Joe Vampire

by Steven Luna

  It takes place in my house on the morning after, when I woke up alone beneath my bed with my shirt dragged over my head, sleeves knotted below my chin, and my pants on my arms instead of my legs. It had been a very long time since I’d done any serious drinking, but I didn’t think I’d be such a booze pussy. I made my way to the bathroom in a woozy stumble and untangled myself from my shirt and pants. To my juvenile delight I found an incredible war wound of a hickey on my neck. It was already eggplant purple – nearly black, even – and sort of ached. I couldn’t remember if there had been actual sex involved, but it looked like something noteworthy must have happened. Then my head started throbbing and my stomach fell into a permanent lurch, so I spent the rest of the day asleep in the bathtub.

  I made my best effort to hit the office on Monday, sort of sweet on the thought of having had a wild time even though I still felt like I’d been on the losing end of a jailhouse love affair that I couldn’t recall. I chose the handiest item I could find to cover the hickey, which also turned out to be the most conspicuous: a way-too-long scarf my brother had given me for Christmas, the kind worn by celebrities who probably think this blog is about them. It finally came in handy, and at least I didn’t appear diseased. Just extremely douchey. Michelle found me as I shuffled toward my desk. “You two must have really hit it off after we left you behind.”

  “I guess so… I don’t remember much. This thing hurts like a bitch, though.” I lifted the scarf and showed her, bragging a little. “I think it might be infected… it feels more like a bite than a hickey.”

  She didn’t seem surprised by that. “Oh. Yeah.”

  “Remind me which one I was with again… they were all pretty hot, but I’m kind of cloudy on the details. Was it the one in the blue skirt? Or the blonde who sort of licked her lips whenever she took a drink? Or the one with the mad cleavage who kept fingering the rim of her glass… was that Dawn?”

  She just stared at me. “No. Don was the one with the fedora.”

  I choked on my own air. “The dude? My date was a guy?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “But you said her name was Dawn!”

  “His name is Don.”

  Fucking phonetics. “You mean I got this festering wound from a guy with a feathered hat and a pimp chain?” It suddenly hurt worse. “He wasn’t even slightly cool.”

  Michelle cringed. “Shit. I’m sorry. You never talk about women, so I just assumed you were gay.”

  I had not seen this coming. “Gay? I’m not gay; I’m just… ” Damaged goods seemed a tad too honest. “I’m just shy.”

  “Yeah; I thought you were shy-gay.” Like that’s a real thing. “Listen, I’m sure it’s fine.”

  Fine? I was staring down the barrel of Hepatitis C, possibly given to me by some guy dressed like an extra from a Poison video. It was definitely not fine. “Who is this Don?”

  “I don’t know him that well; he just sort of glommed onto me and the girls a few weeks ago. He says the funniest stuff, and he pays for all of our drinks, so we let him hang. I thought you two might like each other.”

  “Apparently he liked me,” I pointed out, “or I wouldn’t have this thing oozing out of my neck… it’s probably ruining my liver already. Who bites someone on a first date, anyway?”

  “Um, about that… ” And then she dropped the real bombshell, even bigger than the Oops, I Set You Up With a Guy revelation. “Don sort of thinks of himself as a vampire.”

  It sounded funny back then, when I still thought vampires only existed in books and movies, so I laughed. “A vampire?”

  As if the fedora wasn’t awesome enough.

  POST 6

  And So It Began…

  Now that Michelle’s friend Don had spent an evening chewing on my neck, there was a very real possibility that I would come down with something nasty in addition to still feeling blasted from the sake. The vampire thing was creepy enough without needing a true supernatural element. I’ve seen lurid investigations on Friday night news programs about people who fill some sort of perceived leak in their energy by drinking the blood of others. They wear tiny top hats and have fang-shaped dental implants, and give themselves names like Mephistopheles Nevermore and Morticia Sucksalot.

  Okay… I made those up. I don’t remember what their names were.

  But it was a real news story.

  I figured Don was one of these weirdos, someone who might turn up on To Catch a Predator: Vampire Edition. I also assumed that this wasn’t his first rodeo, so who knows what kinds of brain-eating microbes might be rampantly reproducing in his slobber. He hadn’t exactly looked like a testament to modern hygiene. I couldn’t help but wonder where else on my body he might have put his bacteria-laden pie hole while I was passed out. It may have been due to the gradual realization throughout the day of these and other disturbing facts about my so-called date, but I ended up feeling more and more shitty as time passed. I finally checked out early and went home to sleep, hoping it was just the remains of the hangover or an ensuing battle with bad fish from the sushi bar. Shortly afterward, I got my first taste of Vampire Shit.

  That so doesn’t sound how it’s supposed to.

  I took to the couch and only left to hit the bathroom, waiting until the very last minute to make the dash. Sometimes the delay didn’t pay off. My carpet paid the price on those occasions. Mind you, at the time I really thought I was only fighting off a bastard virus, something Nyquil couldn’t quite take the edges off of. All of my best intentions of heading to an urgent care kept falling by the wayside whenever the urge to shit liquid took over my body. Honestly, it was easy to mistake this sickness for something seasonal; the whole thing felt akin to the worst flu imaginable, something I would have gauged to be beyond bird flu and swine flu combined. It seemed like nature somehow skipped right over the rest of the farm and shot straight to giraffe or elephant flu, or maybe orangutan. In my soul-rotting delirium I couldn’t quite figure out how Don would have had contact with any of those creatures unless he had recently returned from an animal fetish sex safari. But my memory of the night was riddled with holes, and the guy was pretty gross, so nothing could be ruled out at that point. I never for one second thought I was actually becoming a vampire, though.

  Okay… maybe I did. Just for a second, though.

  But we’ve already discussed that.

  Onward.

  The symptoms came one by one in a spiteful, continuous parade – first the arctic nerve chills, then joint-killing body aches, followed by a roiling fever, swells of nausea, showers of sweat, and ultimately the never-ending spigot of water poop. On day two, when I realized it wasn’t going to be a short-term deal, I gave in and let it take me. With as much repulsive bathroom agony as I was in, I was sure the next day would be the pinnacle and everything would be on the upswing from there on out. But it just kept getting worse. I wondered if I wasn’t actually dying. It seemed like everything was draining from me, more than just the fluids I was trying to drink. And then visions came, nightmarish scenes featuring me burning alive, falling endlessly through blackened skies, smashing into pieces as I finally hit the ground. At one point I could have sworn that I – or some version of me – had literally climbed the wall, like my tortured soul had escaped my aching flesh and was staring back at me in pity from my popcorn ceiling. I had no fight left by then, and I figured that this must be the end of me. And my DVR was full of stuff I hadn’t watched yet.

  Damn.

  The doorbell woke me from my dying.

  It was Hube, my boy, stopping by to make sure I was okay and rouse me from my demise. If there’s anyone in the world more eager than me to please people, it’s Hube. He makes me look like a heartless shit. To tell the truth, I was a little surprised that he hadn’t made contact earlier. “Dude, what’s the deal? You haven’t answered your phone in forever, voicemail’s full, no Facebook posts… people at work are flipping out.”

  I saw through the door as he closed it that it was night. He kept
a little distance, not sure if I was still contagious. And also, I smelled like an ass taco filled with burning hair. So I understood. “Sorry… didn’t mean to worry you,” I said, and told him I’d been too sick to move let alone pick up a phone or get online. He told me that Human Resources was hot to fire me for not showing up and not calling, but he begged them off by saying I had a doctor’s note that I’d fax them as soon as I could. Like I’m twelve and missed gym class. Seeing as how I’d filled in my boss on Monday before I left, I was surprised they were taking this so seriously. Three days out sick wasn’t such a big deal. Then Hube told me I had been MIA for a total of nine days.

  Nine, not three.

  That orangutan flu really messes with your head.

  I told him I was doing much better now, though I wasn’t sure how true it was. The symptoms had died down for the most part, and I was more starving than anything at that point. Hube’s eyes seemed to see through my bullshit, as if however I looked was way more convincing than my words. “Band practice tonight,” he said cautiously, “only if you’re up for it. Lazer’s a little ripped that you’ve missed the last two, but I told him you were in pretty bad shape.” See what I mean? That’s Hube in a nutshell: always covering for me and making me look more together than I am.

  Lazer, on the other hand, is just a prick.

  I said I was in, and he offered to drive, so I went to wash the puke out of my hair and put on real clothes. When I caught myself in the mirror and saw what Hube must have seen, I felt the nausea return. My skin wasn’t just sallow or pale; it was gray, like all the blood in me had gone still. My eyes were sunken and lifeless, and my face was drawn, which was reasonable since apparently I hadn’t eaten in more than a week. The hickey-bite had cleared up for the most part, having mellowed down to a greenish-yellow stain. I could now see in the center what the bloody black bruise had concealed: a set of teeth marks – not two little holes like you see on TV when someone is bitten by a vampire, but a whole sloppy double horseshoe of red scabs with two super-punctures on either side of the top half, as if Don had tried to take a proper chunk out of me. Whatever disease he gave me seemed to be on its way out, though, and at least I could function again. I walked out and asked Hube how I looked. “Slightly less dead than you did a minute ago. But only slightly.” To be honest, I only felt slightly less dead, too. He pointed to the bite. “I take it your little encounter with Michelle’s friend was eventful.”

  “You have no idea,” I told him, and I left it at that.

  POST 7

  Business as Usual

  I thought things around the office would be different now that I’m a vampire, but it seems like my transformation did not exactly rock the status quo. It’s very unlike the button-pecking drones around me to not pick up the scent of someone who doesn’t return to the mothercube in the same condition as when they left – especially when it’s something small and inconsequential. Change your hairdo and people flock to your desk like you’re a goddamned rock star to check your wig. Pierce something visible through tight clothing or get a new over-the-crack tattoo and the whole operation shuts down for the rest of the morning while everyone gets up in your junk. One morning I wore a tie with a piano key pattern down the front; people just lost their shit. Fist bumps and high-fives came all day long from co-workers who had never so much as acknowledged my existence in the seven years I’ve worked here.

  But becoming a card-carrying member of the Undead Elite?

  Well, that will go practically unnoticed.

  Sure, after I smoothed everything over with HR and made my return from Crap Fest 2011, there was a generous outpouring of glad you’re feeling better! and we sure missed you around here! There was also a sticky note stuck to my monitor, reminding me to sneeze into my elbow and use hand sanitizer, which I didn’t appreciate. But despite the fact that I looked more like a boiled sock than a human being, everything just went back to the way it was before. And that is pretty much how things have stayed, which is fine with me since I’m not all that eager to be noticed… not that I ever had been before. Now, though? I’d rather just blend in as much as possible.

  It’s easier than I would have thought for someone in my condition.

  I will say that I expected a little more from the people in my small-but-nonetheless-existent work circle. Funny how you can flip out when a stranger walks by in a novelty tie but sit next to someone every day and never really see them for what they are. Maybe it’s just because you’re trying not to stare at their cold sore or overgrown nose hairs, but still. A tiny moment of closer examination would help you discern who was a hardcore porn addict, who might hold down a second job as an underwear-only stripper or who would potentially beat the shit out of you if you moved their snacks. In this case, it would be harder to guess my secret, I suppose. But wouldn’t you at least wonder why someone has turned the color of kindergarten paste and doesn’t generate any body heat whatsoever? Or notice that someone’s energy level has dropped from slightly overly caffeinated to almost perpetually napping? Fat chance these dipshits would. I came back from lunch the other day, my skin bubbling like a Papa John’s Three Cheese from sun exposure and no one said a thing. I shrank, for crying out loud – shrank! – and it didn’t even register. Everyone around me was a solid three inches shorter than me before This happened, and now I can make eye contact with all of them without having to drop my head. Doesn’t that seem even the slightest bit odd? Not to them. I can’t rag them too hard, I guess… they’re still likable folks – even the snack psycho – and maybe they don’t want to make me feel bad by bringing it up. But it really feels more like my change from just barely living to not-quite-all-the-way dead has thoroughly escaped their notice.

  It totally lowers the probability that I’ll be bringing chicken enchiladas to their weaksauce pot luck next week to zero.

  I don’t care what I wrote on the sign-up sheet.

  As difficult as it’s been, I’ve kept my distance from Chloe, knowing that she isn’t like the drones and would be likely to spot the difference as soon as she saw me. If I were to push through like I’d planned I might scare her away with my ghostly gray flesh, and it would all be finished without even having started. So for now, until I figure out the best way to rock my roll, a low profile is the best profile where Girl No. 3 is concerned.

  I really miss our flirts, though.

  Hube was the only one who realized something was still off even after I should have gotten over it. Makes sense; we’ve been hanging since third grade. He’d be the most likely to recognize a change, even though he’s stuck in the mail room and we don’t interact all that much during work time. But when he saw that I still looked like a hell zone long after my symptoms were gone, he started throwing out more health care advice than Dr. Oz. I still wasn’t clear on what had really happened, so I brushed off his suggestion to see a doctor as an overreaction. I told him I was slamming Vitamin Water and had just started a new workout plan I’d found online – P90Z, which was a huge alphabetic improvement over P90X. Imagine how quickly the results will show, I said; I should be back to my old self in no time, but with rock-hard abs and six inches added to my vertical jump. Hube wasn’t convinced. I’m pretty sure I didn’t believe it myself. “Have you noticed that no one else around here has caught this mysterious flu of yours?” he pointed out. “Maybe it’s something more serious.” He was right; the one thing that spreads through this place quicker than fake boob gossip is a communicable disease. There was no way I’d be able to pass it off as something so innocent with him. And, being way too humiliated to confess how my “date” really turned out, I hadn’t told him what I’d learned from Michelle about the bite. So I gave in and agreed that if I didn’t feel back to normal by the end of the week, I’d see someone. At worst, I figured I could score a Z Pack to help put the spring back in my step.

  Put the spring back in my step? Who am I, Tony Bennett?

  Anyway, I’m not sure why I didn’t tell him about what happened, as muc
h as I was obsessing over it. He probably would have dialed it down and made me laugh at how stupid it was. Instead, I kept mum and made up fictitious hygiene film titles in my head for the experience, things like How to Deal with Dude-On-Dude Neck Rape (Without Having to Tell Your Closest Friends) and What You Should Know About Unprovoked Dental Assault. But I didn’t know if it really had happened like that. I prefer to consider it an unfortunate misunderstanding, and having been outrageously intoxicated at the time, I had to allow that I might have consented to things I didn’t realize I was saying “yes” to. Also, I may have thought I was actually gettin’ jiggy with Dawn, not Don, so there was a slim yet definite possibility that I had initiated some of it. Maybe all of it.

  I should really hold off on the sake from now on.

  Whatever I chose to call it, I knew there was a possibility of lasting damage. Not to my psyche – that had been fully damaged by my family a long time ago. I was more worried about my physical well-being, and the impact of a possible chronic illness on the social life I had just started to rebuild. In the span between Aretha’s walk out and the hermit-inducing onslaught of This, I had been slowly working my way toward a comeback even LL Cool J couldn’t deny; contracting some debilitating disease would very likely send me back under the coffee table, maybe for good this time. It was for these reasons that I resisted seeing a doctor. Mind over matter, I figured: if no one confirmed what I didn’t already know, then it couldn’t possibly come true. I’d just go on with my life and put the whole biting episode behind me. That was the plan, anyway. I could always head to the clinic sometime down the line, if things got worse.

  Sort of like they did later that night.

  I was feeling a little peckish, rooting through my fridge when the neighbor’s cat Buttons passed by outside. Something kind of animalistic sprang to life in me. I tore through the screen door and chased him around the neighborhood until I’d cornered him in a dumpster. Then I planted my teeth into his back. Before I hit flesh, he twisted fully backward and escaped, leaving me with a mouthful of ticks and fur, and a sense that maybe sooner would be better than later for that appointment.