Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  “Excellent work,” I replied, feeling extreme warmth for this man who had served me so faithfully for the last fifteen years, realizing how truly fortunate I was that he had not chosen to abandon me when there was little benefit for him personally.

  “Well, I don’t know if you’re interested, but it’s at a major American university. There’s this professor who’s got a long-term, continually running experiment that needs to be supervised twenty-four hours a day.”

  “And I would be there supervising during the ‘graveyard’ shift, as you might say. Does he not have graduate students for this task?”

  Bob shook his head. “It’s too much to ask even of a grad student to babysit a lab experiment at three in the morning, seven days a week. So, what do you think? Interested?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “I find myself forced to earn a living, and my employment options are somewhat limited.”

  Bob smiled. “The experiment is funded by a long-term grant, so the job would be secure. The hours are nine at night until five in the morning, five days a week. All you’d have to do is keep an eye on the equipment to make sure it doesn’t explode. Most of the time, you’d be free to read, work on your own experiments or do whatever. The professor said he could pay twenty-thousand a year.”

  “This experiment must be very important to him.” I groaned. The work sounded steady, but dreadfully boring. And it was work, something I simply had not had to endure for such a long time. “This sounds like a possibly viable option. What other choices do you have for me?”

  Bob bowed his head, for a long time staring down at the table. “Al, I’m really sorry,” he said finally. “I was able to get you this job by calling in a couple favors. Professor Hanson owes me from way back, but really is happy about having such a qualified full-time person, and he said he could probably afford to pay more later.”

  “Was this all you could find?” Bob nodded so subtly that it was barely noticeable. “I appreciate your efforts,” I said, reaching a hand across the table and patting him lightly on the forearm, “but surely there must be many occupations in which I am quite capable of serving.”

  Bob shook his head vigorously. “You are qualified to do many things, Al. Many things! My God, you’re one of the most exceptional people I’ve ever met, a true Renaissance man, but the world doesn’t value Renaissance men anymore. We live in a world dominated by specialists. Ever hear the term, ‘jack of all trades, master of none’?”

  I nodded, knowing full well that my able assistant had never spoken truer words. My resume—if I had one—would appear rather spotty. And how could I explain all those gaps in my work record? In a world that demands explanations for a month of unemployment, how could I explain a century? “I also imagine my ‘special needs’ must have made your task more difficult as well.”

  “You’ve always had a talent for understatement, Al,” Bob replied, a relaxed smile finally spreading across his face. “This particular job, you’d be working at night and alone, away from scrutinizing eyes.”

  “I enthusiastically applaud your effort,” I said, smiling broadly. “Call your Professor Hanson and inform him that I will accept his generous offer of employment. So tell me, where is this university?”

  “Midwest America ,” Bob replied. “The University of Wisconsin, in Madison, Wisconsin.”

  “Very well then.” I reached for LeMeux’s discarded glass, raised it in the air and clinked it against Bob’s upraised beer bottle. “A toast then. To Madison, Wisconsin , my new home for who knows how long.”

  Bob drank deeply from his beer, slouching back into his chair. He looked relaxed for the first time that entire evening. In fact, he looked quite tired.

  “Of course,” I said, “let us not forget about Jenkins. I will have my revenge, as well as the full return of what was taken from me.”

  Bob sat upright once again, and the relaxed smile fell from his face. “Jenkins is the least of your worries.”

  “I will have him, Robert. Mark my words. He will not escape my wrath.”

  “Your wrath is going to have to wait a little while, Al.” Bob sipped his beer and leaned back in his chair. “The reality of the situation is this: he ran off with about twenty million dollars. That’s more than enough money to allow someone to disappear and not be found. You just don’t have the resources to find him.”

  Always a man of blunt honesty. “I am sure you are correct. Still, I will not forget about Jenkins.”

  “Neither will I.” Bob snapped his fingers as the waiter passed near our table.

  Chapter 2

  A Slight Change of Plans

  In his fifteen years of service, Bob Johnson’s chestnut hair turned silver. The flesh covering his ample frame grew thicker. Had circumstances been different, I would have been able to watch his humanity come crashing down upon him, stooping his back forward, breaking his limbs, as organs, one by one, ceased to function. I would have had the singular privilege of watching him die.

  However, circumstances were such that, after following him to Madison , where he made certain arrangements as per my instructions, it would come time to discharge him.

  Bob caught the first available flight to the States. By the time a flight suiting my peculiar needs allowed me to join him, Bob had already found me a place to live, paid one year’s rent in advance and purchased an inexpensive automobile for my use.

  Though ships have always rendered me quite queasy, air travel has never been a bother. Of the alchemist’s four basic elements, my closet affinity has always been with air and earth. Air is rather close to my true nature, certainly in a figurative sense. Earth binds me and my kind and has always been a force for birth and healing. Fire and water, however, are destructive elements, ripping and tearing us asunder.

  Even Transatlantic flights may be completed with few complications, so long as the flight leaves in darkness and arrives before the dawn, not a difficult matter considering the seven-hour time difference, thus allowing me to actually sit within the cabin as opposed to being sealed within a lead canister, a most distasteful prospect indeed.

  A favorite tome accompanied me on the flight, The Twelve Caesars, the superb Robert Graves translation of the immensely entertaining history by Seutonius. Entertaining, yes, but an intentional choice for informational purposes; for the better part of this century, the parallels between imperial Rome and these United States of America have struck me as quite uncanny. Though much of my time over the last century had been spent in America , my experience with the provinces was quite limited. New York, Los Angeles, Paris, London, Rome, Berlin, Prague, Budapest —these were my cities. Madison, Wisconsin? Would the citizenry be ignorant peasants? Would cows sleep within houses with their human hosts?

  However, despite my fondness for Mr. Graves’s flowing hand and the highly personalized accounts provided by Seutonius, the volume spent most of the flight in my lap unread as I sat, musing about my predicament, eyes closed, unable to concentrate on the pages.

  Was I to suffer the slings and arrows of despondency, spending most my nights in a sterile laboratory monitoring someone else’s experiment when my preference would be to attend the opera or the symphony in a city possessing some semblance of culture?

  A darkened forest filled my sight. Musk drifted into my nostrils, the rich aroma washing over my entire being. A large, strong heart beat loudly. Torrents of steaming blood filled my mouth faster than could be gulped down my throat. Twin rivulets dribbled down the sides of my jaw.

  Daylight comes, and my bed is hard and earthen, full of twigs and stones.

  Daylight comes, and my bed is a soft feather mattress, with a down quilt and silk sheets.

  Choices must always be made: to live within the world of the humans or attempt concealment behind the shadows cast by their edifices. Except, the shadows have been obscured by the harsh, scrutinizing glare of ubiquitous humanity. In order to survive, I must hide in plain sight, just like Poe’s purloined letter.

  Paris, London,
Berlin, Prague, Budapest, New York, Los Angeles—even Chicago . The plane landed at Chicago’s hectic O’Hare airport where we switched planes for the short flight to Madison .

  My sole experience with the American hinterlands had been Chicago , a city possessing a rare mix of cosmopolitan flare and provincial ignorance. But Madison, Wisconsin? Every day, as many people arrive and depart from O’Hare airport as live in Madison .

  After a 45 minute flight, the plane touched down in Madison , with a few, but very few city lights heralding our arrival.

  Perhaps this city was more civilized than I had imagined. There were no cows wandering around this small airport. And cabs waited just outside the baggage claim area, which pleased me, for Bob had left word that he would be unable to meet my upon my arrival.

  Once my lone suitcase arrived, the conveyor belt sagging from its weight, a yellow cab awaited to offer me a ride to my new residence. As I approached, the driver remained seated, staring straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to a passenger desiring service, even after I had opened a door and inquired as to his availability. He grunted and pressed the truck-release lever, merely watching as his passenger hefted his bulky suitcase into the trunk.

  “Fifteen forty-one Gilson,” I told the driver, who grunted in acknowledgment. Bob, in his telegram, had said it was a basement apartment, on Madison ’s south side, with small windows that faced north. He also said it was not very expensive and that the landlord had reduced the price slightly when the first year’s rent had been paid in advance. Hopefully, the abode would prove palatable.

  “I have never been here to Madison ,” I said. “Tell me about it. What kind of city is it?”

  “Like any other,” the driver blandly replied, “only less so.”

  Perhaps the driver might have laughed after a remark that one might interpret as witty, but he was silent and managed nary a slight smile.

  The airport access road wound outward about a mile before we reached a main thoroughfare dotted with small, clapboard houses of no discernible form or design. Shortly, the nauseating smell of cooked meat wafted into my nostrils. A factory loomed on the right.

  “There is a meat packing plant here?” I asked my friendly driver.

  “That’s Oscar Mayer.”

  “They employ many people?”

  “Yeah, but not as many as the State or the University.”

  “How big is Madison ?”

  “A hundred and seventy thousand.”

  The road spread, now dotted with various small industrial plants. “Not very pretty, this part of town?”

  “No.”

  “But I can see trees. Are there many parks? Does Madison have much green space?”

  “Some.”

  My, quite the gregarious fellow. It seemed apparent that my driver did not consider it within his job description to be a fountain of information for a curious stranger in this city, let alone be polite. Oddly, the thought occurred to me that I could do his job better than he.

  The road curved and narrowed, the landscape quickly shifting from industrial to residential. “These certainly are lovely old houses. How old are they?”

  “Very early Twentieth Century.”

  “Is this the oldest part of town?”

  “Yeah.”

  “These appear to be quite magnificent houses. Are they really as lovely as they appear?”

  “No.”

  The architecture was quite eclectic, solid brick houses next to Georgians, complete with alabaster pillars, next to wooden Victorian homes. “This once must have been a rather fashionable area of town. Single families no longer live in these lovely structures?”

  “No.”

  “Then who does?”

  “Students. It’s the student ghetto.”

  Indeed, a subtle change seemed apparent as we progressed. Even in the darkness, I could see peeling paint, unkempt lawns and a general lack of artistry in the landscaping. But above the squalor, a brilliant, glowing white dome illuminated the darkness.

  “Is that the State Capitol?” I asked.

  “Yes.” His tone remained dull and monotone.

  “It seems to be modeled after the Capitol in Washington .”

  “It is.”

  Just ahead, we stopped at a traffic light where I saw the first apparent signs of population; several pedestrians crossed in front of the cab while we waited for the light to change. This seemed to be some sort of commercial district, well populated with foot traffic, but oddly, no cars passed. The light turned green, and the cab sped forward, narrowly avoiding a trio of young women who had dashed across the intersection just as the light changed, causing my driver to sound his horn. One of the women stopped, turned and raised her middle finger, then strolled leisurely across the remainder of the intersection.

  “Fuckin’ bitch,” the driver growled.

  “What street is this?” I asked.

  “State Street .”

  “It looks quite commercial, but why is there no auto traffic?”

  “It’s a mall.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  The driver sighed loudly. “I said, it’s a mall. A few years ago, they widened the sidewalks and closed the street to traffic. Only cop-cars, cabs and buses allowed.”

  The road curved, and a series of tall buildings came into view, including a pair of concrete horrors of modern architecture. “Is this the campus here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “No.” He sighed once again.

  “This is your job, driving a taxi? You make a living doing this?”

  He sighed again, louder than before. “What the hell does it look like?”

  I presumed that meant yes, and it also meant that he wearied of my interrogation. By the blisters of Satan! It clearly was not my intention to offend this lout, but if he did not care for his job, certainly he could keep his frustration to himself and not take it out on his passenger.

  At first glance, it struck me that cab driving in this town could be interesting, though I certainly had no inkling that this knowledge would eventually be learned first hand. Being the state capitol and the home of an internationally renowned university, it seemed apparent that Madison must boast a wide diversity within its population and must often be visited by a goodly variety of people.

  As the driver drove with a seemingly permanent scowl on his face, I wondered if I myself might find cab driving enjoyable. Certainly, it was obvious that I could do it better than this gentleman. My passengers would enjoy scintillating conversations with their driver as they rode quickly but safely to their destination.

  Though not experienced in a few centuries, this notion of work was fresh enough in my memory for me to at least partially understand my driver’s sentiment. After all, I did not find myself relishing the prospect facing me, yet from my perspective a positive outlook could make palatable virtually any situation, any job. However, did I not possess the luxury of knowing that in ten short years, my shackles would be broken? And while ten years, regardless of the tedium, is nothing to me, obviously it is a significant portion of a mortal’s lifetime.

  Finally, we arrived at the destination. After I paid the fare and a modest—and I do mean modest—gratuity (my passengers would tip me better), the driver got out of the cab and lifted my suitcase from the trunk. He was tall and stocky, with an overhanging stomach, surely from over-consumption of beer. Just before I turned from him, our eyes met, and suddenly I did not see the driver’s brown eyes, but brown leaves coated with fresh blood, the tiny droplets growing and pulsating with the rhythm of a rapidly beating heart.

  Without a thought, I projected my consciousness into his as my fangs dropped from within their enamel housings. Without concern as to how bitter this fellow’s blood might taste, I grabbed him by the shoulders and plunged my fangs into his neck, quickly drinking the requisite amount. After withdrawing, the driver stood motionless for a moment, then took a step, stumbled slightly, steadied himself against
the cab, got back inside and drove off into the night. I stood outside the house, watching and waiting to see if anyone had noticed what had just transpired, watching and waiting for neighbors to emerge from home and hearth, wielding torches and pitchforks, accompanied by the local gendarmes, but no such reaction was forthcoming.

  ———

  Bob had done well in the acquisition of living quarters, satisfying all my specifications to the letter. The basement apartment had just two small windows that would let in only a bare minimum of light—none once covered with black paper. The main room was square, not too small and had a fairly high ceiling for a basement apartment. The walls offered much space for paintings and books, but sadly, my art collection was gone, and my books were in storage except for a few boxes of my favorites, which would hopefully arrive shortly, along with my music collection and my gramophone.

  Other than the main room, there was a water closet with a bath and a small kitchen. Ever resourceful, Bob saved me money realizing that I generally dine outside my abode.

  Still, despite the pragmatic concerns, it was obvious that the apartment would quickly prove claustrophobic, but what alternative did I have? Like it or not, this would be my abode for who knows how long, and that was that. Thus, I did not venture forth that first night though I yearned to seek the darkness outside. Having arrived fairly late by most mortal standards and not knowing exactly what sort of late-night propriety the town possessed, it seemed most prudent to take the opportunity to acclimate myself to my new home.

  When the sun set the second night, the darkness beckoned, and I could stand nary another minute inside the apartment. I was to meet Bob in a couple of hours, but chose to take the time to acquaint myself with Madison . Bob had wisely left the key to my car on the kitchen counter.

  The non-descript gray Toyota Corolla would serve me well, both in terms of reliability and gas mileage. However, upon first sight of the vehicle, my thoughts drifted back to my beloved Bentley, which had only recently been sold. With a philosophical shrug, I started the Toyota and took a get-acquainted drive before meeting Bob.