DSosnowski - Vamped

by Vamped (v1. 0) [lit]

“But it’smy name,” she repeats, her little fists clenched tightly in front of her, as if trying to hold on to one of the few things that is hers.

  “Your middle one, yes,” I say, frustrated by this sudden territorial turn. “The one that never gets used anyway.”

  “But it’s stillmine.” Her little fists start shaking; she starts going up on tiptoes, as if preparing to launch into a yell.

  “And Trooper’s going to beyours, too,” I say, pressing down on the top of her head, returning the soles of her feet to ground control. “See the bow? He’s a present.” Pause. “He’s a present foryou.”

  “I hate him.”

  The suddenness of this pronouncement knocks me back, and I’m not sure what to say. I check to see if I have any telepathic powers that might help.

  Trooper,I think,lick the kid’s face. Now.

  Nothing.

  Trooper? Are you receiving? Your life may depend on this.

  But Trooper just spreads his big puppy paws out in front of him, letting them slide forward on the hardwood floor. He settles his big puppy head between his paws, and then hikes up both eyebrows—a gesture that makes me wonder ifhe’s trying to sendme a message. Something like:Leave me out of this.

  “Can we call him Troop?” I ask. This seems like a fair compromise.

  “No.”

  “Tru?” I try.

  “No,”Isuzu says, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Pooper?” I float. Sure, having rhyming names might get a bit confusing for the poor thing—one for inside, another for when we’re walking with Father Jack and Judas—but the poor thing’s immortal. He’ll have plenty of time to get used to it.

  Isuzu seems to be considering the Pooper alternative. I try to imagine the gears turning in her head, the criteria she might apply to picking an appropriate name for…what? Myother pet? Is that it? Does Isuzu feel threatened by Trooper? Is Trooper the equivalent of a new baby as far as she’s concerned? A competitor for my affection?

  In retrospect, I regret rolling on the floor with him when we got home.

  “Surprise!” I said, opening my coat to reveal what I thought was the perfect pet. I let him gambol across the floor, his nails clicking on the hardwood as Isuzu watched, overjoyed into silence. Or so I thought.

  “His name’s Trooper,” I said, just before all the scratching and belly rubbing and rolling around the floor like an idiot.

  I was just trying to show how much fun the new puppy was going to be.

  I guess what Isuzu saw was how much more I seemed to like this new puppy than her. And then, to add insult to injury, I let him have her name, too, like an oblivious parent who lets the new baby play with the older kid’s toys.

  So, what kind of name do you give your rival? One that will serve as a constant humiliation, perhaps? Pooper. Or Crapper. Or, maybe, Li’l Ass Wipe?

  “Okay,” Isuzu concludes.

  “Pooper’s okay?” I confirm.

  Isuzu nods, grimly, arms still folded like a judge.

  “So, do you still hate him?” I ask, hastily, while she seems to be in a conceding mood.

  Isuzu looks at her brand-new vampire puppy and Pooper looks back. The puppy in question is a chocolate Lab, the cutest breed of puppy on the face of the earth. They have to be; they grow up to be one of the worst kind of yapping beasts your next-door neighbor could ever own. They grow up in dire need of killing. Fortunately, Trooper will never get any bigger or less cute than he is right now—staring at Isuzu with those big puppy eyes, his nose flaring slightly, already learning his new master’s scent.

  “I guess not,” Isuzu says, perhaps realizing that this will be something to play with while I’m at work.

  The way I figure it, a dog was going to happen, sooner or later. A dog was going to be required, if only to justify the grocery bags of pet food I brought home, and the empty tins the sanitation department hauled away every Monday. I’d already had a few close calls with neighbors in the hall. And the vamping? Well, that was just a corner I backed myself into, trying to explain why my imaginary dog didn’t join us that first night back to where Father Jack and Judas took care of business. Not that the vamping seems like a bad idea. I wasn’t kidding when I told Father Jack I’m not particularly fond of adult dogs. But a permanent puppy who doesn’t shit around the apartment—this, I think I can handle. Just let a little of whatever I’m heating up for me end up in Trooper’s bowl. And that’s it. The ultimate in low-maintenance pets—like a cat that doesn’t even need a litter box. And Pooper could serve multiple functions, coming with me on my dead-time walks, and also keeping Isuzu company while I’m at work. As far as I’m concerned, I’m thinking that getting Trooper isstill a great idea.

  “Why don’t you pet him?” I suggest. “It’s okay. Petting’s allowed.”

  Yep, a “great idea.” That’s what getting Pooper was.

  Do I need to remind you about my track record with “great ideas”?

  “He’s cold,” Isuzu says. This should be my first clue. It’s not.

  “Well, yes, Isuzu,” I say, being parental, and a wee bit patronizing—if that’s not redundant. “He’s a vampire. A cute, furry, four-legged vampire, but he’sstill a vampire.”

  Yes he is. Heis that.

  And he seemed so friendly at the pet shop. And Idid ask. I asked at the pet shop if he was a biter. Maybe I should have listened a bit more closely to the shop owner’s reply.

  “Bite?” he said. “You?No…”

  Fortunately, all he’s got are those pinprick puppy teeth and they’ll never get any bigger or sharper than that. But that doesn’t mean they don’t hurt. Especially when he chomps down with all he’s got. Especially when your fake dad has just assured you that it’s okay, with those big puppy eyes and that stupid bow lulling you into letting your guard down, just before those pinpricky teeth catch you completely by surprise.

  I will not try to replicate the exact noise Isuzu makes. It’s part “Ow,” part yelp, and I think she may have borrowed some of my hell-worthy words along the way. But there’s also something else—a tone of betrayal, and helplessness, a tone that seems to wonder aloud why everything in the world lets her down like this.

  Pooper, meanwhile, is squeaking out this hell-puppy yip-yip-yip—another talent he kept hidden back at the pet shop.

  And me? My hands have found my head and are holding on to it by the temples. They move along with it when I shake my head back and forth. They’re safe there. There, they won’t grab Trooper by the throat and start squeezing out bagpipe noises. And I don’t really need them, anyway, to slide our little guest across the hardwood floor with the toe of my shoe.

  This is not kicking. I do not kick the dog. At no time does he become airborne.

  This is scooting. The floor is waxed. Slick. The fur of his butt and the pads of his big puppy feet don’t offer much traction. The mechanism by which the scooting is accomplished just happens to be the toe of my shoe.

  And I keep on scooting Pooper until we hit bathroom tile, at which point I give him one more boost and then shut the door. For a moment, I consider going in after him and closing the door behind us both. But I’ve got a feeling it doesn’t really matter which side of the bathroom door I’m on. I’m in the doghouse, either way.

  Trooper and I have to go get the paper.Now. Only one of us will be returning.

  This is fine with Isuzu.

  She suggests leaving him outside for the sun to get. I think I have a better idea.

  See: Marty. Track record. Ideas.

  “Father Jack,” I say when he answers the door.

  “Isthis the infamous Trooper?” Father Jack asks, reaching out a hand to scratch behind Trooper’s ear.

  “Yes, it is,” I say. And for a second, a weird lightness blows through my chest—a sense of relief at making at least one of the lies I’ve told Father Jack retroactively true.

  “Why’s he got a bow on him?”

  “That’s his thing,” I say, feeling the lightness evapor
ate. “He likes to dress up.”

  “He’s told you this?”

  “Not in so many words.” I slip the bow off, over and around his big puppy ears. “Somebody dared me. It was kinda like a…”

  “…bet?”Father Jack says.

  I shake my head, and then let it hang.

  “Marty, Marty, Marty.”

  “I know, I know, I know,” I say, and the remorse in my voice is not all an act. Orjust an act. It’s just not over gambling.

  “Did you win, at least?”

  “Crapped out,” I say. “Total disaster. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “If ourinclinations were about thinking, Marty.”

  “I know, I know.” I pause. “You need a dog? He’s way beyond housebroken. Extremely low maintenance. Just let a little spill into a bowl when you’re making something for yourself and…”

  “I don’t think he’d get along too terribly well with Judas, do you?”

  How come everybody can figure this out but me? Vampire puppies are good petsonly for vampires. Duh!

  “I didn’t think of that,” I admit.

  “We’ve already discussed thinking,” Father Jack jokes. “Next subject.”

  “Do you know anybody who might like a puppy? A vampire, chocolate Lab, world’s cutest puppy, guaranteed to stay cute forever.”

  “Why are you trying to get rid of your dog?”

  Good question. Whyam I trying to get rid of this dog that theoretically I’ve had for at least the last several months? What could have changed that would all of a sudden require me to get rid of my dog?

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  Father Jack looks at me with a smirk on his lips. “Marty,” he says. “This is me you’re talking to. Complicated’s my middle name.”

  “I thought it was Joseph,” I joke. Deflect.

  “I’m gonna give you such a slap,” Father Jack says, glancing the side of my head with the side of his hand, knocking my cowlick out of place. “I’m serious, Marty. Confide. Confide.”

  Okay, I’ve been lying to you all the time you thought I was confiding in you. I don’t have a gambling problem. The truth is, I’ve been raising a mortal from scratch and that’s more complicated than it might sound. Case in point: tonight. Trooper didn’t get along any better with her than he’s likely to get along with Judas. Which means I get rid of either the pup or the kid. And seeing as I just bought Trooper, I’m not emotionally invested on that side, so…

  Comments? Feedback? Input?

  “I need the money,” I say. “Gambling debt.”

  “Have you thought about taking him back where you bought him?” Father Jack asks. “I mean, he’s vamped, right? He’s still good as new. It’s not like he’s some stereo with an expired warranty or anything.”

  I guess that could work. Either that or I could chain him to a tree and let the sun do my dirty work, as Isuzu recommends. It occurs to me that I should probably be concerned about how quickly she came up with that particular suggestion. As if she’d been thinking about it in another context. Fortunately, my capacity for denial and self-deception is even greater than my ability to delay gratification.

  “That could work, I guess.” I pause, sensing that this counseling session has drawn to a close. “By the way,” I say, and I really don’t need to say any more than that. We’ve developed a routine.

  “Today’s paper?”

  I nod.

  “Why don’t you ever buy one of your own?” Father Jack asks, going to fetch his copy. “This is most of it,” he says, returning. “Sports is missing.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. There’s always a section missing. This is also part of the routine.

  “Judas is still reading it,” Father Jack says; it’s what passes for good-bye. Or the first half of good-bye, at any rate.

  I wait.

  “If you catch my meaning,” he adds.

  Which is when I reach over my head with an empty hand, still open. I close it like I’m catching a fly.

  “Bingo,” I say.

  “Parcheesi.” Father Jack waves.

  The pet shop guy looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “He not hurt a fly,” he says. “Look. Look.” He rubs his wrist under Trooper’s nose. “See?” He rubs his wrist so hard it pulls back Trooper’s upper lip, exposing those pinprick fangs. “See? No bite.”

  He eyes me, trying to read me in that way I’ve already mentioned never works.

  “Did you feed?”

  Yes. I did that. I’m not stupid. In that way, at least. We stopped for a drink on the way home to surprise Isuzu. It’s just that Trooper hasn’t gotten the hang of delayed gratification, that’s all.

  “Yes,” I say. “I feed.”

  “Before bite, or after?”

  “Before.”

  He looks at me. He looks at the vampire puppy I’m trying to return. He looks back at me.

  “So what?” he says. “Show me this big, bad bite.” He laughs.At me. Notwith me.

  And I guess itis a little funny, a vampire complaining about being bitten—by a pinpricky little puppy, no less. Even if the poor thing managed to break the skin, the problem wouldn’t be the wound. The problem would be getting his fangsout before the wound healed around them. The big problem would be not sticking to his vampire victim like he’s been Super Glued there.

  I think about just leaving Trooper on the counter and making a run for it. What would they charge me with? Not shoplifting. More like shopdumping. I paid cash. There’s no address on file. And he’ll just resell Trooper to somebody who isn’t living with a breathing chew toy. He’ll laugh all the way to the bank.

  It’s not hard to imagine him doing that. Laughing seems to be something he’s good at.

  “You want I should get you a Band-Aid?” he asks, before exploding again.

  “Fine,” I say.

  He laughs.

  “Fine,” I repeat. I remind myself the alternative involves a chain, a tree, and sunlight. And my being stupid isn’t Trooper’s fault. There’s no reason he should suffer for it.

  So I run. I leave Trooper on the counter as the pet shop guy laughs even harder. And I run.

  I run like hell, all the way back to my other pet. Back to the one I’m emotionally invested in. Back to the one I couldn’t give back, even if I wanted to.

  All gone,” I announce, walking in the door, empty-handed.

  Isuzu’s sitting on the couch, watching TV.The Little Bobby Little Show. She’s got her elbows on her knees, her chin cradled between the knuckles of both fists. “Good,” she says, not taking her eyes away from the screen.

  I sit next to her on the couch, smooth a stray hair away from her forehead. “So, what’s Bobby up to today?”

  “Singing into his hairbrush,” Isuzu says.

  “Is he any good?” I ask.

  But Isuzu just shrugs and goes on watching.

  12

  Slapjack

  We’re playing Isuzu’s favorite card game when my world is blown apart by a sneeze.

  (aaaahhh-chooo)

  No caps. No exclamation points.

  Isuzu has an elfin nose, and the noise it makes is a polite little excuse for a sneeze. It might be dust, stirred up by our smacking the table over and over again, trying to slap those darn jacks. Or maybe a strand of her hair, undone, has spilled out from the exertion of slapping and giggling and scraping all the cards over to her side of the table when I let her win again. Maybe that errant hair has brushed her nose, tickling the sneeze nerves along the way.

  Or maybe this is the first sign of how my heart will pay for all its presumption. I won’t lose Isuzu to my friends or neighbors. No. I’ll lose her to the thing we don’t have the things to stop anymore: disease. The plague. The flu. A common cold, which is by no means common anymore.

  Vampires don’t get sick. We don’t need doctors or medicine. The things that kill us do so quickly; we don’t linger in some reversible biological limbo. To stay healthy, we practice pre
vention, avoidance, abstinence. We drive just slightly under the speed limit—those of us not suffering from midlife crises. We know exactly when the sun sets and when it rises. In a pinch, we can sleep in the sunproof trunks of our cars if we cut it a little too close some night. And that’s about it. That’s our wellness plan. That’s our exercise routine and heart smart diet.

  Isuzu rubs her arm under her nose, sucks a sniffle back in, tosses down another card. It’s a jack. Of course.