Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  “But always humble.” She slapped my arm again, then gently rubbed my shoulder and kissed my cheek. “Please. You’re not getting all the food you need from me. I know you’re feeding somewhere else. Let me watch.”

  I groaned inwardly. My taking of sustenance is a deeply personal matter. Even though my trust for her ran quite strongly, even though she had done much to earn my trust, the request simply felt remarkably bizarre. However, it seemed there was little choice in this particular matter, despite my protests that this was dangerous, especially considering the heightened tension all over the city, which had only become worse since Truck’s murder. People did indeed leave their abodes, but not alone or even in pairs. All over the downtown and campus areas, the citizenry seemed to travel in packs.

  Instead of discussing the matter further, I walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and ushered her inside. “State Street on a Saturday night is always a fertile hunting ground.” Better to get this over with, it seemed, or else I would never hear the end of it.

  “I’ll bet.” Nicole smiled broadly as we drove uptown.

  We parked on Frances Street , right off University Avenue , in front of the Red Shed and around the corner from the 602 Club. Together, we cut through the alley between the two bars.

  “This is the 604 Club,” Nicole said.

  “Excuse me.”

  She laughed quietly. “An informal annex of the 602. As Tate, the bartender puts it, this is where people go to smoke ‘them left-handed cigarettes.’”

  “Marijuana?” I whispered.

  She nodded as the alley opened to a small, wooded lot, with the back door of Genna’s Lounge on one side and the loading dock for Pizza Pit on the other. Beyond the lot, lay a sidewalk running from University Avenue to State Street , between two parking ramps.

  “Wait here,” I said, pointing toward the interior of the Frances Street Ramp. “Stay out of sight. This will take none but a moment.”

  Nicole grabbed my arm. “Let me help.” She pushed me back, then proceeded down the alley toward State Street .

  “Nicole,” I called after her. “Stop. This is dangerous.”

  She kept walking, leaving me to watch as she reached State and stood at the mouth of the alley, figures passing in front of her in both directions.

  A tall, muscular young man stopped. She spoke with animation, arms flailing in the air. He nodded. They both turned and moved back up the alley. I quickly secreted myself around a corner and waited until hearing their footsteps, smelling her scent and his, able to hear their conversation thanks to my highly attuned senses—she had told him she could not start her car and had asked if he could lend assistance.

  When they reached me, she was holding his hand. Nicole spun away as I pulled him toward me, sank my fangs into his neck and drank the usual amount, careful to maintain my mental screens, for I had no desire to see this fellow’s disgusting mental image of copulation with my love. It was over so quickly that it made me wonder if she wanted me to do it again so she could get a better view.

  The fellow wobbled a bit, but by the time he had reached State, he appeared steady. I was certain he was still slightly dazed and unsure how he had spent the last few moments.

  “That was incredible,” she said finally, once words were able to form on her lips. “So fast. No hesitation. No remorse. Savage and sublime at the same time. It was beautiful.”

  “Perhaps, you are over-romanticizing. It is just the way I feed. If I did not do it in the manner I do, survival would not be possible.”

  “Yeah, I can see that, but it really was fantastic.”

  “Ah, but what of the spider, or the shark, or the lion? This is really no different.”

  “They pale in comparison.” She laughed loudly. We emerged from the alley, passersby looking at us, laughing and pointing, obviously suspecting us of some form of lascivious behavior.

  “What shall we do now?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

  “How ’bout the Cardinal Bar? I wanna go dancing. Maggie’s gonna be there.”

  Dancing. Suddenly, images of swirling women in white wigs and hoop dresses came to mind. “I am not certain I would know how to dance as today’s youth does.”

  “Don’t worry, Al. It’s not a question of knowing the ordered steps of a particular dance. It’s all in feeling the music and letting your body move by itself. Besides, maybe there’ll be vampires there at the Cardinal.”

  “There are no other vampires in Madison ,” I snapped. The words rang too sharply—a lie, a blatant, bold-faced lie, but if Nicole knew the truth, she would want to help, surely placing herself in danger far worse than what she had previously experienced.

  Nicole ran a hand vigorously through my hair. “I meant it figuratively. Not real vampires. They just dye their hair black, wear black clothing and don’t go out in the sun hardly at all. And they kind of sit back there at the fringes, being above it all.”

  “How charming.” I opened Nicole’s door, then my own. “The Cardinal it is.”

  This old and venerable bar, just off the east side of the Capitol Square , was certainly lovely. Diamond-shaped tiles of black and white marble made up the floor. Carved mahogany molding circumscribed multi-colored, leaded glass windows. More mahogany made up the bar, which had a very nice, cut-glass mirror behind it. Of course, we walked past the mirror quickly, though it has been my experience that bar patrons usually tend not to notice the lack of reflection in such a mirror.

  The back room where people danced, however, had none of the charm of the main barroom. It was an absolute assault on the senses, with bright colored lights flashing and strobing and the recorded music—if one could call it that—played at an excruciating volume.

  Nicole bounced onto the dance floor, hips gyrating, shoulders twisting, arms flailing like a whirling dervish. She quickly found Maggie and gave her a violent hug as I followed, attempting to “feel” the music, but by Satan’s blisters, was this music?

  Nicole tried to tell me something. Her lips moved, but I could not discern her words. “What!?” I shouted.

  She placed her lips right on my ear. “It’s called ‘House’ or ‘Industrial’ or sometimes ‘Progressive Industrial Noise’.”

  Indeed. “Industrial Noise” certainly seemed apt. The cacophony of screeches, scrapes, scratches and crashes, all woven atop the pounding rhythm section which maintained a steady beat more like a rapidly beating heart, was anything but melodic, but did provide a fascinating challenge just to maintain movement within its frenetic framework of time.

  Song segued into song. Subtle changes in the music led to subtle changes in our movement. My body began to improvise as my thoughts drifted into the ether.

  The crowd on the dance floor grew. As Nicole had promised, youths in black lined the walls, their eyes lined in black, their hair black, their expressions dull as if boredom were fashionable. On the dance floor, a couple of women in shorts and tie-dyed shirts flailed their bodies, bouncing off the tightly packed, sweaty crowd, their long, straight hair flying to and fro. Other women danced with other women. Men danced with men, with women. A short, gray-haired Asian fellow danced with three women simultaneously. A tall, sinewy fellow, with not the slightest amount of body fat, danced by himself, merely jumping up and down in the same spot, arms pinned to his sides. Apparently, this energetic fellow was rather famous and was simply known as Marco Pogo. And, in the middle of it all, an exotic Latin American woman in high heels and a white dress, the neckline plunging deeply, danced a Tango with a middle-aged black man in a polyester suit with no tie, the collar of his jacket tucked underneath his shirt collar.

  The beat pounded. The dancers’ hearts pounded in many small voices, circling around this great monolith, until one by one these small hearts joined lock step behind their bigger counterpart. Just as the room filled with a single, unified booming heart, Nicole grabbed me by the arm and dragged me toward the small bar at one side of the room, Maggie following.

 
; “Yer wearing me out there, Count.” She smiled, her brow covered with little pearls of perspiration. “Vodka cranberry,” she said to the bartender who promptly handed her the bright pink concoction in a plastic glass with a little red straw.

  I felt myself smile, even at the “vampires” who sipped their drinks, their hair lacquered into points at the top of their heads, ears pierced, noses pierced, probably various other body parts pierced and covered with tattoos.

  “Having fun, Al?”

  “Yes.” I kissed Nicole on the cheek, wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed lightly. “Yes, this is fun. This sound is not music, but I do not care. The passion it ignites in this unordered way. The energy it takes to dance. It takes me back. It reminds me of those nights—long ago.”

  “I hoped you might like it. I wasn’t sure, but I’m glad you do.”

  “I’m going for some air,” Maggie said. Her face was bright red, and her cotton T-shirt clung to her. Nicole downed her drink, and the two of us followed her friend.

  The night air felt cool against my heated skin, which was moistened with perspiration, though not as much as my two lovely companions.

  Nicole stood almost as soon as she sat on the curb in front of the bar. She smiled casually. “What the hell? Guess you don’t buy vodka, you only rent it. Be right back.”

  Maggie punched my shoulder lightly after Nicole departed. Perspiration pasted curly strands of darkened hair to her broad forehead. “You know, Al,” she said, “I gotta say, I really like you.”

  “Oh?” I replied, wondering if this was, as the Americans say, a come-on. Or a set-up for one of those bits of lasciviousness for which Americans have a reputation.

  She slapped my thigh, seeming to read my mind. “No, I mean I think you’re a good guy, and I’m really glad Nicole’s going out with you.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “That is most kind of you.”

  “Yeah, well, usually Nicole’s got a real knack for picking ’em.” She shook her head. “Christ, her last boyfriend was a real creep, and I thought she’d really dug up the scum of the earth before.”

  “Indeed.” What else was there to say.

  “Just be good to her, okay? She’s been through a lot, and she’s not really herself right now, so be careful, okay?”

  “Well, I know it must have been difficult for her, with her father—”

  “Her father!” Maggie’s voice rose a couple of octaves. “Did you know her father—”

  “Hey, whaddaya guys talking about?” Nicole chimed in, having returned quickly from the WC—too quickly, for I wanted to know what Maggie had meant when she said that her friend was not truly herself.

  Maggie surreptitiously squeezed my knee, fingernails digging deeply into muscle. “Al was just telling me about a split-load at the airport he had last night.”

  “Ah, yes, it was exceptional. Radisson. West Towne Suites. Quality Inn West Towne. And the Holiday Day Inn West. A Holy Grail indeed.”

  “Hot damn!” Nicole said. “Must’ve been good for about forty on the side.”

  “Nearly fifty,” I replied. “They tipped well because I am such a brilliant conversationalist.”

  We returned to the back room, almost reaching the dance floor before a commotion drew our attention.

  Even above the volume, the sound was easily apparent. A loud slap of flesh against flesh. A splash. A trio of young men stood before a woman, her hair drenched, her blouse soaked, shock, anger and embarrassment reflected on her face. One of the men held an empty beer pitcher. All three laughed loudly.

  It was hard to tell under this queer lighting, but something about the trio looked strange. Their faces almost seemed to glow—bright white like bone. I took a couple quick steps toward them, then felt my arm pulled sharply.

  “Al,” Nicole said, shouting over the din, “leave it alone. Let the bar take care of it.”

  I tried to break away, but Nicole pulled harder.

  “C’mon, Al. This isn’t any of our business. Just leave it alone. Let’s get outta here.”

  “Yeah, let’s get the fuck outta here,” Maggie shouted. “Goddamned frat boys. Fuckers ruin everything.”

  Before I knew it, we were standing on the sidewalk just outside the bar. “Dumb ass frat boys,” Nicole spat.

  “Frat boys?” I asked. “How could you tell?”

  “Easy.” Nicole’s voice shook slightly with anger. “Their perfect hair. Perfect teeth. Designer clothes scuffed up to look like they got ’em at some second-hand store.”

  “Eugenics gone bad,” Maggie said. “Breeding. Christ, men from so-called good families searching other so-called good families for pretty cows to use as breeding stock just to make sure their kids are good looking, which to them means their faces have no distinguishing features.”

  “Hell, yeah,” Nicole said. “Just look at them, the whole way they were acting, like they think they can do anything they want ’cuz daddy’s so fucking rich.”

  “Damn right,” Maggie said. “Largest number of sexual assaults in Madison ? Langdon Street . Christ! One of those motherfuckers probably asked her for a blowjob, and when she told them to fuck off, she got a pitcher of beer dumped on her head.”

  “I hate frat boys,” Nicole spat. “Nuke Langdon Street and the world won’t be any worse off. Probably be better.”

  “We can go someplace else,” I interjected.

  “Please,” Nicole replied. “Anywhere.”

  “That is satisfactory to me. Where would you like to go?”

  “How ’bout the Crystal Corner?” Nicole said. “No frat boys there. Bikers scare ’em off.”

  “We are there. I rather like the Crystal . Maggie, do you care to join us?”

  She shook her head. “Naw. Enough excitement for this girl. I think I’ll just go home.” She drew her keys and quickly found her car, which was parked within a hundred meters of the Cardinal Bar.

  In a few quick moments after watching Maggie depart, we had arrived at the Crystal Corner. After all, the east side establishment was only twelve blocks away from the Capitol, thus making, as the Americans say, bar hopping an easy task because there are so many bars to choose from, all within close proximity.

  The Crystal was fairly crowded, but still provided a much more relaxed atmosphere than the Cardinal, a welcome change indeed. The music was not so loud and much more melodic, even if it was that infernally simplistic rock and roll. The patrons did not dance, instead merely stood or sat with their drinks, conversing calmly with compatriots. The only flurry of movement came from the two bartenders, who rushed to and fro in an attempt to assuage the thirsty throngs crowded along the long, oval-shaped bar.

  “Good crowd tonight,” Nicole said.

  We squeezed our way to the bar, just as Todd saw us and moved our way. “Evening, Count,” the cowboy hat-clad bartender said. “What is your pleasure?”

  “Just vodka cranberry for the lady,” I said, glancing at Nicole, pleased that the fellow had remembered me. She nodded. Ahead, through the arch that separates the two sides of the bar, Kern stood next to one of the pool tables, applying chalk to the shooting end of his stick. He saw us and waved.

  “Ah, there is Kern,” I said.

  “Let’s go say hello,” Nicole replied. I paid for her drink, then she took the cocktail from Todd and followed me through the crowd.

  “Wanna shoot some stick, Count?” Kern asked. He picked up another pool cue and started to hand it to me.

  “You mean billiards?” I stared questioningly at the scuffed felt covering the table.

  “Billiards, stick, pool, snooker, it’s all the same to me.” Kern flashed his goofy grin. “Whaddaya say? Just a friendly little game?”

  I looked at Nicole.

  “Sure, Al. Feel free.”

  “You sure it’s okay, Nicole?”

  “Fine by me. I’m not the Count’s keeper.”

  I smiled at her. “Do not worry, this match shall not last long.”

  Kern snorted
loudly. “Sez you.”

  “No, do not misunderstand me, Kern. I have not played this game in quite some time. I am sure you will make short work of my most inadequate skills.”

  “Yeah, right.” Kern began gathering the balls at one end of the table. “You’re talking like a hustler. How do you feel about a friendly little wager?”

  I pointed to the sign on the wall behind the pool tables that clearly said “no gambling.”

  “Well, how ’bout we just play for a drink then?”

  “But I do not drink.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I always forget.” Kern placed the balls within the rack and arranged them to his liking. “Gotta give you credit for coming into bars and not having a problem not drinking.”

  “One day at a time,” I replied, taking the stick from Kern, parroting the cliche I had overheard passengers use who were being transported to an in-patient substance-abuse facility. “I have an idea. I will play for a drink. For Nicole.”

  “Sounds good to me, Al,” Nicole said.

  Kern nodded and rolled the cue ball toward me. “You break.”

  “How magnanimous of you.” My stick struck the cue ball with authority, scattering the balls all over the table. None, however, dropped into any of the pockets. Indeed, it had been a long time since I had last played this game.

  Kern raised an eyebrow, then took his first shot. He slammed the ball hard into the pocket, an obvious psychological ploy that proved a tactical blunder; the shot had been lined up perfectly, with little distance separating the cue ball and his target. He could have easily made the shot without hitting it so hard, thus leaving himself in a better position to take his next shot, which he missed.

  It had been a long time. That previous occasion, the billiard table was much more opulent—longer, wider, the felt covering immaculate, the table itself made of ornately carved, solid teak, with brass fittings at each pocket. However, there seemed little doubt that the blue-blooded aristocrats playing on the Baron’s magnificent table would find themselves humbled by these unwashed plebeians holding court on the Crystal ’s dilapidated pool tables, in a small way demonstrating how capitalism brought the aristocracy to its knees. Ability, after all, does indeed supersede breeding.