Falling Off the Wagon, Again

Falling Off the Wagon, Again

A young man stops me in the street, pleading with me to change him into a vampire.

"You are such a handsome man," he tells me. "I would like dark hair like yours and those impelling eyes to captivate young, eager victims."

I look him over and am tempted. He is plump and juicy-looking. Blood is an addiction that calls steadily. I wet my lips and consider.

“It isn’t much fun dying,” I tell him, “yet I must do it every morning.”

The pimply-faced teen pales and turns slightly green. “What do you mean you die every morning? I thought you were already dead. How could you die again?”

I chortle. My fangs drop, although I do not wish it. Fish oil mixed with raw hamburger juice never has the same flavor as human blood. My heart pounds with the old desire. I crave his neck. I yearn for the hot, rich flow he offers me.

Yet I turn away, shooting a glance at the moon’s altitude. Plenty of time still to dally. I sigh and answer the young man’s question with one of mine.

“Do you think a vampire simply sleeps the sleep of the blessed? Ha! There are times when I close my coffin lid, and I lie in that stuffy darkness where the bittersweet smell of dead flesh reeks like rotting onions. It is my flesh rotting into the fragrant wood of death’s keeping, but that does not decrease the distaste inside my mouth. I swallow and fight against the nausea that rises in my throat. It burns like the stomach acid of the obese. As my esophagus blisters, I can picture boils rising up like the sores on an advanced syphilis patient. No doubt the pores on my skin burst and bleed, for I age quickly each morning as I die. And the sun, shooting its life-rays across the sky, brings me once again into the daily agony of death.”

The teen must have seen a glimpse of my elongated fangs. He steps backward involuntarily, and his breathing escalates.

I wish I hadn’t seen that. The heavy breathing of a human is like a fresh new bottle of booze for an alcoholic. I pant as I squelch back my hunger, but my desire is a molten lead, burning me in all extremities. I gulp down the flow of saliva rising in eagerness. Walk away, I tell myself. Walk away, but he is innocent, so willing, so ready . . .

“Hollywood gives you false pictures of our life. There’s nothing pretty about it, and eternity is a big bore after the first five hundred years,” I tell him.

“I don’t care,” he responds. “Take me. Sink your teeth into my neck. Sip the nectar of my life, and then turn me, please.”

Buffy again, I suppose. Where else would a kid his age get phrases like “sip the nectar of my life”? What does he think I am, a honey bee?

“It isn’t like that,” I repeat. “You’re living Hollywood, kid. Sure, it may feel good when I’m drinking from your neck. There are drugs in my saliva to entice and hold, and to draw forth your willingness, but then, you just feel weak and sick. It’s rather like having the flu unless I drain you, which means you never wake up. Ever see a bloodless corpse? It looks a little like one that’s spent a week floating around in the ocean. You see nature abhors a vacuum, so bloodless, you fill up with air.”

The kid pales, swaying slightly with his distaste for my words. The pupils in his eyes have swollen twice the usual size. He is scared, but still, he remains.

“I know what you’re thinking a vampire’s life is. ‘Come, my pet, let me sink my teeth into your severed vein,’ you say, and she sweeps her long, golden curls to the side to let you lower your lips to touch the pearl of her dainty neck. And you smile as you drink.

“Isn’t that what the movies show? You poor, naïve, boy. First off, the choice females want muscles nowadays. Vampires do not have them. Our arms are lean and wan, not thick as tree trunks. Do you really think the truly glamorous would give us a second look?

“No. We get the leftovers, boy. You probably have better pluckings with your youthful face and those strands of overgrown mane falling into your eyes.

“Modern women argue with us now. Last week when I picked up a cute, young apple-pie cheeked lady of the night, she gave me a karate chop the first time I tried to nibble her neck. She only gave in when I handed her the hundred. Things have changed, a lot, my boy. Things have really changed.”

“But you’re strong,” he says, his tongue swabbing his lips with continued eagerness. “And vampires have charisma. I know that’s true.”

“I sleep in a coffin. I eat blood. How much charisma do you think I have?”

“I have followed you. I know you’re lying."

The bobbing of the lad’s Adam’s apple intrigues me. My eyes fasten, and I draw closer. The smell of him is the bouquet of fine, sweet wine. I, too, lick my lower lip.

“All right,” I tell him. “I confess. I have given it up.”

The kid laughs. His hand lifts and sweeps through the golden highlights of his hair. It ripples in the streetlight’s reflection.

“Fish oil,” I say. “Hamburger juice. Be firm, morals. Stand straight and follow the path
of . . . ”

Oh, heck. I'll start my resolutions tomorrow, I tell myself. Then I sigh with defeat and pierce the young man’s sweet, white skin.


Ah, delicious.