Musings of a Postmodern Vampire Read online

  Humans now have access to a wide range of genetic variety at their fingertips, and with a click or two, you can explore a potential long term engagement or a sad reminder of how genetically deficient you are to the average mate.

  Okay, enough criticizing these cute young ladies on Facebook. Let’s discuss the way I represent myself and my image on these sites since I’m a vampire and you’re probably thinking there is no way in hell I can cast my image on the internet.

  Well, wonder no more! For the first time in history, we can be photographed! Thank digital photography for this historic feat. At the turn of the twentieth century, mirrors were used to take photographs of people, and I, unfortunately, could not partake in the opportunity of making a duckface or showing my beautiful features to the world through reproduction. Then chemically-based photography came into existence, like Polaroid cameras and film. This particular version of photography is essentially a plastic base coated with particles of silver compound that is sensitive to light. As many of you may know, we vampires are not drinkers of Coors Light, and we think the Silver Surfer is the shittiest comic book character ever created. Silver is to vampires as grass-fed beef is to a Big Mac. I remember in 1977, someone took a picture of me with their Polaroid camera at a disco, and I spent the next few days with an extreme case of nausea. My flatmate at the time thought I had a wicked hangover or caught mono. Even a hint of any sort of silvery compound cast my way, will make me fall terribly ill.

  So, when I had my first digital camera in my hands, it was a wondrous opportunity to see an actual reflection of myself. The only other time I could see a somewhat true representation of myself without the use of digital technology was through portraits. I’ve had talented friends paint me; in fact, I had a friend who was the most remarkable portrait artist I have ever seen. Unfortunately, he learned his craft when cubism was all the rage, but he went on to make a modest living painting portraits of inbred wealthy families. I have one of his portraits on one of my bedroom walls. There is a grotesque curiosity about it. The wife has extraordinarily long fingers which wrap around her husband’s entire hands; her face is long, with a sharp, pointy chin. Both of them lack any semblance of lips, and the husband exhibits a distinctive uni-brow that is furrowed in self loathing. They both seem arranged, related and understanding of their peculiar visage. The painting creates a stir whenever I have house guests over, and the typical response is full of fear, pity, or revulsion.

  When I received my first digital camera, it was maxed out at an astounding 1.3 megapixels, but back then, it was considered state of the art. I used up the entire digital memory card within the first few hours of unboxing the camera. I deleted and retook my picture over and over again; seeing myself on that little screen was incredible. I made funny faces, sad faces, and happy faces into the camera all night long. I felt as if I could outdo Marcel Marceu with all the mugging that was going on in front of my little portal to self-analysis.

  I then decided to export all my pictures onto my PC, and I could see myself on a larger screen for the first time. I looked at all my poses, examining every inch of my face, my body, and it just reconfirmed that I indeed was pleasant to look at. I knew it all along, because, despite my condition, I always made a strong first impression on most humans I met, especially women. Now that I had a digital camera, I didn’t have to tell all my friends, co-workers, and acquaintances that they could no longer take pictures of me. I’m no longer going to tell everyone that I have an innate fear of seeing myself in pictures because I was molested by a wedding photographer at an early age. I will no longer tell everyone that I have to take a piss every time someone pulls out a camera. Here I am, snap away! Look at me, I am beautiful, sexy, and I’m a Vampiric GQ model! I wear fancy suits, have wonderfully coiffed hair, and I have a stare that would melt the hardiest woman, even though the intention behind the stare is to snap her head back before going all in mouth agape, but... with the utmost care.

  I love uploading pictures of myself with my mouth wide open. It freaks out every one of my friends online. Ooh, this one makes me look like I am a primal incarnation of my kind after two months without feeding. “Neck eaters” as we call them. Feral vampires who just don’t give a fuck and will bite someone’s neck till the cervical vertebrae are exposed through the skin. They purposely go without a proper feeding until their innermost urge for blood consumes their entire body and being.

  Thanks to digital photography, I now have random women sending me messages to go out on dates. I find that to be a rather joyful circumstance. I’ve already gone on a couple of dates that originated from conversations over my Facebook. However, I’m very careful. I’ll let them in slowly, but most women don’t mind that because they do the same to me too. Their approach tends to be extremely slow, cautious, and deliberate. They are skilled at sensing which men are capable of being sweet and guarding of some awful truth at the same time. They excel at throwing out crumbs of trust at the right times. I have to be careful and whenever I meet someone who I like, I must do the same. In this day and age of rapid exchanges of information and a 24-hour news cycle, if a vampire is exposed because they expose their primal nature too soon without moral intent, well, I doubt the same due process that is applicable to humans would be applied to me, even though I have done a superb job of not breaking any laws, or killing humans for my need for blood. Remember, I have a condition. I’m not an animal. I have needs. They’re different needs, but needs nonetheless granted by nature and, as your constitution, says: “the Creator.” I just want to exist, and I have no choice but to exist among you. I feel I have something to offer to mankind. I just have to show my hand at the right time.

  I need to go to sleep. I sometimes feel like a slave to my computer screen. What time is it? 5:00 a.m. I kept the shades down this time. Why do I do this to myself? Working, answering emails from clients for six hours straight, and writing for Samuel in between, is all taking a toll on me. I haven’t seen the moon for two days now. I need to go to sleep right away and recoup. Thankfully, I have a couple of bags of ‘Type O’ in the fridge waiting for me at dusk.

  Chapter Three

  Luckily for Samuel, I have a nice night planned tonight. I am feeling a little romantic. He wants to know my view on love and romance. Well, for starters, I think dating is truly an art form.

  There are varying degrees and styles of artists when it comes to the courtship of women. For example, there are the Dalis, who use tactics to impress a girl that border on the absurd. They are usually the guys who take their dates to exotic restaurants, the kind of restaurants that serve dishes which resemble the ones they have on those Travel Channel shows, where a rotund gentleman sitting on a boat on the Mekong eats whatever the fisherman catches with his primitive wooden pole. The food ranges from ordinary tilapia, to some bizarre worm with hooks on its ass and its mouth, and probably smells like Colonel Walter E. Kurtz’s bedroom. Well, there are some girls who dig that kind of sushi-gone-wild, and others are disgusted by it, but the girls who dig it are really, really into it. The Dalis take risks, but the payout is huge!

  Then there are the Degas guys, who go out of their way to class it up. Degas painted classy portraits with ballerinas and wealthy folks from high society. The Degas guys come from all walks of life; they could be dregs or hood rats, or just stereotypical, middle-class accountants, but Degas guys will spend 30 percent of their paychecks on dinner, just so they can impress their dates. Unlike a Dali, a Degas is a little more palatable to the masses. Midwest Mary probably doesn’t like elephants on stilts with clouds morphing into phalli, but probably prefers the gentile rendition of pretty ballerinas. Therefore, the Degas guy has a higher probability of impressing his date than the Dali guy.

  You also have your Kinkades, but I won’t talk too much about these guys; they have the tendency to bore the hell out of any date. Kinkade paints little cottages with candles in windows, for God’s sake! What has Kinkade ever risked? Nothing! At least include a dinosaur in one of your pai
ntings, Tom. I want to see a velociraptor eating his hard-earned dinner in a teeny-tiny window by firelight.

  Kinkade guy plays it “safe.” But girls don’t want “safe,” or else they would date their dads! Let’s move on.

  Finally, let’s talk about the da Vincis. Few men can be da Vincis. I love to consider myself a da Vinci. Why, you ask? Well, for starters, I’m terribly old. Da Vinci didn’t reach his peak until he was on the latter curve of his life. I don’t know where I’m located on the curve, because, let’s face it, I’m immortal. Leonardo da Vinci’s understanding of the human body was way ahead of his time; he possessed the inherent knowledge that only a man who lived for many, many years could gain. Now, I’m not suggesting that da Vinci lived for hundreds of years and was a vampire—maybe he was, I don’t know—but he amassed vast amounts of information during a typical human lifespan. But then, da Vinci was mysterious—just ask the author, Dan Brown. There are hidden meanings and secrets in da Vinci’s paintings. In fact, there is a hidden albino in the Mona Lisa. You need to look really carefully, and put the painting in the mirror. If you do, you’re bound to see someone that resembles Edgar Winter, or so I have heard.

  He also predicted the existence of flying machines! Wait a minute; he didn’t predict flying machines. You can’t predict something that has already been invented. According to the History Channel, it was the Egyptians who first thought of flight, because aliens helped them. Okay, if my sarcasm isn’t clear, and in 50 years what I am saying is somewhat relevant, use whatever search engine exists to look up the words ‘pseudoscience’ plus ‘History Channel’ plus ‘Egyptians’ plus ‘aliens’; you’ll find it right there, probably underneath The Haunted House of Bigfoot, and Hitler’s Ghost Army of Chupacabras.

  Well, da Vinci did draft blueprints for a flying contraption of some kind. The man was a genius, mysterious, and, like me, he probably had good fashion sense. So, I am a da Vinci!

  What about the Picassos, Van Goghs, and the Pollocks, you may ask? I could easily make an offensive and shallow observation about these great painters, in relation to how men act on dates, such as when Picassos text their other women on dates, or how Van Goghs mutilate themselves to impress the ladies, or how Pollocks throw spaghetti all over the table, so that they can make some cryptic point. However, I am above such childish comparisons! In conclusion, dating is like an art form, and men on dates tend to mimic the traits of famous artists.

  But, if one cannot demonstrate a level of sophistication after 140-plus years of existence, then it is safe to say, you will never have a chance with women. Keep in mind, though; women’s perception of sophistication is as varied as the works of an artist’s journey. So, maybe you’re better off being yourself.

  I’ll touch more about love for Samuel a little later. Maybe some deeper themes. In the meantime, I need to get ready for my date. I have this nice scarf I’ve always wanted to wear. You literally only have a couple months out of the year where you can wear one in Southern California.

  I’m ready to impress Holly. She does not know of my true condition. A nice picnic in the park by moonlight is in order. Time to turn on the charm and hit one out of the park. Here’s to you, Leonardo da Vinci, for showing me how to make love imitate art.

  Chapter Four

  Holly’s apartment was exceptionally charming from the outside. It didn’t look as if it belonged to those 1970s-era apartment complexes that you see littered throughout Los Angeles, the type whose appearance served neither form nor function. This complex had character.

  Surrounding a small atrium with a beautiful Moorish fountain in the middle, there were four small buildings with a couple of units on each floor. Tiny bamboo plants lined the concrete walkways that led up to each of the unit’s doors. On Holly’s door hung an ornate angel, which had wings that served as a knocker. It fit remarkably well with the decor that adorned the complex. It was obvious that the community took an immense amount of pride on how their living arrangements looked to outside visitors, family, and friends. The plants, flowers, and roses outside her apartment all varied greatly, but all seemed to have a singular intent of taste and decoration.

  I arrived at her door, feeling slightly nervous. I fixed my collar and ensured that my hair was perfectly neat. I don’t use any types of gels or hair spray, just a special paste that my stylist recommended. It works wonders, and it doesn’t give my hair that stiff, unnatural look. I like it when women run their fingers through my hair without having to worry about clumps of gunk sticking to the palms of their hands.

  I used the angel door knocker to let Holly know I had arrived on time. Holly opened the door with a sincere and friendly smile, which was extremely reassuring. Her soft grin let me know she was genuinely happy to see me. My jangling nerves were lessened tremendously. She looked absolutely beautiful. Her large green eyes were accentuated by the expert application of mascara and eye shadow. Her blond hair lay perfectly still on her shoulders without the obvious aid of some sort of hair product; it was full of volume and hinted of a very expensive salon cut. Holly was naturally pretty, and I could not keep my eyes off of her.

  “Hello, Jack. Do you want to come in for a bit while I put my earrings on?”

  “Sure,” I said, as I stepped into the doorway, my chin held high and full of faux-confidence.

  I walked into her apartment and quickly noticed that her place was exquisitely decorated. The apartment’s furnishings, paintings, and plants all had a methodical organization about them. Everything was perfectly placed, as if designed by a professional interior decorator or the learned calculation of Holly through a style magazine or book.

  “Your place is quite charming. You have wonderful taste,” I said, as I sat down on her pristine, white, modern couch.

  Holly was in front of the mirror that tied in nicely with the decor which hung on the wall across from her kitchen. She was carefully picking at a pair of earrings from a tiny maroon felt box.

  “Jack, thank you. That is so nice of you. It’s probably not as nice as your place, though,” she said.

  “Not true. I think your place definitely belongs on the cover of an interior decorating magazine. I need to have you over sometime, so you can give me some pointers.”

  Holly turned around and faced me. She was concentrating on putting on one of her earrings; she didn’t seem to have any trouble at all.

  “You mean my interior designer? Who happens to be my brother?”

  She turned back to the mirror and picked up her other earring. Placing it in her ear effortlessly.

  “Well, tell your brother that he is extremely talented and I wouldn’t mind having him over,” I said.

  “He’ll love to hear that. He has a pretty big ego, but it’s well deserved, as you can see.”

  Holly finished putting on both earrings while nurturing me with subtle hints of flattery. She continued to snipe me with her coquettish eye contact while she played with her bangs a little bit, flipping them to the side, making sure that her hair was perfectly arranged. She faced the mirror again, carefully balancing out her blush.

  “Are you ready to go?” Holly asked, looking for me in the mirror. “Jack?” she asked, turning around.

  “Oh, you’re over there? Wait a minute...” Holly looked in the mirror again and then abruptly turned around and took another glance at me, “Will you please stop moving around?”

  “Oh, sorry, I was just admiring your couch from side to side. It’s really nice.” She probably thought I had some sort of couch fetish. I needed to start being cognizant of where people placed mirrors in their home.

  I immediately got up from the couch and looked at the mirror. I made sure I was angled as far away from its view as possible. I grabbed her coat, which was on one of the kitchen chairs, and gently placed it on her shoulders, in a gentlemanly sort of way, not like some sort of weirdo who used the coat as an excuse to get close to her neck. Shoot! I hope she didn’t think I was too forward.

  “Thank you, Jack. You display
quite a nice sense of etiquette,” Holly said, with a precocious smile.

  “No problem. I’m kind of old school like that,” I said, with a quirky smirk. ‘Old school’… if she only knew.

  We walked out of her apartment, both dressed to the nines. I carefully shut the door behind us. I didn’t want to disturb the other tenants, since the complex was extremely quiet.

  “This place is starkly elegant,” I said, as we made our way to the parking lot.

  “Yeah, I know; it costs a fortune though. Also, the neighbors are kind of stuffy. I’ll probably be looking for a new place once my lease is up.”

  Holly didn’t look too keen on leaving her apartment by the look on her face. With rent prices in L.A. bordering on the absurd, Holly’s reasoning wasn’t that much of a radical departure.

  We both walked to the parking lot; there were a couple of inches of space separating us as we strolled side by side. Holly’s modest heels made a slight clacking sound on the pavement.

  “Nice car, Jack,” Holly said, standing in front of my car that was backed into the visitor parking space. I liked quick getaways.

  “Thanks. I really thought long and hard about this baby. I read every car magazine imaginable. This is the first time that I broke the bank to get a nice one. Even in the short time I’ve had it, I’m glad to know I made the right decision.”

  I opened the door to my new, black Audi A7 and led Holly into the passenger seat, gently holding her hand. I closed the door with a soft thunk and hurried around the car. I noticed with distaste a dry piece of pigeon poop above the Audi logo. I flicked it with my middle finger. I found it rather disgusting, but Holly didn’t need to know. I had just spent fifty bucks getting the car washed to make it look as clean as when I drove it off the lot. There were still small streaks of water all over the car, but that was a small price to pay considering the bang-up job that the after-hours detailing service had done just before I picked up Holly. I’d make sure to drive a little faster than usual on the freeway, thoroughly drying it off in the process.