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“Where? Let me at ‘em!” I believe
was my response.
‘Real’ means self-proclaimed, of course,
but who cares? Grown-ups who think they’re vampires
sounded good enough to me. Damn if I wasn’t going
to corner me some of them caped varmints and make ‘em
talk.
I was even prepared, yes, to use feminine wiles, if
necessary. Its wartime, after all, and I had a job to
do.
The Web upchucked six million listings of fanged fodder,
a braw start. Even after weeding out the Anne Rice canon,
Buffy fanzines and vampire porn (not bad), there was
queerness (old definition) to burn.
While the ‘vampires’ in these covens/churches/schools/’safe’
houses remind me of nothing more than loony Civil War
Re-enactors, they have a lot more pizzazz. Some of the
websites are sheer Broadway, with cool dripping blood
an’ stuff.
When I read their histrionic, world-weary prose, I
hear Vincent Price’s voice. Or maybe Eeyore’s.
Like Civil War Re-enactors, Senators and rappers, ‘vampires’
take themselves verrrry seriously. Some have their canine
teeth filed into ‘fangs’ (don’t vampires
come with fangs?) Ne’er a sunbeam will singe their
flesh. They avoid laughing. They sleep in caskets. They
divide themselves into two categories: The Psychics
and The Sanguinarians.
Psychic vampires ‘feed’ upon the energy
of others, and leave them drained. Jeez, I know about
ten thousand of those — some in my very own family!
Sanguinarians, as you Latin wonks already figured, drink
blood. This is as safe as bareback sex with ‘Customer
Of The Year’ from a Calcutta bathhouse.
To ‘avoid illness’ (as if), Sanguinarians
make an avocation of elaborate precautions. This ranges
from bribing Red Cross employees to ‘sacred’
sterility rituals when drawing blood from each other.
Drinking one another’s blood is, apparently,
the ultimate erotic act. The whole scene, in point of
fact, reeks of fetish. As do all scenes, really. As
an old sage drunk once told me, “The only reason
‘clubs’ exist is for people to get laid.”
Yet, another twist occurred to me, when I closed my
jaundiced eyes. Perhaps some of these ‘vampires’
were seekers of sorts. Perhaps their schtick shot them
into an altered state, out of our three oft-oppressing
dimensions.
But… wait a frickin’ minute here! Talk
about burying the lead!
‘Eternal Life’ — that’s the
headline! Where is it? Eternal Life is the pith of a
vampire’s soul, his (or her, but let’s not
be tiresome) kismet and doom. It is what defines him.
Why doesn’t Today’s Modern Vampire proselytize
about that?
“Because, blond-brain,” a voice boomed
from on-high, “real vampires, if they exist, would
not be on the Internet!”
Oh. Right.
Instantly, my goal grew more complex. ‘Grown-ups
who think they’re vampires’ orbit us in
profusion, but even they know they’re playing
Barbie’s Death House.
I needed to find someone who believed, utterly-utterly,
with abandon, gut and spleen, 24/7, hook, line and sinker,
that he was a true vampire, classic, of legend, accursed.
In other words, a psychopath.
“I’ll help!” effervesced my gay Goth
friend, Tricks. Tricks has a vampire thing too. I was
thrilled to give him a project, as he completely wastes
his brain. He employs his Ivy PhD to bartend and cruise
for facsimiles of Johnny Depp.
After weeks upon weeks, Tricks came through. He can
hide all he wants, but he is a type A.
“Through friends of friends of friends,”
was all he would say, vaguely, to torture me, when I
asked him how he scored. “I’ve never met
Signor Vampire, but I hear he’s cute. I’m
assured he won’t bite. A pity. And — you
may kiss my ring — he wants to meet us at a graveyard!”
This last part was squealed.
“Me. Not ‘us’. Good try.”
“Okay, I’ll wait in the car. You can’t
go there alone! Please, Mommy, please please please…”
SMASH CUT TO: EXT. GRAVEYARD – NIGHT (That’s
screenplay format. Or in this case, cinema verite.)
Near eleven p.m. This graveyard is old, full, small
- not in a bad part of town but a weird part of town.
It’s blocks from the beach, in an industrial building
sprawl that’s not quite gentrified.
Tonight is light, starry; scant smog. There is, actually,
a full moon; Signor V. scheduled the meeting to coincide.
As Tricks and I pull in, we see a tall man’s dark
silhouette under an oak tree. I swear.
“Does he have long hair? I love long hair.”
says Tricks, parking. “Is it black? It doesn’t
look black. Remember, his name is Ned. The Vampire LeNed.”
“I’m creeped out,” I respond.
“Well at least you can talk tough. Now move your
ass or I’m going myself.”
Ned stared at me the entire time I was approaching.
I looked back at Tricks who had pulled out binoculars.
He gave me a thumbs-up.
I imagined that a real vampire would look like Alan
Rickman (Prof. Snape) in the Harry Potter movies. Ned
had some of that vibe, but who wouldn’t in a graveyard?
He was blond. He did have long hair. He wore a black
outfit — but not ‘vampire’ style,
more like he was A&R for a major label.
We said hi and shook hands, then sat on a bench next
to Homer Bledell (1888-1972). Ned was silent. I couldn’t
think of a damn thing to say.
“Uh… do you drink blood?” tripped
out of me, finally.
“No.” He was indulgently polite.
“Why are you here? I mean, you know, on earth?”
“I don’t really know,” he said softly,
“whether its to pay for karmic problems…
or to really help people… or whether I’m
just here to… do a job.”
“Like what?”
He thought. “Telling people about it.”
A pause. “That there is a door. When you die,
the white light is seductive. You must not go to the
light.”
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.
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