Hard Evidence- The Collected Bawdy Writings

by Kevin Keck

  I considered this. "On a Tuesday?"

  I met Daryl at Jackalope's—a bar down the street from my apartment that catered to a clientele who enjoyed trying to watch twenty-seven athletic events at once on televisions of various dimensions. It was not my kind of bar, but they had my kind of waitresses, and I so I often went there and pined through pints, flirting anemically—my lack of competitive drive has permeated even my romantic sensibilities, and while I enjoy a modest amount of pursuit I quickly lose momentum if matters don't fall easily into my lap. I've found waitresses to be a particularly difficult dating demographic for me, much like strippers: part of their job is to give you a sense of possibility, and it takes a real pro to read the proper signs. I am by no means a pro.

  And besides, after leaving the bar my nightcap consisted of returning home to a drunk girlfriend whose demeanor was a crapshoot: drunk and horny, drunk and angry, drunk and passed out—what were my choices if I did get lucky, with a waitress or a patron? There was no going back to my place, and if I lingered too long elsewhere, I would surely be missed at th place where I was supposed to be.

  But I'd reached my breaking point. The death of my grandfather had the effect that death often has on people close to the deceased: it made me want to take advantage of my own time. Lorraine had been a bust for a long while, and it was stupid to think our relationship was going to get better. I'd been rationalizing things for a nearly a year, in much the same manner as all those battered women who make excuses for their violent partner.

  Of course, I wasn't dealing with any of this in a healthy manner, but was instead sneaking out of my apartment (I told Lorraine I was going to spend the evening helping my dad sort through my grandfather's clothes and would be home late, to which she replied, "I don't fucking care, douche bag."), conspiring to meet some type of willing vampyress (I assumed), and then slink back into my apartment hoping not to get my ass kicked. Oddly, the whole scenario seemed very normal to me at the time.

  When Daryl arrived he didn't even order a beer. I couldn't blame him; he was terribly out of place in Jackalope's—he looked as though he was on his way to an upscale meeting of Dungeons and Dragons enthusiasts: leather pants and a leather jacket on top of what could only be described as a pirate shirt. He looked out the window facing the street as he waited for me to finish my drink, and when we stood to leave he looked at me and said, "I like your shoes."

  "Look," I said, once we were in the car. "Where are we going exactly?"

  "Purgatory. It's a monthly gathering of the leather and S&M community. And other people."

  "People like vampires?"

  "Yep."

  "Don't take this the wrong way, but the vampirism... this is a metaphor, right? Like all those girls at Phish shows who dress up like fairies and go around spreading pixie...." I trailed off. I'd been watching Daryl as I spoke, and his bright incisors had disappeared behind a grimace.

  "It's not a metaphor." He paused while Judas Priest serenaded the gap in conversation. After a few moments he smiled again. "Look, I know you. You're cool. Do yourself a favor and leave that fairy shit out of your conversations where we're going."

  "Fair enough." I leaned back in my seat. "So what's with the absinthe?"

  "Oh, that. Well, you know it's potent shit. Most people it just fucks up. But it won't even intoxicate a vampire. It's a test, you know. To see if you've got the gene."

  "What gene?"

  "The vampire gene."

  A scientific debate with someone claiming the existence of a vampire gene seemed rather pointless. I let the matter slide.

  "So, do you like, you know, bite necks?"

  Daryl slowed for a yellow light, and when the car was stopped he turned to me and said:

  "Do I look like I have fucking fangs to you?" He flashed his teeth.

  "Uh, no."

  "Yeah," and his face dropped. "It sucks. I just can't afford to have the work done. You'll meet people tonight who've got them. Some are quality dental work. Some just look like crap because people file their teeth—that's just insane. Some people get lucky by birth... But if I could afford them, I'd have them. In the meantime, these work." He reached in his jacket and tossed a small item wrapped in wax paper in my lap; I picked it up. It was a disposable scalpel.

  "Oh," I said. I offered a weak chuckle, but I wasn't sure why.

  My stomach began to churn. I handed the scalpel back to him as we were pulling into the parking lot of the club where Purgatory was happening. When we were out of the car he put his arm around my shoulder and said, "Tonight you'll feel like a new man." The leather of his jacket creaked in my ear. "I really love your shoes," he said again as we approached the door. "I've been looking for a pair just like that."

  In my daily existence, I am most often dressed like a nine year-old on his way to baseball practice: Converse sneakers, jeans, and a jersey style t-shirt with the ¾ length sleeves. On more formal occasions I might switch out the jeans for khakis. On chilly nights, or on what I perceive to be ultra-formal occasions, I'll add a dress shirt (typically a blue oxford) to my ensemble, but as I never button the shirt it functions more as a dinner jacket. As I perceived "Purgatory" to be an ultra-formal event, I was dressed appropriately—I’d even gone so far as to add black socks and a matching belt, and it was that leather belt which was most similar to the wardrobes of the other attendees. I was surrounded by extras from Interview with the Vampire—or a Renaissance Festival. Either way, I felt very much like the Southern preppy in Count Dracula's court. As I surveyed the room I thought, One or more of these people is very likely carrying a set of twelve-sided dice.

  My mood might have tepidly approached something close to genuine fear had we been in a place more "dungeon-esque." However, we were at bar known for its regular booking of tribute bands, such as Appetite for Destruction (Guns n' Roses), Zoso (Led Zeppelin), Nothin' But a Good Time (Poison), and SkaCago (a curiously popular Chicago cover band who played everything in a Ska style). A person clad in leather with honest-to-God fangs doesn't look at all threatening standing in front of a sign advertising 2-for-1 Jell-O shooters and $1.50 margaritas on Fridays.

  After we'd paid our $10 cover (it seemed only fitting one should pay a nominal fee to gain entrance to Purgatory), I followed Daryl to the bar and ordered the best beer available—a Corona for Christ's sake! Oh, Purgatory indeed! I discreetly popped two Percocets in my mouth, crunched them up, and washed them down with that most mediocre of Mexican concoctions. I would have rather gone outside and smoked a bowl, but Daryl didn't exude the pleasant indifference of a weed aficionado. Besides, at the bar, he'd ordered a Red Bull. The one time I ordered a Red Bull I was up until five a.m. crapping a substance that I thought was certainly a harbinger of hospitalization. That alone was proof enough for me that people who drink that stuff are wired way differently than I am.

  Daryl stood at such a distance from me that it was uncertain as to whether we actually knew each other or not. I've no doubt it was my khakis that were the source of his discomfort. I sat on a barstool and waited for the warm bliss of the Percs to wash over me, and watched as the medievally clad crowd circulated and exchanged greetings. Nine Inch Nails played over the PA at a conversation-friendly volume, and two people who seemed more on the druid side of things arranged a chair and a coffee table on the stage.

  Whenever anyone saw Daryl they gave a slight bow or curtsy, according to their gender. His reply was a terse nod in every case. Whenever their eyes fell on me they all appeared to snarl. I smiled politely and raised my Corona.

  This went on for some time, and as no one was speaking to me—including Daryl—I was soon tipping back my third Corona and considering a cab ride home. Nine Inch Nails had given way to something resembling the sounds of a genocidal massacre mixed with asphalt production, and it was decidedly not conversation friendly. The scene seemed a terrible waste of a buzz, and I felt as though I were literally buzzing. Humming, in fact.

  A petite girl with purple streaks in her hair a
nd ample piercings walked over to Daryl and curtsied. He smiled at her and opened his arms; when he embraced her he pressed his face into her neck. In addition to her thin black dress and dog collar, she was wearing a pair of bright white Keds that glowed under the black-lights. Daryl yelled at the girl:

  "This is my friend, Kevin." The veins in his neck stood out, but he was still barely audible over the music. I leaned my head close to theirs.

  "Heaven?" She said.

  "Kevin," Daryl repeated.

  "Oh." She turned to me and smiled and curtsied again.

  Daryl pressed his lips to my ear. "Ok, you're all set. I've got stage business. I'll see you later. Or maybe not." He gave me what I can only characterize as a wicked smile. I grabbed his arm before he could walk away.

  "What? What? Where are you going?"

  "I'm going to the stage. Amanda is yours for the night. I set it all up. She'll treat you right."

  "How do you know her?"

  He smiled at me again: "She's a good source of food." I let go of his arm and he pressed into the crowd. As soon as he was gone Amanda leaned into me.

  "I like your shoes," she said.

  "Oh, yeah. Thanks. I like yours too. They glow."

  She looked down in wide-eyed amazement: "Oh, they do, don't they?"

  "Can I buy you a drink?"

  "I don't drink." She had the most wonderful dimples when she smiled, a shy way of looking down. I almost missed it because of the piercings.

  "You don't drink? My God, how do you stand it?"

  That bashful smile again. "I try to keep my body clean for others."

  "Really? You looked like a dirty girl to me." It was my turn to smile. Oh yes: I was flowing with the buzz, reaching into my bag of tricks. In the glow of neon beer signs it was hard to tell if she was blushing. She looked me dead in the eye:

  "When you fuck me, choke me."

  This was far outside the scope of my bag of tricks. I smiled politely at her and flagged the bartender to bring me another Corona. Then the lights went dim and Amanda said:

  "Oh, it's time for Daryl."

  We both turned to the stage. The music was lowered and a voice emanated from the darkness:

  "Creatures of darkness"—honestly, this was how it began—"welcome to Purgatory!" The crowd cheered and howled. "Tonight, for your pleasure, our own Lord Moltor presents a live demonstration in which he brings a virgin over to…" there was a significant pause here "…the darkness!" The crowd howled again, and Daryl appeared on stage escorting a raven-haired woman in a white dress. I started to say something to Amanda, but the voice erupted from the P.A. system again. "I forgot to mention that Lord Moltor is a licensed phlebotomist. Please do not attempt to replicate his demonstration at home unless you are under the supervision of a healthcare professional. Thank you." Daryl—Lord Moltor—helped the woman lay back on the coffee table and he took a seat on the throne behind her. As he did so the music began again, a slow, pulsing rhythm that was deliberately aimed at heightening the dramatic tension of whatever dinner theater production they were putting on. Daryl raised the woman's arm so that her wrist faced the audience. Then he produced a scalpel and most of the crowd applauded and whistled.

  I didn't want to find out if I was about to see the real deal or not. Simulated blood-letting is only slightly more appealing than the actual act, and neither ranks very high for me. Blood doesn't bother me, knives do not bother me, but when a knife is finely splitting flesh to draw out blood, I simply can't handle it. Needles impact me the same way; whenever I watch a movie and it contains a scene of someone being injected, I have to avert my eyes. I've no doubt I will die of arterial disease because a cholesterol test is far too frightening for me to face.

  I leaned down to Amanda's ear; metal brushed my lips. "I need to go outside." I didn't wait for her response.

  I staggered through the crowd toward the exit. It was cool outside, and I took deep gulps of air. I could feel the spit welling up in my mouth, and I stumbled into the parking lot and pressed my hands against the hood of a car to steady myself. I lay my face against the cool metal, but I heaved and threw up anyway.

  "Are you okay?" It was Amanda. Her hand was on my back. I slumped against the side of the car embarrassed and incredibly inebriated. "If you want we can just go back to my place and you can rest. Maybe you had too much to drink." She had the most benevolent smile.

  "That sounds nice," I said, and I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve. She held out her hand to help me up, and that's when I saw the raised scar on her forearm, and then I saw what it spelled: Daryl. I leaned over and puked again. And then several times more. When I looked up, Amanda was gone.

  I sifted through my vomit for portions of pills, found a half of an undigested Percocet, and popped it in my mouth. I had enough post nausea salivation going on that it was easy to swallow. I reached in my pocket for my cell to call a cab, and I began to laugh. There was no reason to fear blood-thirsty vampires at all: I'd forgotten I had my rosary.

  V.

  It's true: for that expanse of thirteen years that blossomed between my freshman year of college and my grandfather's death, I never once prayed in earnest, save for those occasions when prayer was all that was left for me. Not that I can recall anyway. But I didn't tell you this:

  When I was living in Syracuse there was an old man—he looked about 65 or so—who stood on the corner of Marshall Street and University Boulevard handing out rosaries. Regardless of the weather he was usually adorned in a jogging suit and baseball hat, and he had the beard of man just back from wandering in the wilderness. He had a duffel bag at his feet—apparently stuffed full with cheap, plastic rosaries. He didn't proselytize, nor did he even hold out a rosary to suggest that those passing by should take one from him. I would watch him from the window of No Borders, the coffee shop where I spent most of my waking hours in those days. Occasionally someone would stop and take a rosary, and some people even offered him a few dollars—he always waved it off. He appeared to have a very subtle agenda, if he even had one.

  I walked past him every day for months, and each time I approached his corner I thought, Take one! Take one! Just do it! Give the man some joy in his senseless life! But I never had the guts. I was too afraid someone I knew would see and I would have to explain myself. Many of my friends at school were actually Marxists, determined to liberate the workers of the world, and I was not up to fending off their critique of my bourgeois theology. Or I was afraid a hot chick would see me (a fact that didn't prevent me from madly picking my nose as a drove about town) and not fuck me because she'd seen me taking a rosary. My logic was terribly imperfect.

  However, one afternoon in the coffee shop I helped my friend Chad perfect his cappuccino. He poured and frothed; I sampled the results. By the time he'd mastered his technique I practically vibrated out the door. I felt ill. Something in my intestines was rapidly working its way toward an exit, and I couldn't bring myself to return to the coffee shop and use their facilities—I have a fairly strong resistance to sitting on public toilets, and I'm not adept at hovering. Also, whatever was about to happen to me, it was going to require a shower afterwards.

  Considering all this, I can't really offer an adequate explanation for why I stopped and took a rosary. Violent bowel movements frighten me, I suppose.

  When I took the rosary the man asked me, "Do you know what this is?"

  "Yes."

  He nodded and I made a mad dash for my car. It was touch and go for a few blocks, but I arrived home just in time.

  I keep that rosary in my pocket when I go out. Not all the time, but I carry it to weddings, funerals, and whenever I feel like I might need a back-up plan of the supernatural sort—the latter reason being far more common than the preceding two. I don't use the rosary for its intended purpose, making the mechanical march through the beads, nor do I feel particularly protected. But if prayer is at its best a way of remembering how fragile and helpless we all are, God or no God, and making a concentr
ated effort to be just the least bit grateful for existence, then I have actually prayed quite frequently since the rosary passed into my hands. When I reach for my keys or some change and my knuckles brush that plastic relic, I am thankful to whatever will accept my thanks. When I open my desk drawer and see the rosary in its typical place of rest, I'm grateful for people who believe in something, however strange it may seem, and especially those serene souls who stand on street corners simply to remind us how mysterious and beautiful the world is. All the angry words that Lorraine spit at me, and if I am holding that ridiculous trinket when I think of her, none of that matters: I recall an afternoon when she and I lay in the twin bed I had when I first moved into my apartment. It was July, and a brief summer shower had swept across the city, leaving the long limbs of aging poplars and oaks dripping outside our window. We were naked, entwined, and we stayed like that for a very long time, staring into the canopy of trees that fanned out around us, and we didn't leave the bed until the sun emerged again and the earth began to steam.

  Memory is the only act of faith I can manage.

  * * *

  When the cab dropped me off I went in through the front door of my apartment. Normally I used the back door which connects the kitchen to the fire escape, but it was a blind turn from the kitchen into the living room, and I'd been surprised before by of one Lorraine's stealthy attacks. I wanted a little space to prepare a defense if things ended up going down that way. It seemed possible that they could. I'd been gone long enough that Lorraine had sufficient time to work herself into a good lather over something trivial.

  I slid my key into the lock as quietly as possible and opened the door. It seemed to creak louder than usual, and I stepped quickly into the apartment and closed it behind me. I'd expected the crepuscular glow of the television, but everything was dark. I took a few steps and stopped. The refrigerator hummed contently in the kitchen. A cat's claws picked at the fabric of the couch, and when the cat jumped down and started toward me I heard it again. I waited for Lorraine's voice or the floor to squeak under her footsteps. When my eyes finally adjusted to the pale illumination of the room from the streetlight outside the window it made sense: things were missing, and what I was hearing was the echo of open space.