Vampires

I don’t believe in vampires, but I know some people really believe they are vampires.

I drive at night, and so I get a lot of night people. Of those, some say they’re vampires. Of those, some really believe it. They’re usually high-as-fuck, but not always. Some motherfuckers are committed, 24/7, to their vampirism.

I usually chalk it up to way too much getting high and being way too high for way too long, so these motherfuckers end up spending more time as “vampires” than as bankers or bakers or cocktail waitresses or whatever the fuck they need to do sober.

So, I’d say, they basically behaviorism themselves into BEING vampires. B. F. Skinner would likely nod in agreement (which is equally a behavioristic programming. And, I have long thought that with a name like “B. F. Skinner,” he must have had a lot of first hand experience with people automatically reacting with the same dumbass anal sex jokes. B. F. likely concluded that these motherfuckers just couldn’t not say shit like, “So, does that mean you wear a condom or you don’t?” But, of course, B. F. could have just gone by Burrhus Frederic. It was his free choice to use “B. F. Skinner” as his fame name. But, maybe he liked to see people react to their rat-brain triggers).

And, I must say, the real vampires are great tippers. That’s how I can really tell them apart from the wanna-bes and Halloweenies. Real vampires even seem kind of confused by how they got so much cash. They open their wallet, see a bunch of money and seem to have an urge to get rid of it in acts of ultra-generosity. I also chalk these behaviors up to being WAY TOO HIGH, but it definitely contributes to their vampire self-beliefs. It adds convincing evidence to their personal narrative. And, bankers, bakers and cocktail waitresses all do the same thing. They believe what they are because they get to go inside the vault or slide dough into the oven or set a dry martini in front of a stranger. I get the keys to this cab and stop for freaks wandering the night streets with a hand raised; it makes me believe what I think I am.

Anyway, as a night driver I get night people. Some of those are vampires, as far as they know. 

Of course, you want to hear an anecdote. You can’t help yourself.

There was one female vampire who hailed me from a corner opposite the morgue. I kid you not. She was dressed in black-out jeans and a silver Addidas zip-up with maroon Drei-Stripes (Vampires seem to like Addidas, for some reason. May be brand loyalty related to eastern European history). She was barefoot and her toe-nails looked very worse-for-wear. She had no purse, but was clutching a two-liter PET bottle of some viscous red liquid (I wonder what?). The bottle had the original label removed, but the shape and black cap hinted at Coke Zero.

She got in in a way that indicated she was mainly just trying to get off the street. I’ve seen that Help Me Escape face on various women fleeing from someone — either a would-be date-raper, random creep or a stiffed restaurant waiter. I don’t get into passenger motivations. My job is to serve the hailing hand. 

She made up an address downtown: “The We’ll Fore-go Bank.” (Really, that’s a quote). “I show you way. Very near library. Please.” 

The way she said “please” was the only honest thing she said. So, I drove to “Very near library” where there are no banks by any name. She got out and pulled out a tarnished silver locket from inside her jacket. I didn’t argue. Those toenails looked vicious. 

Stopped at a red light later that night, I looked closely at the locket. Corrosion had greened its hinge. I pried its door open using a key’s edge and found a small piece of aged paper inside. A single red finger-print on it. Should I wonder what was used as the ink?