The Blind Vampire Hunter

by Tim Forder

  Fortunately for me, my parents didn’t give up that easily. When they heard of a child specialist for eye treatment, they literally went miles out of their way to have me see this doctor. He examined me and like the second doctor he announced, “He does have some eyesight,” but to this he added information that the second doctor did not, “While his eyesight is developing very slowly, it is showing some signs of developing. I would like to continue seeing him, but I feel I must warn you, at some point we may have to talk eye surgery to get the job done.”

  Providentially for me, my eyesight continued to develop just enough to keep the surgeon’s knife at bay. At three years old, I received my first pair of glasses. The lenses truly looked like they had come off the bottom of two Coke bottles, but there was an immediate effect; once they were put on me, I saw my father for the first time. He was standing, and I ran to my mother who was sitting near me and proclaimed, “Daddy big.”

  When it was time to go to school, the Board of Education proclaimed that I had too much eyesight to go to a school for the blind, but not enough eyesight to go to a school for the sighted. In fact, one member of the board of education went so far as to tell my father, “He’ll never survive the system. Your boy will just fall through the cracks, never to graduate.” My parents were fighters and, as the apple does not fall far from the tree, it turned out that I was also.

  After years of being held out of school, my eyesight finally developed enough that I was visually ready to attend school for the sighted, so it was decided to put me in “Special Education” where I could learn at my own pace and feasibly enter high school somewhere near my age group...

  Years later, I entered junior high just one year behind where I should have been if I had normal eyesight, but the real education fight was just beginning. The Board of Education had this rule of putting graduates of “Special Education” in lower level classes. Makes some sense when you consider the usual graduate of “Special Education” has some degree of mental challenge or as my peers would say was...A RETARD.

  For the next six years, I fought the school system to get into classes I should have been in according to my mental apptitude, instead of low-level classes for the mentally- or morally-challenged student.

  I had to fight this good fight on two fronts.

  Front One: I had to fight to get into higher education classes that I should have been placed in instead of classes the system said I should be in, simplistic classes because I came out of “Special Education.”

  A perfect example was this one English class. It started with a test on Basic English structure, grammar, spelling and more. I most likely did not do as well as I could have since I was as busy trying to ignore the student beside me who was taunting me into fighting the student sitting behind me, who was just as busily banging my chair to provoke me into fighting him. Why did he want to fight me? Because it would be more interesting than taking the test.

  The rest of the class was in utter mayhem, with students climbing the walls to see if they could fit into some square grooves high up the wall while other students were throwing schoolbooks out the window to watch them crash on the sidewalk below. The teacher of this class lasted a week before she needed hospital rest. (Meaning: We put her in a mental hospital.) Replacing her was a series of substitutes, not any of which was stupid enough to return a second day.

  One day, this little old lady walked in, who was replacing an ex-city cop from the day before, and she was fresh meat for the animals that made up the class. Eventually failing to tame the class, she just lost it. She grabbed her purse from a desk drawer, pulled out a picture, and announced, “I am not a nobody. This is a picture of me receiving an award from the President of the United States. This award was for the Teacher of the Year.”

  A student, sitting near as he was in the first row of student desks feigning interest in the picture asked if he could see it. The little old lady in her fragile condition unthinkingly walked over and gave the famed picture to this student, saying, “Please pass it around.” As I expected, he tore the picture into pieces, with the effect of tearing the little old lady to pieces at the same time. She just stood there crying before a class of laughing hyenas. I guess you can say I also lost it. From the middle of the class, I walked up to the crying mess of a little old lady, handed her purse to her and ordered, “Go see the school nurse.” She took her purse and walked out. Wild animals don’t like having fresh meat taken away from them, so I had no choice but to fight my way out of the classroom.

  I worked my way out of a class of shouting, screaming, wild animals by shoving the closest animals off me and into school desks, adding confusion to my escape plan. Eventually, I was able to move the rumble out into the hallway where the loud-mouthed mayhem was distractingly destructive enough to send other teachers out from their classrooms.. These teachers, all men, went into crowd control mode to bring order back to their classrooms. As the animals were herded back into the classroom by four male teachers turned cattle ranchers, I started walking down the hallway, deliberately retreating from the battlefield. One teacher observing my escape called out, “Get back here or I’ll send you to the principal’s office.”

  I called back, “Don’t bother, that’s where I’m headed.”

  Without any more incidents, I marched into the principal’s outer office and found his secretary with her hands full with the terrorized, screaming little old lady. The secretary looked totally out of her depth in dealing with this hysterical “teacher”. It did not help that this little old lady noticeably was trying, unsuccessfully, to communicate and wail in her misery at the same time.

  I ordered, “Where’s Principal Jones?”

  “He’s in his office, there.” Pointing to his closed door, totally untrained for this situation, she asked, “What happened to her?”

  Ignoring the secretary’s question and nearly kicking in the principal’s door, I marched into Principal Jones’ office and seeing him behind his desk, I angrily asked, “What the hell were you thinking sending that little old lady into that class of deranged animals?”

  Ignoring my disrespectful attitude, as I was clearly in the right, he asked in a calm defeated tone, “What happened?”

  “Those animals ate her alive, THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED.”

  “Please Jack, calm down, sit down, and tell me what happened.”

  I did. After giving him all the grubby details I added, “No way in hell am I going back in there. If you can’t put me in another English class, I’ll go to the library and teach myself.” [And yes, I have had past experience teaching myself in the library because I did not belong in the class to which I was assigned, and the principal knew it. More than once the principal (here and in junior high), not having any other place to put me, put me in the library to teach myself.]

  “I understand. Tomorrow I’m teaching the class...”

  Interrupting him boldly, I snapped, “I don’t care if you talk God himself into teaching that class, I...am...not...going...back.” I emphasized each word with feeling.

  He tried to stare me down, but failed. He finally said, “Right. There is another English class during this time period, but, it’s an advanced class. I don’t think you can handle it.” I started to argue but he cut me off before I could get it out. “Also the class is full. I don’t think Miss Masters will have room for you.

  “SO...” I started, but again, he cut me off.

  “See her after school, explain the situation, and see if she has room for you.” He warned, “Don’t get your hopes up as I really don’t believe she has room for another student.”

  I visited Miss Masters, and before I could say anything, she announced, “I don’t have room for you, but I will make room for you. Report here tomorrow.”

  I was so excited at her proclamation, that I ran out never finding out how it was she was so ready for me and so determined about finding room for me in her classroom. As for making room for me, I had to use her teacher’s desk for a couple of classe
s until she found me a proper student desk. Once she found me a desk, she had to place it between her desk and the row of student desks nearest the window.

  As to being an advanced class too difficult for me to handle, I loved that class. One assignment was to write a short story. I wrote a novelette that got me a near perfect score, the highest score she had ever given any student, though I lost points on spelling. High school students did not have computers with spell-checkers in the early 70’s.

  At the end of one week in a high school math class, the teacher called me up and said, “You don’t belong in this class.” After a dramatic pause he added, “You aced the first day exam when most of these students can’t even add or subtract. Hell, some of these high school students didn’t even spell their names correctly.” He continued, “This week I have looked hard to find somewhere else to put you, but there is no other class to place you in during this time period. So I have decided to put you in my office, give you some books and let you teach yourself. When I can, I will step in and check on your progress and make myself available for any questions you may encounter. I understand you have had some experience at this self-teaching before. When feasible during the last ten minutes of each class I will give the class busy work, so I may come in and see how you are doing, answer any questions you might have and help you if you get stuck in your self education.”

  While the teacher tried to teach addition and subtraction to the mentally, but mostly morally challenged students, I taught myself algebra and trigonometry so well that later in college I “examed out,” which meant instead of taking the required course, and then taking the final exam, I took the final exam, passed it, and was not required to take the class. I tested out with such a near perfect test score, and since I did not have to take the course, the instructor asked me if I would tutor for him, to help him with some others of his class students who needed the extra assistance. I agreed to do so.

  Yes, I not only graduated from high school, but received a college degree. I should mention that, by my later college years, I needed special visual aids to get through the classes. Late in my college classes, I started taping my classes. In one class, the instructor would enter the class after the students and immediately start lecturing. For this reason, I had gotten into the routine of starting the tape player as he entered the room. One evening, he walked in and announced, “My day job is sending me to Hawaii for two weeks to fix a problem that will most likely take me two hours to fix. For the next two weeks I plan to have a real good time in Hawaii, all on a company expense account.”

  One of the female students asked, “Are you taking your wife and kids with you?”

  Pointedly he answered, “Did you not hear me say I was going to have a good time in Hawaii? Of course I am not taking the old ball-n-chain and the rug rats with me.”

  The young lady sitting next to me announced, “You do realize Jack just taped all that.”

  If looks could kill I’d be dead right now, but the class laughed on.

  Second Front: I had to fight to survive my peers. From the 50’s through the 70’s, “legal blindness” did not exist. You were either fully sighted, blind or A RETARDED FREAK. As previously mentioned that English class I had to fight my way out of—fighting off a whole class of students–one against dozens, Right?

  Yes, Right. Part of my “Special Education.” Even among the “retards” I was a freak because of my eyesight. I needed to learn to defend myself or get the crap beat out of me. You know the old trick of distracting your victim while an accomplice kneels down behind the victim. Three students tried to pull that on me once, but only once. One day on the playground, two students who were thorns in my side, walked up to me saying that they had decided to become my friends. I got suspicious. It was autumn and there were lots of dry leaves on the ground. When I heard the leaves crunching behind me, I mule kicked backward and nailed someone right in the head. I kicked him so hard that he dropped to the ground, crying. I then shoved my arms forward and rammed the other two, knocking them on their asses. No one ever tried to pull that on me a second time.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile in Louisiana...

  Business was growing for one “lady of the night”. “That prostitute in gothic-vampire outfit will give you a blow for free, well not totally free. Her price: a little bite on the neck. Hell, I don’t know what’s more exciting, her blow-job or her bite on the neck. Charlie swears he always comes twice- and it costs no money!”

  * * * *

  Meanwhile in back in Maryland...

  When I was a child, my parents forced me to “go out and get fresh air.” Instead of fighting to keep my bike from being stolen or dodging eggs thrown at me, I found an alternative to the tortures of my peers. Fortunately for me, next to our housing development there was a wooded area that was supposedly inhabited by the cannibalism madman called the “Rabbit Man.” He was called this because his whole attire consisted of a pair of rabbit ears taken from one of the rabbits he had eaten for his dinner. He used a large bloody axe, and he always carried it with him. Oh, yes, word was that he ate kids stupid enough to enter his domain. Or desperate enough?

  I spent a lot of my time in those woods. At first I was very cautious of every sound that might mean the Rabbit Man was near...

  Of course, I never met up with the “Rabbit Man.” When I was old enough I went from messing about in the woods to the honorable Boy Scouts. Think I made friends within such an honorable, highly moral institute as the Boy Scouts? Think again.

  My patrol leader [scout assigned by the Boy Scout troop leader to be in charge of a subgroup within the troop] loved to give me every dirty duty possible, and if it was not dirty enough he would find a way to make it dirtier for the pleasure of all the others. In short, even within the Boy Scouts, I was a four-eyed retarded freak because of my low-vision. When I was old enough to progress from the Boy Scouts to the Explorers, I had no intentions of progressing on. My father and the Scoutmaster never could understand why I did not move on to the fun and adventures of The Explorers. It couldn’t be because those boys that tormented me within my Boy Scout Troop were waiting for me in the Explorers, with girls to embarrass and harass me in front of no less as the Explorers was uni-sexed. Interestingly, I was not allowed to progress within the Boy Scouts because even though I was night-blind and could not see stars, my Scoutmaster was not familiar with night blindness and refused to believe it. Meanwhile, on outings, his boys loved stealing my flashlight so they could watch me stumble around blindly in the dark.

  I do recall one time when their folly of stealing my flashlight backfired on them. It was during a 50-mile hiking trip. It was such a great night that most of us guys figured it would be nicer and easier not to bother pitching tents. There was one exception; twin brothers, tenderfoots, on their first hiking trip. All day the guys had been teasing the twins to look out for bears, so when it came time to sack out for the night these two brainiacs thought they’d be smart and pitch a pup tent.

  [Pup tent: Tie a rope between two trees, throw the tent canvas over the rope and secure the sides.]

  The brainiacs then placed a number of rocks at both ends of the tent opening so if a bear stumbled into one side of the tent, the twins could escape from becoming the bear’s dinner by exiting through the other side of the tent.

  Of course, after bedding down for the night, I got the call of nature. Rooting around in my backpack, I discovered that, despite packing my flashlight at the bottom, it was gone, again. Looking around, I took notice that the Scoutmaster and the volunteer fathers were still yawning around their campfire, and I figured to use their fire to mark my way out to pee and return. After finding a nice large tree to go behind, I took care of my business. When I circled the tree to get back to my sleeping bag, I discovered that the men had sacked out for the night, putting out their campfire. I was lost.

  Trying to remember my way back to my sleeping bag I found instead, yes, I found the twin’s fortifications by falling over thei
r stone guards. The twins, figuring I was a big, old hungry bear looking to eat them, ripped out the other end, yelling, “BEAR! A BEAR IS IN OUR TENT! HEELLP!” This, of course, woke everyone up, and I had lots and lots of flashlight beams to help me back to my sleeping bag.

  It was during this time in my life that I made a new friend, the son of a new friend of my father, who introduced me to a fascinating magazine called, FAMOUS MONSTERS of FILMLAND. From the first time I eyeballed it, I instantly became a horror fan. Also during this time, my parents were having trouble finding sitters who could referee my sister and I, as we tended to fight like cats and dogs–no, really, I barked a lot at my sister, who liked to scratch at me a lot–and on and on it went. My parents found a high school sucker, Nancy. When she learned about my interest in monsters, she made a deal with me. If I did not kill or even try to kill my sister, I got to stay up past my bedtime and watch Creature Feature on TV with her.

  For the first few times before Count Gore DeVol started to host the night’s Creature Feature, Nancy made a point of telling me, “Now remember, what you see is only make-believe, there is nothing really scary about these movies. Certainly nothing that can hurt you.”

  I took her instruction so much to heart that years later while sneaking off to view Hammer Horror movies with two of my buds, as they totally freaked out during the movies, I, Mr. Cool, would prevail. Nothing scares the Man.

  Who could not watch those great Hammer Horror movies and not become a great fan of Vampires? From Christopher Lee’s Dracula to all those sexy female Vamps.

  One more note on my sister. Even though we fought like cats and dogs when we were younger, when we matured, we developed a pact. If some girl gave my sister a hard time it was her problem; if some guy gave her a hard time, it was my problem. My sister’s first job was at our local Roy Rogers Restaurant. There was a young man who liked to talk dirty to the girls, this included my sister. When she told me how upsetting it was, I visited this Roy Rogers, and I made a point of arriving when they were not busy. When I walked in, I looked around. The place wasn’t quiet, it was dead. The only people I could find were two serving girls standing behind the counter, eagerly waiting for me to walk the snake and upon arriving in front of the register, give my order. Instead, I walked around to the side of the snake, came up beside the register and asked one of the serving girls to ask “Charlie” to come out to see me. She complied by disappearing into the back. The girl returned from the back and told me, “Charlie says he’s too busy right now.”