by Steven Luna
I’m guessing even House would have trouble figuring out what to do about something like that.
POST 8
Cold Hands, No Heart
I never seem to realize how little I go to the doctor until I actually need one and can’t remember where the office is. It’s probably that way for most people – especially guys. We can be suffering through a severe bout of Stabbed in the Thigh with a Butcher’s Knife, and somehow just knowing there’s a chance we’ll get our sac squeezed and checked for lumps if we see a doctor will keep us locked in a bathroom, safe and warm and whimpering while we bleed to death. We’d rather just let it work itself out, thanks.
But that cat biting thing kind of got to me.
I figured maybe this one wasn’t going to work itself out.
It was easier to find the clinic than it was to update my paperwork once there, especially after getting stuck behind a girl who couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t take her Groupon for sixty-two percent off a Brazilian as a discount on her vitamin B prescription. When she asked if she could cover her bill using PayPal, the receptionist made her pay cash and gave her a pamphlet explaining the dangers of inhaling propellants. I think it might have fallen on deaf nostrils.
I sat for twenty minutes, refusing to touch the wrinkly magazines on the table and running through every possible ending for this appointment. No matter how I boiled it down, I couldn’t find a valid explanation for what was happening. I had no choice; I would leave it to group-insured medical science to sort out the reasons why I tried to eat a house cat. I read somewhere online that they can make a penis out of a toe.
Something like this should have been a slam dunk.
The nurse called me back in the middle of my mental excuse making. She was a small, round woman who was way happier than her profession was supposed to allow, all smiles and goofy chatter as we walked. She called me “mister” and giggled after everything she said even though none of it was funny, like a living LOL to end her sentences. That sort of unprompted happiness was irritating as hell in light of my disturbing condition, and her My Little Pony scrubs only made matters worse. For a minute I thought I‘d ended up in a pediatrician’s office by mistake. I was so relieved when I saw the exam room was filled with adult sized furniture and literature explaining the causes of erectile dysfunction. She had me change into a gown made out of paper towels and shoelaces, giggling at least four times as she explained which side was the front… and I’m pretty sure she was checking me out through the little window in the door while I changed. Something about her demeanor gave me the distinct feeling that she might be showing me more attention than she showed other patients. Sounds a little conceited, maybe, but that’s what it felt like. I hopped on the table and tucked my nuts when she came back in, because I was in no mood to be cupped or squeezed or checked for lumps, especially by Giggly Nurse Ponypants.
Every word out of her mouth from that point on was a compliment, and every compliment ended in a giggle. She slid her hands over my forearm as she secured the blood pressure cuff. “You have nice arms. You must work out a lot!” A total lie, since I know I have the all the muscle tone of a microwaved octopus. She squeezed the pump about a thousand times, let go and watched the needle fall all the way down to the bottom of the dial. Then she repeated it all twice more, but nothing registered. She figured it was a faulty machine, giggled, then moved on to my pulse. “Such smooth skin,” she said, and I squirmed, wishing I could tuck more than just my nuts. When she couldn’t find a pulse in my left wrist, she switched to the right one, giggled again like it was helping her concentrate, and still found nothing. “Well, someone isn’t very cooperative today! A little cold, too.” She swabbed my arm and ripped open a new syringe to take a blood sample. “Yeah,” I told her, “it’s kind of chilly in this room… especially when you’re wearing nothing but socks and a dress made out of Brawny.” She giggled, of course, just as the needle plunged into my flesh. I’ll keep you warm, honey, like sweatpants at a bonfire, I heard her say. Only her lips didn’t move.
And it didn’t come through my ears.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I said you seem cold,” she told me. And giggled. Give me three seconds to drop these scrubs and me and my ladyshapes will snuggle the chill right out of you. I heard it clearly, but there were no lips moving, no giggle. And no blood in the vial, either. “This just isn’t your day, mister. Maybe we should bring the doctor in now to see what he makes of this… you just sit tight.” She patted my knee too many times, and I flinched, waiting for another creepy come-on and trying to process the fact that I had no blood pressure, no blood flow and no pulse. And apparently I could read minds. When she was out of the room, I grabbed a stethoscope from the counter and listened to my own heartbeat, needing some reassurance that I was still healthy on at least some level. There was nothing. So I moved the scope left and right, and up against my neck. Still nothing.
This made the cat-eating thing look like a hang nail.
Suddenly, I had no desire to share my declining medical state with anyone else. I tore off the gown, untucked my nuts and threw on my clothes while making a dash for my car. Then I sped home and just sat still with my hand on my chest, listening for my heart to beat in my ears like you do sometimes when you’re falling asleep. Just like before, there was no heartbeat. And after that, there was no real falling asleep, either.
I saw Hube that night at band practice. He could tell I was totally shaken up even though I tried to play it off. He asked if I’d seen the doctor. “No, but I saw the nurse… and she sure saw me.” I left out all the disturbing details, about the giggling and the touching. And the missing vital signs. He wasn’t happy to find out I hadn’t accomplished anything. Something about his sideways glance told me he wasn’t going to let this go.
Lazer was his typical asshole self. “You still look like shit.”
“You, too. But I’ve been sick; yours is the unfortunate byproduct of inbreeding.”
“So’s your tiny dick, assface.” Such an enriching experience, being in this band.
Hube broke it up. “Claws in, ladies. Let’s make some music.” So we played. But my mind was elsewhere, and my heart wasn’t really into it, either.
In fact, I had no idea where my heart was at all.
POST 9
Halloweener
Every year at work we have this totally cheesy Halloween costume contest. And every year, I’m stunned at how many adults dress up and parade themselves around like they’re in some sort of Tim Burton fashion show for really tall second graders. On several occasions, I’ve even stunned myself by joining in the mayhem.
What can I say? I’m a second grader at heart.
Some of these folks really take their Halloween shit seriously. They all too eagerly tell you how much time and money they’ve spent putting their get-up together, welding things to wear and practicing a special walk. These people would send Lady Gaga off crying into her meat dress. I know a guy who paid over a thousand dollars for a replica of the sword that Aragorn carried in Return of the King so his Lord of the Rings attire would be nothing less than authentic. He also hand-sewed his tunic from a pattern he made by studying the Blu-Rays, stitching it together with thread he’d spun himself – and he took classes in leather craft so he could make the boots to ensure no detail was left ungeeked. Leather-freaking-craft. I was surprised he didn’t spring for Lasik so he could ditch the horned rims to make the illusion a little more complete.
Some people just don’t know how to commit.
We also have the Gang Bangers, teams of folks in costume that come with a skit or song or some other way-too-rehearsed performance that you know took the better part of the year to coordinate. It’s happened so many times that it’s expected now, like a flash mob that everyone already knows about. You can feel the steamy sigh of disappointment seethe through the office if, for some reason, it doesn’t happen. They’re pretty high concept with it, too. One year everyone in the g
roup dressed as decoy Waldos and hid themselves among the crowd while a shill went looking for the real Waldo. It was quite imaginative. And it would’ve been even cooler if Waldo had actually been in the crowd. But he wasn’t. Turns out he’d slipped in the bathroom stall and knocked himself out while changing into his costume. So no one figured out where Waldo really was until way past lunchtime. And even then, it was the janitor who found him, pants around his ankles and lying among a small fortune in loose change.
But I digress.
Seems like even more than Christmas, Halloween really brings the goofy kid out in everyone around this place. A perfect opportunity to put on your own meat dress or Aragorn boots of finely handcrafted leather. Or what have you. And yeah, it’s kind of stupid.
But it’s kind of fun, too.
At least, it was fun. Before This.
When I do participate, I am not one of the hardcore Halloweeners who drop huge chunks of cash for a costume. Nor am I one of the Bangers of Gang; I prefer to costume solo. And almost always at the last minute, too. I’m with those who choose to phone it in on their way out the door, even though we’ve had three hundred and sixty-four days since the last time it happened to think about it. There’s always the lady wearing last year’s six-sizes-too-small red satin gown and Mardi Gras mask, shaking her saucy hooch for candy like she’s starring in “The Devil Wears Lane Bryant”, and the guy who dons a fake mustache, glued-on chest hair and shoves a summer sausage down his pants and passes himself off as Ron Jeremy – every time. They make you wish there was some sort of Purell for your eyes. My costumes aren’t that visually provocative, but I do try to be creative… which means I’ll be hot-Googling the internet the morning of, pillaging You Tube for other people’s ideas, in search of something with a smart-ass flair that only seems original if you haven’t been hot-Googling the internet recently. It also requires that no new purchases be made, since I wouldn’t have time for shopping at that point. Only items readily found on or about the home premises are allowed – but everything there is fair game. Once I fashioned a half-assed bedroom side table out of a washing machine box I found in alley, strapped an old lampshade on my head, and went as a one night stand.
It might take a second for the words to create the image.
Take your time. I’ll wait.
This year, I had enough things taking up my energy. I didn’t feel like using the last five minutes before I left for work to steal someone else’s cheap idea for a costume. Besides, when you live Halloween every day, it tends to lose its sheen. Maybe I’ll be back in the swing of things next year, and I’ll come up with something mind-blowing that someone else has already thought of. This year, I sat it out – no costume, no parade. No thanks.
Damned if those ‘Weeners I work with didn’t call my bluff.
As soon as I was in the door, every foam-rubber Spongebob, every latex-headed Freddy Krueger, every lousy Scream-faced, clown-nosed, rainbow-wigged fool I passed called out Sweet costume! or You really outdid yourself this time, Joe!
Outdid myself?
What?
I checked my reflection in my monitor as I hit my desk, just to make sure I didn’t have something stuck to my forehead that might somehow make me look like a participant. There was nothing out of the ordinary. A chill ran through me as I put the pieces together. I turned to my cubie, shuffling about in a see-thru Hefty sack full of balloons, to test my theory. “Bag of jelly beans, right?” I asked. “Clever.” And then she said it:
“Thanks! Love your vampire costume… so authentic.”
Fuck me slowly with a chainsaw.
You mean to tell me that I’ve been an actual vampire for nearly a third of the year, and the only time anyone bothers to pay attention to it is on a day when they think I’m wearing a costume?
Glad I didn’t waste my time scouring the internet.
And it didn’t end at work. I stopped off at the convenience store on the corner to pick up a few bags of candy since I was definitely going to be at home, and the clerk complimented me as well – and the bag boy! Seriously? I’m in here every morning picking up the paper and a cinnamon mocha latte and I always look like this! Why is it suddenly noticeable now that it’s Halloween? And what do you say to something like that, anyway? “Thanks, but I don’t just look like a vampire; I am a vampire?” Not gonna happen. It’s one of those awkward sucker punch moments when people don’t mean to insult you; they just don’t seem to realize that their comment might not fit the situation. Or maybe it hits too close to home. Sort of like when you ask a woman when her baby’s due only to find out she’s just packing a righteous gut. How do you unring that bell?
You don’t, generally.
You just smile and back away slowly from the large angry lady making a fist in front of you.
I don’t want to make people feel weird about my looking weird, even if it takes a holiday devoted to devils and demons to get them to notice that there’s a difference. It’s my problem, not theirs. So I just said thanks, grabbed my three pounds of Kit Kat and went home. And later when the kids started knocking, I didn’t even bother trying to hide it. I just dropped the loot in the bag like they asked me to, chiming in with a “Happy Halloween” for all comers the whole night while they talked me up as the spooky vampire with the thin spot where his peak should be. That’s what I am, after all. Why should I let it bother me? At least I had the excuse of Halloween to get by with. Still, it got a little old after a while. So when the last gaggle of kids came and shook their buckets for candy, I sucked it up and opened the door. And when they asked me what I was supposed to be, I said, “Isn’t it obvious?” They discussed in depth until they agreed I was Charlie Sheen during his last season on Two and a Half Men.
“Not a vampire, huh?” I asked.
“Not even close,” they said.
So I gave them whatever was left in the bowl, and then I opened another bag and dumped it into their buckets until they were full. I threw them each a ten dollar bill, too. Bless their little hearts.
Thanks much, kids.
Way to make an undead soul feel human again.
POST 10
Eatin’ Ain’t Cheatin’
As everyone who has ever heard the folklore knows, there’s a real push for the idea that vampires have to drink blood to survive. Human blood is preferable, but animal blood will do in a pinch. Neither is fine with me, no matter how undead I might be. I’d really like to avoid human blood if at all possible, since I can think of only two things that would be worse to put in your mouth and consider food: human flesh and human feces. I should be thankful I didn’t become a zombie or a… whatever it is that eats poop. I’m sure there’s a name for it. Google it if you want.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to look it up.
In the last few months I’ve experimented with several alternatives, none of which has been very fulfilling. At first I just went where my cravings led me, though after the cat incident I was careful to keep the front door closed at mealtime. I learned right away that I have no idea how to stock a refrigerator. I’m like a three year-old with my food choices; olives, ramen noodles and Junior Mints do not make a fitting diet for a fully-living person, let alone one whose soul has been compromised. No wonder I succumbed to this vampire thing so easily. My body must have already been halfway dead from eating nothing but crap.
I do love me some Junior Mints, though.
Grocery shopping was tricky initially, since the scent of blood drew me straight to the meat section. I could smell it through the packaging, and even though I didn’t want to I was slobbing down the front of myself at the aroma. The human parts of me must have fought back pretty hard, since I also felt like I was going to puke. It didn’t seem to stop me from picking up a package of filets and licking the droplets that had leaked through the plastic wrap.
But having the deli guy give me the stink eye did.
So I put them in the cart, and then dumped in pretty much the rest of the freezer. I didn’t know then
how it would all work out, but I knew I couldn’t stay hungry forever. It’s funny finding out that the undead have to eat – you’d think that part would go away. But no; it only gets worse once you’re on the Other Side. So I approached the check stand with a cart full of the bloodiest meat I’d ever seen, wary of the judgment that might come along with my purchase. Sure enough, the cashier flashed me a face that said Really? in that special, condescending way that only a minimum wage-earning teenager can. But when I laid a twelve pack of MGD on the counter to go with it, her eyes lit up and she chattily though incorrectly assumed I was planning a massive barbeque. I figured this could be my way through the humiliation: buy a trolley-load of sliced cow all in one trip, and people might think you have some sort of problem; add a little beer, and they think you’re having a party. So loading up on raw meat in what I hoped would be a satisfying quantity wouldn’t be a problem as long as I camouflaged it with a couple of brewskis.
Good to know.
When I got home, I spread it all out on the counter, tore open the packages and molested every piece, from the shoulder cuts to the rump roast to the tenderloins. I had no idea the possibility of e-coli exposure wouldn’t keep from such a ripe occasion for hot, nasty, carnivorous food sex. But it so totally didn’t. I slurped and licked every last spot of juice out of everything, in some sort of raw meat mouth-fuck frenzy. And what do you know? I was still hungry after it was all over. It was at least sixty pounds of uncooked animal flesh that I sucked dry, and it might as well have been a Hot Pocket – and not the calzone kind; the shitty kind with broccoli in it that no one ever buys twice.
This wasn’t going to work.
So I wiped down the counter with Lysol (I’m not an animal), threw all the steaks in a skillet two at a time, stuck the roast and everything else in one of those big turkey roasting pans and sizzled me up some dry-ass dinner. It was all like unseasoned jerky at that point, tough and stringy and flavorless, even after I garnished it with olives and Junior Mints. And I devoured every bite like it was the first time I’d ever eaten. The beer barely washed it down. I felt full finally, if not particularly energized… kind of gross, actually, thick and lethargic. But not hungry, at least. I’ve never been a big eater – I was a three-bean salad shy of being vegetarian before This came along – so eating this much food after sucking the blood out of it just to slake off hunger was a revelation. A nasty, beef-sucking, gullet-stuffed-with-dry-meat revelation. I did find that it took a few days before I felt hungry again, so something must have worked. But I knew I couldn’t keep doing this; I’d go broke buying that much meat every week. Plus, the Vampire Death Gas hit me up hard soon after my binge, so I thought it best to moderate the flesh consumption, if only for the sake of the people I work with. I’d have to supplement with something else, something not quite so arousing. Or bacteria-filled.