The Vampire Henry

by Walker, Michael S.

  The Vampire Henry

  Michael Walker

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter One

  So I’m sitting in the bar, pretending to drink a Miller High-Life. It was my beer of choice when I was alive and human. But to tell the truth, I wasn’t really all that damn picky back then. Beer, wine, whisky, tequila, vodka…I’d drink up whatever the bartender put down in front of me, whatever I could afford or manage to sweet talk out of some soul richer in funds than me.

  Now, of course, there’s only thing I want to or CAN drink.

  Usually, I like this bar. It’s this giant cave of a tavern, dark as ALL hell: a meeting ground for bikers, whores, schizophrenics, pedophiles, punkers, druggies, alkies, failed writers…

  And vampires.

  That’s me. The last two. Failed writer. Vampire.

  Actually, I don’t consider myself a failed writer at all. I believe that as long as I am sitting down at the typer pecking away, as long as the blood and the ideas are flowing…life doesn’t get any better than that. I’ve written, what? Countless short stories now. More poems than there are gravestones in this city. And I never get tired of it. Every time I sit down, it’s fresh.

  But you know, unfortunately, that is not enough as far as this society is concerned. What was it the writer/actor Harvey Firestein once said? This is America. And if it don’t make money it don’t count. Word, as the kids say these days. I’ve been published in quite a few small literary journals, but they don’t pay for shit. I send my stuff out all the time--did even when I was human. You would think with all the badly written vampire fiction out there the exploits of a real honest-to God working-class vampire would garner more interest. But no. I guess America is more interested in vamps that sparkle and seduce high-school girls. Or vamps that have been around since the time of the Pharaohs. Seriously. I have a whole wall in my crummy house plastered with all my rejection slips. And I’m about to start another one. I often engage in the fantasy of what it would be like to be a famous writer. Say as famous as Mailer or somebody. It would be nice not to work a day job anymore. And by day job I mean the graveyard shift in warehouses and stores and such. I’d have a sweet house in a rich part of this city. Maybe by the zoo or something, where I could hear the animals at night. And I would buy a big burgundy coffin for myself and stick it in a giant master bedroom. That would be sweet.

  Like I said, I usually like my bar. I sit and pretend to drink my Miller and the bartenders, for the most part, leave me the hell alone. There was this one kid, an ex-Marine, who worked here for a time, used to hassle me, call me a bum. I had to teach him a lesson.

  You don’t wanna fuck with a vampire.

  Tonight is not really a good night to be hunting here. There is some kind of heavy-metal band playing in the large dance room--the place where the pool tables are. They are making a teeth-grinding racket. I caught a glimpse of them when I went to the head earlier in the evening--4 skinny dudes in black leather pants, hair down to their butt holes. They wear make-up too: clown white and lines of black grease paint.

  I guess they think they are pretty badass.

  The bartender, whose nickname is Junior (have no idea what his real name is) doesn’t seem to like the band much either. He’s wearing ear plugs and he paces back and forth behind the long burnished bar like a jittery squirrel-- filling drinks, swiping at the bar with a dish cloth, playing the cash register like Rachmaninoff at the ivories. Between his antics and the racket in the next room, I’m staring to get nervous. And I’ve been dead for five years.

  I really need a drink.

  I check out the prospects in the room. At the other end of the bar there are two regulars, two working-class Joes, trying to watch the pre-season football game on the TV above the cash register. Too bad for them. You can tell that they hate the rock band just as much as Junior does by the way they keep shaking their heads, rolling their eyes, and gulping down their draft beers. Over by the hoops machine--this game they have where you can sink foul shots in a basket for quarters--a biker dude and his lady are going at it pretty hot and heavy. I watch them with interest for a little while. He has his hand on her tight little leather-covered ass and is squeezing at it like it was a slab of artist’s clay or something. I scratch my balding head and wonder if it would be worth the trouble to get them to my house for a drink.

  And then, miraculously, SHE walks in.

  A goddess is the first thing I think as she walks slowly, unsteadily, into the bar on stiletto heels. She’s about forty-five or so and you can tell she has seen some fucked-up shit in all those years. There is all kind of crazy dancing around in those eyes. But they are big and gray/blue too so that makes it all right. She’s wearing a sweet little pink cocktail dress and her tits, which have to be Cs at least, are bouncing and jiggling like two happy drunks on a trampoline.

  Perfect.

  I turn it on. I focus all of my energy on her.

  One of the advantages of being a bloodsucker is the ability to focus all of your attention on your would-be prey. Hypnotize them with your glance like a cobra does with its meal. It’s definitely a plus for me because I don’t look like Dracula or any of those sparkly vampires I mentioned earlier.

  I look like a dead truck driver.

  I catch those big eyes with my gaze as she moves into the dark bar. I see her brow furrow and I can almost hear her mind working. “Who the hell is this guy? He doesn’t look like anybody. Why?…” Yeah. Why do you suddenly feel compelled to go and sit by this fugly loser?

  Pheromones baby. Strong pheromones.

  And so I turn it on and she comes to me. She doesn’t sit right next to me. She leaves one stool between us-- a fragile, illusionary security zone. She stares straight ahead pretending not to notice me. But my vamp senses are on high alert. Her heart is beating faster. She is so nervous. Confused.

  I sniff the air. And yes. Mmmm. A little aroused.

  I glance over at her, at her long elegant neck. I can see the sweet vino flowing like the Ganges through the stem of her.

  This is turning out to be a good night. Seems like I’m not going to have to resort to catching some homeless guy in a dark alley after all.

  I sit there savoring the moment. I have all the time in the world. I am in control after all and utterly unstoppable. I watch as she extracts a pack of Virginia Slims and a lighter from a frilly handbag, fumbles one lit. I send all the sweet sensuous smoldering vibes her way as we rock there in silence. Thankfully, the heavy-metal band has taken a break from battering the air.

  “Buy you a drink?” I say, suddenly leaning toward her, smiling, letting my eyes dance around with all the hunger I can muster. It’s good.

  “What?” she says, looking, trying hard to act as if it is the first time she has noticed me. It makes me want to laugh.

  “I was wondering if I could buy the lady a drink?” I say matter-of-factly. I take in her sexy, compact body. The tits ar
e really something. They make me want to whistle.

  “Oh, I don’t know…” she says, taking a long drag on her cigarette and appraising me with her crazy/hurt eyes. “I’m supposed to meet my girl friend here and…”

  Like I said, my senses are on high gear. It’s all complete bull shit. She came here hoping to get laid by some young tough with a big cock. She was not counting on running into Henry the Vampire.

  “C’mon honey, I don’t bite,” I say, smiling, showing her what is left of my yellow teeth. At least my canines are still there and sharp.

  “Well, not right away,” I add.

  A small crowd has gathered close to us at one end of the bar--the metal band, their patrons and hangers on. Junior is going crazy pouring shots for all of them. I notice he still has one ear plug in. This could take forever. Or it could be…an opportunity?

  “On second thought honey… why don’t you come to my house and we can have a nice little drink in peace and quiet?” I say, turning it completely on now, boring into her with my red-rimmed eyes, promising her tacitly her heart’s desire, everything she came here for…

  If only she will walk out into the night with me.

  She tries to break free from my gaze. Her heart is beating much faster now beneath that tight dress. It’s almost palpable. Sexy.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she says, weakly. “How do I know you aren’t some kind of serial killer?”

  She stubs her long cigarette out into one of the flimsy ashtrays that litter the bar--a flowery husk coated with her blood-red lipstick.

  “Henry,” I say smiling. “And I’m many things…but a serial killer ain’t one of them…

  We take her car, a beat-up Honda Civic, to my pad. I tell her, as we leave, that I caught a taxi to the bar. This is a lie. My pickup is parked where I always park it when I go to the bar--at the far end of this vast gravel parking lot. Close to the old bread factory that’s been closed now for like three maybe four years. I remember, when I used to be alive, how I liked to take in the sweet smell of that bread baking in the morning--as I rode off to some crummy job somewhere or went to catch a little of the hair of the dog that bit me. The reason I tell her that I didn’t drive is that later--when this is all over (as sadly it will be)--I’m going to have to do something with her vehicle, ditch it somewhere like I always do after a drink. I don’t want it just sitting there for the cops to find.

  As soon as we are in the car, I tell her where to go.

  “Do you know Lanehurst Avenue?” I say, buckling up into the passenger seat. “The fashionable part of Lanehurst? Well I live in the other part.”

  She pulls the car out into traffic and I appraise her smooth shapely legs as she works the pedals of the car. Her cocktail dress rides up a little and I think of the beautiful mystery just waiting there under that pink prison.

  “Mind if I play the radio?” I say, touching one of her legs lightly with my fingertips, sending pulses of vamp electricity to her brain. She shivers and glances at me, almost defiantly.

  “I don’t even know why…” she says, shaking her head, and then turns back to concentrate on driving.

  “Sure…play it,” she adds softly.

  So I turn the radio on to the classical music station: WKPC. It’s what I always listen to when I am at the typer. They are playing Mussorsgky’s Pictures at an Exhibition and I wave my right hand casually, as if I were conducting the orchestra from a distance. I’m feeling VERY good. It’s a cool summer night and the whole damn city seems to be alive--brimming with possibilities like some vast smeared honeycomb.

  She looks at me again.

  “By the way, you never even asked me my name,” she says, pouting. “It’s Marie.”

  “Hellooo Marie… I think I love you,” I coo, placing my other hand softly on her leg.

  Leaving it there this time…

  Chapter Two

  Let me tell you how I got turned into a vampire. It’s a pretty funny story.

  I had to go and fall in love.

  In 2005 I had just settled back into this town, after bumming all over the country. Took a bus all the way to California just so I could swim in the Pacific. Turned around, went to the Florida Keys so I could pet Hemingway’s cats. When I would run out of money I would stop in whatever shithole town I was in, get a laborer’s job, save some money and then start again. It wasn’t always a picnic doing this but I was twenty-five and free. I had it in the back of my mind then that I would make a writer of some kind and I guess I had the Beat/Romantic notion that the best place to learn that trade was on the road. Well I’m here to tell you, I didn’t really do much writing when I was bumming around. Too worried about where my next meal or-- more importantly-- my next drink was coming from. I did keep a little composition book of things I wanted to work on, turn into stories, if I ever got the time and a peaceful place to flesh them out.

  I do have to say I saw some spectacular sunrises in the months I was traveling around. Just beautiful. That is the one thing I miss the most about being human--the sunrises. Just watching that hot white disk rise up faithfully every day, like the eye of some powerful benevolent God. I still have those sunrises burned into my mind and I always feel a pang in my gut, like homesickness or something, when I think about how good they were.

  Anyway, I came back to this town, got a job dispatching taxis at night, got a little apartment above a bar and began to write in earnest. I bought a beat-up Olympia typer in a pawn shop downtown, set it up on a flimsy card table and, after my graveyard shift was over, I would come home and peck away at it. (With the help of a twelve-pack of Miller High-Life of course.) For some damn reason the stories I had planned to write failed to come down from the capricious muses. Instead, I started writing poems. A whole shit storm of poems. About the ocean, cats, drinking, jobs, sunrises, women, poverty, buses, my ugly face in the mirror, man’s inhumanity to man…whatever. It was really a great playground, a great place to cavort, sitting down at that battered wise old typer after a shift of almost nothing at all at that cabstand.

  And so I started mailing the damn things out to magazines. I started out big which was a mistake I now realize. But even when I was human I had an ego the size of Mt. Rushmore. Sent them to The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Harper’s--all the east-coast establishment rags who really wouldn’t know good writing if it came down from Mt. Sinai on stone tablets.

  So after a round of that (and many rejections) I decided the HELL with it and started sending the poems anywhere I could think of sending them. Got a book out of the library--The Writer’s Market or some such shit. Went through it alphabetically. If they published poetry, I sent them poetry. Didn’t matter if they paid in dollars, contributor’s copies, or parcels of dog shit. I was just hot to get it out there.

  And more rejection slips came back.

  Some of them were handwritten, and on my side it seemed, which did give me some hope:

  “Dear Mr. Lovell,

  Although these poems are not quite up to the standards of Sinew Magazine, they do show some potential. Please feel free to send us more during our Spring reading session.”

  Encouraging I guess but still a rejection. It was like being in the bedroom with some girl you really wanted to fuck, stripping down, and then hearing her say: “Well THAT does show some potential, but I think I will pass right now.” And then having her walk out on you. Something like that. I was writing from the heart and the groin. And it hurt like hell to always be turned down. But I could think of nothing else in the world I wanted to do.

  Then one night in November of that year I was making my way up to the apartment from the bar. I was pretty hammered because I had been in the bar all night, drinking Long Island Ice Teas (another thing I was fond of then back then) and eyeing, liking some Mongol horseman, every female in the place without a glance back. I was feeling pretty damn sorry for myself. The writing was going nowhere; women would not have anything to do with me; the boss at the taxi place had just given me a written wa
rning for falling asleep on the job; the bills were piling up. I was seriously thinking of chucking it all, slitting my wrists and bleeding away in the bathtub like some deposed Roman senator or something. At the foot of the stairs, I stopped to unlock my little mailbox. I hadn’t checked it earlier in the day. I was just expecting there to be bills in there, or a credit card offer, or at best another rejection letter from another little magazine. But when I reached in there was a fat manila envelope crammed in the slot. It was heavy. I looked at the return addy, straining to read it under the thin sick light in the stairwell: Emily Diller Editor Mockingbird Magazine 4067 Front Street La Jolla CA. I shook my head. It was not ringing any bells at all but in the last two months or so I had sent my poems out to like forty different publications. As I fingered the envelope I felt something inside me-- a warm hopeful feeling mixing with all the heat of the booze I had imbibed earlier. This did NOT look like a standard rejection slip at all.

  Maybe…

  I took the thing upstairs to my threadbare apartment. I put it down on my wobbly card table desk next to the typer, just savoring the moment, the expectation, like some kid’s Christmas morning. I went and got myself a brew from the fridge, trudged back into the living room, sat in my Barca Lounger looking at the envelope for a long time, turning it over in my hands.

  Maybe…

  And then quickly, with violence, I tore it open, emptying the contents on to the table. There was a thick soft-bound book in there, its cover stamped with a black and white photograph of what appeared to be an old adobe church and the legend Mockingbird 2 across the top. There was also a typewritten letter, about six pages long. I put the book aside and started to read…