taste.
“I thought you might appreciate that I rescued this one here, just prior to a heinous plunge into a wet gutter full of used condoms and hypodermic needles.” He held the shoe like a Price Is Right blonde.
I laughed, tried to stop myself and laughed again.
“I’m Gil,” he said. “And you…sweetheart, are my new friend.”
Chapter 6
The Last Venti ® Triple Decaf, Not Too Hot, Sugar-Free Vanilla Breve Latte
If it is your first time in the lovely “Suicide Capital of the World,” let your first foray into the social underground be the Well of Souls, an architectural marvel of charmed water, both flowing and solid. Welcoming, despite a tricky entrance, our clip-out instructions are simple and easy to follow…
—Way Off the Grid (Summer Issue)
I drove. Gil rode shotgun, forcing friendship down my throat like an emergency room doc with a handful of charcoal—not that I’ve ever had my stomach pumped. Suicide is so self-indulgent.
“Vampire, then?”
“Yep.” Gil nodded, twisting on the radio knob. A horrible whining issued from the speakers: Dave Matthews. Gil nodded along with the squelch, shifting his hips in the seat, snapping his fingers. Now, what kind of straight man would rock the seated dance of the uninhibited, after only minutes of knowing me? I’ll tell you what kind. The gay kind. Now, the vampire was even less threatening. I hit scan on the radio. The Pussycat Dolls were whoring themselves two digits over, while four away found some country bumpkin mooning over beer or lost poonani.
“What, you don’t like Dave Matthews?”
“Uh…no. Of course not, he’s the musical equivalent of backwash.”
Gil crossed his arms and huffed. The radio settled on the ’80s hits station, I’m in Love with a German Film Star by The Passions. I couldn’t recall ever hearing the song (or the band for that matter), and I distinctly remembered the ’80s. It was kind of a jam, though.
“Now this is shit.”
I brushed over the sour grapes and went for the subject change. “So then what am I, that you can’t take a bite, you picky bastard?”
“Why, a debutante, of course, and we’re off to your cotillion.”
“Quit fucking with me.”
“You’re a zombie,” he said.
“Am not.” Wait…did he say zombie ? Mindless shuffling corpses, arms outstretched, chewing on hot intestines, bumping into shit—that sure wasn’t me. “Besides, there’s no such thing as zombies.”
He nodded, either in agreement or along with the song—so fickle. “Vampires either.” He pointed to his mouth and curled back his lips, revealing dark slits in his gums, above his canines. His jaw twitched. Thin daggers of bone slid from the black gashes, about an inch and a half long. He winked; they retracted with a slurp. “Trust me: you’re a zombie.”
“No way, it’s not possible. I just have a cold.”
“Okay, you’re a ghoul, then. But, the politically correct term is abovegrounder.”
I decided to play along. I wasn’t going to change his mind, and he was clearly insane. I mean really, Dave Matthews? I was a little chilly, though. I rubbed my arms, trying to produce warmth, but only achieved the chilling of my hands. “Well, I won’t be adding that to my everyday vernacular. Political correctness rubs me the wrong way.”
“Oh yeah? Call it what you like, debutante.”
I caught his eyes rolling and an unpleasant smirk, so I didn’t respond. The rest of the ride was silent and stuck in slow motion, like the goddamned projectionist went on break, right when the projector hit the skids. Gil played commando with the radio again, landing on some middle-aged soundtrack that kept rolling out the painful “hits.”
Me: scowling and judgmental.
Him: glib and nonchalant.
Us: stuck like that on a hanging swirl of flypaper.
Rain trickled in streams down beaded windows, at each stoplight. The air was damp, humid. It should have been cold, but wasn’t. Outside, pedestrians seemed more alive,
“I thought you might appreciate that I rescued this one here, just prior to a heinous plunge into a wet gutter full of used condoms and hypodermic needles.” He held the shoe like a Price Is Right blonde.
I laughed, tried to stop myself and laughed again.
“I’m Gil,” he said. “And you…sweetheart, are my new friend.”
Chapter 6
The Last Venti ® Triple Decaf, Not Too Hot, Sugar-Free Vanilla Breve Latte
If it is your first time in the lovely “Suicide Capital of the World,” let your first foray into the social underground be the Well of Souls, an architectural marvel of charmed water, both flowing and solid. Welcoming, despite a tricky entrance, our clip-out instructions are simple and easy to follow…
—Way Off the Grid (Summer Issue)
I drove. Gil rode shotgun, forcing friendship down my throat like an emergency room doc with a handful of charcoal—not that I’ve ever had my stomach pumped. Suicide is so self-indulgent.
“Vampire, then?”
“Yep.” Gil nodded, twisting on the radio knob. A horrible whining issued from the speakers: Dave Matthews. Gil nodded along with the squelch, shifting his hips in the seat, snapping his fingers. Now, what kind of straight man would rock the seated dance of the uninhibited, after only minutes of knowing me? I’ll tell you what kind. The gay kind. Now, the vampire was even less threatening. I hit scan on the radio. The Pussycat Dolls were whoring themselves two digits over, while four away found some country bumpkin mooning over beer or lost poonani.
“What, you don’t like Dave Matthews?”
“Uh…no. Of course not, he’s the musical equivalent of backwash.”
Gil crossed his arms and huffed. The radio settled on the ’80s hits station, I’m in Love with a German Film Star by The Passions. I couldn’t recall ever hearing the song (or the band for that matter), and I distinctly remembered the ’80s. It was kind of a jam, though.
“Now this is shit.”
I brushed over the sour grapes and went for the subject change. “So then what am I, that you can’t take a bite, you picky bastard?”
“Why, a debutante, of course, and we’re off to your cotillion.”
“Quit fucking with me.”
“You’re a zombie,” he said.
“Am not.” Wait…did he say zombie ? Mindless shuffling corpses, arms outstretched, chewing on hot intestines, bumping into shit—that sure wasn’t me. “Besides, there’s no such thing as zombies.”
He nodded, either in agreement or along with the song—so fickle. “Vampires either.” He pointed to his mouth and curled back his lips, revealing dark slits in his gums, above his canines. His jaw twitched. Thin daggers of bone slid from the black gashes, about an inch and a half long. He winked; they retracted with a slurp. “Trust me: you’re a zombie.”
“No way, it’s not possible. I just have a cold.”
“Okay, you’re a ghoul, then. But, the politically correct term is abovegrounder.”
I decided to play along. I wasn’t going to change his mind, and he was clearly insane. I mean really, Dave Matthews? I was a little chilly, though. I rubbed my arms, trying to produce warmth, but only achieved the chilling of my hands. “Well, I won’t be adding that to my everyday vernacular. Political correctness rubs me the wrong way.”
“Oh yeah? Call it what you like, debutante.”
I caught his eyes rolling and an unpleasant smirk, so I didn’t respond. The rest of the ride was silent and stuck in slow motion, like the goddamned projectionist went on break, right when the projector hit the skids. Gil played commando with the radio again, landing on some middle-aged soundtrack that kept rolling out the painful “hits.”
Me: scowling and judgmental.
Him: glib and nonchalant.
Us: stuck like that on a hanging swirl of flypaper.
Rain trickled in streams down beaded windows, at each stoplight. The air was damp, humid. It should have been cold, but wasn’t. Outside, pedestrians seemed more alive,
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