The
interruption from Batwings and Strangers continues!
MPK, a
friend I’ve known for nearly forty years gave me feedback in the
early days of Just Plain Stupid. “Your posts are too damn long,”
she said.
Not
exactly high praise. She was right, and since then I’ve done
shorter posts – until today. This post will be long. If MPK reads
this post, she’ll be saying to herself (or a passing
dog/cat/child/husband, “this paragraph doesn’t need to be here.
Why is he wasting our time with this?”
Why
indeed.
I’m
writing this really long post for a few reasons.
First,
pissing off MPK is always fun.
Second,
because I haven’t written a post over 800 words in a while.
Third,
because it’s Halloween, and things should be different on
Halloween.
Fourth,
because Bethlehem Writer’s Group is releasing their new book this
Week, Once Around the Sun (with some added subtitle.)
Once Around the Sun (with or without its subtitle,) includes two
things I wrote, (and I’m hoping for lots of money out of the deal.)
One item is an article that I wrote for the now defunct
Winston-Salem Magazine entitled A Spouse’s Guide to March
Madness. I’ll post that here later. The other item is a short
story called Mortified. I’d tell you about Mortified,
but as it’s attached to this really long post that would even be
stupider than Just Plain Stupid.
So
settle in a comfortable chair, make sure you have plenty of battery
life on your web device, and stick out your tongue at MPK, as JPS
presents…
Mortified
by
Headley Hauser
I
remember it started the Halloween my frat brothers hauled a keg out
to Woodland Cemetery. While I’m as brave as the next guy – or at
least some of the next guys, I spent the night in front of the tube.
Why go to a graveyard on the one night of the year when the dead are
supposed to rise?
The
next morning I felt like a coward. Why was I shy about graveyards?
I couldn’t still be worried about, ghosts, zombies, vampires. I
was a grad student, not a child anymore. It was time to do something
stupid.
After
all, All Saints Day follows Halloween. That’s some kind of
undead-free holiday -- right?
That
night Woodland didn’t look very spooky, though it wasn’t exactly
tidy. Toilet paper hung limply from a marble Jesus, as it did from a
massive oak tree. Beer cans leaned against William A. Mayberry’s
(1870-1921) stone. That had to be high school kids. Even the dead
won’t drink Coors Light.
Suddenly
someone was there, standing straight but not stiff. It gave me a
start. His clothes were perfect without looking metrosexual. Even
the wind didn’t bother his natural-looking perfect hair.
Of
course, I hated him immediately. He extended a manicured hand and
flashed a cold smile.
“Godfrey
Hamilton.”
“Stan
Plotz,” I said, shaking his cold hand and feeling inferior. It
reminded me of shaking the priest’s hand after mass. “You’re
very nicely dressed for graveyard walking,” I said.
I
was just saying something to make noise. What did I know about
graveyard-walking attire? Was there a uniform, maybe from a business
fashion magazine? What would that be, Graveyard
Quarterly?
“First
impressions are important, Stanley,” Godfrey answered. “People
judge you by your outward appearance. They’ll never take the time
to appreciate your finer points if your presentation shows a lack of
self-respect.” Pausing, he took in my flannel shirt, grass-stained
blue jeans, Demon Deacon jacket, and three-year-old Nikes. So much
for my “presentation.” “You’re a grad student?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That
would be MBA or law school?”
I’d
been turned down for both, so I lied. “No, I decided not to go the
money route. I’m getting my MSW at Wake.”
“Master
of Social Work.” Godfrey frowned. “Yes, I suppose it’s
important to have qualified people in every field.”
I
felt vindicated. Why, I didn’t know.
“As
long as you’re striving,” said Godfrey, “to be the best you can
be each and every day.”
One
never knows what to say when encountering a Dale Carnegie cultie.
I
hated him more, but I sucked in my gut and straightened my jacket.
Then, rebelliously, I unstraightened, earning another frown from
Godfrey. I’ll be damned if I’ll change my appearance to earn the
approval of some upper crust Ken doll.
“So,
Mr. Hamilton,” I said in what I hoped was a superior tone, “why
is it so important to give a good first impression to perfect
strangers one meets in a graveyard?”
Godfrey
showed no sign of irritation. “Well, Mr. Plotz, in some cases,
hardly important at all.” He gave me a glance that made it clear I
fell in that category. “However, once in a while you’ll run
across a more formidable type. It’s important to keep them off
balance so you can do this.”
A
mix of sensations and emotions flooded me. Incredibly powerful hands
grabbed me by head and shoulder. I felt a sharp, two-pointed stab in
my neck. Racing through my head was fear, anger, embarrassment, and
the feeling that this all would be a lot better for my self-esteem if
Godfrey had been a hot woman.
Everything
went black.
Coming
awake for me had always been a prolonged blurry experience, requiring
coffee, or a red bull. This time when I awoke, I was fully aware.
It was that dark. The air was stuffy, and I had a disgusting flat
taste in my mouth. I shifted to ease a lump in my back and bumped
into walls to my right and left.
That’s
when I heard an odd muffled sound, like someone else’s phone
conversation bleeding through the line. It seemed to be a human
voice or a number of human voices. It sounded far away and close at
the same time. There was a musical quality to it like singing or,
more accurately, chanting. I strained my ears to hear the words,
but the harder I strained, the less distinct they became. Whatever I
was hearing, I wasn’t hearing it with my ears.
Did
I grow a new sensory organ? I touched my face expecting to feel a
lump or mutant zit. There wasn’t anything there, but the chanting
got louder. What do you do with a new sense? I had no recollection
of using my eyes or ears for the first time. Maybe that’s why
babies sometimes look so thoughtful.
Reaching
up, I my fingers touched cushioned fabric. I was in a pretty tight
space. Normally I’d be trembling with claustrophobia. I was
never good with closets, elevators, or even small cars, but I felt
fine, even comfortable. I pushed against the ceiling. I heard wood
cracking and metal complaining as I pushed the roof several inches.
Did I just do that? I’d never been particularly strong, as every
bully in my middle school could tell you. Maybe the wood was rotten?
Freshly turned soil and sand poured down on my face.
The
voices were clearer now, and much louder. Working my way through
dirt and debris, I got to my knees, then to a crouch. I reached up
till I felt a breeze on my fingertips. The earth parted above me
like water, but when my hands gripped the topsoil, the ground held.
I
stretched to loosen tight muscles. It was a delicious sensation. I
felt both light and strong. With one heave I not only cleared the
surface, but sailed several feet into the air, landing majestically
on a stone.
A
grave stone.
My
grave stone.
So
this meant what, I was a vampire?
Some
might have been horrified. Not me. I was now a lord of the night.
No more fear of brawny troglodytes like those who had, a decade past,
beaten me with my own violin case. I was now a creature to be
feared. Gathered around me was my new brotherhood, fellow members of
a mighty pack. I was secure in our mutual admiration. Why else
would they be gathered to sing me out of my grave, imbue me with
their mighty spirit, and… laugh?
Around
me the dread fraternity of vampires rolled about, cackling like so
many Shriners at a whoopee cushion trade show.
“Plotz,”
Godfrey said, “you haven’t any pants on.”
It
looked down. I wore my best shirt, tie, and suit coat, but with
nothing but boxers below. I suppose I should have been grateful for
the boxers, but I didn’t feel gratitude at that moment.
“Who
did this!” I sputtered.
The
vampires laughed even louder. Godfrey, however, only snickered.
“Plotz,” he said, “you might want to check with your
undertaker.”
“How
do I do that?”
“The
cemetery office. You’re newly buried; there’ll be a file.”
I
disliked Godfrey Hamilton, even in my newly glorified state. I was
also afraid of him, but I took his advice.
The
file identified my undertaker as Mr. Feeley Nuzbetch, who ran his
establishment in the West End. I knew the place – up the hill from
Burke Street Pizza.
A
light burned downstairs at the Feeley Nuzbetch Funeral Parlor. I
didn’t have a watch on, maybe Feeley took that too, but it felt
really late or, more likely, really early morning.
Going
to the door, I silently broke the deadbolt. I planned to sneak in
and spring on Nuzbetch. That’s what vampires do, right? I opened
the door, but I couldn’t cross the threshold. I’d heard
something about thresholds and vampires. Breaking into the cemetery
office hadn’t been a problem, but no one lived there. Maybe this
was Nuzbetch’s home.
That
was sort of creepy. I tried to imagine living in a house with a
continuous flow of dead bodies. Of course I was dead now, so I guess
I had no reason to be judgmental.
I
circled the building. Through a window I saw a pudgy man in his
fifties or sixties. He was working on a body using a machine with
tubes attached. The process fascinated me. It also made me hungry.
Then I realized – the man was wearing my pants.
And
they fit. Impossible. I couldn’t be as fat as he was. Maybe he
had them tailored.
Something
nagged at me. A clock inside read five-fifteen. What time did the
sun come up?
I
wondered if the government kept records of vampires’ mortality or
re-mortality on their first dawn. Maybe you got a mulligan if the
sun toasted you on your first night out.
Maybe
not.
If
dawn meant certain death, or whatever it’s called when dead people
expire, how much longer could I afford to stand by this window in my
boxer shorts watching this pants-altering mortician? If I didn’t
do something soon, Nuzbetch would find himself a matching jacket.
But where could I go? I looked around me. There were plenty of
homes I couldn’t get into. There were also shops and restaurants,
but even if I could enter those, they might not appreciate a corpse
resting the business day away. Even worse, they might move my body,
and once outside…
So
where to go? Saint Paul’s Episcopal?
Too
chancy.
Inside
Feeley shut down the machine and pulled a large plastic bucket from
beneath the bench. He headed toward the back of the building.
Silently I moved with him. Should I cross my fingers? Crossing
anything was probably not a good idea for a vampire.
Before
the door opened I smelled blood in the bucket Nuzbetch was carrying.
I could also smell the mortician’s blood. His was more appetizing,
like an order of prime rib holding a bucket of chipped beef. I
waited for Feeley to clear the door then I slammed it behind him. He
spun around, sloshing blood from the bucket onto his pants -- no --
my pants.
“Who
are yo--?” He never finished the question, maybe because he
recognized me. I could smell his fear, but that didn’t keep him
from laughing.
I
wanted to kill him, I wanted to drain the blood from his body, but
most of all I wanted to scare the hell out of him. I knew I couldn’t
do that partially dressed.
“First
of all, give me back my pants.” I tried to sound scary and
mysterious, and I guess I succeeded, because he wasted no time
stripping down to his green and orange boxers.
Instead
of getting fancy, I put my pants on one leg at a time. With my new
undead abilities I could probably jump ten feet up in the air, have
my shoes off, pants on, shirt tucked in, and shoes back on and tied
before I hit the ground, but I didn’t want to give Nuzbetch a
chance to escape. I sure didn’t want to botch it and start him
laughing again.
I
zipped up; the pants fit. It had to be a vampire thing. No way was
I as fat as Nuzbetch.
The
mortician shot glances at the door and at me. I made a point of
pulling the belt in an extra notch as I casually stepped between him
and the door. The move might have appeared more ominous if I hadn’t
burned my hands on the silver belt buckle. Wasn’t it supposed to
be werewolves that hated silver?
“You
know, it’ll be dawn soon.” Feeley sputtered. “You can’t
enter my house, so you’ll be nothing but a pile of dust unless I
help you.”
The
man knew his vampire lore -- certainly better than I did. Probably
came with mortician training. Still, how certain could he be about
everything? “It’s very simple, Feeley,” I told him. “After
I kill you, your home will be as open to me as any other abandoned
building.”
I
leaned in and smelled the rising terror in his blood. The scent was
intoxicating. No wonder vampires didn’t just bonk people over the
head and drag them off to feed.
I
was glad I got my pants back before I scared him. A yellow stream
ran down Feeley’s leg, forming a puddle by his right foot.
The
smell of urine, while unpleasant, did nothing to stem my appetite.
The urge to kill and feed was strong, but another force rose inside
me.
I
never liked my great aunt Agnes. When I was a child, she used to
hector me about proper behavior and table etiquette. As much as I
wanted to ignore her, I always buckled to her irresistible will. I
was the only kid in summer camp who ate his hot dog with a fork.
Here
she was again, nothing but a dead woman’s voice ensconced in my
supposedly demonic, undead brain. “Don’t slay your food,” she
said.
What
did that even mean? Ridiculous, how could I survive if I didn’t
slay?
From
Nuzbetch’s perspective my inner battle must have looked ominous.
The man knelt before me, his bare bony knees in mud and urine,
shaking and blubbering for mercy.
“Don’t
kill me!” he cried. “I can help you. I’ll do anything.
Please, don’t kill me!”
He
was a pathetic mess. He stole my pants. But I needed his help.
I
waited, feigning uncertainty. The sky glowed pink in the east. As
much as I enjoyed the groveling, I needed to get under cover. I
grabbed the mortician by the chin and forced him to look me in the
eye.
“Invite
me inside, Nuzbetch.”
I
suppose things could be worse. Nuzbetch’s basement is dry and
blocks the sunlight during the day. He set me up in a lovely coffin
and asked if I wanted it lined with Transylvanian dirt. I declined;
it seemed more messy than exotic. The funeral business keeps me well
supplied with blood. Dead blood makes for a bland diet, but it keeps
Great Aunt Agnes quiet.
I
went back to school, taking only night classes. People were pretty
surprised to see me, but it raised less fuss than you’d think. My
frat brothers thought it added prestige to the house. They try not
to eat too much garlic when I’m around.
I
make money for tuition and death’s little extras as a night
watchman. The black uniform suits me. Feeley packs me a thermos
each night.
I
do get tired of dead blood all the time.
Maybe
someone will show up and make trouble.
Great
Aunt Agnes would never defend a troublemaker.
Happy Halloween!
So…
Back to Batwings and Strangers on Monday? Yeah, I think I’m ready.
Get your guesses in for the Nine Missing Words, and win a Trouble in
Taos coffee mug.
