by Ward Parker
“Get a job,” she said.
He stood, pain flooding his back and buttocks. He hadn’t even seen Schwartz move, but Matt’s shirt was torn with two buttons missing, and deep scratch marks crossed his upper chest. Somehow the guy had grabbed him and tossed him halfway across the parking lot. Matt must have pressed one button too many with an old man who had poor anger-management skills.
Make that an old vampire. Matt had encountered his first vampire and he was both giddy about finding out they were real and awestruck by the incredible strength being undead could bring to an old man. And, Matt had to admit, he was embarrassed from being treated like a frisbee in public.
He reminded himself the fact that vampires lived in Squid Tower didn’t prove one was the murderer. There was still a lot of shoe-leather journalism he had yet to do to learn more.
It occurred to him he ought to disinfect the scratch marks on his chest. You never knew what kind of germs a vampire carried on his nails. Matt drove straight home without buying any groceries.
11
Of Bingo and Botánicas
Bernie’s twelve-hour shift, four days a week, required more than adopting a new sleep cycle. He also had to retrain his bladder. There wasn’t a toilet in the tiny gatehouse so he had to leave to use the restroom, and who wants to do that when vampires are out and about? They might not recognize him and want a little nibble. Plus, if anyone had to wait too long for him at the gate while he was in the bathroom, they complained.
But thinking about Schwartz made him nervous, and being nervous made him need to pee. He always used the closest men’s room, which was past the lobby elevators and next to the community room. As he was about to push open the restroom door, he was surprised to hear voices coming from next door. After all, it was getting close to sunrise.
“I sank my fangs into Gerta’s neck,” said an elderly woman’s voice with a Boston accent, “and drank my fill of the nasty old busybody’s blood. Then I gnawed through her neck until her head popped off and landed on the tile floor—the brand-new Mediterranean tile she loved to brag about.”
Bernie detoured from the restroom door and looked into the community room. It was filled with seniors sitting in a circle of chairs. One held up a sheaf of papers as she read.
“As I expected,” the lady went on in a flat voice like a school kid reciting her homework, “Gerta’s blood left a nasty aftertaste. The flavor of bitterness and jealousy.”
“Talk about purple prose,” a man uttered. “I’ve never drank blood that tasted like emotions.”
“Let’s stick with constructive comments folks, okay?”
The woman who said this was the only person in the room who wasn’t ancient. She was attractive, probably in her forties, with straight brunette hair and bangs. A few freckles were scattered on her cheekbones. She saw him standing in the doorway with his mouth hanging open in confusion. Humor crinkled her eyes.
“Just a creative writing class,” she said. “The violence is fictional.”
“No. You told us to write what we know,” the author said. “I know from experience how nasty Gerta and her blood were.”
By now, everyone in the room was looking at him. Not with curiosity. With hunger.
He gave a quick wave and headed for the bathroom, broke a world speed record in relieving himself, and then dashed back to the relative safety of the gatehouse.
In time, Bernie learned more about the comings and goings of the undead residents of Squid Tower. Most of those who still hunted for their meals went out for one nightly feeding; others went out for their “breakfast” as it were, then returned home before heading out for another feeding before dawn. Those who had their blood delivered, left immediately after their meal to get some shopping in before the stores closed. They apparently loved chain discount stores, either because the stores were open late or because the vampires were cheapskates.
Bingo Night was on Wednesday, an event everyone apparently attended. Cars streamed into the complex all at once, creating backups in the lane for residents that required a clicker or keycard to open. The lane closest to the gatehouse was for visitors and vendors and Bernie had to open the gate manually for them. Many residents entered this way to avoid the backups in the other lane.
One night he made the mistake of stepping out the use the restroom right before the bingo crowd began showing up. The horns began honking outside just as he flushed the toilet. He raced outside.
Guess who was waiting at the visitor gate? Schwartz, of course. His horn blared without pause as Bernie hurried into the booth and opened the gate. Then Schwartz started yelling.
“Why did you abandon your post, you idiot?” he screamed.
“Sorry, sir, I was using the restroom.”
“We don’t pay you to take a dump. We pay you to man the gate. It’s Bingo Night.”
“Sorry, I’m only human.”
“Yes, and that’s a big problem. You keep getting deeper and deeper on my crap list, Burdine. You’d better start looking for another line of work. Something you can’t screw up. Like rodeo clown.”
That comment bothered Bernie. He had a childhood friend whose dream had been to move to Montana and become a rodeo clown. It took natural talent and years of training for someone to achieve success in rodeo clown-dom. But Bernie wasn’t about to inform Schwartz.
After Schwartz’s car pulled forward, Bernie manually lowered the gate. And heard a “clack” as it clipped the rear edge of the trunk. Schwartz slammed on his brakes.
Damn, Bernie thought, I’m falling into my bad habit from my drawbridge days.
But this time it could get him killed.
Schwartz opened his door to get out and see if his car was damaged, but already horns were blaring from impatient drivers lined up behind him. He closed his door and drove off. Sometimes it seemed like old vampires loved bingo even more than blood.
After the flood of bingo attendees dried up, it was quiet again. Schwartz hadn’t walked to the gatehouse to yell at him, so Bernie assumed his trunk wasn’t damaged by the gate arm. He started to relax. Until a white BMW pulled up to the visitor’s gate. It was Rudy. After he was let in, he parked, and returned to the gatehouse. It was too confining inside for both of them, so Bernie stepped outside to greet him.
“Hi Rudy,” he said. “Why are you here at one in the morning?”
“I come here to knock your head,” he said in his thick German accent.
Then Bernie remembered his initial job interview with Rudy had been at night.
“Are you one of . . . them?” Bernie asked.
“Yes. How do you think I won the contract? All of my clients have special needs. I thought you knew that.”
Bernie should have figured it out. No wonder Rudy was always so quick to defend the vampires.
“What about the other guards?”
“Most are mortal humans. Everyone on the day shift is. And no one wants the night shift at Squid Tower. It’s the only reason you have a job, Burdine. And if you keep antagonizing Mr. Schwartz, you won’t have it any longer.”
“It’s not my fault. He hates me. He watches me like a hawk looking for any excuse to get me fired.”
“He watches you like a hawk because he’s a predator, Burdine. And you’re prey.”
“I know, bro, that’s why you’ve got to protect me somehow.”
“It’s in our contract with the owners’ association that my employees are off limits.”
“You’re not making me feel any safer.”
“Just focus on your job, Burdine. And stop pissing Mr. Schwartz off.”
At face value, Bernie’s job was perfect. Sitting around all night with time to write songs and practice guitar or keyboards. Three days off each week. In reality, though, he felt like a big chocolate cupcake sitting unguarded in an employee lunchroom. And his weekends, away from the protection against predation in the condo bylaws, were like the cupcake bearing a sign saying, “please eat me.”
Who’s to say Schwa
rtz couldn’t get to him when he was off the clock? And no one would know Schwartz did it.
At last count, Bernie had seven crosses and crucifixes hanging in his apartment and on his front door. Two hanging from his neck. Bulbs of garlic everywhere, often around from his neck as well. He didn’t know if they would work. With all the vampires in movies and novels you would think there would be some practical and consistent advice on vampire repellants, but no such luck.
The Jellyfish Beach Mystical Mart and Botánica was in a bad part of town, which meant it was near Bernie’s apartment. With all the people in Florida from Latin America and the Caribbean, botánicas did brisk business catering to their ancestral beliefs and folklore, from Santeria to Voodoo to Obeah. Philomena, the day guard, told him about the store. If anyone sold vampire repellant, this would be the place.
A bell above the door tinkled when he entered into a strong cloud of incense. It was a small, cluttered space filled from floor to ceiling with statuettes of saints, baggies and vials containing ground herbs and powders of many hues, bottles with unknown liquids, packets with crudely printed labels. Bernie was overwhelmed by all the objects before his eyes. A curtain covering a doorway into a back room parted and a woman emerged.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
She looked very familiar. It was the woman who taught the vampires creative writing.
“It’s you!” he said.
“It is, indeed, me,” she said. “And who the heck are you?”
“Bernie Burdine. I work at Squid Tower. I’m one of the gate guards. I saw your class the other night.”
“Oh, yeah, now I remember. You had this look on your face like you just stepped in a pile of dog crap. Let me guess, seeing a classroom brought back bad memories for you?”
“I was confused. I’m new on the job and don’t fully understand the fifty-five-plus, active-adult vampire lifestyle. Who knew that vampires would be interested in creative writing?” He stopped himself from asking the question, then let it out anyway. “Are you a vampire?”
“Do I look like one?”
“Uh, no. Your skin isn’t as pale.”
“Do you not realize it’s daytime right now? These windows are kind of dirty but there’s plenty of sunshine coming through. It should have been your first clue.”
“Okay, I get the point. But I don’t understand why you’re working with vampires.”
“I work with seniors. I’m a home-health nurse and I run the class to help them stay mentally active. These seniors just happen to be afflicted with vampirism.”
“You make it sound like some kind of disability.”
“In a way, it is.”
“I’m sorry, but those seniors scare the hell out of me. I’m a sitting duck in the gatehouse every night. I’m serious.”
Her face became a little more sympathetic.
“No one would attack an employee,” she said.
“Schwartz would. Leonard Schwartz. He’s on the board. He freaking hates me. He’s threatened to kill me. And I know for a fact he’s broken the rules and attacked a plumber on the property.”
“I didn’t know that. Yes, he’s rather . . . difficult. And he has a serious sweet tooth. Try not to eat a lot of candy while you’re on the job to avoid tempting him into snacking on you.”
“That’s the reason I’m here—to see if you can help me. Do you have any potions or spells or charms or anything to repel vampires? I mean, I’ve got these,” he pulled out from under his shirt the two crucifixes he wore on chains. “But I’m not convinced a Jewish vampire would care about them. Besides, I’m Jewish, too, so they probably won’t work anyway.”
She frowned. “I’m sure I can put together something for you. I don’t know if Schwartz would be more influenced by the lore of European heritage or of the Americas.” She smiled. “I’ll figure something out.”
“I thought you’d be wearing some sort of protection yourself.”
“I have this,” she said, withdrawing an amulet on a leather cord from under her blouse. “Yours will be similar, but customized more for you and for repelling Schwartz in particular.”
“Does yours work?”
“I think so. But they would never hurt me, anyway. I care for their special needs. They depend on me.”
“It’s your life,” Bernie said.
“Next time I’m at Squid Tower I’ll drop off your amulet,” she said. “No charge for this one.”
He thanked her enthusiastically and said goodbye.
“I’m Missy, by the way. My creative writing classes are Tuesdays at two in the morning,” she said. “You’re welcome to join us if you can get a break.”
“Uh, I think I’ll pass,” he said. “I can only leave the gatehouse to use the bathroom and I’d rather not be in the same room as vampires. Besides, I’m not much of a writer. My passion is music. And staying alive.”
12
It's Magick
After Bernie left, Missy opened a box of magnetic car statuettes and placed them on a recently cleared shelf. Missy was constantly impressed by the variety of goods in Luisa’s botánica. The customers here sometimes wanted potions or charms to give them luck, love, or money. But other times they were on a more religious-like quest to receive blessings from a number of saints and religious figures that combined African-based religions with Christianity. Sometimes they came seeking spiritual advice or Tarot-card readings from Luisa. Across the gray borders between the magical and the spiritual, the botánica probably had what you were looking for.
She put a hand-painted, five-inch-tall Saint Anthony right next to Elegua, an orisha, or spirt, of the Yoruba tradition from Africa. Next to him went the Holy Infant of Atocha. He was flanked by Papa Candelo sitting cross-legged. He was a powerful loa, or voodoo spirit, from Haiti and the Dominican Republic. All of these figurines were the perfect accessory for your car dashboard or end table at home.
A few years ago, if you had told Missy she’d be working as a home-health nurse caring for vampires, she would have called you nuts. If you had told her she’d also work part time in a botánica in a slightly dangerous neighborhood, she would have called someone to have you institutionalized.
Missy hadn’t considered herself a serious witch. Sure, for most of her life she’d dabbled in Wicca and the traditional pioneer spell craft she called Florida cracker magick. She became more interested in it after her marriage ended, but never had the time to fully dedicate herself to the mystical arts.
Once she realized her career as a nurse in the Intensive Care Unit had burned her out to a crisp, she quit her job at the regional hospital and began working as a home-health nurse. The pay was a fraction of what she had made at the hospital, even though, considering the patients, it was hazardous duty. She had needed to find additional, part-time, work. She had a mortgage to pay, cats to feed, and magick ingredients to buy.
But a botánica? Really? What happened was she had been searching for some potion ingredients—dried frog livers, nightshade, Florida Water, Four Thieves Vinegar, and such things that were rarely a good idea to order online. There was a New Age bookstore not far from her house, but the store sold only books, crystals, and incense. She’d found the botánica almost by mistake. It was on a block in between a barber shop and a liquor store with bars on its windows.
The botánica was similar to others she’d been in before, but this one had, in addition to the Santeria merchandise, a large inventory of Voodoo, Obeah, and Hoodoo products. She also found occult supplies and several obscure ingredients for various kinds of witchcraft that were hard to find anywhere.
She became a regular customer. Until one day when the owner, an Afro-Cuban woman named Luisa, asked if she could help out a few days a week. She negotiated late-afternoon hours that ended in early evening after sunset when she began her nursing visits.
The supernatural had always been on the periphery of Missy’s life. She was an orphan and her adoptive parents were loving and permissive. They had never been devoutly
religious themselves, but they opened a door for various forms of spiritualism to enter Missy’s life. In fact, her adoptive mother was a college professor of comparative religion, so she instilled in the household an acceptance of all belief systems.
The one exception was witchcraft. Even though Missy’s parents were open to all sorts of spiritual exercises, they forbid anything to do with witches and never had a satisfactory reason why. Her more conservative father, in particular, discouraged witchcraft almost as if he were afraid of it, which was odd for him. They weren’t obnoxiously strict about this ban, because doing so would have made Missy rebel. They simply steered her away from it. And if she ever left a book about witches lying around it would mysteriously disappear.
Despite this, they did allow her to hold a séance for a dead pet parakeet when she was only eight. A used Ouija board found its way into her playroom and she loved to freak out her friends by summoning ghosts.
Her parents believed it all was the product of a rich childish imagination. It wasn’t. It was real ghosts, including those of a killer clown and his killer-clown-in-training who had been killed by his killer-clown mentor. Those two ghosts did not get along, to put it mildly.
In addition to her communicating with ghosts, Missy believed she might have other psychic abilities. She hoped she did, with all her heart, in her early adolescent years when kids yearn for something to make them special and unique. She played with tarot cards, though her fortune-telling abilities were not impressive. She often had strange hunches, premonitions, and feelings of brushing up against forces not quite of this world. But she couldn’t make sense of them, let alone harness them for practical use.
Her one ability showing true potential was telekinesis. She could visualize a book sliding off a table and it would happen. A pen she dropped on the floor would return to her hand. She couldn’t do anything much more dramatic than that, but it was a start. As she entered adulthood and became consumed by its pragmatism, she lost her enthusiasm for her psychic side, though her telekinesis would occasionally prevent a drink from spilling or a shopping cart from rolling into her car. However, she rarely used it in a premeditated way.
