Musings of a Postmodern Vampire

by P. J. Day

  I opened the door to the driver’s seat and slipped into the superbly comfortable black leather seating. Holly was applying the last finishing touches of lipstick, using the passenger’s side mirror. She puckered her lips sensually and gave me that look.

  “Comfortable?” I asked.

  “These seats feel very smooth and cushy, Jack. Are these heated? Oh! Um... the seat is getting a bit hot.”

  I immediately turned off the heater on the passenger seat. Some people aren’t privy to getting their bums artificially simmered in the name of luxury, I guess.

  “Sorry, I know it can get kind of hot,” I said to Holly, slightly embarrassed.

  “No... no... it’s fine, just turn it down a bit. I don’t mind, really. I’m just accustomed to my regular old seats in my Honda with some random wire that pokes into my back. It just takes some getting used to, you know?”

  Holly’s quick wit was accompanied by some slight blushing. She was probably concerned she would come off as an unsophisticated pleb complaining about a feature that was standard in most modern luxury cars.

  “Honestly, I think it gets too hot, too. Maybe they designed this feature with old men’s asses in mind. Rickety old asses are usually susceptible to the cold, and it is, after all, probably Audi’s main demographic,” I humored, hopefully able to break the monotony of apologetic clichés.

  “You’re funny. That is so true!” said Holly.

  “So, you ready?” I asked.

  “Of course!”

  I sped out of the parking lot, showing off the sheer power of the fine German engineering that was now under my control. Holly’s reaction was full of perceptibly genuine enthusiasm. I cocked up with confidence, knowing full well, right then and there, that she was genuinely and quite possibly attracted to me. It’s no joke when people and dating experts say that you can tell a girl is attracted to you within minutes of meeting her. She had that sparkle in her eye. Or maybe it was because she had a couple cups of coffee before I showed up at her apartment.

  It had taken me a week of deep, creative thought to plan our date. I wanted to make sure that tonight went perfectly. Due to my condition, it was pretty damn important that I hit a home run on the first date. No room for error when you’re the walking undead who also longs to be in constant company of beautiful women.

  “So, do you like what you do? Taking photos of corporate events?” I asked Holly, as I navigated the Saturday night traffic on the 405, squeezing in between the chaotic mix of premature Sunday drivers, singing teens, and potentially inebriated pilots.

  “It pays the bills. I mostly do freelance work for movie studios,” she said.

  “Wow, really? Sounds like fun work. I thought you made a living taking pictures of flabby, middle-aged, desk jockeys scarfing down cocktail shrimp at the hors d’oeuvre tables.”

  Holly smiled.

  “Believe it or not, I enjoy taking pictures of those business functions. People who usually work in rigid environments let loose at those events. I capture sincere, happy moments. Sometimes, there are more genuine smiles at those corporate functions than at weddings.”

  We were approaching the turnoff for the 110 freeway. I sped up in the carpool lane. I was hitting 90 but the car felt like it was only going 65. I looked in the rear-view mirror every so often, trying to spot a single headlight. I didn’t want to get pulled over by a CHP officer on a bike.

  “Now that you mention it, everyone did seem quite happy that night. In fact, I was pretty chill that night, too. I guess you’re right. It’s nice to take a break alongside your co-workers. I was relaxed and comfortable enough to ask you out.”

  Holly blushed; she slightly nodded her head back and forth, indicating light embarrassment.

  “I know, I can’t believe you did that. I have never been asked out on a date while at work.”

  I merged onto the 110 south. Only a few cars sprinkled the five-lane highway. The empty freeway tempted me into pushing my Audi a little more on the empty stretch run.

  “I find that hard to believe, Holly. I think you are pretty damn stunning. Maybe guys are a bit intimidated by you while you work?”

  My surefire compliment had Holly squirming in her seat.

  “Jack, stop it. I’m being serious. I’ve never been asked out while at work. You caught me off guard. I had no choice but to say yes.”

  I quickly glanced at Holly, while still paying careful attention to the freeway ahead of me.

  “Wait a minute, so you are saying that you said yes because you had no idea what to do when I asked you out?” I asked.

  “No, okay, maybe... but if you asked me out someplace else, I probably would have said yes. So, don’t feel too bad.”

  The Gaffey exit was coming up. PCH was just a few miles away. This was the first time I was going to drive my new car on the fabled Pacific Coast Highway since purchasing it. It was going to be fun driving with the sunroof open and the windows down, smelling the salty, fresh ocean air.

  “Jack, where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise,” I said, as I gently patted her leg with my right hand, again mindful of not coming off as too pervy.

  As I reminded Holly that surprises have romantic intentions, too, a little disturbing thought crept into my head. It made me realize how trusting human beings are under the guise of a first date. We had hardly talked on the phone; our time on the freeway was literally the longest we had been with each other, and she was in a car with a vampire. In some circles, that might be considered worse than being in a car with a serial murderer. Sexual attraction, even the most innocent kind, throws out any semblance of logic or caution. I was taking Holly to a cliff overlooking the ocean, where I had come to find out this morning, after a little research, was a place where many people had committed suicide. How grim. What was I saying? I swear, I’m sick in the head.

  “You okay?” Holly asked. “You have a somber look on your face.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry... I know, awkward. I was just trying to remember what street I had to take.”

  Holly caught me in one of those random, deep stages of concentration where I tend to zone out.

  “Umm... the GPS in the car is telling us where to go, dork.” Holly playfully slapped my arm.

  “What am I thinking? Work stuff. Sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming, you know?” I said, hoping Holly fell for my explanation.

  After driving a bit through the streets of San Pedro, we finally arrived on PCH. I lowered the windows and opened the sunroof. Holly sat back in her car seat and inhaled the fresh, crisp ocean air.

  “My hair is going to look like a mess!” she said, putting both hands over her head in a futile attempt at containing her golden silky flowing locks.

  “Do you want me to roll up the front windows?”

  “No... no, Jack. This is nice. I don’t live by the beach, so this is a rare treat. I don’t mind my hair getting a little frizzy.”

  I looked at the dashboard touch screen, and the temperature outside was a comfortable 62 degrees. We were both warmly dressed for a typical Southern California spring night.

  Unlike Santa Monica, and the other populated cities along PCH in and around Los Angeles, the Palos Verdes Peninsula was a little more subdued. There were hardly any cars on the road. A few streetlights lined the highway; it was safe to use my high beams. I wouldn’t want to risk spoiling our date by hitting an opossum or a raccoon.

  It was a clear night. The stars were obscured by the full moon which hung over the ocean like a pendulum suspended in mid-air, highlighting the calm ripples that outlined the Pacific and gave it a shimmery appearance.

  Catalina Island’s silhouette was clearly visible in the distance.

  We finally arrived at Abalone Cove Shoreline Park. The parking lot was closed, so I parked on one of the wide shoulders on this particular stretch of PCH. The grassy areas over the top side of the ridge were perfect for admiring vistas and enjoying picnics. There were signs that directed visitors to trails tha
t led to the tide pools below, an attraction which the PV Peninsula was known for.

  “This is such a scenic place, Jack. You are not going to get a parking ticket here, are you?” asked Holly.

  “Don’t worry about it. People park on these shoulders all the time.” I didn’t really know if that was true or not, but it sounded reassuring.

  We both got out of the car. I opened my trunk and handed her a large, white tablecloth. I grabbed the picnic basket and the bottle of vintage merlot from the Temecula Valley that came highly recommended. Temecula lies in a temperate valley nestled between the San Bernardino Mountains, creating an ideal climate for Southern California growers and wine enthusiasts alike. Wine does nothing for me, for obvious reasons; however, nothing but good things could come from a wine-relaxed Holly.

  I closed the trunk, and we walked toward the grassy park. I climbed over a wooden fence then helped her climb over it. We arrived at the open space of the carefully maintained lawn. I cleared out any rocks or sticks that might poke us in our behinds before placing the pristine white cloth on the ground. I picked a spot 20 feet away from the cliff’s edge. A little danger and a flair for adventure were certainly in order. We were the only souls in the entire park that night, which was superbly perfect for a romantic feast by the sea.

  There was no wind. I pulled out my favorite candelabra, which I usually kept on top of my coffee table in the living room, and placed it on a plate in the middle of our picnic cloth. I proceeded to light three candles. Our faces were romantically highlighted by the candlelight. The absence of wind kept the candles lit. Now, the setting was perfect.

  I kept a cool, calm demeanor. All I gave Holly were gentle smiles and the occasional eye contact. I didn’t want to make it look as if I was trying too hard.

  I dug into my picnic basket and pulled out a small Tupperware container and opened it. “I brought some Kalamata olive and goat cheese spread. I think you’ll love it!” I said to Holly, thinly applying the spread on the lightly salted crackers.

  “Jack, this is too nice.”

  Holly grabbed the wine bottle and the corkscrew. She had a hard time getting it to open. It was really cute watching her pretty face turn red while she struggled with the daunting task of getting the vintage cork to pop.

  “Wait, I got this. This is my treat,” I said. I took the wine bottle from her hands, opening the bottle with minimal effort.

  I then picked up the wine glasses and skillfully held them in one hand. I poured the delectable vintage into both of the glasses, not a drop of wine spilling onto the picnic blanket.

  “This is too much, Jack. Let me help a little. Do you want me to prepare the dinner plates?”

  “Holly, relax, it’s okay. Just enjoy yourself. Don’t lift a finger. I got this,” I said, as I handed Holly her glass of wine.

  “Shall I make a toast?” I asked.

  “To what?” she replied.

  “That we are able to enjoy a spring night by the beach without freezing our asses off.”

  “Sure,” she said, with a smile.

  “I’m joking, of course,” I said, slightly chuckling.

  I held the wine glass in the air, its distinctive glasswork creating a crystalline mosaic that was highlighted by moonlight.

  “Here’s a toast to a night of exploration by two fabulous individuals!” I said with my chin held up high.

  “Exploration?” Holly asked, with a smile and a hint of discomfort.

  “No, not that type of exploration. Maybe, if things go perfectly... just kidding!”

  “Jack, stop it!”

  I was playing Holly like a fiddle. I used the word exploration like a fishing lure. Holly’s reaction to the word indicated she wanted to take things really slow. I didn’t mind. Appealing to a girl like Holly deserved a decelerated, methodical approach.

  “So, what’s the main course?” she asked.

  “Like I said, it’s a surprise. Let’s enjoy the wine and the olive spread. Good stuff, right?”

  “I like it. It has a tangy edge to it, never had anything like it,” she said, her mouth full of spready goodness.

  I wanted us to bond a little more by enjoying the wine, crackers, and spread before we got our bellies too full from the lamb that I had specially prepared last night, using an old recipe I found in my garage that dated back to the year 1896. The recipe included liver and kidney, which apparently was like the equivalent to a baked potato, according to today’s standards. Mutton? How about a side of kidney and liver, too? Would you want some tomato bisque? You know what? I want to live it up. Sprinkle some of that ground-up kidney and liver on the soup to stabilize its constitution... hmm... hmm... hmmm. Times were tough back then. Nothing went to waste. Hooves in my stew? Sure, why not!

  Predictably, I omitted those particular ingredients, but all of the other ones like salt, pepper, vegetable shortening, and mushroom caps could all stay. Feeding my date liver and kidney on the first date was a total Dali move. I must remain consistent.

  “Did you see that?” Holly yelled, pointing to the sky.

  “See what?” I said, as I quickly looked up.

  “I just saw a falling star; you gotta make a wish!”

  “Ah, a meteorite. Okay...” I closed my eyes. I don’t believe that a random cosmic pebble can make dreams and wishes come true, but when a hot girl asks you to partake in superstition, you do it!

  “That might only be the second time in my entire life that I’ve seen a falling star,” she claimed.

  “Really? That’s nothing. I remember when Tunguska happened—”

  At this moment, I realized I made a giant anachronistic boo-boo. I hoped she had no idea what the hell I was talking about.

  “Tunguska?” she asked, her pretty little face contorted in apparent confusion.

  I put my wine glass down on the picnic blanket. I got slightly fidgety, trying to think how I could change the subject.

  “Come here; your shoulders look slightly tense. Let me rub them a bit,” I suggested.

  “Okay...”

  Holly looked quite confused. However, that same confusion most likely let me invade her personal space without much resistance.

  She sat in front of me, facing the ocean. I put my fingers on her shoulders and began to massage them very carefully.

  “Oops. Tunguska? I meant Halley’s Comet. Falling stars, which are really meteorites, remind me of Halley’s Comet. I confuse both those two cosmic comet events for whatever reason. Damn internet!” I said, hoping she believed my clumsy attempt at correcting my potentially calamitous recollection.

  Holly’s shoulders melted into my hands. Her head fell slightly backward. The sides of her neck bulged out like plump, glistening, mounds of flesh.

  “I remember Halley’s Comet. I was like five at the time... Wow, Jack, you’re good at this. You’re barely moving your fingers, too.”

  I used my knuckles to dig deep into Holly’s pressure points. She groaned appreciatively.

  “Yeah, I remember all the hype surrounding it too. I was seven when Halley’s Comet was a big deal. I remember my parents taking me to the Griffith Observatory to see it.” I improvised as I made her turn into putty in my hands.

  I had been 119 years old at the time of Halley’s reappearance in 1986. I had absolutely no recollection what I was doing when Halley’s Comet became visible. I was probably watching Miami Vice while eating some Haagen Dazs.

  “I remember there being a large group of people on the grass just outside the observatory, looking up at the sky. There was this old man; he was around eighty. I could see him beginning to tear up. I overheard the old man telling his wife that he remembered seeing the comet with his mom and dad. She then gave him a hug.” God! I hope she believes my bullshit story.

  “Oh, wow, you remember that?” asked Holly.

  “The comet was like a bridge between his youth and mortality. I couldn’t quite grasp the old man’s emotional journey at the time, but I understood it more as I got older,” I s
aid.

  As the words left my mouth, they sounded so convincing that I almost believed them myself. Almost.

  The more I talked about it, the more this imagined scenario made more sense to me. Believing in one’s own lies certainly had a way of rationalizing truthful existence, I guess.

  “You want a refill?” I asked, nodding at her empty wine glass.

  “Just a little bit,” she said, probably not wanting to come off as a lush on the first date.

  I filled her glass halfway. Mine was still full. Drinking is just a formality for me. I put down the wine bottle. I continued to rub her shoulders. She relaxed more and more under my touch.

  “So, as a photographer, what is your most memorable shot?” I asked, trying to change the subject away from delusions of my invented childhood experience.

  “Have you got a smartphone?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” I pulled the phone out of my coat pocket and handed it to her.

  She unlocked the lock screen on the phone and went straight to the internet browser. I hope I had nothing incriminating on there; I didn’t want her thinking I was some sort of sex-starved bachelor. Even if I was.

  “Here, this is a photo album of some of the locations I have photographed. Sort of a mini-portfolio.”

  The photo album contained pictures from various locations, from pine forests to rainforests, a park with the Eiffel Tower in the background, a strange rainbow-colored geyser, and an old, abandoned mansion. Judging by the brief glimpse of the pictures I saw on her album, she was quite talented.

  “This is impressive work,” I said to Holly, as I put my hands around her waist. She didn’t flinch and continued to scroll through her photos on my smartphone, without a protest for my wandering hands.

  “I always take pictures of buildings and locations. It gets kind of boring. I’m trying to mix it up lately, and I’m trying to capture the same essence with people—you want to try something?” she asked.

  “Sure.”