CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THIRTEEN
I arose from my secret crypt this evening
grateful and angry; grateful that there is less than
a week until the first preview of Pretty Lady. This
will allow me to see Danny’s handiwork without the
burden of a curtain time that coincides with the last
few minutes of daylight. Daylight Savings Time, the
scourge of my existence, begins in two weeks. Don’t
even get me started on summer evenings, when
sunset signals the onset of intermissions throughout
the theater district.


Three years ago I disappeared during the July
4th holiday weekend and made my way by leaps and
bounds, as it were, to Antarctica. There I slept in an
ice crevasse for two solid months before blood hunger
overcame slumber in the perfect darkness. All my
disappearance did was add to my reputation as a rich
eccentric. I said I had been hiking the Appalachian
Trail.
Theater producers do not enjoy quite the
public profile they once did. Recently a philandering
politician saw fit to employ the same excuse for a
disappearance of shorter duration. The Appalachian
Trail did not serve him quite as well as it did me.
Politicians and their peccadilloes are subject to a far
greater scrutiny by a disingenuous corporate news
corps than are the carryings on of those claiming membership in a profession that invented the casting couch.
All this is by way of saying that I felt out of sorts when arising this evening. Recalling my manic exploits with the garbage truck driver last night unsettled me. I don’t regret it, of course, but it is not my usual modus operandi.
Under normal circumstances I seek out those that very few will grieve for –heroin dealers, known child molesters, and rapists and the like. This is a matter of ease. No great ruckus is raised upon the discovery of one of these malfeasants having been murdered. I can drain most of the blood, finish them off with a gun or knife, and no one bothers to notice the low amount of blood in the victim.
To be clear, I can feed and make it look like a heart attack or a broken neck. All it takes is a quick healing secretion from my tongue and the fang marks disappear without the least trace left. The heart attack effect requires an absolute attention to timing while feeding, during which I must absorb rhythm of the victim’s thoughts while trying to enjoy the blood. The broken neck is a quick hard twist and click, a push down the stairs, and voila – a corpse. However, for this to work and not arouse suspicion requires that a substantial proportion of blood remain in my victim’s body. Spread a couple pints around a vicious crime scene and no one thinks about the volume of blood missing from the deceased, especially if he – very rarely she – was a known scumbag.
The problem with victims from the general populace is not making it look like an accident or natural sudden death. It is the tediousness of the process. Sometimes I have to feed multiple times in one night to get enough blood to satisfy my hunger and still leave enough of the red elixir in the various victims to make each one look like an accident. No one, not even a vampire, should have to feel like eating is a task. Under the best circumstances everything comes together in a perfect confluence and my feeding gives me more than sustenance. It gives me great joy and a sense of helping society.
It is not that I worry about getting caught that leads me to feed at the edges of society. Vampires have no DNA and no fingerprints. Even if some hard nosed dedicated homicide cop somehow did track me down and arrest me, what jail could hold me once night falls? However, I still enjoy what I do in the theater enough to cover my tracks, so to speak.
Meanwhile, Millie’s reappearance in my life last night leaves me feeling disconcerted and distressed. The garbage truck driver I’ll get over. Sometimes I feed on the innocent, or the less guilty. Not much I can do about it once it’s done. I’d say “That’s life” but there you go.
Going to Elaine’s tonight helped me feel better about myself. The place was thronged with warm bodies four deep at the bar, and it seemed every table in the main dining room but mine was full. The din of voices talking and laughing and glasses ringing with ice, and silver clattering on china was reassuring.
James Caan came in with a small entourage not long after I was seated. Before I could consider offering my table, as I was sitting alone tonight, a prime table was available for the star and his friends. Accommodations in this saloon sometimes appear to have a bit of the magical about them.
Elaine’s caters to stars, be they literary, show business, media, fashion or the arts. Stars enjoy a place where they can go and relax and feel like human beings without being pestered. Often stars come to Elaine’s after a day of intense creativity that provides society with something of value, be it a performance, photography, movie making, writing a great story, painting, design, what have you. Their efforts that day are quite similar to the efforts that they have carried out for years, even decades. The allure of Elaine’s is the saloon’s natural warmth and the feeling that everyone there is equal, though obviously they are not – or not in society’s eyes anyway.
Patti was supposed to join me but texted her regrets. She has an early appointment. In any case, the energy of the place was soothing to the degree that I decided not to hunt tonight. I skipped feeding on human misery, had a couple dozen oysters, and came home.