Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  “It is rather cold, is it not?” I replied.

  “I know where we can go to get nice and warm.”

  “Where?”

  She pointed toward a ramshackle house just around the corner.

  “How much is this hospitality worth in this day and age of high inflation?” I asked.

  She laughed lightly at my “foreign” manner, which suited me just fine. Let her think I was a foreign visitor, feeling just a bit lonely, just as long as she did not see fit to overcharge me.

  “Fifty bucks,” she replied, “but it’ll be worth a lot more. You’ll see.”

  “Excellent. Lead the way, my dear.” As I followed, a vague sense of alarm poked dull daggers into my being, but I merely attributed it to the realization that this action was illegal, this being the puritanical American Midwest and not someplace more practical, like Amsterdam or Vienna .

  Her flat was as shabby as the exterior would lead one to believe, and it reeked of more organic materials than I cared to consider. Still, my purpose was not to critique this woman’s aesthetic proclivity toward interior design, and thus I phased out the sights and smells of this abode.

  “Come with me,” she said. The tart tossed her coat aside, took my hand and lead me into the bedroom. “God, we gotta warm up those cold hands.” Her dress was bright red, strapless and extended just below her hips. Stockings covered trunk-like legs, supported teeteringly by black stiletto heels. As a gentleman, I wanted to massage her feet, but realized that she was not the one who was paying for services-to-be-rendered.

  I lifted fifty dollars from my wallet, which she immediately snatched from my fingers. She reached inside my leather jacket and tried to unbutton my shirt. I twisted away and sat on the bed. “Take off your dress,” I said. The lady let the dress fall to the floor and stood before me in red brassiere, black panties, stockings, garters and high heels.

  “What would you like me to do for you?” she asked.

  “Remove the rest of your clothing and come sit beside me.” She complied, giving me a view of her ample flesh, which was the color of dead fish floating atop poisoned water, almost making me wish I had not ordered her to disrobe.

  She joined me on the bed and again attempted to unbutton my shirt. I gently pushed her hand away.

  “What do you want me to do for you?” she asked again, her tone more insistent.

  “I want you to pleasure yourself.”

  “You want me to whack myself off?”

  I groaned inwardly. “Yes. I want you to pleasure yourself fully and completely.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That is all I require, but I do mean fully and completely.”

  She nodded then lay back on the bed, her hand lowered to the cleft between her legs. I moved close, reached a hand around her shoulders and stroked her stomach and pillow-like breasts with my other hand, feeling her skin, which was surprisingly soft and smooth.

  Though her perfume was garish, the skin underneath smelled sweet, and her womanhood smelled strong. Beneath it all, her heart beat loudly and with increasing frequency as she worked harder and harder toward the ascribed goal. Her breathing grew deeper and more rapid, and she let forth the occasional moan and grunt.

  “Please take your time, my dear,” I said. “There is no need to rush.”

  The woman nodded, her breathing increasingly rapid and shallow.

  I continued to stroke her back, but once she settled into a rapid rhythm of finger strokes and short, quick breaths, I stopped fondling her breasts and laid a hand on her stomach until she began to pant rapidly, before letting out a loud, guttural shriek.

  Her body shook, and I gently tugged her chin toward me, met her gaze and touched her consciousness. Her expression went blank.

  I plunged my fangs into her neck, their razor touch penetrating her soft flesh. Hot blood squirted down my throat.

  The room faded from my sight, replaced by hard, static blankness, the blankness of one with no soul who had deceived quite the gullible consumer.

  After licking the twin rivulets of blood dribbling down her throat, I departed, her bitter taste burning through my being. Far from being sated, I was hungrier than ever before and angry with myself, knowing that in an effort to control my hunger, I had only succeeded in opening Pandora’s Box.

  ———

  I quickly discovered that these cab drivers are quite the superstitious lot; though making money depends on a certain amount of luck, skill is paramount, yet so many of my fellow drivers, Kern included, seemed to hold in reverence supreme beings called the “Cab Gods.” When running deep east to deep west, then getting a call nearby, going another long distance, the Cab Gods had smiled. In less fortunate times, as they say in their vulgar manner, they had been “fucked by the Cab Gods.” And Eastern belief seemed to play a certain role, albeit in a childish sense of instant Karma; according to many, the Cab Gods’ whims are somewhat related to the actions of the drivers.

  But who was I to argue? Certainly, it was the Cab Gods who had smiled upon us again in late-March, providing an unexpected storm, dropping eight inches of that crystalline white-gold on Madison ’s streets, as if the bounty of this winter had not been enough. The driving was difficult for two days, but by Saturday night, the streets were clear and dry, yet the snow remained, providing people with enough incentive to leave the task of driving to the professionals who do it best.

  On Saturday, the Cab Gods provided me with quite the lucrative shift, thus creating the kind of distraction necessary to take my mind off Frank Nelson and my burgeoning hunger. I had pleased our patron deities by showing up two hours prior to the eight o’clock start time for my shift.

  The Cab Gods rewarded my diligence immediately, seeing that my calls criss-crossed the far reaches of the city and always taking care that another excellent call would be available upon discharging my passengers.

  Even when the string of calls had snapped, and I was downtown with not much to occupy my disturbed mind, the Cab Gods provided me with a fine flower that had been hidden in cow dung, seeing fit to send me a flag who desired to go all the way to East Towne Mall and back.

  Still, despite my efforts, no amount of largesse from the Cab Gods could distract me, nor could the lovely staccato rhythm of rapidly spinning wheels striking the pavement as the cab sped to yet another call. The hunger was real and action was mandatory.

  Despite my better judgment screaming in protest, I telephoned Nicole and invited her to come to dinner at my apartment—better the familiar surroundings of my own abode. Her voice sounded enthusiastic when she accepted. We set the appointment for Sunday, my next available, unfettered evening.

  Though I do not eat, my culinary expertise is not totally lacking. In fact, there has been many an occasion where I did prepare quite the sumptuous repast for friends, but never beef or pork; the aroma of cooked mammal flesh has always made me nauseous. Chicken, however, is not a problem. Thus, I would prepare Chicken Paprika, a dish from my homeland of plump chicken breasts cooked slowly in tomato juice and vinegar with onions and a great deal of paprika. When the chicken is almost entirely cooked, sour cream is added, creating a thick, rich sauce. Certainly, Nicole would relish such a dish, though I never could; the paprika pepper was not introduced to Hungary until long after my desire for food had ceased.

  While the chicken simmered, I inspected the apartment. A crisp, white tablecloth covered the small, folding table. The apartment was uncluttered and dust free. My futon was folded against the wall, forming a makeshift couch. My books were neatly arranged on their respective shelves. My record-albums were neat and orderly, organized in alphabetical order and divided into classical and jazz.

  Satisfied, I cued up The Magic Flute, sat on the futon and paged through The Wall Street Journal, absorbing myself in an analysis of the burgeoning Pacific Rim markets. Soon, my apartment was thick with the aroma of cooked chicken and paprika, and hazy, lace-covered images superimposed themselves over my sight. A home of rocks, grass an
d mud. Two simple herders living together, working side by side to scratch out a meager existence that seemed neither meager nor simple. Just a young man and a young woman satisfied with their lot, satisfied with each other. Dinner would merely be a simple stew, with meat if available, served on earthen plates fired from clay dug from behind the house. The young man dug up more clay whenever plates broke, forming shapeless lumps into smooth flatware. The young woman lovingly filled the plates with stew created from whatever sustenance was available.

  Visions of that life are fleeting, as easy to hold as quicksilver. So long ago, the memory is intact, but shrouded, coming clear only every so often as flashes, as snapshots, before fading, known, but not seen, except for that one image always available, ever haunting me.

  Burning flesh washed away the lace curtains of recollection. The chicken was burning. I put away the newspaper and inspected the chicken. One side was slightly charred and required turning. Otherwise, the chicken was fine, cooked through and through, swimming in an ample amount of sauce. I lowered the flame slightly, then set a high flame under a saucepan full of water. Nicole was due shortly, so it was time to start boiling water for the noodles. A smaller saucepan held broccoli within a steel steamer suspended over water.

  I opened a bottle of Bordeaux to allow enough time for this full-bodied red to breath. And yes, red wine with chicken was a bit unorthodox, but a faint-hearted white would find itself overpowered by the paprika; the Bordeaux would blend nicely with the spice and tomato sauce.

  And yes, I did not actually have any pots, pans, dishes or silverware, but stocking my kitchen was easily accomplished with a quick excursion to the St. Vincent DePaul second-hand store.

  I splashed some wine over the chicken, then returned to my newspaper to await Nicole’s arrival, which would signal time to commence steaming the broccoli and adding sour cream to the chicken.

  Shortly, there was a knock on the door. According to the clock on the nightstand next to my futon, Nicole was exactly thirteen minutes late. When I opened the door, she stood before me, a vision of loveliness, holding a single red rose, garnished with a few sprigs of baby’s breath.

  “I couldn’t come empty-handed,” she said, handing me the flower. “Usually, I’d bring a bottle of wine, but you said you’d already taken care of that.”

  She looked lovely, dressed in jeans and a simple cotton peasant-blouse that showed off her curves nicely. Her long, black hair was pulled away from her face on one side, held in place by a barrette that also held a small sprig of baby’s breath. “Yes, if I were to tell you what kind of wine to bring, that would spoil the surprise I have cooked up for you. Please, come in.”

  “Thanks,” she said, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind her. She glanced quickly at her surroundings. “I see you like the light and airy look.”

  Drawn shades covered the few small windows in the basement apartment, hiding the black Mylar sheets underneath. And the faux walnut paneling did little to make the apartment appear any less dark than it already was. Perhaps candles would have made my abode appear less grim, but I did not want to come on too strong. This was just dinner, just a friendly, innocent dinner.

  “Well, as a creature of the night, I am not a big fan of the ‘light and airy look.’”

  “I can tell.” She laughed. “Me neither. I’ve always hated getting up before noon.” A creature of the night indeed. Though her flesh was slightly swarthy, it was easily apparent that her pallor was hardly as dark as it could be.

  “Please, have a seat.” I pointed at the table as I strode toward the kitchen. “Preparation of the meal is almost complete. Would you care for a glass of wine?” She nodded, and I poured a glass of wine then searched for something within which her floral offering might be housed. No vases available, I hastily emptied a bottle of mineral water, filled it with water from the tap, then dropped the rose inside.

  “Thanks.” Nicole said upon my return, accepting the glass of wine and admiring the new centerpiece on the table. “Now, that’s an improvement. Lovely table, but it just needed something extra.” She flared her lovely, elliptical nostrils as I took a seat opposite her. “Something sure smells good. What’d you make?”

  “It is a surprise. You shall find out soon enough. I hope it will be to your liking.”

  Nicole swirled the wine in her glass, sniffed the bouquet then took a sip. She smiled broadly. “Very nice. Bordeaux , right?”

  “Why, yes.” I felt myself smile. Could this American actually possess some Continental culture?

  Nicole took another sip and sighed, a big smile on her face. She slouched back in her chair. “My parents were big wine drinkers. I love Bordeaux .” She flared her nostrils once more. “Doesn’t smell like beef. Chicken? Chicken in some sort of red sauce? It’d have to be. I couldn’t imagine you serving a full-bodied red with chicken unless the sauce called for it.”

  “You are most perceptive.” I smiled, knowing full well that though she was able to deduce the form of the dish, she could not determine its essence, and the surprise would still be intact.

  She swirled the ruby contents of her glass, then put the vessel on the table. “Hope it’ll be ready soon. I’m starved.”

  “Very soon. I did not wish to thrust the food at you as soon as you arrived.”

  “That’s real nice of you, Al. Say, why don’t you pour yourself a glass. I’ve got something I want to show you.” She reached into her valise of a purse and removed a parcel concealed within a brown paper grocery sack.

  “I do not drink, but please feel free to enjoy.”

  She nodded silently, then removed an engraved steel box from the paper sack. She unfastened a clasp on the box, removed a thick, leather-bound tome and laid it on the table. “Then, drink this.”

  “Your father’s book!” My eyes felt as if they were bulging out of their sockets. I am not easily impressed, but obviously this volume was quite the unusual item and quite valuable; it most likely was about half my age.

  “I knew you would enjoy seeing it. By the way, have you thrown away Tacitus yet?”

  My hand reached for the book and stroked the soft, worn leather cover. “No, he still torments me. May I inspect your book?” She nodded, and I lifted the book from the table, handling this priceless volume with great care. The cover opened with a most pleasant crackling-creak. The post-Guttenberg lettering was still lovely, hand-set Latin, full of flower and flourish. The inside cover bore the set-type number of this limited edition of The Twelve Caesars.

  “You do read Latin, don’t you?” Nicole asked.

  “Yes, I do.” Something odd stirred inside me. To my ears, my voice sounded very far away. This gesture of bringing me this museum piece was quite touching, but there was something else, a vague recollection. Inspecting the front and back inside covers revealed no signatures denoting previous ownership. Turning to the first chapter, about the life and death of Julius Caesar, I found that the drop-cap gamma at the beginning of the chapter was upside down. I smiled, knowing this was a very rare book indeed; the mistake was corrected after the first print run. And surely you know why I might know this; this same edition, perhaps this same volume, was once mine.

  “What is it?” Nicole seemed to notice my reaction.

  “I am familiar with this edition.” I pointed out the mistake, but stopped just short of full disclosure. I closed the book and replaced it within its box. Dinner was probably ready to be served.

  While stirring the chicken, draining the noodles and broccoli and arranging the food decoratively on a plate for my guest, I thought of the book, relishing the opportunity to page through it; though bawdy, the Graves translation is relatively sanitized compared with the original, hair-raising Latin version.

  “Very pretty!” Nicole exclaimed at the plate placed before her. She refilled her glass and spread the cloth napkin on her lap, then her eyes darted back and forth across the table. “Where’s your plate?” she asked finally.

  A small detail. A
small contingency that somehow had taken me by surprise, even though this is the inevitable question I always find myself having to answer.

  “I may eat later,” I answered, somewhat stretching the truth. “I have this condition. Though I relish food, I find it difficult to dine at the same time as others. Watching others eat while I try to eat can make me a bit queasy.”

  Nicole had just lifted a forkful of noodles soaked in sauce. Her wrist suddenly relaxed, and the noodles slid off her fork, back on to her plate. “That’s pretty weird, Al. Doesn’t it bother you to watch me eat?”

  I smiled nobly. “Not at all. Believe me, watching you enjoy this meal gives me as much pleasure as if I ate it myself. More, even.”

  Satisfied, she cut into the chicken and lifted a sauce-dripping piece to her mouth. She chewed and closed her eyes in obvious pleasure. “Delicious.” She washed down the first bite with a sip of wine. “Wonderful, Al. But it’s too bad. There’s so many nice restaurants here in town. Must make eating out impossible.”

  “It does, but there is always take-out, I suppose. I have, however, on occasion, taken a meal in the dark corner of a quiet restaurant.”

  “Well, there’s a few places like that, once-trendy bistros that people forgot about because the next trendy place opened up.” She cut a piece of broccoli and swirled it in the sauce. “This is wonderful. What is it?”

  “Chicken paprika, a recipe from my homeland.”

  “Ah, I knew you were Hungarian. Either that or Finnish.” She enjoyed another bite. “I love paprika. And this paprika is real fresh.”

  She enthusiastically devoured the contents of her plate while I kept her wine glass full. Nicole took her time, clearly savoring each bite, her movements surprisingly graceful considering the vulgarity of the act—vulgar from my perspective, that is.

  When she had cleared her plate, I realized my great faux pas. There was no dessert! As I began to chastise myself for such a foolish oversight, my guest simply said that she usually does not care for dessert. Relieved, I cleared the table and quickly washed the dishes.