Victor Gischler: Vampire A Go-Go

I didn’t like Allen at first. With instantaneous knowledge of his entire life, I figured I knew all I needed to make this judgment. He’s a little weak, lets people push him around. He’s apologetic when he hasn’t done anything. He means well in a way somehow more annoying than if he meant harm. You know the type. Always hanging at the edge of a conversation, waiting to be invited to talk.

Allen has a bad habit of ignoring nice, bookish sorts of girls right under his nose. They like him. He’s good-looking and well mannered, with brown hair, wavy and thick, a medium-square jaw and shoulders. Tallish. An open face given to a shy, reluctant grin full of straight white teeth. But Allen ignores the plain Janes in favor of exotic, fast women who ignore him, or worse, chew him up.

Perhaps I despise him for this, since I used to chase the same sort of woman. Ages and ages ago.

But having the sum total of a man’s life inserted into your head like a computer memory stick isn’t the same as experiencing the man or seeing him in action-or often, unfortunately, inaction. Walk a mile in his shoes-or his skin-well, sympathies develop. So I suppose I ended up rooting for Allen, hoping he’d get through all this in one piece.

It’s not my job to take sides, but I am a thinking being, and I do have an opinion.

Still, it would be nice if Allen could get his head straight about women. One of these quiet, girl-next-door types could do his self-esteem a world of good.

Take Penny Coppertone, for example.

“I like that one,” said Penny Coppertone as she sat on the edge of Allen’s narrow bed.

Allen’s dorm room was small, and there was nowhere to sit but the bed. The single chair overflowed with textbooks and dirty laundry. Allen was one of the few grad students still living in the dorms. He couldn’t afford an apartment on his own and didn’t want a roommate.

“This one?” He held the muted red tie up to his shirt, then held up a narrower blue tie. “Not this one.” He wanted to look right for Evergreen’s party.

“Actually, why don’t you wear the black shirt with the tweed and no tie at all,” Penny suggested. “I think that will strike the right tone.”

“What’s the right tone?”

“Professionally academic but off duty and ready for a glass of wine.”

“I’m going to Prague, Penny. Did I mention that?”

“What? That’s wonderful. When? This summer? That’s when the summer writing workshops are. In July, I think. I haven’t been accepted yet, but I’m hoping-”

“I’m going as Dr. Evergreen’s research assistant.”

Penny’s face fell, all the way to the ground. She tried to pick it up again without success. “Well, but still… it could be fun.”

Allen spared her a sideways glance as he slipped into his jacket. “With Dr. Evergreen?”

“No, I suppose it will suck.”

“You’d better hurry and change if you still want a ride.”

Penny’s hand automatically went to her dishwater hair, pulled the ponytail loose. “Actually, I was already-” She looked down at her Gothic State sweatshirt and faded jeans, heavy wool socks and Birkenstocks. “I mean, yeah, I guess I’d better get dressed. I might be a while. How about I meet you there?”

“Okay, but hurry, or all the food will be gone.”

Penny Coppertone was an excellent poet, but her images were quiet and subtle. If her poetry had been about sexual exploration and explosive rants against the establishment, and if Penny had died her hair jet-black and gotten her nose pierced, Allen would have been all over her.

Men can be dumbfucks. If I had it to do all over again…

But of course I don’t.

The Pacific Ocean was just swallowing the sun as Allen left campus in his four-door, V-8 crapmobile, the red-orange rays sizzling on the water. Only a pale pink smear of daylight remained by the time he parked last in a long line of cars on Dr. Evergreen’s street. He followed the cars up to the house, but it was completely dark by the time he stepped onto the front porch and knocked.

Nobody answered.

Distantly he heard muted music and the hubbub of many voices. He raised his fist to knock again.

“The party is in the garden around back.”

Startled, Allen sucked breath, took a step back.

He hadn’t seen her there, on the porch swing, shadows and hanging ferns making her seem as if she’d floated in darkness, only the ice blue eyes glowing out at him. She stood, approached Allen, her face coming into focus.

She was somehow light and dark at the same time, some smiling Celtic goddess, features like delicate china, skin so white it glowed, absorbing light, leaving an aura of darkness all around her. A breeze kicked up, lifted her hair, black and shining like obsidian. She seemed to float toward him, eyes flashing cold and terrible, hair streaming behind like black flame.

Like some sort of terrifying shampoo commercial.

Allen wanted to flee. He wanted to kneel and pledge his soul to her. He didn’t know what the hell he wanted to do.

“You must be Allen.”

He blinked. The spell was broken. Allen was aware of warm sweat in his armpits, behind his ears. What’s wrong with me?

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I thought there was-I was invited-”

“The party is around back.” She moved as she spoke, graceful and silent, suddenly on his left, her slender arm looping into his. “I’ll walk you around. It’s in the garden.”

Then he was on a path. He felt light, like part of him was still back on the front porch.

“You know me, but I don’t… have we met?”

She laughed softly, the sound of delicate hamster bones crushed under the heel of a tall black boot. Like dry leaves blowing across the cold stone of an ancient tomb. Like… Pay attention. She’s talking .

“I’m Cassandra.”

The name was familiar. “Dr. Evergreen’s wife?”

“Yes. He’ll be glad you’re here.”

“I’m looking forward to working with him.”

The slow smile on her face knew the lie.

Allen swallowed hard, felt the warm trickle of sweat down his back. The night was cool, but Allen felt flushed, a little dizzy.

They emerged from the path into a circle of light, to find a line of Chinese lanterns strung through the trees, a gazebo, people milling about a table of drinks and food, tinny music from hidden speakers. He recognized faculty, some of his fellow graduate students. He stood a moment, wondering what to do first. Maybe get a glass of wine? Or should he say hello to Dr. Evergreen?

He asked Cassandra, “Should I find Dr. Evergreen and-”

The woman at his elbow was gone.

“Okay, that’s… weird.”

He waded into the party. He did not see Dr. Evergreen or his wife. He felt awkward and wished he’d waited for Penny so he would have had someone to talk to. He zigzagged his way to the wine table, grabbed a random jug of red, and filled a plastic cup. He tasted it. Good. He read the label on the giant jug. Three Thieves’ Red. Horse-riding desperados adorned the label, pistols in the air. Allen had had Dr. Evergreen pegged as too pretentious for jug wine, but maybe he had the guy all wrong. Maybe this would all be okay after all.

Allen accidentally bumped someone behind him. Purple wine spilled over his knuckles.

“Watch it, douche bag.”

Allen mumbled an apology, then saw it was Kurt Ramis, one of the testosterone-driven fiction writers from the MFA program. He wore a leather bomber jacket with a patch representing a fictional squadron. Shoulder-length, auburn hair carefully arranged to seem windblown, square jaw. Kurt thought he was the next Hemmingway; most of his fiction involved shooting large animals and getting laid.