Joe Vampire

by Steven Luna

  Maybe I should rethink the superhero idea.

  Psych. Not really.

  I haven’t noticed any increase in muscle mass from the workout, but I also haven’t gone back for another round. One workout probably isn’t going to make much of a difference no matter how much I can lift. So I still need to figure out how to improve my form if I’m going to make a suitable follow-up boyfriend for Chloe. But after the strange assortment of freakish features showing up one on top of another, I’ve finally found something beneficial among the madness of this vampire ordeal.

  It’s about fucking time.

  The show at Damage is this Saturday. Hit us up if you want to see what Vomiting Nonsense is all about. Can’t make it? I’ll catch you up in the next post.

  Should be an interesting gig.

  POST 21

  Damage Done

  If you were at Damage on Saturday night, and you saw what went down before Vomiting Nonsense played, I owe you an apology. If you stuck around when we were done and saw what happened after it was over, I owe you an apology for that as well. And if you stayed for the middle part, the part where we played our so-called songs with a special X-rated appearance by the newest – and, ironically enough, also the oldest – member of Vomiting Nonsense… well, then I owe you more than just an apology. I owe you a refund.

  Doesn’t matter that it was a free show.

  You should be compensated for having to live through it.

  If you weren’t there – and I really hope that applies to most of you – here’s the lowdown, in all its gory detail. I suggest you slam a few Tums if you have any handy.

  VN was slated to go first, as an opener for a few better-known – and better-sounding – bands. It was quite the opportunity, one that Lazer had managed to secure for us through any manner of haggling. It probably involved a sex act in an alley and a gross compromise of personal principles, so I didn’t ask how he did it. I was just grateful that we had an audience that filled three quarters of the venue, even if they were here to see the other bands. And even if admission was free. It was more about the exposure. And wanting to appear as professional as possible, Hube and I showed up well in advance so we could cable the synths and run a quick sound check. Not that we have a huge array of equipment to set up, but we were a little anxious and wanted to make extra-sure that everything went smoothly. But it was only the two of us who wanted this, I guess; Lazer apparently had more important matters to tend to, and showed up an hour later. And he didn’t come by himself.

  I mean that in all the different ways it can be meant.

  He walked up with a date. Or whatever he calls them. “Guys this is Iris; Iris, this is Vomiting,” he pointed to me, then to Hube, “and this is Nonsense.” It was the older woman from the other night who had shown up with him… not just with him, but with him, as we could see by the way she had her hand tucked in his back pocket. It was as disturbing in person as it sounds in print. In case my previous description of her didn’t paint a complete picture, Iris:

  • has hair the color of Smurf and lips to match

  • wears not one but two gauges in each ear, along with at least seventeen rings running up the edges

  • isn’t prone to wearing bras because they cover the sweet ink on her accordion-skinned breasts

  • is rumored to be a mouth-only prostitute, but just on weekends

  None of this might even be worth mentioning if Iris wasn’t also:

  • sixty-seven years old, and

  • actively under the care of a cardiologist

  “Iris is going to be helping us out with some vocals.” They looked at each other in a manner so very inappropriate for their age difference. Then Lazer sniffed her neck. “She’s got a pretty good… throat.” As if to prove it, she let out a hoarse bark of a laugh, which dissolved into a phlegmy, tubercular, deep-lung cough.

  If you puked a little reading that, you aren’t alone.

  I think I spoke for Hube and me both when I said, “Lazer, what the fuck? We can’t add a vocalist; none of our tunes even have vocals.”

  “They will after she adds her rhymes.” Adds her rhymes? “She raps too, sort of a sing-song spoken-word poetry kind of thing. You should hear when she gets going. She’s pretty sick.”

  That, she is.

  I opposed right away. “No way – no freaking way. You can’t pull your stupid shit on a night like this, Dwayne.” Lazer hates it when I call him by his real name instead of his rock and roll name.

  “I got us the gig; I can do whatever the hell I want, Joseph.”

  Hube didn’t want Iris in the band any more than I did. But we had a show to do, a possible page-turner for the life of Vomiting Nonsense, and we had fifteen minutes left to prep for it. There wasn’t time to bicker. “We can talk about this after the gig, guys,” he said, ever the mediator. “Right now, we need to finish cabling.”

  He was right; we had a lot to get done before the show started. So I focused on that, and when Iris and Lazer’s sex thoughts about each other showed up in my head, I started humming whatever song I could – jingles, nursery rhymes, ring tones – just to kill the image.

  And once we began playing, though I would have thought it impossible, it got even uglier.

  Lazer was in rare form, doing his Bono-meets-David Bowie-meets-Neil Diamond thing, but with a few new moves added to eliminate any scrap of taste the show might have had. Like when, in the middle of our second tune, he started masturbating the neck of his keytar, and Iris hopped up on stage to grind behind him with her grandmotherly pelvis thrusting up on his leather-clad ass. They spent the rest of the song dirty dancing and ignoring the fact that we were in the middle of a performance. Then Iris plugged a mic into the amp – because she carries her own, I guess, in case the occasion arises to rapsing-poetry slam at other bands’ gigs – and started laying the nastiest stream of raunch over our music before dropping to her knees and simulating her weekend money-making activities on him. In my life, I don’t recall many moments being as angry as I was while watching this happen. As soon as our set was done and we started breaking down the rig, I pulled Lazer aside and launched on him like I never have before. “What the fuck are you doing, you asshole? This was the most important show we’ve ever played and you and Yoko Blowjob threw shit all over it! You have single-handedly screwed up any opportunity we might have had from this show… goddamn you!” I’m not a face-getter-inner, but that’s exactly where I was.

  It had been a long time coming.

  “Back off, dickweed.” He shoved me back. “She’s way more into the band than you seem to be lately.”

  I think Hube sensed there might be a tad more rage brewing in me with the vampire stuff in full bloom. It could have been the way I snarled, letting slip a little view of my rounded-off fangs. So he stepped in between us to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. “Lazer, you should have talked to us before you invited a singer onstage.”

  That was putting it mildly. “Singer?” I threw in. “She’s not a singer; she’s a tattooed, geriatric sex toy! She doesn’t belong in the band.” Lazer’s mind flew open for a second, and I saw the real reason behind Iris’ sudden membership. “She’s only here as a trade for sucking you off, isn’t she?”

  Unlike Iris, that didn’t go down easily. “Dude, if you don’t like it,” he proposed, “you don’t have to stick around.”

  As crappy as our music may have become, there was no way I would just back out of a band I helped create. “This band is a democracy, Dwayne; Hube and I get to have a say in what happens to it.”

  Lazer didn’t seem to understand the concept of sharing, other than giving others whatever it is that he passes along through his regular practice of unprotected sex with total strangers. “What exactly do you want here? You haven’t been all that interested in being a part of this band lately anyway, democracy or not. So why do you care so much what happens or who joins?”

  “I just do… so we’re voting,” I told him, and he glowered at me. He wa
sn’t used to not being the one having all the say about things. But I stood firm. “I vote hell no.”

  “Well, I vote hell yes,” Lazer said.

  We turned our gazes to Hube and stared a hole right through him. Poor guy. I knew he wasn’t going to go for this anymore than I was, but I wasn’t sure he was willing to oppose Lazer, either. “Joe, can’t we just figure it out later? We’ve got to break our stuff down so the next band can get on stage.”

  “Seriously, Hube? You don’t know without having to think about it for even a second that a sixty-seven year-old blue-haired part-time hooker might not be a fit for the band?”

  “Watch your mouth, fuck face,” Lazer snapped.

  Hube was flustered and quiet, and wouldn’t put up any solidarity for me. And I was too furious too shut up. “If there’s really a chance of her being a part of this band, then I think I’m done here.”

  Lazer didn’t miss a beat. “Okay – she’s in; you’re out.”

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “She’s in the band now,” he shouted, “and you aren’t anymore. She has a vote too, so we outnumber you two pussies, no matter what Hube’s vote turns out to be.” Nice math there, Dwayne. He didn’t bother looking my direction. When Lazer’s done with you, he’s done all the way. In this case, I was equally done with him, so it was just as well. “Hey hon?” he called to Iris, trying to solidify our done-ness. ”Do you think a wireless mic will interfere with your pacemaker?” Then he walked away.

  I was ready to follow after him and roar again, but Hube stopped me. “Let him chill, dude; he’s not going to listen to you right now anyway. He’s in getting laid mode.” Despite that charming fact, he and his boner were able to hobble back over to us to let me know one last thing. “And Joe? If you get any bright ideas about trying to use the songs without our permission, we’ll sue the shit right out of you. Got that, Count Chocula?” He smirked as he left again.

  “Sue me?” I yelled. “We don’t make any money from this shit, you dumb fuck!”

  Wait a tick.

  Count Chocula?

  Goddammit. He knows about This.

  And there’s only one way he could have found out.

  Suddenly Lazer and Goin’ Down Grandma were no longer important. Being betrayed by Hube was the only thing I could focus on. “You fucking told him.”

  Hube had been caught totally off-guard. “Dude, he was talking about kicking you out of the band. He kept saying you weren’t loyal and that you needed to show up for practice if you wanted to keep your place. I told him you had some heavy stuff going on, but he said it didn’t matter, that the band needed to be more important to you. And I told him if he knew what you were dealing with he’d think differently.”

  “And then you just unloaded my deepest darkest shit on him, so you could save my place in this craphole excuse for a band?” My head was pounding, and I’m sure it wasn’t from the volume of our set. “You of all people, who knows what a fucked-up deal this is, and what kind of crazy lengths I’m going through just to keep from drawing attention to it. I’m trying like hell to make everything as normal as possible, and you go and tell the very last person in the world I would ever want to know about something like this. The old hooker probably knows too, then.”

  Hube shook his head. “I told him he couldn’t tell anyone.”

  “That’s what I told you, and look at where it got me.”

  He looked like a scared little kid. “I didn’t want him to kick you out; I know how much music means to you. I just thought if he knew the truth, he’d have some sympathy.”

  “He doesn’t have sympathy for anyone. He has less of a soul than I do and he’s not even a—” I stopped myself cold before I said the word out loud in a crowd of strangers. “I can’t believe you did it.”

  I was instantly ashamed of myself for making Hube feel like such shit after all he’d done to help me. He was my go-to guy for everything. But with one poorly considered stroke he’d wiped out all the progress I’d made toward feeling like a human being again. I was coming up a little short on sympathy myself. “I… I’m sorry, Joe. I really am.”

  He was. And I knew it.

  But I didn’t care.

  “Whatever.” I packed my synth in its case and walked away without saying another word, no doubt leaving him wondering if we’re even still friends anymore. Honestly, I don’t know if we are or not. It’s too much to think about on top of worrying how to make do with being a vampire. All I knew at that moment was that in the course of an evening, three significant aspects of my life – making music, maintaining the only truly solid friendship I’ve ever had, and hiding from the world the fact that I’m a freaking monster – were so royally screwed up that I couldn’t see any way for them to ever be okay again.

  As I made for the door, someone stepped in my way. Not just any someone, either – someone with a bowl mullet, a ruffled shirt and parachute pants. New Romantic to the max. I think he might have had lipstick on, too.

  There’s a reason this look hasn’t made a huge comeback, folks.

  “Joe, right? I’m Lucas… my band Forever 81 goes on next.” Forever 81 is a minor legend on the local scene – as much as a Duran Duran tribute band can be considered legendary, even if in a minor way. I’ve never heard them, but they sure have the image down pat. “Sorry for listening in, but it sounds like you might be out of a band. Our keyboard player is relocating to St. Louis in a few weeks and we’re gearing up to audition a new one.” He handed me a business card with the band’s logo and a phone number on it. “Let me know if you’re interested. I watched your set… I get the feeling there’s more to you than just Vomiting Nonsense.” I’m sure there was a smart remark to be made right there, and probably within easy reach, too. But my brain was so fried from everything else, it was all I could do to say, “Thanks. I’ll let you know,” before skulking to my car.

  I have so much more to think about than joining another band, especially one that carries business cards and dresses like transvestite pirates from the golden age of MTV. I know I haven’t been entirely sociable since the vampire stuff came about – or for the many months that preceded it – but I’ve been making a big effort to normalize things, in hopes that being a freak of nature doesn’t end up defining me. And I think I’ve made huge strides toward that end. But Hube’s betrayal sent me right back to square one, and now I’m not sure I’ll ever let myself trust him again. Strange how you can build a bond with someone through the course of twenty-four years and then watch it all come undone by the end of a ten minute conversation.

  It’s kind of blowing my mind.

  I won’t lie: I’m eyeballing the space beneath the coffee table again.

  The only thing that’s keeping me squarely on the couch is knowing that Chloe will be back to work on Monday. She’s the one hope I have at the moment. I’m none too jazzed about the Duran band offer. I’ll keep the card in case I change my mind, but I’m putting my band gear up for sale anyway.

  If it sells before I make my decision, then I guess eBay will have decided for me.

  If anyone out there needs a synthesizer and a pair of leather pants, I can cut you a deal. Can’t go lower than $500 on the synth. The pants? You can use them to reupholster a really small chair, or cut them into a jacket for your dog. I wouldn’t recommend touching them without some form of protective hand wear, though. They’ve seen the underside of my sweaty balls about seventy times the past three years, and dry cleaning can only do so much to fix that. I may be better off burning them instead. But they’re $35 if you’re interested. I’ll take $520 for the whole package.

  Lemme know.

  POST 22

  Tailspin

  Joe, here. Blogging from under the coffee table.

  Metaphorically speaking.

  Checked under there this morning. It’s filthy. Full of dust and Oreo crumbs. I’m not laying on that shit. I’m sort of drained anyway. Crawling would take more energy than I have. So I’m sticking
to the couch instead. The spirit of full-blown coffee table occupation remains, though. Got everything I need around me – laptop, remote. Decked out for an extended stay, too.

  Sweatpants: check.

  Carb-filled shit food: eaten.

  Prospects for a happy future: sub-zero.

  Fresh out of uncooked steaks so I sucked down some raw eggs. Didn’t really boost me much, as you can tell by my sentence structure. I’ll pull it together so I can get through this post. Please look past the rough edges. Or don’t.

  Whatever works for you.

  I don’t care all that much either way.

  Showed up to work Monday morning, sleeves crisp and fangs nicely rounded, looking thoroughly presentable even though I was still reeling from the events of the weekend. It may sound childish, but I altered my regular door-to-desk path to avoid accidental contact with Hube. I don’t want the awkward workplace pressure of having to be fakely nice to him. I might accidentally forgive him. The wounds are still too fresh for something unintended like that to happen. I spent half the morning planning my pass-by at Chloe’s desk, getting all breathy every time I thought of the possible outcomes. It had been weeks since she left the card on my desk; what if she was pissed that I hadn’t reacted? It would take some pretty amazing sleeves to dazzle her out of feeling shunned; mine were semi-fantastic at best. She could also be somewhat tender from the big break-up and move-out, and not quite ready to follow through with the We should talk… sentiment she put in the card. We haven’t been at similar points during any part of this confusing flirtation thing. Maybe we still weren’t. I went back and forth like this until mid-morning, when I finally opted to imagine the best possible outcome: she’s all moved out, and ready to move on.