Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 by Happy Hour of the Damned Page A
Authors: Happy Hour of the Damned
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sparkling as they passed, shimmery, almost haloed. Inside, I felt dull. Dead. An astute observation, no 30 ?
I drove us from outside Martin’s apartment on Queen Anne, down the hill toward the center, and through the soppy streets of Seattle, following the vampire’s one-word directions—left, right, right, straight, left, straight—until I could take it no more. Where the hell were we going? If it was for coffee, as I suggested, we passed the Starbucks on Denny, the SBC on Fifth, the Tully’s on Western, not to mention Café Lladro, City Perk, B&O, Grounds for Coffee, The Bean Tree, Jitterz, and a host of Photomat-sized percolator drive-thrus.
“You realize, we’ve easily passed twenty coffee shops.”
“Yeah?” The flat look on his face screamed boredom, his eyes nearly glazing over to punctuate.
“ Yeah! This is Seattle, you know.”
“Hmm, right, and who said we were going to a coffee shop? Turn right here and find a space.” Gil checked his face in the vanity mirror and ran long fingers through his dense crop of hair.
I turned off Western, driving out of range of a pack of tipsy modern furniture purveyors; at this time of night, the employees of those stores littered the streets, like bums under wet newspaper, although it’s doubtful they’d been swigging grape Mad Dog, although, I could be wrong about that. I bowed into an alley, just past a particularly bland Danish furniture store, its front window awash in white on white.
“So where are we headed?” I slid the shifter into park and shut off the ignition.
“Just a little place, to meet a guy, and get you some coffee.”
“Would I have heard of it?”
“Unlikely,” he said and then sniggered.
Talking to him was like pulling grey hairs instead of going in for a CitySpa tint—cheap—and a complete waste of my lovely vocal timbre.
“Listen, Gil .” I lingered on his name like a freeway accident fatality. “I have specific places where I find coffee palatable. If you give me the name, maybe I can generate some enthusiasm.”
“You know, Amanda, these are treacherous times for coffee snobs. The Starbucks Gestapo will be knocking on your door.”
“Very funny, asshole.”
But he continued, “They’ll take you auf to ze camps.”
He laughed and snorted; I sneered and pretended to ignore.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I bought the whole vampire thing. There was some residual fear, although with every one of his crap-ass jokes, it dwindled. Anyone in close proximity to those fangs and his cold grip would have no difficulty with belief. What I didn’t buy was my own undeadness. When, exactly, did that happen? The fall was an obvious choice—a single lousy head-bump. No way, it wasn’t bad enough. How was that possible?
“So where were you leaving, when I ran into you? A boyfriend?” he asked.
“Yeah. Sort of.”
His gazed drifted off seeming to be lost in the black and grey swirl of cumulus. “I’d settle for a ‘sort of.’ I haven’t had a boyfriend since the ’80s. Not one that has lasted longer than a month.”
“What are you doing? Bleeding them dry?”
“No!” he snapped, then relaxed. “I don’t know. Yes, maybe, figuratively. I’m just lonely.”
Forlorn and lovesick, a pathetic vampire, he could be fun. Project!
Instead of heading off down the sidewalk, Gil led me deeper into the alley, where the stink promised piss puddles and trannylicious crack whores with butterfly knives. About halfway into the alley, amongst drifts of broken bottles, rat smear and unmarked warehouse doors, Gil turned to face an ordinary brick wall.
“Here we are, princess.”
“Suck it 31 .” I looked around, asked, “Where is here?”
“The Well of Souls.” He gargled the words like a ’30s horror voice-over.
“Is that your best spooky?” I asked. “I believe what you’re going for is scared shitless, not bored to tears.”
He smirked, pressed both hands flat against the wall, backed off and then traced the mortar
I drove us from outside Martin’s apartment on Queen Anne, down the hill toward the center, and through the soppy streets of Seattle, following the vampire’s one-word directions—left, right, right, straight, left, straight—until I could take it no more. Where the hell were we going? If it was for coffee, as I suggested, we passed the Starbucks on Denny, the SBC on Fifth, the Tully’s on Western, not to mention Café Lladro, City Perk, B&O, Grounds for Coffee, The Bean Tree, Jitterz, and a host of Photomat-sized percolator drive-thrus.
“You realize, we’ve easily passed twenty coffee shops.”
“Yeah?” The flat look on his face screamed boredom, his eyes nearly glazing over to punctuate.
“ Yeah! This is Seattle, you know.”
“Hmm, right, and who said we were going to a coffee shop? Turn right here and find a space.” Gil checked his face in the vanity mirror and ran long fingers through his dense crop of hair.
I turned off Western, driving out of range of a pack of tipsy modern furniture purveyors; at this time of night, the employees of those stores littered the streets, like bums under wet newspaper, although it’s doubtful they’d been swigging grape Mad Dog, although, I could be wrong about that. I bowed into an alley, just past a particularly bland Danish furniture store, its front window awash in white on white.
“So where are we headed?” I slid the shifter into park and shut off the ignition.
“Just a little place, to meet a guy, and get you some coffee.”
“Would I have heard of it?”
“Unlikely,” he said and then sniggered.
Talking to him was like pulling grey hairs instead of going in for a CitySpa tint—cheap—and a complete waste of my lovely vocal timbre.
“Listen, Gil .” I lingered on his name like a freeway accident fatality. “I have specific places where I find coffee palatable. If you give me the name, maybe I can generate some enthusiasm.”
“You know, Amanda, these are treacherous times for coffee snobs. The Starbucks Gestapo will be knocking on your door.”
“Very funny, asshole.”
But he continued, “They’ll take you auf to ze camps.”
He laughed and snorted; I sneered and pretended to ignore.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I bought the whole vampire thing. There was some residual fear, although with every one of his crap-ass jokes, it dwindled. Anyone in close proximity to those fangs and his cold grip would have no difficulty with belief. What I didn’t buy was my own undeadness. When, exactly, did that happen? The fall was an obvious choice—a single lousy head-bump. No way, it wasn’t bad enough. How was that possible?
“So where were you leaving, when I ran into you? A boyfriend?” he asked.
“Yeah. Sort of.”
His gazed drifted off seeming to be lost in the black and grey swirl of cumulus. “I’d settle for a ‘sort of.’ I haven’t had a boyfriend since the ’80s. Not one that has lasted longer than a month.”
“What are you doing? Bleeding them dry?”
“No!” he snapped, then relaxed. “I don’t know. Yes, maybe, figuratively. I’m just lonely.”
Forlorn and lovesick, a pathetic vampire, he could be fun. Project!
Instead of heading off down the sidewalk, Gil led me deeper into the alley, where the stink promised piss puddles and trannylicious crack whores with butterfly knives. About halfway into the alley, amongst drifts of broken bottles, rat smear and unmarked warehouse doors, Gil turned to face an ordinary brick wall.
“Here we are, princess.”
“Suck it 31 .” I looked around, asked, “Where is here?”
“The Well of Souls.” He gargled the words like a ’30s horror voice-over.
“Is that your best spooky?” I asked. “I believe what you’re going for is scared shitless, not bored to tears.”
He smirked, pressed both hands flat against the wall, backed off and then traced the mortar
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