I Almost Threw Out My Geritol

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I Almost Threw Out My Geritol

I watched in shock as the old, blue Ford truck ran through the red light and kept on going. I hadn't seen anyone crossing in the crosswalk, but I did hear the thump of a body -- no, two bodies -- being hit as the Ford squealed its brakes and then kept going. I sped over to those poor souls to offer my assistance. When I came closer, I saw the first man was a blind person -- his white cane with the red tip lying beside him, still clutched in his hands. He wasn’t moving.

It was then that I noticed the other man. His leg was half-severed from his body, yet he was crawling toward the blind man. As I watched, he took hold of him and yanked him toward the sidewalk. I started to yell out that it was too late to worry over the blind guy; his head was bashed in. But I was suddenly reeling from the sight of the blood on the crosswalk. Visions of blood always make me wheezy. I swallowed hard, patted my stomach, and attempted to quell the nausea.

Meanwhile, the Good Samaritan had reached the side of the road and was attempting to give mouth-to mouth resuscitation to the blind man. I could hear that brave man gasping for breath, barely able to function, himself. The pain of his wound must be overwhelming. Perhaps, he was in shock. I forced my feet to move me closer.

That's when I saw how wrong I was. That man was no Good Samaritan. What I’d thought was heavy breathing -- helpful breathing -- so to speak, was not. I blinked my eyes. I wiped my glasses. I even shook my head, wondering if old age was finally causing dementia.

The wounded man’s fangs had pierced an artery of the dead, blind man. The man with the hurt leg wasn’t helping at all! He was sucking, sucking energetically.

“Stop that,” I shouted out rather stupidly, as if I were young and able to interfere with such a thing.

The vampire, for that is what he was, fastened his eyes on me. I froze, staring into the most evil, red/blue eyes I'd ever seen. As if in a dream, I heard a voice calling softly, “Come to me; come to me.”

I took a step and then another. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew my very soul was in jeopardy, but I wanted the man with the red/blue eyes to adore me, to feed on me. I wanted to feel his fangs inside me. I was driven.

The man’s leg had stopped bleeding. It was starting to heal. I hadn’t taken my eyes away from his blue/red eyes, but still I noticed. My mind took in the blind man as well, his discarded husk, his red-tipped cane. I could see the half-severed leg of the man who had called me; it was miraculously closing up, the skin drawing together as if it were being pulled by a seamster's fingers, mended by thread and needle.

These thoughts flitted about my brain for a moment only, for after that, I was suddenly flooded with only one thought: the awareness of the great and perfect beauty of the vampire lord. My breath exhaled, and I couldn't breathe in. The outpourings of love and homage were so vast, I bowed my head and almost wept. Then I knelt before him.

The asphalt of the street was rough on my knee. I knew I'd probably not be able to get up again, but it didn't matter. “Take me," I said. “I am old, but take me anyway. I willingly give you my life.”

The vampire dropped the dead man. His red-hued eyes continued to stare into mine, drawing me even closer. I bowed lower, swallowed whatever remained of the consciousness I possessed and tilted my neck for his lips. In that moment there was nothing on Earth that I wanted more than to sacrifice my life to the vampire.

“Take me,” I whispered. “Take me.”

His teeth were only inches from me, but it was inches of torture. I wanted to cry out, "Hurry, hurry," but I did not. I waited in breathless agony, leaning into him, urging him with my mind to taste me, to fondle my neck with the passion of his fangs.

It was at that moment a passing bystander attacked. Seizing the blind man’s cane, the "rescuer" broke it into two and shoved it into the vampire’s heart. My lord's blood spurted me. I looked at him in shock, not understanding what was happening. Why was he collapsing? Why were his teeth not piercing my eager neck? I hardly felt the pain when the second stake of the bystander pierced my back. I was grieving, mourning my great loss.

I think, somehow, in the moment of that attack, the vampire’s blood and mine mixed. For in the shock of my anguish, I fell forward onto his stake, and his death sentence punctured my spleen.

That is the only explanation I have for what followed.

You see, the police arrived. Their sirens had blared, and I’d never heard them. A policeman's stick pummeled the bystander. Then he was taken away in cuffs and charged with my attempted murder. I was only semi-conscious at the time, and I watched it as if I were already dead. My vision of what occured must have been like the last sight of a rising death -- merely shadow.

But I didn't care what they did with the bystander or with me, for life had lost meaning. My vampire lord had turned to dust, you see. There was nothing remaining for me to hold on to. He had left me.

The medics asked me questions. I didn't respond. When they lifted me up to take me to the hospital, the sight of my dripping blood sickened me, and my pain was a gnawing rat, biting through my flesh and bone. Mercifully, I lost consciousness.

My spleen had been ruptured, they told me so when I woke up at the hospital. They asked permission to operate. I refused my consent. I wanted to die.

Several minutes later, it was decided that they'd operate even without my consent. The preparations started: blood transfusions -- another IV of sugar water.

Spleens do not repair themselves, yet mine did. Ninety-year-old skin does not suddenly heal, yet mine did that also. Apparently, I had begun my change right there in the hospital, transforming into one of the drinkers of blood.

I do not understand how that happened. I barely remember what occurred on the street. I do know the vampire didn't bite me. Even today in my dreams, I wish he had. I yearn, still, for the touch of his fangs on my neck.

It’s almost funny the way the doctors looked when they wheeled me into the operating room, peeled back the sheet to cut, and then saw my flesh. The lacerations on my skin from the stakes that had once pierced my body were now healed.

For thirty minutes the doctors examined me as if I were the guinea pig of some brand new medical break through. They questioned me repeatedly. Stranger to me than the healing was the fact that instead of all the stress killing me with my weak heart and history of strokes, I thrived on it, and as the minutes went on, I felt better and better.

Finally, shaking their heads in dismay, the doctors rushed off to scribble notes concerning my miraculous self-healing. They left me in a room with a nurse who told me I had the cholesterol of a child. Then she took my blood pressure, paled, and ran off to find a doctor.

I laughed as she fled. I felt wonderful, to tell you the truth. I felt better than I’d felt in a decade. The strength and energy of my early adulthood had come back. With the nurse out of the room, I disconnected myself from the machines, urinated at will and without effort in the small toilet attached to the room, tossed out my badly cracked glasses, which it seemed I no longer needed, and pulled on my pants and shirt.

I slipped out of the room, ran down four flights of stairs, reached the bottom, and jogged out into the night.

For a while I wandered the streets of Chicago trying to decide what to do. I knew better than to plan on living in the Senior Home any longer. The hospital would be looking for me. I hadn’t had time to sign any of their paperwork; I knew they’d want money for my brief stay.

Besides, what if they wanted me to go back? I had a feeling, even then, that it would be unwise ever to let another doctor examine me.

I stopped by the Hobson's Senior Living Facilities, went to my room, and packed a bag. I tossed out my blood pressure medicine, figuring that blood circulation was a dead issue (if you'll pardon my pun.) I packed my case of Geritol, my dental cement and cleaner, and, of course, some clothes. I paused a bit over the arthritis medication. Would I still need that? Better to be safe, than sorry, I figured.

I cast a glance about the sparely furnished room, tossed a picture in the case, zipped up the bag, and tossed it over my shoulder. Then I climbed out through the window, jumping down from the eave like my knees were a sixteen-year-old’s. It felt good. For the first time in twenty-four hours, I smiled.

The night was black. No stars lit my way, but I had no trouble seeing. My old cataract-filled eyes seemed to be doing just fine. The air smelled crisp. It was cold and damp. “Rain air,” my sweet Bess used to call it. I stretched my backbone and heard it pop. Normally my joints would be aching in such weather, but they felt limber and offered no predictions about rain or snow. I laughed with the wonder of it.

The darkness exhilarated me. When was the last time I’d been out so late? No more "early to bed, early to rise" for me, I vowed.

“Hey, Pops, where ya’ goin’?” a sweet, young thing called out.

I smiled and felt my teeth shuffle a bit. Darn, I hadn’t taken the time to re-secure them when I’d stopped at my room. I sucked them back into place and tried again. My smile worked better then.

“Wanna’ come ta’ my place?” the girl asked.

I toured her body with my improved vision. I liked the slightly plump, pleasingly generous portions of her physique. If she could just keep her mouth shut and not continue to mangle English, we’d do fine.

“Sure,” I said. “What do you charge?”

I couldn’t help the gasp when she said, “Fifty buckos.” It had been a long time since I’d done any research along such lines.

I followed the girl back to her pad. She wouldn’t earn any prizes for housekeeping. Her bed smelled stale, and I wondered how many past visitors had quenched their needs on the same sheets. But, I hadn’t gone there to enjoy a five star hotel, I told myself.

I have to brag and tell you that Vampire blood sure helps everything work better. Little Barbara and I got along just fine. Pleasurably fine, one could say. It was kind of a shame I couldn’t promise to come back for seconds. I got thirsty.

Afterward, I re-cemented my teeth. Don’t ask me why they weren’t "youthenating" like everything else, but at least the fangs were working ok.

I removed a wad of bills from Barbara’s bra and jogged out into the night, after sipping a slug of Geritol for good measure.

Weeks slid by as weeks tend to. I slept in cardboard boxes with the tops closed in during the day. It worked just fine even if it wasn’t very elegant.

My nights were full of Barbaras and Sallys and Bambis. I bought some dye and touched up my hair with Midnight Black. The color pleased me, and the fact that my hair was starting to grow again made me feel even younger.

About a month later, I met Cindy. She was one of the "city" vampires. She introduced me to the Family. I moved in that same night.

The Family, composed of twenty-three mainly young people, all began calling me “Pops." Sometimes they treated me like I was half-senile, but I’d truthfully never been happier. I found an old alley cat that kept the same hours as I did, and old Fangs and I watched over the place at night while the Family were out prowling. Usually one of the kids would bring me back a cute, young thing, and I 'd polish her off. I didn’t have to eat every night, but it was always tasty, and the pre-supper activities still delighted me, having been deprived of those for so many years.

My young vamp friends went in and out, partying a great deal, so I was on hand to bring them a cocktail mixed with equal parts of Geritol and blood for their hangovers. That way we helped each other and kept the idea of family going.

Life is good, except that I’ve been missing my Social Security checks. Do you suppose there’s a limit to the number of years one can collect? I’ve been meaning to check on it.

My insurance is another matter. I was supposed to be getting payments for the rest of my life. I think I need to see my lawyer about it, but I worry that if I pop in, I might get thirsty.

Funny how there's NEVER is enough time to get everything done. I've discovered that's true even when a person suddenly discovers that he's going to live

F O R E V E R !

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