by R. G. Nelson
“I guess we can date,” she allows casually, but with a smile twinkling at the corners of her lips. “But we won't be taking any beach vacations. At least, not in the sunlight,” she jokes.
Vera pauses for a bit and a serious expression washes over her demeanor. “Adam, I really like you. I don’t know what this is; I didn’t really plan for it. But I want to give it a shot. Yet, no matter what happens, no matter how bad or messy things get, you can never, ever do anything to expose what we are in public.”
“Because that would be bad,” I say with mock gravity. She’s sort of mentioned that before.
“Exactly. Like, deadly,” she adds with a dark tone of warning in her voice. For the briefest of moments, I start to pick up a menacing vibe brimming under her words. But it passes quickly. Sensing that the message has sunk in (it has, big time), she relaxes back into her usual self.
“Although otherwise, being a little bad can be fun,” Vera teases, slowly closing the distance to me. I open up my arms to her, all sinister thoughts erased, and she fits right inside.
She fits even better when we lie down next to each other in my bed.
And just like that, I was a goner. But in a very good way.
6)
In the weeks ahead, we spend a lot of time together. We agree that at the end of each day it’s our time, just me and her–not a huge sacrifice on my part, given my current social situation. She picks me up and walks me home from work almost every night. Even though I know she will be there, every time I see her, lingering just out of the shallow yellowish light from the sparse lamp posts, I get such a rush. It’s hard to describe, but I feel a curious mix of excitement for what the night will hold, disbelief that someone so amazing is here waiting for me, and increasingly, a sense of pride that she is mine. It’s like the night has opened up to a whole world of new possibilities for me, even though I’m very much immersed in the same physical piece of the world as always.
For example, sometimes we stop on the roof and she watches me paint–just sits there quietly, observing me while I do my thing. Though this was my “alone” place and I used to view other rare visitors like Franklin as intruders, I don’t mind her presence at all. The first time I was a bit nervous to paint in front of her; I guess I was worried that I might not be as good as she previously thought or that she might get bored or something. I mean, they even have that expression “watching paint dry.”
But she never shows any hint of boredom or anxiousness, and I feel I see real approval in her eyes when I step back to critique my work with her. The suggestions she makes are given so softly and delicately (and often with a quick kiss to seal them) that I’m only too happy to incorporate them–too happy that she really cares. Now I just relax and paint away (though I also realize that I tend to stick to the nighttime beach motif that she first admired). In fact, I often get so engrossed that I forget she is there for extended periods, which is great because each time that I turn around and re-discover her, I get that indescribable rush again.
After a few weeks, during the times when she has commitments for the Movement and I find myself painting alone, I begin to realize how lonely this place is without her and how empty my world was without her. This spot, which was once my retreat from the world, my protective fortress, is incomplete without her. I guess that means that she has quickly become a major part of my life–that I rely on her for support and comfort. It’s scary to put so much reliance on one person, especially when I don’t know what she really gets from me. It’s almost inconceivable that I can hold the interest of someone so incredibly extraordinary.
Still, I take it as it is and enjoy these good times. These amazing times. They have been few and far between in my life, especially recently. I begin to get so used to hanging out with her that rather than being deprived of her company, I start to go along when she has official Movement stuff to do early in the night.
The first time I saw her recruiting I got quite jealous–she had all these eager young guys surrounding her like a crop circle. They were all trying to talk to her and impress her with discussions of their counter-culture opinions. She would stand in the middle of them, twirling her hair, smiling and teasing and getting them to sign petitions and pledge to come to upcoming demonstrations. I would worry that one of these impressionable youths might in fact make an impression on her. After all, I still really don’t understand exactly how I won her.
But now with passing time, I’ve grown more comfortable in us. I watch her do her thing and sometimes even join in the conversations, pretending that I’m just another eager potential recruit. Every once in a while, she’ll surreptitiously give me a wink, and I’ll know she’s really thinking of me. And afterwards … afterwards she’s all mine until I fall asleep (which has become later and later as my days and nights reverse).
With her, I re-discovered a magical world, a world that had begun to fade with the end of my childhood and advent of my teens–and then was shattered with the death of my mother. Something as simple as walks in the warm summer night become things to look forward to with Vera. When she’s at my side, the fulgent moon seems to shine brighter, stars seem to have an added lustrous twinkle, and the crickets seem to chirp more symphonically. Plus, with my arm firmly wrapped around a vampire, the stiffening summer heat is kept at bay. And when we’re more social and go out to bars, I find myself envied by others for once. It feels good. I don’t know if Vera notices or not, but she at least pretends not to.
But more importantly, for the first time, I feel like someone sees me, understands me, and still likes me. She comes over a lot; initially, I tried to shield her from my dad. Maybe it was silly, but I’d race in and try to clean up a bit before allowing her inside. Something about having my dad like that made me feel so vulnerable … so open to judgment. I guess because I judge myself.
But once she followed me in against my wishes (apparently vampires only need that invite once!). She cautiously and quietly came over to the sofa and helped me straighten my dad up. Out of everything we’ve done together, that was one of the most intimate. Sometimes we even moved him to his bedroom together so we could hang out in the living room and use the TV. She rarely displays her true strength, but seeing how easy it is to carry him up the stairs with her helping really shows me how much she holds back on a regular basis.
Since she sees him at his worst, I make sure to have her over on those rare nights when my dad is still functioning at dusk. I’m lucky that my dad never wants us all to have a family dinner or anything because I’m not sure how Vera would manage that, but we do sit and watch programs together. My dad likes the History Channel, and Vera’s knowledge of the past astonishes him. (Me, too, except that I know she’s cheating a bit by having lived through it.)
Yet, I can’t help but feel pride when my dad tells me one evening that she is a keeper. And sometimes when he wakes up when I come in without Vera by my side, he asks about her and tells me to spend as much time together as possible because you never know when the good things in your life will be ripped away. Knowing how much I care about Vera after just this short period and picturing her suddenly torn violently from my life gives me a new understanding of my father. I still don’t really excuse his total decline, but I guess I can see that before I probably did not understand the depth of emotions and despair that he faced–faces.
Our time together in my bedroom is not very helpful in limiting the deepening of my feelings. And as our familiarity with each other grows, Vera and I spend more and more time there. Even later, when we lie cuddling, sweaty (me anyway) and slightly out of breath under the covers, our conversations seem to be even more meaningful and bring us even closer together. We can usually talk about anything, but in these moments of extreme intimacy we really can ask about any topic and reveal our innermost secrets comfortably with each other.
I don’t answer immediately. I turn my head to look out my window, and instead only see the blacked-out area where my window used to be (triple-layered duct tape now secures heavy drapes so Vera can stay the whole day if we want). Not finding any inspiration for how to best frame my answer there, I go with the simple version.
“It's not a big mystery,” I say. “In high school, I grew late, so I didn't play varsity sports. That seemed to be a pre-requisite for sitting at the cool table.”
“Cool table. Are you speaking metaphorically, or did they actually have a table where all the cool kids sat?” Vera asks incredulously.
“The latter. And they definitely made it clear if you weren’t allowed to sit there,” I respond. “Plus, my dad cracking down on drugs and helping get curfews imposed in our neighborhood didn't exactly win me a lot of points with the popular kids. No one wanted a police lieutenant’s kid at their party.”
“I know I went to school a long time ago and that it was a completely different experience back then, but it’s hard to believe humans are so divisive already from such a young age. It’s like it’s a part of your nature rather than something learned,” Vera says.
I’m not sure how to respond to that. Maybe it’s something you learn from your parents and society from a young age, or maybe it is part of our nature–an animal instinct for survival of the fittest. The strong over the weak. Our tribe vs. their tribe. Whatever the reason, high school for me wasn’t a fun place to be.
Vera rolls over to place her hand on my chest. It’s cold, of course. I’ve come to like it, though: It’s a reminder of how much time she’s been here with me and not out tending to her other needs. Though I’m very cautious not to push that time too far. No need to tempt fate.
“So you weren’t an athlete back then and didn’t sit at the cool table. So what? You’re probably a better person for it.”
“I guess so, yeah.”
I remember back to those frustrating days, only a few years ago and yet somehow a lifetime ago. What do they matter now? And how much did they shape me? How much of me remains left to be shaped? I think of Franklin, who is obviously going through his own changes now and trying to reinvent himself into someone he thinks can be important–someone who can change things instead of sitting on the sidelines as we did back in the day. I can almost understand his need to be a part of the Movement … almost.
I feel slightly guilty that I made Vera promise to keep him away from the Movement. When he realized he was being shut out, he instinctively blamed me and was pretty angry; we had a few good yelling matches where he called me a lot of names. But when he called me a hypocrite it really stung, partly because deep inside it seemed kinda fair. I do in fact often find myself on the fringes of the Movement more than I would ever have expected of myself before. But I feel like it’s different for him: He has no Vera to look out for him and doesn’t really know what he would be getting into. What kind of friend would I be letting him fall in unknowingly with a group of vampires?
I see Vera studying me intently; I know she’s guessing at my inner thoughts. I decide to answer her questioning eyes. “I wasn’t always alone, though. Franklin and I used to hang out a bunch, play video games together and all that. He was the only one I could count on in school back then. And when my mom died and I came home, it was cool that he was still around here–I think after the trauma of high school, he wasn’t ready to jump into college. He didn’t know it would be so much better there,” I explain. I pause to reflect a moment before admitting, “It’s sad how much I feel us drifting now. Before you, I was sort of bracing to be back on my own with him falling into this Movement thing more and more.”
I guess I must have frowned a bit because Vera leans in and kisses me consolingly on the cheek. I feel another stirring of desire, but this is buried beneath a rapidly surfacing manly urge to not be pitied. I roll over on my side to face her. I wear what I hope to be a serious expression so she knows not to tease me right now.
“And it's not like I was a virgin or anything. I hung out with a few girls from time to time, especially during my brief tenure in college–just nothing stuck.”
“Well, you're stuck with me,” Vera says. She leans in for another kiss. This time I hold her close so she can’t pull away.
But she doesn’t try to anyway.
* * *
Our evenings aren’t always spent on walks or in my house–we also do all the cheesy, couple-y things I’ve been missing out on. And it feels great. For example, we give each other nicknames. Or at least I give her one: Ver-bear. She affectionately refers to me as ‘human’ sometimes, but I’ve informed her repeatedly that we’ll have to work on that. She always just smiles her little smile in response. When we hang out with her friends, they always roll their eyes when we use these monikers with each other. Perhaps justifiably so.
And Vera turns out to be an ace shot at mini-golf. I found that out the hard way after she hustled me into betting her on our second game–I’ve been giving her half-hour massages daily for over a week now. I’ve never actually seen someone hit multiple holes-in-one, but she has an uncanny ability to make the ball go exactly where she wants and with exactly the correct power level. She has amazing control, but I guess she must practice this on a regular basis to keep from breaking things around her with her strength and speed. Things like me. Sometimes Laney comes out with us, and even though she is also leagues above me, she doesn’t come close to Vera’s skill with a putter.
But really, I don’t even mind that Vera creams me because after each hole-in-one she still does a celebratory jump up into my arms and laughs with delight. When I ask how she can still get so excited over mini-golf, she tells me that after decades of feeling excluded from basic human things like this, she is determined to enjoy every minute of it. I guess maybe some have had it worse than me after all.
Eventually, I decide to start using my day to help Vera with her recruiting duties to free up some of her time at night. Every name I get signed up on her sheet can be another five minutes we have together once the sun sets and she wakes. So yeah, I throw on a Movement tee-shirt and spend some afternoons and early evenings now and then handing out informational pamphlets and spouting platitudes designed to appeal to disaffected young minds.
At first, I pressed her for more details on why exactly the Movement is so anti-big business (being anti-politicians makes a little more sense; who really likes them?), but she always gets sort of evasive and just throws out some of the rhetoric. It creates a weird and rare divide between us; so in the end, I let it go and chalk it up to being some vampire stuff that doesn’t affect me. And honestly, whether I agree with their reasons or not doesn’t change the fact that I want to help my girlfriend out with her work sometimes. And all the people that I hand out fliers to are capable of deciding on their own what they want to believe and do–I don’t feel responsible for them. Not like I feel for Franklin.
Perhaps ironically, I end up working with that emo/punk girl that once accosted me on the street. I find out that her name is Hailey: She is nice enough now that she thinks I’m back in the fold and on her “team.” I don’t bother to try to explain that I’m not really in the Movement and don’t really believe in this stuff. It’s just easier that way.
Actually, it’s kind of funny because now sometimes when someone totally ignores me or brushes me off rudely, I get kind of mad. I mean, I don’t really care about this stuff for sure, but it still feels sub-optimal when someone doesn’t take you seriously or won’t even look you in the eye. I haven’t thrown anything at anyone yet like Hailey, but I definitely feel my temper rising sometimes and can understand a bit better ho
w frustrating it can be to devote time and energy to something that some people look down on or won’t even consider.
One day at the far end of summer, we are asked to head to the business district to spread the word. We don’t really expect much here–typically college campuses or younger areas are better for recruiting–so we just focus on raising awareness. No one really pays much attention to us, so I have a lot of time to watch all the people in suits shuffle by.
Surprisingly, it’s kinda sad because everyone dresses so similarly. It seems the main variations are light pin stripes instead of solid navy jackets and pants. I very rarely see anyone wearing an olive or light grey suit, and only two people the entire afternoon had the courage to wear a khaki-colored suit. These business people all act the same, too. They hustle by speaking into blue tooth headsets or clumsily stumble into each other, too busy checking their smartphones and tablets to watch where they are going. They only stop to buy papers or a big, steaming cup of coffee from one of the numerous street vendors or corner cafes–despite the fact that it’s still summer and quite warm.
Even when forced to wait at crosswalks, they don’t pause to look around and greet each other. In fact, they barely pay attention to anything external at all. If the crowd were crossing against the light into oncoming traffic, most people would probably follow along like lemmings because they are so focused in their own little spheres.
Viewing it like this, I can’t help but think: Is this what we aim for? Is this what awaits us at the end of all the years and expenses of schooling? I know there are other jobs out there, but it seems like today’s society venerates the businessman and woman. Well, even if not exactly adored, they definitely sit at the top of the pay scales at least.
Seeing them, I’m reminded of the term rat race, but everyone seems so lost in their own world I feel that rat maze is more appropriate. It’s a little disheartening to realize that many of these suits would probably look down on my father’s choice to join the police and help protect society. They’d probably judge that he’d wasted his time or at least that he isn’t as good as them because his loafers weren’t made in Italy. Maybe there is something to the Movement’s dislike of the corporate sphere after all.