jules frowned. He couldn’t be positive the Lincoln’s trunk was completely daylight-proof, and besides, he didn’t relish the thought of broiling in a steel box twelve hours beneath the South Louisiana sun. He imagined himself slowly roasting in his own fat, not an appealing picture at all.

  Sweating profusely from a surefire combination of stress and one hundred percent humidity, Jules figured his best shot at locating a public garage would be to head downtown, where the old state government buildings were. An overhead sign announced a Government Street exit two miles away. That sounded right. Behind him, the pinkish sky was beginning to turn ominously orange.

  The Government Street exit appeared just after the interstate forked and Jules turned north. From the top of the exit ramp, Jules saw what he first took to be a heart-stopping premonition of his own eternal damnation. The western horizon was shackled in a steel corset of glowing pipes and effluent tubing. Sulfur-yellow smokestacks belched clouds of smoke and steam in unearthly oil-slick colors. It wasn’t hell, Jules reminded himself. It was merely the terminus of the chemical and oil refinery complex lining the Mississippi River’s banks along the seventy miles between Baton Rouge and his lost home; the origin of the toxic soup that gave New Orleans’s tap water its distinctive flavor and aroma.

  St. Louis Street looked promising. Signs pointed the way to a Centroplex Convention Center, and besides, there was a St. Louis Street in the French Quarter in New Orleans. Jules’s eyes grew watery with the memory. But before he could become totally rheumy, he spotted a parking garage. And just in the nick of time, too-something was beginning to smell like cinnamon toast left in the toaster one cycle too long, and Jules was pretty sure it was none other than his own vagabond self.

  The wide-bodied Lincoln scraped both sides as Jules piloted the car through the garage’s entranceway. He grabbed his ticket from the dispenser. At least the daily rates were relatively cheap; less than half the typical garage rate in downtown New Orleans. Good. He might end up staying here a long time, and the more days his remaining twenty-nine dollars would stretch, the better.

  He pulled into the most shadowy, isolated spot he could find. The garage wasn’t underground. Louvered metal walls let in stray photons of the first rays of the morning. Jules cut his engine and got out of the car. The scattered bits of sunlight hit him like tiny incendiary missiles. Yet he found himself hardly caring. He was so sore all over that he could barely tell new pains from old. The floor where he had parked was filled with noxious blue smoke. Jules couldn’t tell whether the smoke had come from the Lincoln’s tailpipe or his own skin.

  He popped open his trunk. The earth from his front yard had remained mud; it shimmered in the early-morning light like black molasses syrup. Jules didn’t bother taking off his jacket. What was the use? He flopped into the soupy trunk like a plaid sack of cement. The cool mud soothed his burning skin a little. He reached for the lid and pulled it closed, then squirmed a bit in a futile effort to get more comfortable.

  The exiled, homeless vampire couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever welcomed the darkness more.

  “-nuh-no!No! You won’t get me! Keepaway — ”

  Soft hands grasped his shoulders and shook him awake. “Jules! Jules, wake up! You’re havin‘ yourself a nightmare!”

  Jules opened his eyes. He blinked once. He blinked twice. But the pink walls and white lace curtains refused to fade away. He was lying in a downy-soft four-poster bed. The air was perfumed with essence of citrus. He turned his head to the side. Sitting next to him, resplendent in a gauzy white negligee, was Maureen.

  She smoothed the wrinkles from his forehead with her soft fingertips. “Poor baby,” she said, her eyes brimming with concern. “You were howlin‘ like the wolfman got hold of your throat. Real bad dream, huh?”

  “I–I was stuck in Baton Rouge, baby. It was… it washell. Everything I ever owned got taken away from me. Everybody hated me. The whole world was out to get me-”

  “Hush. You just hush yourself now, baby.” She smiled and stroked his hair, letting her fingers glide down his cheek and neck to play with the tufts of hair on his bare chest. “You just let little ol‘ Maureen make it all better now.”

  She slowly slid her big body over his. “Mmmm, I’ll bet I know a way to get you to fall back asleep…” Her creamy skin felt like satin against his legs and belly and chest. She let her full weight settle on him, and every cell in his body was engulfed with pleasure.

  Her breath smelled of peppermint and fresh blood. “Mmmm, give Mama a big fat kiss…” Her lips were a feast, an endless repast that both perfectly satisfied his hunger and made him ravenous for more. She plunged her tongue into his mouth, sucking his teeth in a deliciously erotic fashion. He felt himself stirring, stiffening, growing proudly immense beneath her skillful ministrations.

  And then she unzipped the back of her head.

  “Hiya, Jules! Didn’t think I’d forgotten about ya, had ya?”

  “Aaahhhhhhh!”

  Malice X’s hot, garlicky breath filled Jules’s nostrils as he licked Jules’s face. “Mm, mm,good! Me, I always did prefer white meat.”

  “Nn-nooo!” Jules tried to hurl the other vampire off him, but powerful black hands shackled his wrists and ankles. Jules’s heart beat like a trip-hammer. “Wha-what do you want with me?” he spluttered. “Haven’t you done enough to me already?”

  Malice X smiled maliciously, letting his long fangs hang over his lower lip. “Why, Mistuh Jules, you an‘ me, we’ve barelybegun.” He shifted his right hand from behind his back, revealing a wooden stake shaped like a twisted ram’s horn. Clutching it in both fists, he raised it high above his head. Then, snickering softly, he plunged it into Jules’s spasming
heart.

  “Nooooo!”

  Jules’s eyes snapped open. He was engulfed in darkness. His hands flew to his chest, above where his heart beat painfully fast. There was no stake there, twisted or otherwise. All his fingers felt were the soggy lapels of his sport coat, his heaving chest, and granules of dirt. He smelled drying mud and his own sour, frightened sweat. He stretched his arms out, exploring his lightless environment. Before he could reach very far, his hands bumped against the familiar, faintly comforting contours of the inside of the Lincoln’s trunk.

  Shifting position so that he was leaning against the left rear tire hump, he pressed the glow button on the side of his watch. The blue digital numerals read 7:52P.M. The sun had been down for a good twenty minutes. He was free to leave the cramped chamber of horrors that was the Lincoln’s trunk.

  He pulled on the wire that Billy Mac had rigged up. The trunk creaked slowly open, letting in the humid, petroleum-scented evening air. He glanced around the nearly empty garage. He had to make a plan. For the past nineteen hours, the only thing on his mind had been getting out of New Orleans. Now that he had escaped, he had to figure out what the heck to do with the rest of his undead existence.

  Hrmmm…After his uncomfortable day’s sleep in the trunk, the effort of so much thinking made his head pound. Using the Lincoln as a taxi was out of the question. It was a two-door, and besides, nobody in their right mind would pay a dime to be driven around in that heap. So he’d have to buy another car (preferably another Fleetwood… a late- 1960s model in good condition, one of those beauties with the stacked quad headlights, some little old grandmother’s car with ridiculously low mileage, would be ideal).

  He’d have to find some entry-level night-shift job, at least until he’d stashed enough away to clean himself up. Somewhere downtown there had to be a twenty-four-hour diner or coffee shop. Those kinds of places were always looking for dishwashers. Washing dishes was beneath him, of course, but he’d only be stuck at the bottom for a little while, until he was able to afford some new clothes. Then, thanks to his first-rate talent for servicing the public, he’d be promoted to wait staff, or maybe night manager.

  And hey, the kinds of folks who patronized all-night diners usually made the easiest, most convenient victims, too.

  Now that he had a plan, Jules felt one hundred percent better about his prospects.Plan your work, then work your plan-that’s what Mother always said. I’m like a crafty ol‘ tomcat, he told himself, brushing some of the mud from the front of his pants.Throw me off the roof a hundred times, I’ll always land on my feet.

  He marched assertively down the parking ramp, his stiff neck stuck at a thirty-degree tilt, eager to see what downtown Baton Rouge had to offer him. The answer, he discovered after walking a few blocks, was “Not much.” The boarded-up storefronts along Convention Street, North Boulevard, and Florida Street reminded Jules of old Dryades Street back in New Orleans; Dryades had withered to the point where the only commerce that took place there involved the trade of green paper for white rocks and black skin. If anything, these streets were even sadder and lonelier than Dryades was, because not even crack dealers and streetwalkers bothered pushing their wares here.

  Finally, on Florida Street, Jules found the one business establishment that wasn’t a windowless phantom. Richoeux’s Cafй was closed, but at least it looked like it might be open sometime. The faded Coca-Cola sign over the restaurant’s entrance mocked Jules with its invitation toPAUSE…REFRESH. He thought about the Trolley Stop Cafй back on St. Charles Avenue, the rough-and-tumble cabby fellowship he could always find there, the decent, if not outstanding, coffee. He stared through the dark front window, trying to see if the cafй‘s hours were posted somewhere inside.

  Jules heard a rumbly clanking behind him, on the street. “You lookin‘ for sumptin’ to eat?” a voice asked.

  He turned around. The voice belonged to a tiny, white-haired black man who was pushing a rusty shopping cart half filled with crushed tin cans. “You lookin‘ for sumptin’ to eat? Dat place don’t open up ‘til seven-thirty in the mornin’. It ain’t cheap, neither.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to find me somewheres to eat,” Jules said. “You know of any places around here that’re open late?”

  “No, suh.” The old man shook his head sadly. “But dem holy rolluhs gonna be handin‘ out samwiches an’ joe any minute now, over in the park.”

  “The park? Where’s that?”

  “Jes’ up the street,” the old man said, nodding his head toward the river. “I’m goin‘ over dat way now. Youse welcome to follow me.”

  Jules shrugged and silently followed the old man and his rickety shopping cart down Florida Street. Where there was one homeless person, there were likely to be others, he reasoned. They might not help him earn money for a new Caddy, but at least an enclave of street people would ensure that Jules wouldn’t starve.

  Lafayette Street Park was an acre of oak-shaded green space tucked between the Mississippi River levee and the old State Capitol Building. Jules noted with satisfaction that the park was home to a sizable community of derelicts, at least two dozen. Most of them were clustered around a large station wagon parked at the edge of the trees. Several people were setting up a coffee urn on the wagon’s tailgate and beginning to pass out wrapped sandwiches to eager hands.

  Jules’s companion aimed his cart at the gathering and sped up his pace. “Dey make you sing,” he said, smiling shyly. “But I don’t mind none. Me, I kin sing dat gospel real good.”

  Jules let the old man hustle off toward the chow line and drifted into the park. From a distance he endured several ragged choruses of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” and “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” One of the women volunteers noticed Jules watching from beneath the oaks and waved at him to come over, but he ignored her. He’d never taken a handout in his life, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start now, especially not from some Bible-hugging Baptists who probably considered Spam on white bread manna from heaven.

  He waited for the station wagon to drive off and then watched the various park dwellers carry their meals to their favorite benches. Many of the derelicts clustered together in small, wary groups. Jules thought they behaved like something he’d seen on theWild Kingdom show, packs of hyenas nervously guarding a half-devoured carcass abandoned by a lion. One white woman looked promising, however. She appeared to be a bit better nourished than the others (iron-poor blood wasn’t good for a vampire, Jules reminded himself), and she kept to herself, walking with small, quick steps to a bench near the levee, away from the others.

  Jules approached her as casually as possible and sat down on the edge of her bench. She looked to be in her late thirties, and her clothes weren’t nearly as disheveled as those worn by the other park dwellers. She glanced at Jules several times with startled, birdlike movements, looking quickly away whenever Jules attempted to make eye contact, but she kept eating her sandwich and made no effort to leave the bench.

  Jules smiled his warmest, most homespun smile at her. “Hiya, gorgeous,” he said, racking his brain for an appropriate opening line. “What’s a fine-lookin‘ lady like you doin’ in a low-rent situation like this?”

  She placed her sandwich carefully on her lap and made eye contact with Jules for the first time. “You’re from the guv’ner’s office, aren’t you?”

  A little nonplussed, Jules responded, “Uh, no. Actually, I’m from New Orleans. Just got into town this morning.”

  “The guv’ner’s got offices in New Orleans, doesn’t he?” the woman shot back. “The guv’ner drives around in a big black limousine. It’s got a TV in it. He watches the TV to see what’s inside my mind.”

  “Uh… yeah. I see.” Jules fidgeted with his fingernails, trying to figure a way to turn the woman’s unfortunate mental state to his advantage. “Well, actually, I reallyam from the governor’s office. The governor, uh, he sent me to find you, so I could give you a nice tour of that big nice house over there.” Jules pointed
toward the old State Capitol Building, which glowed in the evening mist like a white castle from a Cecil B. DeMille knights-and-damsels epic.

  “Really?” she said, edging closer to Jules.

  “Really,” Jules said warmly, taking advantage of the moment to slide closer to her. “We can go take that tour right now, if you’d like.”

  “Iknew it! I was the guv’ner’s mistress. He used to let me live there in that castle until I said I wouldn’t vote for him no more.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s changed his mind. You can go live there again, and you can vote for anybody you like.”

  He held out his hand to her. She stiffened, staring at Jules’s hand like it was leprous. “You’re trying to bribe me to vote for him, aren’t you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your hand-it’s full of filthy bribe money.”

  Jules stared at his empty hand. He wished itwere full of filthy money. “No, baby, it’s nothin‘ like that. We’re just gonna go on a little tour, is all.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “No!” She scooted away from Jules and wrapped her sandwich in the hem of her dress. “He’s full of tricks! He’ll do anything to get me to vote for him!”

  “Now, baby, you just calm yourself down-”

  “Don’t come near me!” She abruptly stood and backed away from the bench. “He’s trying to bribe me!” she shouted to the nearest group of park dwellers. “He’s trying to seduce me with his video poker money! Then the feds will come get me and put me on trial! Briber!Briber! ”

  All eyes in the park focused on the two of them. Jules got up from the bench and stepped away from her, his hands spread in a futile gesture of conciliation. “All right, all right already! I’m leavin‘, see? I’m leavin’. We’ll forget the tour, okay? Just settle down.”

  Every other park dweller now eyed him like he was a walking time bomb. His repast for the evening was spoiled. Unable to think of anything else, he climbed to the top of the levee and watched the colored smoke belch from the tops of the tall refinery stacks. He passed a few hours counting the eighteen-wheelers that occasionally crossed the Mississippi River bridge. As the echoes of their passing bounced off the levee’s grassy slope, Jules felt the first cold fingers of real despair touch his soul.