ism

Your Humble Narrator is a series to showcase the short stories, essays, poetry, scripts and musings of writer Arthvr Alleyne (and yes, I am speaking of myself in the 3rd person).

  All Hollows Night; the Devil will have his due. In the guise of others people show their true selves.  Revelers take things to an extreme, marginally talented celebrities are impersonated, put on Vampyre, fraud politicians (an oxymoron if there ever was one); the intoxicated look in the eyes behind a plastic George Bush mask. The circumstance an excuse for women with loose morals to dress like harlots and blame their behavior on the alcohol and the occasion.  In a suit and eyeglasses frames, under an open shirt displaying the symbol of a facsimile Man of Steel from his forged Mild Mannered secret identity. A longhaired boy in sandals and a prop crown of thorns; fools! They even mock their savior, the son of God, complete with fake blood and make-up for stigmata, hauling around a sizeable cardboard cutout cross. The procession that came down 7^th Avenue has ended, the celebration however continues. Halloween. The Village is festive, teaming with hungry hearts. I have a large appetite.

Manhattan as accommodating as any bastion of civilization this side of Hades, Greenwich Village undeniably the Freak Show, nearly everyone residing on this island of exclusivity has run away to join the circus, with conviction.

He raised his voice when there was no need to do so, that was the liquor talking. Wide-eyed and squirrelly, having diarrhea of the mouth, “I made 160,000 on that tip alone… believe that shit? The numbers were forecast for much less, way lower that the actual value. I got a friend on the commission.” Wharton graduate; insider trader, Master of the Universe? He smiled showing me his fangs, “Let me buy you another drink.”

I was drinking 24 year old, single malt scotch. He had lost track of the party he came in with. Wall Street types slumming, safari in the concrete jungle, holding their own amongst the animals. Under the spell of this Gotham voodoo, it made him feel alive. He had been garrulous about Alan Greenspan, the Fed and interest free loans, a free market economy, corporate ownership, the EnRon documentary, the Dot.com buyouts and latecomers dying a slow death. A futures trader, he was all over the place, Game Theory, rejuvenated lower Manhattan development since 9-11. He felt like he was becoming boring, in the fray fourteen hours a day from the opening bell of the Tokyo stock exchange to the close of the NASDAQ. It would be hard to not take your work with you. Techno geek and self described pimp when it comes to the ladies. This protector of capitalism, everything just and the vanguard of Americana was an Anne Rice fan. As her many devotees he sang her praises. “That’s what I love about her!” He confessed, practically at the top of his lungs, “She makes you believe that those things can really happen, that they are possible.”

I knew exactly what he meant, being a casual reader of the genre. He was impressed with himself and he was definitely trying to impress me. I made him feel like he had to, but really deep down inside he wanted to. “The Mayfair Witch series as well, not just he Vampire Chronicles.” He stated, “I like all her work.” I lean towards English authors for some reason, like Will Self, and of course Martin Amis. “Don’t go by the movie with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise, movies never do the book justice.” I would have to agree with him again on that note as well.

“My favorite is the forth one–” he finished what I was going to say.

“Right! Right-right, The Tale of The Body Thief. The story was so cool. It didn’t even have to be about vampires, it could stand on its own as a great fantasy story. It was that good.” He gushed. I doubt the actual publicist Knopf assigned to one of their best selling clients worked so hard. “The premise is so ridiculous; Bela Lugosi and bats. You know what, I dig the seventies movie with Frank Langella though. It’s to her credit that she eliminates the cheesiness and the camp factor and grounds the actual premise in fact.”

He had said premise twice in the same sentence, explaining a word with the very same word.

“Have you ever read the actual Bram Stoker novel?” I asked.

He was conflicted, I could see in his eyes.

“No.” nature called, he excused himself, “Excuse me.”

I put some money on the bar and was already at a stall before my undead brother. He was eager to relieve himself, not trying to figure the logic in how I arrived in the rest rooms before he did, even though he left ahead of me. The fact that I cast no reflection in the mirrors by the sink was lost on him as well. He looked past the partition to see my phallus then immediately turned away. This children’s game that grown men play. Then he wet his hands and slicked his hair back like a Pat Riley inspired Gordon Gecko.

When he took out his plastic fangs he mentioned, “Yours look really real.”

Really real, I smiled like thanks.

“They don’t come out.”

It took him a second to figure out what I just said.

“You got those done by a dentist? Wow… how much did that run you?” he was fascinated.

“They didn’t cost me anything, they’re real.”

With little effort I barred the door so we could not be disturbed. I did this without moving to it, solely with my mind. Someone was trying to turn the handle from the other side.

“No.”

He was somewhat in disbelief as I draped him cozily.

“Yes.”

“NO!”

His blood-curdling cries could barely be heard on that side of the door amidst the loud conversations and the music at such a high volume.

I sat in a booth at The Slaughtered Lamb thinking. On my way over I saw a convincing Krusty the Klown and Sideshow Bob. The level of creativity impressed me; they didn’t just throw something together, they did a really good job. Enchanted by what is enthralling about the female form, old feelings wash over me. This young woman sitting by herself got the attention of every one; everyone who saw her could not turn away. She was in her own world in a bar full of people. Petite and sweet, costumed like a courtesan I believe and sipping a dirty martini. Little cutesy was like a hors d’oeuvre to me. Had to step down off her stool in her seafoam colored heels with her tinny-weenie self to get to the jukebox. Balancing her cloudy drink, shaking it to Bombs Over Baghdad, she had body and an appetizing aroma. Into herself before she noticed me sitting by myself and then got into me, Joy invited herself to sit down.

“Joy.”

“You are a Joy, Aaron.”

“You enjoying yourself?” Wanted to know if I was enjoying her company. “That’s all that matters now is it.” She amused herself, “I adore your watch. David Yurman?”

“Yes, it is.”

She was checking me out. I checked out the Celtic tattoo on the inside of her elbow. Joy had all the trappings, Cosmo and Vogue city girl; Hermes bag, Prada belt, Paloma Picasso bobbles, Chanel this, Louis Vitton that and so on. It was clearly all about her. She drove an S class Mercedes, shopped at William Sonoma, kitchen filled with things from Crate and Barrel, Ann Klein her choice for business attire and Vera Wang her favorite designer. We talked about how she procured the prize possessions in her bulging closet.

“I’ve run out of space.” Always armed with sufficient platinum plastic in her Coach wallet, she had already registered at Tiffany’s for when she was to get married.

Which would be in the next three years. “Three years tops the way I see it.”

Shopping entity, consumer ready and catalogue friendly, soft as cookie dough and well endowed looking extremely tasty. Something seemed funny; I felt something in the room, something odd.

At the table in the back, between The Bride in the wedding dress –her for certain sham pregnancy– and The Bride in the black stripped yellow track suit, in the middle of both versions of the same Kill Bill character. He watched me, the angel in the leather vest, pierced and skin garlanded in tattoos of scripture, his wings were majestic. They were magnificent … because they were real. The man with the wings got my attention and nodded at me. He knew what I was, and who I was and he couldn’t be bothered. They touched his feathers and flattered him (they couldn’t have known). The angel gave the women his undivided attention. Joy had eyes like a doll.

“Anyone ever tell you you have beautiful eyes Baby?” she remarked.

“Maybe, someone might have at one time, why?”

Nobody seemed to care as we made out. Her lips, they were sugary sweet, her tongue creamy, the blood remedied my needs like an elixir. You couldn’t tell looking at her sitting where I left her. Her eyes look like a doll.

Couples crowd into the Pink Pussy Kat and the other sex shop up the street. This is the perfect night for that particular type of exploration I’m supposing. The devil may care attitude that accompanies every Devil’s Night. Up to what mischief? Bleecker Street is bustling with commotion when I get down there. I watch people gawk and stare, with all that’s going on there is plenty to see. A grown fool in a baby diaper, Willie Wonka and a pageant of Oompa Loompas take up the sidewalk, a Howard Stern with a huge paper Mache head and nose has to step off the curb to get past.  I smell weed and get a funny feeling, but this time I know this feeling. This is the second time in recent months this has occurred. I look around, and for a second I see him, in front of the T-shirt and souvenir store, then he’s gone. One like me, “I feel like I’m being watched.”

One of Them, I sense danger and take to the shadows. Seeping into the night, a near replica of Don King catches my eye before I take flight. Across the rooftops of Chelsea I scatter pigeons, heading north making my decent in the Flatiron District by the church that used to be a club that’s now shut down. Canines interfering with the trash at the side of the restaurant on 6^th and 21^st growl reacting to my person, someone has thrown up on that side of the street, inside the drinking establishments the activity is heavy and outside the streets are empty. Approaching from the opposite direction this guy veers into me, deliberately bumping me, lifting my billfold and promptly apologizes. “Excuse me.”

He cuts through the well-lit parking lot to 22^nd street. I materialize before him and he is dumfounded.

I don’t mince words, “You have something of mine?”

The pickpocket doesn’t take time to assess the situation and pulls his gun on me.

Backing away he instructs, “Don’t follow me Blacula.” He takes off running hard, looking back making good his escape. I come down in his path once again and he opens fire. I open my coat wide and walk right to him, taking a series of gunshots to the chest as I do. This doesn’t deter me and I hem him up. He doesn’t understand, “You‘re not bleeding?”

I substantiate his bewilderment, “No, I’m not… you ruined my favorite shirt.”

Reality slowly starting to unravel, with his background he saw me as some Boogie man, some Barnabus Collins.

“Freeze!” I heard from a distance. What else now? I looked up. A cop has happened upon our little situation. The patrolman exited his scooter with his gun trained on me and my criminal friend gave a sigh of relief. “Police! Hold it right there.” The officer demanded in an authoritarian tone, “What are you up to?”

He was assertive and kept eye contact like they teach at the Academy.

“What am I up to?” I asked him.

I was trying his patience, “Let ‘em go, let him up! Let me see your hands now? Now!”

I held onto the one with my things even tighter.

“You want me to let him go?” Confused that I didn’t follow his orders, this do-gooder cop not realizing I had him under my spell. “Stop pointing that gun at me.” I tell him.

“I’m going to put my gun down now.”

I had his full cooperation.

I made it clear to him, “You made a mistake and now you feel like a fool, don’t you?” Then he pretty much repeated what I said. “I won’t tell anyone you’ve been drinking.” I was convincing as a Jedi Master.

He surmised and summed up, “I… I need a drink. I really need a drink.”

“Get back in your ridiculous little vehicle you ridiculous little man.” My précis of the entire episode.

“I’m just a ridiculous man in an embarrassing scooter.”

I told him, “Move it along, there is nothing to see here.”

The thief was speechless as the cop did just what I said.

“Alright! Move it along. Nothing to see here!” he said to no one in particular.

I got back to the matter at hand.

“Hail Mary, mother of grace…” my intended victim said his Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s as he looked deep into my milky eyes.

Bewildered by the turn of events, behaving in an unmanly fashion, he doesn’t even try to use the gun he still has in his hand. The pocketsize New Testament I fished out of his coat along with my billfold had highlighted passages. I sent him to his maker and recovered my personal affects. The stray dogs in the parking lot go wild as I finish feed.

The courtyard of the church in Chelsea is pelted with eggs from earlier; I stand before the statue of the weeping Virgin in thought. The miracle reported in the press of this phenomenon attracted devotees recently from the mid-west and as far as Cuba. The vigil is around the clock. “When man is faced with his own mortality he looks inside himself and turns to God.”

I can participate in the celebration of the service; I can delve in reflection and prayer.  But I find no solace in it the way I should, the way others do. Is it me? Is it why I find myself in the predicament I am in now? The Archdiocese calls this marvel a conscripted manifestation. I espouse no theory to this wonder. Organized religion; the business of God never interest me. If people find hope in an inanimate object that shows emotion that has no logical explanation, and they want to attach theology or mysticism to it, I cannot take that away from them. My path takes me down harrowing side streets.

I find myself not ready to retire just yet, I find myself in the Meat Packing District at a club around 3 AM. I get the attention of the guy at the door and he lets me in as others wait to be picked. Fierce trannys, tabloid fodder, jaded haute models; once upon a time household words take up the line. I’m not on the list. Party fiends, posers, burnout rock stars and the obligatory hangers-on have to exercise patience. Enough punch lines for any stand-up comedian worth their salt. The conga line to Hell begins here. Overweight Elvis decked out in a white sequined jumpsuit does karate moves as the lights strobe, a macabre Saddam Hussein with a noose collaring him like a necktie getting down on the dance floor. I spy an Olsen twin and the Entourage guy. Some stray Oompa Loompas from before hold down a space by the door. Again no one notices that my image does not appear on the many video monitors. In the corner was Pamela Anderson or an incredible simulation. My pagan instinct; debauchery finds me easily. They came in one after the next, truly delectable all three, Jandy, Maya and Diedre.  Black eye make-up, all with black fingernail polish and one impish young woman with a lace vale. Fishnet stockings supported by garters, shimmering pattern on her brocade dress drew me to her and strutting about on razor sharp stilettos.

“Move Bitch, this is my song.” She reiterates, “Yeah you Bitch.”

“No-no. Eff you Bitch this my song.”

They argued over ownership of what neither one of them had rights to. Blood red lipstick, latex and herringbone corsets laced up tight. Caught in the flashing lights, trance music and sex drinks, collectively they don’t care about who’s on glossy magazine covers –retouched and Photo Shopped– or what’s on TV – because they don’t watch TV– and they smoke as much as they want and they simply don’t care.

Maya, “I’d rather live a short and happy life than be old and miserable.”

“Who cares if whoever is gay…” Jandy’s outspoken, “Everyone’s gay!”

“I really doubt that college makes a bit of difference.” Diedre remarked.

“Or voting.” They by consensus took a skeptics pose.

“It doesn’t matter we’re all going to be dead in the next ten years. Stephen Hawkings said so.”

“Bitch you can talk shit!”

“My cousin’s fighting over in Iraq. We can all die in a terrorist attack tomorrow Bitch.”

“The Pope doesn’t care about the pedophile priests but no contraceptives or abortion according to the Vatican.” Skeptical-Feminist-Nihilists.

They had their forum and wanted to get out of here. Bedlam makes an expected cameo and then we leave.

The party didn’t stop in the car; feeling each other up, precarious displays of burlesque, flashing the cabbie and warbling excruciating Portishead karaoke. In the hotel room more ecstasy and ordered up Amaretto and Red Bull. Lesbian. Bi-sexual. They began sucking on everything in sight. Nymphomaniacs.

“By all means degrade yourselves.” I completely approved.

A study in folly was what my present company offered up. Cherub tarts, they roughed up Jason the boy-toy they picked up in the lobby. Wrapped him up in a feather boa and brought him with us. Heated sexy chicks, the one with the angry ponytail unzipped his pants with her teeth. Recipient of forcible dominatrix conduct and simultaneous fellatio, part of a threesome and abridged foursome, Jason didn’t mind the full contact and rough trade. As he caught his breath I took turns tasting the goods, delirious to my selection of delicacies. I bled them slowly. I could taste the intoxicants and opiates coursing through their naked slutty bodies. I was licked and loved up and suckled scrumptious. These sodomites had no moral boundaries, instant gratification, the least mischievous of the three Maya was egged on by the other two. The oldest Jandy encouraged her and Diedre’s loose morals. Maya chose to take a moment, and when she did she saw, she saw what all this carrying on had led to, what I was up to. What I was. I hadn’t gotten to her yet and, and she panicked. Screaming, hysterical, she got off the bed and got as far away from me as possible. This confused Jason who found himself looking up from the floor.

Diedre and Jandy would not let go of me as their girlfriend stood against the opposite wall trembling uncontrollably. She had it in her head to leave.

“Come?”

“No.” was her immediate response.

“Come Maya, come to me.”

“No! No I can’t.” I was horrific and seductive, “you can’t make me, you can’t make me.” Sensuous and repulsive, “Don’t please, I don’t want to…”

She had no choice in the matter. Swept into my arms, obedient in my irresistible embraces. She loved me like the others and even more so, I saw to that.

“What are we to do Jason, what, are we, to do?” I had to attend to the next set of business, “I like you. I like you Jason… don’t you know that?”

He cringed next to the dresser in the corner, I was at a quandary, I had had no plans for him.

“Please-please, don’t? I don’t want to die.” He pleaded.

“You will die one day I assure you.”

He was just hanging out. Aspiring model, writer, photographer, he interned at a prominent literary agency and also worked part time at a bar in Brooklyn. Jason was not about semantics at this point and time.

He begged, “Please-please-please?”

And in his mind it was up to God.

“We believe in one God, Father Almighty, Maker of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds, light of light, very God of very God, begotten not made…”

            “Non factum, consubstantialem Patri: per quem omnica facta sunt. Qui propter nos hominess et proter nostrum salutem descendit de caelis.” In Latin I too recited the Nicene Creed.

Along with faith he hoped for luck. I was game to give him a chance, a chance to win his life.

So secluded, on the beach in Rockaway, before the sun would rise, the chessboard was set up and I waited for Jason to be seated. Not knowing how he got here, not one footprint found in the sand leading up to this particular jetty, he saw the situation and having no choice accepted the challenge. Like the Knight Antonius Block, Jason sat before me, and I was the personification of Death.

“I do this as no allegory for life being a game. I possess no special skill; pure gamesmanship on my part, the outcome is to be determined on equal terms. You have the first move.” He comes out fast and attacks my flanks, striking and repeatedly drawing back. “Your fear fuels you, despite your doubts of God you ask him for resolve in this matter.” Jason never addressed my comments. Staying focused, using a combination of knight and bishop his attack is unrelenting. And it is this fervor that is his fatal flaw. Jason only prolongs the inevitable. He is at a disadvantage seeing only seven or eight moves ahead. I have already seen the whole board —the entire match— the outcome, his downfall and the ramifications. He plays well but gets tripped up and stumbles hard. Terrified Jason is unable to recover as I snatch up rooks, vanquish a knight and martyr his beloved-cherished queen, and for my means a handful of my pawns are a part of the slaughter. It is just a matter of time. Broken in faith and resolve he realizes this. “Check.” He is strictly on the defensive now. “Check.” He will sacrifice what remains of his gallant Templars and divisive clergymen subjugated for his cause and King. “Check… Checkmate.” Jason succumbs to my queen as I observe the sun crest on the horizon. His heart palpitating, struggle passionate, momentary is my ambivalence, the tide ebbs along the quayside and I am swift and merciful.

In the western direction I outdistance the long light of the impending sunrise to the confines of my Mausoleum. My neighbors Jacqueline Onassis, Judy Garland and most recently Leona Hemsley rest in peace on these exclusive grounds.

Imagery of the sun –the very blight that can send me to oblivion— ornaments the dark confines of my inner sanctum. Above the entrance of this multi-million dollar sarcophagus is the symbol of the Egyptian Sun god RA that I identify with. My pretties are asleep in the crypt, only two coffins to share so Jandy lays up with me. They purr like kittens my concubines as they nap. I reveal in this wickedness for selfish reasons. In my weakened state I know the sun is high. The gravediggers work hard before the noonday heat becomes unbearable. I listen to love ones grieve openly; to the dearly departed. Amidst the smell of fresh cut flowers I settle in on the cool satin, and then I close my eyes.

Under The Sunset. I attend a gala performance of Faust at the Met the very next night, unaccompanied. The seating accommodations are not to the liking of the woman with enough jewelry hanging from her like a chandelier when she realizes she will be seated next to the likes of me. Like what am I doing here? I have clearly ruined her evening and I can care less quite frankly. What do I know about Opera? I know enough to not be reliant on the subscript that is projected to follow the narrative. I speak several languages and have an appreciation for the Arts and the finer things. Regardless of my appearance you cannot judge me on face value alone. “ Suffer fools gladly.” I fail to explain this to her or feel the need to elucidate knowing she has but a certain level of comprehension.

I watch the performance, which is truly awe inspiring and afterwards I strike up a conversation with a couple in the lounge area. Wilhelm and Betty; he has an old world charm to him this dapper gentleman recently arrived from overseas, born and raised in Pretoria South Africa. The woman as radiant and stunning as any specimen I’ve ever seen. There is such a thing as being too beautiful. Upper Westside resident since moving from Lake George upstate to attend University, she was showing him the town. They had met at a film series at MoMA.

“As moving as American Blues.”

He had made the same comparison I had when asked to describe opera in the pantheon of music by someone before. The Africana knew of Jimmy Reed, Howlin’ Wolf and the likes of the great Son House. Held them in high esteem that is unusual provided his background to simply assume we were all god-forsaken creatures due to his biased upbringing. He sported a haughty moustache and was under the influence of something that clouded his mind, rendering my physic power useless when it came to him. The woman whose name I forgot the moment she said it was as enchanting as Kim Basinger at that age.

“I’m corruptible you two.” The implication was there all along, we knew what she was suggesting.

Then the strumpet pantomimes oral sex poking her tongue in her cheek.

We kept talking as she excused herself. He had no shortage of questions, I could only impart a certain amount of information, and the rest he would have to research. Her escort went to see what was keeping her as we both commented, “What’s taking her so long?” When he too did not return I went to investigate even though I had a feeling. Where I found them it was quite cold, in the back by themselves he stood over her dead body.

“What happened?”

His answer was interesting to say the least, “She’s been killed, her life taken, taken by a Vampire. An entity that possesses powers from the realm of the undead. The Vampyre; a creature that feeds off the living to sustain its existence, a being that flourishes after the sun goes down.”

On a chain between his open collar this rake wore an ornate talisman.

Drawn out by the pawn once the queen is taken, I came to my own conclusions. I kept thinking I should have seen this.

“How do you know this?” I already knew the answer to my question.

“Because I know it to be true.”

“How do you know they exist, these Vampires of which you speak of?”

The feeling that I had all along is confirmed as the creature now reveals itself, this other Vampire. He appears with alacrity adopting a posture of pre-eminence and dominance.

“Because he told me.” Wilhelm bows his head, “My Master.”

He addressed this one who had been stalking me all these many months.

“She was too beautiful.” The cavalier immortal remarked.

We could all agree on that.

 

 

Ism is the second short story of Aaron  who was unwittingly bestowed with the “dark gift” in Un a piece that first appeared on the site http://www.americanfiction.net.