Andrew Fox - Fat White Vampire Blues

Another poke on his helpless rear region. “Come on, pal. We haven’t got all night. Get moving, or we’ll pull you out of there.”

Maybe mist? He’d ooze out of the Caddy in seconds and quickly lose himself in the grass. But his mind flooded with stark terror as he recalled the last time he’d tried turning himself to mist. He’d become such a dense, heavy fog that he’d instantly settled over a field like dew, and he’d barely been able to reincorporate himself and escape back to his coffin before being evaporated by the rising sun.

“Okay, pal. Time’s up.” Hands roughly grasped his foot. “Grab the right leg, Chuck. Fatso’s decided to be cute.”

Just one more choice remained. It was now or never. Jules took a deep breath. He clenched his eyes tightly. He tried to blot out the outside world and concentrate on black, leathery wings, flight, long furry ears “What thehell — ?”

“Some kinda cloud-”

“Hey! Where’d his foot go?”

Jules sensed his body twist and melt. It felt like a cross between a whole-body orgasm and a wisdom tooth extraction-with emphasis on the wisdom tooth extraction. He couldn’t let himself get distracted now, or there was no tellingwhat he’d end up as.Wings! Wings! Wings! Wings!

He was trapped in his own clothing. It was like being smothered by a collapsed tent. He beat his wings furiously-yes! yes! I’ve got wings! — expressing a small mammal’s instinctive horror of confinement.

“These pants are empty, Chuck!”

“I can’t believe it! I simply can’t believe it!”

“Hey! There’s something crawling around inside the shirt-”

Flapping blindly, Jules managed to poke his snout through the waist of his shirt. His weak eyes were dazzled by the strobing glare of the flashlights. But he saw an avenue of escape-the Caddy’s door was wide open, and between the patrolmen’s shocked faces and the car’s ceiling were several feet of clear airspace. Jules spread his wings wide, tensed his tiny leg muscles, and sprang off the seat.

He fell in a flapping tangle onto the Caddy’s transmission hump, landing on his ears and rolling heavily across the floor and onto the damp grass outside. Dazed and bruised, he scrambled to avoid the patrolmen’s dancing feet, dragging his rotund body across the grass with clawed wings.

“Holy Jesus! It’s some kinda bat!”

“Bat, hell! It’s a nutria with wings!”

How had everything gone so wrong? He had to get away-one solid kick could put him in Charity Hospital for months. Frantically beating his wings against the ground, he scurried in a zigzag toward the trees that shaded the tot lot, barely avoiding a fusillade of blows from steel-toed boots and nightsticks. He reached the gnarled roots of one of the live oaks and dug his claws into the tough bark, pulling himself up the trunk as fast as his wings would take him. His tiny heart beat like a trip-hammer.What a time for a heart attack! It’d be just my shitty luck!

“It’s crawling up the tree! You want we should go after it?”

“Naw. Don’t bother. Just let the goddamn thing go. I’m beginning to think this was some kind of gag.”

Jules reached a thick branch about ten feet above the ground and was finally able to rest. He felt nauseated and dizzy. He flopped forward into a hollow in the branch, his flaccid wings drooping over the sides. But his keen ears continued eavesdropping on the conversation below.

“A gag?” the first patrolman said. He was dressed in a gray uniform and wore a gray cap that saidCAJUNCOP NEIGHBORHOOD SECURITY. “What do you mean, a gag?”

“You know-a prank. I’ll bet it’s those damn SAMMYs from Tulane. Those frat brats are always up to no good.”

“What, you mean the fat guy was some kind of balloon or something?”

“Could be. I’ve heard of crazier stuff.”

“So who’s that guy with the bloody neck who’s sleeping in the backseat? He don’t look like no frat boy.”

“Maybe he’s an alumnus. Who knows? I say we call the real cops and let them sort it out.”

The first patrolman grunted. “Okay, Chuck. You radio it in. I’ll keep an eye on things here. And if that damn bat-thing comes down out of the tree, I’ll kick the shit out of it. Maybe it’s the frat mascot, huh?”

Jules could do nothing but gather his feeble strength and wait for them to go away. The wait was interminable. His painfully sensitive ears were assaulted by the incessant buzzing of thousands of insects, which gave him a pounding headache. Chuck took the security car, a puke-green Chevy Cavalier, and returned half an hour later with two cups of coffee. The aroma of stale gas station java made Jules’s headache even worse. Then an NOPD squad car showed up. The cops managed to revive Jules’s passenger, who mumbled a few incoherent phrases about rude cabbies and nasty smells before being gently led away to the squad car. One officer gathered the empty clothes from the backseat and removed Jules’s wallet from a pant pocket. He also took the Taxi Bureau certificate from its holder on the dashboard.

The bitter coup de grвce came with the arrival of a city tow truck. Jules watched helplessly as his beloved Cadillac was dragged off to the NOPD impoundment lot.

An angry squeak grabbed Jules’s attention away from his captive Caddy. A rat, large but barely half Jules’s size, glared at him from where the branch met the trunk. Apparently Jules was occupying its nest. In no mood to take shit from anyone anymore, Jules hissed vociferously at the rodent, until it finally realized it was outmatched and ran away.

With a stolenDON’T GIVE UP THE SHIP! flag draped around his ample midsection (he’d pulled it down from a flagpost at the New Orleans Yacht Club), an exhausted, human-shaped Jules dragged himself through the front door of Russell’s Marina Grill. A well-coifed young man intercepted him before he could cross the foyer.

“Sir! I’m very sorry, sir. We can’t serve you inside unless you’re wearing shoes and a shirt. Would you like to place a take-out order and wait for it on our patio?”

Jules considered asking the greeter ifhe’d like to place an order for a knuckle sandwich, express delivery, but he stopped himself. Instead, he took a deep breath and rearranged the flag around his middle. “Look. I’m not here to eat. I’m a cabby, and I just been robbed. That’s why I’m wearing this flag instead of a fuckin‘ Brooks Brothers suit, okay? If you’ll be so kind as to spot me thirty-five cents so I can make a call, I’ll gladly herd my fares to your fine establishment here for the next year. Deal?”

The young man considered this for a second or two, then dug into his pocket and handed Jules a quarter and a dime. “The pay phone’s by the men’s room in the back.”

“Thanks.”

Jules avoided meeting the stares of the paying customers as he made his way to the phone. He clutched the two ends of the flag with his right hand as he lifted the receiver and hugged it awkwardly between his shoulder and chin. One phone call-he had to make it count. He dialed Erato’s cell phone number. He was tremendously relieved when his friend’s familiar baritone voice answered.

“Yeah? Hello? Who is this?”

“It’s Jules. I’m at Russell’s by the lakefront. I’ve gotta ask you to come pick me up.”

“Jules? Whassa matter? Your Caddy break down?”

“Caddy got stolen. Everything’s gone. Damn robber even took my clothes. I’m standing here talking to you wearing a goddamn flag, if you can picture it.”

“Aflag? I’ll be right over. This I gotta see.”

Once outside, Jules didn’t have to wait long before a familiar tricolor Town Car rounded the corner and pulled into an empty handicapped parking space. Erato put his window down and leaned out, his wandering lazy eye eagerly taking in the spectacle.