Beneath the Shingles

by Derek White 

Being a vampire can be a real drag. It’s not as romantic as people make it out to be. Like right now I’m hanging out in Roseland Park with Gary, and Gary doesn’t know it but I’m about to give it to him. I can’t help myself. He’s the perfect cornbred-jock candidate. He’s got his arm innocently draped over the back of the bench, and is rambling on about how he moved back in with his father who is a bonafide milkman, and how he sometimes helps him on his route. I’m doing my best not to listen. Afterwards I’m sure I’ll wallow in regret, but for now it’s just something I have to do. I hate being a vampire and I hate vampires. But Olie Voskay gave it to me, and now I’m stuck with it.

I have friends that are vampires, but only because misery loves company—especially ones that can relate. And usually they’re the ones that befriend me. I feel guilty about being friends with other vampires because it reminds me of who I am. But every civilian friend I have eventually becomes a vampire. It’s a viscous cycle.

Gary’s been a friend of mine for a while now, so I’m a bit apprehensive about giving the disease to him. On the outside he looks like an all-American young buck with good genes, but once you get to know him there is more to him than that. I suppose that’s why the other vampires always warn me about becoming friends with your potential victims. Not that I would go so far as calling Gary a friend, but I must admit I’m taken by his naïve open heart and his passion for new experience. But the compassionate half of me is irrelevant once the yearning for blood kicks in—then the right lobe of my brain will be on cruise control. I know I will have to feed on Gary eventually—right now I am just reveling in the fact that I will.

            Here comes Jorge. Jorge is also a vampire, and he is gay. He thinks it’s cool to be a vampire. Jorge plays up the part with his leather jacket and his black poofy pompadour. When he can’t get human being, his next choice on the menu is standard poodle. Right now he’s got that look in his eye like he knows what I’m up to, and he wants in on it.

            “Hey Val,” he says, while he eyes Gary’s jugular. “Nice day for a picnic, eh?”

            All that crap about vampires not being able to handle sunlight is myth. We’re the same as any one else—we just need to gorge on blood at least once a week. I’m not sure what would happen if we didn’t, but I’m not about to find out. One time I tried to stick it out to see what would happen, and I felt like dying. And it’s not even like I have a choice in the matter—at that point your body just takes over.

            “It’s supposed to rain later,” I say to Jorge, then fold a stick of spearmint gum into my mouth. Okay, there’s one other thing about vampires—our breath is a dead giveaway. When you get hungry you get this metallic taste in the back of your throat, and other vampires, and even some other people, can tell what your intentions are by smelling your breath.

            “Oh don’t be so negative,” says Jorge, inhaling deeply. “Right now it’s a beautiful day and you’re sitting next to a beautiful man—are you gonna introduce me to your friend?”

            Unfortunately Gary is probably a homosexual too, and he’s meeting Jorge’s penetrating stare without wavering. I’m not gay, but it doesn’t matter to me who I feed on. I don’t think of it as a sexual or sensual thing. For me it is just a basic need.

            I answer back lackadaisically, “this is Gary, Gary this is Jorge.” What more can I say? They shake hands and remain holding them for a few lingering seconds. Gary doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s into Jorge’s forward nature. His fidgeting on the park bench is more from excitement then apprehension.

            “Well, are you going to share him with me?” asks Jorge in a playful tone. “I know this great cabin if you guys are up to it. It’s my friends and he won’t be there this afternoon.”

            Jorge was full of it. It was his own house that he used regularly to seduce his victims. And it wasn’t a cabin but a doublewide trailer. I should know because I was there when they delivered it in two pieces. I helped secure it to the foundation and then Jorge and I lifted the roof between the two sections. That’s all there was to it—we built his so-called cabin in one day. And I could tear it down just as fast.

            I really did want to warn Gary, but I was too weak. Besides, I wanted a piece of the action. I needed a taste of Gary’s cornbred blood. It had been a while. Jorge was a bastard—he knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. I could’ve tried to thwart off Jorge, but I would’ve risked losing Gary. Judging by the way Gary was reciprocating Jorge’s advances, there was a high probability that Jorge would win if I challenged. Better to just settle for half of the pie then none at all. So the three of us are on our way to Jorge’s cabin.

It makes me sick the way Jorge plays it up. I want to tell him that vampirism is nothing to be proud of, that it is a penance. I honestly think all us vampires should be shipped out to Alcatraz and left to feed off pigeons until we died. But at times like now I can only say this, but never have the will to commit myself.

When we get to the doublewide cabin my nemesis, Olie Voskay, is on the roof. Perching on eaves like a vulture is Olie’s trademark technique and that’s how he initially got me three years ago. He waited on the roof of my two-car garage and then pounced on me when I came home from my marketing job. That was back when I had a regular family. Now all that is gone.

By this time it is dark and Olie’s wearing a Petzl headlamp strapped to his head. I can smell his breath all the way from the ground. Gary doesn’t see him and Jorge just ignores him. What else can we do? Undoubtedly Olie wants a piece of Gary too. This is getting out of control—there will hardly be anything left after dividing it three ways. I stall and let Gary and Jorge go in first. Then I take out my chewing gum and throw it at Olie. It hits him on the head and sticks in his long stringy hair—just enough to annoy the hell out of him.

“Haven’t you had enough?” I ask.

“Never,” he laughs maniacally as he scurries up to the skylight in the roof, “and neither will you.” 

I hurry into the cabin to catch up with Gary before Jorge takes care of him. Once I’m inside, I have this impending feeling that Olie Voskay is going to come crashing through the skylight, even though I can’t see him. I want to warn Gary, or at least Jorge, but I don’t want to spoil the party. Jorge is taking his time, making a fire and chatting it up with Gary. Once the fire is set he will offer Gary some wine. I’ve witnessed the routine before. At this point it’s mechanical, but Jorge still tries to derive pleasure from it. It’s pathetic.

Right now it doesn’t matter because my ears are focused on the footsteps on the roof and I can’t hear what they are saying. The expectation of knowing that Olie will come crashing through the skylight is worse than the actual act. Then something thumps on the roof that isn’t a footstep. Then another. Between them, I can hear Olie scrambling across the roof like a squirrel. Gary and Jorge don’t even notice it through the crackling of the fire and whatever is going on between them.

Once I realize it is hailstones, my anxiety lifts. It gives me pleasure to think of Olie up there, exposed, being pelted by hail. They start pounding down harder, and more frequently. It increases exponentially until it is a glorious din. But my relief is short-lived. Suddenly everything starts happening at once. The skylight shatters and hailstones as big as pigeon eggs start pouring in. This is followed by the sound of Olie tumbling down the roof. I run outside and he’s laying in the muck below the eaves, getting pummeled with hail. Sure, part of me gets a sick pleasure out of seeing him like this, but part of me knows that he made me who I am. I make a feeble effort to retrieve him, but the hail hurts like hell. Then Jorge goes flying by me, braving the elements. Olie is like a father to Jorge—he got him started in this whole business too.

Jorge drags Olie back into the cabin by his collar. Olie’s okay, but is soaking wet and bleeding a little from his head. The exposed skin on his neck and arms is translucent and riddled with bruises that are appearing before our eyes. Then as quickly as it came, the hail turns to rain that sweeps through the skylight, smoldering the fire.

Jorge is frantic. “I’ll take care of Olie, you take care of the roof. If this keeps, up it will put out our fire. We need to dry him out.”   He isn’t just talking about Olie, he’s talking about us. Prolonged exposure to water is not good for any vampire.

I would object, but I know exactly what to do. It isn’t often that I felt useful like this. I know where the ladder is and I know I can use the blue tarp that Jorge uses to cover the woodpile. My pride in being able to do this good deed for the others overcomes me. I run outside, grab the blue tarp and climb up the ladder onto the slippery roof.

Before I throw the tarp over the skylight, I look in. Jorge has slit Gary’s wrist and is feeding him to Olie. Olie regains his strength and Jorge sucks out what’s left like a leech.

As I mentioned before, I know about the construction of the roof of the doublewide. I know there is one vulnerable latch that holds it all together—a weak keystone that could topple it all. The rain is melting my eyes as I crawl my way to the top of the roof with this knowledge. Without consciously making a decision, I find the keystone and unlatch it. The whole roof splits open.

I’m holding on to the shingles, but it is all in vain. The house is collapsing with me on top of it. Of course I’m dying, but I’m not sure what will become of the others inside. At least I know I am in a better place because of it.

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