Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  It seemed that the Cab Gods chose to intervene personally to assuage my troubled mind. My passenger was a businessman going all the way to the Radisson Hotel, clear across town from the airport. Just before reaching the destination, a call materialized at a restaurant across the street from the hotel. It was mine and went to Middleton, a suburb directly adjacent to Madison ’s west side. A call in Middleton popped up. It went back to the far west side. Then....

  “Platte and Odana,” Dexter’s crackling voice said over the cab radio.

  The Cab Gods had indeed taken pity upon me. “Gammon and the Point to Gammon and Odana,” I said when Dexter called my number.

  “A mere formality,” Dexter chirped. “Count, the Ginza. Comes up.”

  It was a quartet of young women going to the Towers, a private, upscale dormitory, populated mainly by children of affluent East Coast families. The Ginza, a Japanese restaurant, very popular with Towers residents, was a mere stone’s throw from West Towne Mall, which was where my previous call had taken me.

  The women were waiting out front, loudly proclaiming their surprise at the quickness of my arrival as they got into the cab. Once the ride commenced, they ignored me. Their perfume stank like insect repellent, they chewed and cracked their gum loudly and scarcely a moment passed when all four women did not speak simultaneously in awful Long Island accents. Their conversation was the pinnacle of inanity. Still, they tipped me two dollars, and just before they left the cab, I got my next assignment, the Cab Gods seeing fit to send more manna from the heavens to improve my disposition. I began to wonder what form of sacrifice our patron deities would find most preferable. Perhaps, a pedestrian. Or maybe someone on a bicycle. Or, best of all, maybe one of those infernal motor scooters.

  The next call was a mere four blocks away, at Genna’s Lounge, a dark bar warmed by a preponderance of brightly lacquered mahogany. My passenger emerged as soon as I pulled up, having been watching through the large picture window facing University Avenue . He said he was going to the Crystal Corner Bar, on the near east side, right on Williamson Street . The fellow said nothing else until he broke his silence with a loud shriek when we were on East Johnson.

  “Geez!” the passenger shouted from the back seat. “That guy did a Juan Peron. Did you see that?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Juan Peron, guy who used to be president of Argentina . The driver did a Juan Peron. You see, there’s this road somewhere in Latin America. At a certain point, the road forks. Well, one day, Fidel Castro is riding down that road. The car comes to the fork, and the driver doesn’t know what to do. ‘Fidel, Fidel,’ the driver says, ‘we are coming to a fork in the road. What do I do? Turn right or turn left?’ Fidel says, ‘To the left, comrade. Always go to the left.’ Later, Samoza is on the road. The chauffeur says, ‘General, the road ahead is forking. Do I turn right or left?’ Samoza says, ‘Go to the right. Always go to the right.’”

  “Willy and Rogers,” Dexter’s voice interrupted. More bounty, it seemed.

  I lifted the microphone from its cradle, sorry to have to interrupt this fellow’s story. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, then keyed the mike when Dexter called my number. “Pat and John to the Crystal Corner.”

  “Count, fifteen thirty-four Willy. You’ll be picking up an eight-year-old boy, taking him to nine-ten Spruce. It’s a six-dollar flat, cash up front.”

  “Ten-four,” I replied.

  “Sounds strange,” my passenger interjected. “Isn’t it kinda late for a kid that young?”

  My thoughts exactly. “It is. His parents are divorced. The lad’s mother lives on Spruce Street . I am picking the boy up at his aunt’s house. His mother was no doubt entertaining gentleman friends this evening.”

  “Hmm,” the passenger said sadly. “Some people I just don’t get. They have kids, they oughta take a little more responsibility.”

  “You are correct. But you were telling me a joke. Will you continue or just leave me hanging on a precipice of suspense?”

  The fellow laughed. “Okay. Anyway, so later this same day, Juan Peron is riding down that road. They reach the fork, and the chauffeur stops the limo. ‘Mister President,’ the driver says, ‘we have reached a fork in the road. What do we do?’ Peron is silent. ‘Mister President?’ the driver asks again. ‘What should I do? Should I turn right or left?’ Peron thinks about it some more, then finally says, ‘signal that you are going to make a left hand turn, then turn sharply to the right.’”

  I chuckled loudly. “So, that is a ‘Juan Peron.’ I will have to remember that.” Indeed. Many other drivers tell jokes to their passengers, and apparently, it grants them better tips.

  “Glad you liked it. I heard that from Steve Stern when I took his intro to Latin America class.”

  Shortly, we arrived at the destination, and a smile had fought its way back to my face. “All right,” the passenger said. “Paul Black and the Flip Kings are playing a special show tonight. That boy can play slide guitar like no one. Opened for Stevie Ray Vaughn and nearly blew him away.”

  The fellow paid the fare, along with a two-dollar tip, finally freeing me to pick up my next fare. No one emerged from the house until Dexter called them on the telephone. The boy’s aunt shunted him out to the cab, her sharp voice slicing through the night. She wore a bathrobe and a disinterested expression as she handed me exactly six crumpled one-dollar bills.

  The boy climbed into the front seat and struggled loudly as he closed the heavy door. Upon meeting success, he dutifully buckled his seatbelt across his puny frame.

  “Hey, mister,” the young lad said after a bit, “can you turn on your inside light?”

  For any driver, it would be a hazard to drive in the dark with the dome light on; for me it would also be painful. “Why?” I asked, as politely as possible.

  “I wanna do mah homework.” His voice was earnest, but not cloying.

  “You were unable to do it before?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “I was, but mah aunt got tired of me axing her for help, so she tol’ me just watch tee-vee and quit buggin’ her.”

  I turned on the dome light and watched furtively from the corner of my eye as the boy struggled over problems of mathematics. He seemed to have special difficulty adding six and eleven.

  “Hey, mister,” he said, the slightest tint of frustration in his voice, “can you help me with mah homework?”

  “You have run out of fingers, have you not?”

  “Yeah.” He sounded sheepish to have had his dirty little secret exposed.

  “I will show you a very special trick.” The boy sat up very straight in his seat. “Adding six and eleven is no different than adding six and one.”

  “Don’t dis me, man. That too easy.”

  “I am surely not ‘dissing’ you. You see, eleven is ten plus one, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now, what is six plus one?”

  “Seven,” he chirped quickly.

  “Seven plus ten?” He started using his fingers. “Do not use your fingers.”

  “Sorry, mister, but how’m I gonna figure it out?”

  “How high can you count?”

  “I can count to a hundred.” He sounded quite proud of this achievement.

  “Very good. Therefore, you should know that if you put a one to the left of a seven, that is seventeen and the correct answer to the problem you are trying to solve.”

  His jaw dropped. “Ohhhh! That’s real easy.”

  “It is quite easy when you know how. Just remember that there is no reason to be intimidated by larger numbers because they are no different to deal with than smaller numbers. And do not use your fingers. Math is a skill that merely takes time to learn. It is a building block leading to bigger, better and more important things, but if you use your fingers, you will never really learn.”

  He nodded as he quickly completed the problems. Once he had put his assignment away, I flicked off the dome light.

  “You sure
talk funny, mister,” the lad said, once complete was his homework.

  “I might say the same about you.” A smile spread across my face. The lad seemed bright. His hands were large, which told me he could grow into a big, strong fellow. But would he have a chance in this life, or would he end up like the other human refuse I have seen in big cities for as long as my memory has served?

  The boy shook his head. “I don’t talk funny. You talk funny.”

  “Where I come from, it would be you who talks funny.”

  “But you talk like ‘the Count.’”

  Most likely because I am the Count. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Y’know. The Count. On Sesame Street . The Count.” His voice changed to a bad, high-pitched Bela Lugosi. “‘I love to count. Ah! Ah!’”

  Ah, yes, the famous children’s show on public television. So now, my people are being spoofed on a children’s television show. How could we get more ubiquitous? Still, becoming that much of a caricature in the public’s perception surely helps our efforts to camouflage our true nature, a fact that seemed quite relevant considering my current circumstances—this boy would not be scared of vampires; he would merely think of them as odd but friendly creatures, fashioned from foam rubber, their movement controlled by steel rods.

  “I am from Hungary ,” I replied.

  “Say what?”

  “That is where I am from. People there all talk like me, therefore, when in Hungary , you would be the one talking funny.”

  “Where’s Hungry?” he asked, sincere curiosity on his face.

  “Hungary is in Eastern Europe.”

  “Is it anywhere near Norway ?”

  Are these youngsters no longer taught geography? “No. Norway is far north, and Hungary is more to the south and the east. But Finland is right there by Norway , and the people of that country speak with a similar accent.”

  “I’m Hungary .” A sly smile spread across his face.

  “Hungarian? I think not.” Indeed, East African most likely.

  “Yeah, sure am.” The boy giggled loudly. “I’m Hungarian for some ice cream.”

  Had there been a place open, I would have stopped and bought the boy ice cream, but alas, there was no such place. Shortly thereafter, we arrived at the destination, and as the boy unbuckled his seatbelt, I could see a change in him, as if whatever flame burned inside his soul, which hungered for food and thirsted for knowledge, suddenly choked from lack of air.

  “Thanks, mister.” The boy mustered a brave smile as he got out of the cab and walked toward the dark house. I watched him pound on the door and wait too long before his mother opened the door, then turned around and walked away. The boy waved before disappearing into the darkness behind the closed door.

  ———

  As the week wore on, my distraction decreased, the job successfully providing ample need for mental focus. What Kern had said about March routinely being an excellent cab-driving month finally proved accurate. Earlier in the month, the girls’ basketball and boys’ wrestling championships had provided such bounty that the Cab Gods were able to take a short respite from their ever-important duties.

  And this weekend was the best event of all, the boy’s state basketball championship. Kern said this was always the best tournament because of the large volume of visitors and because, for some reason, there was always a blizzard that weekend.

  Every single motel in the entire city was full, and true to Kern’s prophesy, it did snow, thus offering further encouragement for these geographically confused visitors to take cabs instead of attempting to navigate a bewildering morass of snow-covered streets.

  Overall, I earned about $500 in that one week, while still remembering to take my weekly sustenance, which, of course, proved even easier than usual considering the influx of largely befuddled people.

  After five extremely hectic nights, it seemed I had earned my rest when Sunday finally arrived. I had planned on rising well after sunset, relaxing with a good book and some good music. It even seemed like a good time to very carefully inspect Nicole’s volume of Seutonius, though it would be prudent to let the tome remain secured within its steel box; Tacitus was back on the shelf, but Candide struck me as most appropriate, for it seemed a good time to wax philosophical.

  But alas, those best laid plans were dashed when a loud rapping at the door smashed through my slumber, the digital clock reading three PM. I ignored the rapping, but it continued, growing more insistent until I threw the covers aside and answered the door.

  It was Nicole.

  “I would have hoped you would call first,” I said groggily. “I have your book here for you, but you have awoken me from my slumber.” Which, of course, was not a pretty sight. Without another word, I plodded toward the bookcase where seemed to have been the last known resting place of her father’s book.

  She slammed the door shut. “Forget the damn book,” she said sharply. “I didn’t come here about the goddamned book.”

  “Why did you come?”

  She stood, arms akimbo. “I’m here ‘cuz I wanna know just what the fuck is going on, Al.”

  “I am afraid my mind does not function optimally before sunset. What in the name of Hades are you talking about?”

  Nicole craned her neck, glanced at the ceiling and exhaled loudly through her mouth. “We had the annual membership meeting yesterday. Your absence was slightly conspicuous.”

  “I had no idea attendance was mandatory.”

  “It isn’t.” She paced back and forth, arms wrapped tightly about her chest. “You know a driver named Frank Nelson?”

  So much for the virtue of inaction. “Just in passing, as it were.”

  “Well, he seems to know a lot about you, Al. He asked for the floor, then stood up and told everyone you’re some kind of monster, some kind of vampire.”

  Silence was my reply.

  “One of you is either lying or crazy,” she said. “Or maybe it’s both. Which one is it, Al?”

  Chapter 9

  Diary of a Mad Cabbie

  “What the fuck is going on here, Al?”

  “You are partially correct,” I answered.

  “Which part?” she snapped.

  “Your mere presence here should provide the answer. One of us is insane, but neither I nor Frank are failing to tell the truth.”

  Nicole glanced at the door, seeming ready to abandon this entire escapade, but thought better of it. “Look, I want to believe you....”

  “I can assure you, I am neither a liar, nor am I insane.”

  She studied me a moment. “If you’re not lying, if you’re not crazy—but what you tried to tell me, that was crazy.”

  I shrugged. “In a secular, materialistic world, yes, what I had attempted to tell you was crazy, was unbelievable, but tell me, Nicole, given a choice as to who you would believe is insane, who would it be? Me or Frank Nelson?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice cut like rapiers. “Christ, for all I know, this is just some joke between the two of you.”

  “I can assure you, we are not in league. More than likely, this fellow does wish to see me come to harm.” A thought passed across my consciousness, and it made me laugh; amusing how the thought of hospitality could have come to me at such a time. But at least I then knew that she was not likely to betray me. Otherwise, she would not have visited me at my abode. “Please forgive me. I have been remiss as a host. Would you like something to drink? You must be parched.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” My civility seemed to smooth her tone.

  “What exactly did Frank say at the membership meeting?” I disappeared into the kitchen. Nicole followed, certainly to make sure that her drink would not be laced with something she would rather not ingest. I opened the refrigerator, but found it empty.

  “Tap water is fine.” She looked over my shoulder, inspecting the refrigerator, most likely curious as to the complete lack of contents. “It was toward the end of the meeting. The time when anyone who wants to speak about an
ything can. Frank stands up and says he’s gotta warn us about this menace that would suck the life from all of us. He starts telling us about how a few months ago, this strange creature started bugging him. It came to him in his dreams, and it even started coming to his window at night. Then finally, the thing stopped bothering him, until recently. But he said he outsmarted it, tricked it into revealing its true form to him, but the thing doesn’t know it did—”

  “Until now,” I interrupted, handing her a glass full of cold water.

  “Whatever. Anyway, he says it’s you. That this strange creature is a vampire, and it’s you, and it’s come for him and for everybody, but he’ll get it first. He even showed us pictures.”

  “Pictures?”

  She took a long sip of water. “Yeah, but by that time, he’d been pretty much shouted down. He tried to show people these pictures, but no one was listening anymore.”

  “Did you see these pictures? What did they look like?”

  Nicole drained her glass. I refilled it and handed it back to her, then motioned for her to have a seat at the folding table covered with two week’s worth of The Wall Street Journal.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking a seat.

  “You were a bit overwrought. I trust you feel better now.” I took a seat, but made a point of not sitting too close.

  “Yes.” She smiled, though she most likely did not really want to. “Anyway, Frank’s pictures didn’t look like much. All they showed was some guy with a woman, but you can’t really see the guy, just pants and a black leather jacket standing up by themselves.”

  I arose and retrieved my leather jacket from the closet. “Did it look something like this?”

  “A zillion leathers look like that.”

  Having hung up the jacket, I returned to my seat. “I can assure you that there is no deception in my words, Nicole. I am a vampire.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I mean, that’s nuts.” She shook her head. “Jeez, you don’t seem crazy, but Christ! You are talking crazy. C’mon, Al. How the hell can you expect me to believe that?”