 
### VAMPIRE SOCIETY

Ken La Salle

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Ken La Salle

Discover other titles by Ken La Salle at Smashwords.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To Debbie Hill and Margot Von Strohuber

Who saw all of this

And to Vicky Pearson

Without whom...

OH, THE LOVE OF DARKNESS

OH, THE VAMPIRE'S KISS

HAVE MERCY ON A PEOPLE

WHO WOULD DREAM LIKE THIS...

Al Stewart
Chapter 1

"Vampires. That's what they are. The whole society. Vampires."

It was a time of greed. A time of selfishness. A time when what you were meant nothing in the face of what you had. With possessions defining virtue in the way that a stirred sludge-pond defines an image, thought, word, and deed were moot before an intransigent bottom line.

And why should this come as a shock to anyone? After the 1970's "ME Decade" and the 1980's "Trickle-Down" society, the baby-boomer's scrambling, utilitarian, hunger was a plague that reached out and spread, perhaps unknowingly, to everyone.

We were in high school then, living years that were taken from us just as quickly as we began to appreciate them. We didn't understand things like politics, consumerism, or free-market economics and in our ignorance we found bliss. Let the adults scald their souls in the inhospitable world of the late twentieth century! For we were alive; let us live!

Sadly, such exuberant longings were not to be. Our eyes would be opened, even if we clenched them shut tight. Opened with hot tongs and cast iron pliers.

I still remember the day.

There were three of us then. I like to think that it wasn't a consequence of our being friendless that we became friends. None of us fit in where the rest of society dictated that high school students should be stacked: sports, band, clubs, etc.. We three were individuals. We were a separate race among the mongrels of a cracked melting pot. Or, perhaps, thanks to this fact, we really were friendless.

Arthur Silvada led us. It was the time when he always did. By virtue of his striding, long legs, strong from his ritualistic morning runs, which elevated him above the two of us at just over six feet in height, those legs demanded of the world that he lead. It was remarkable that he was in our little group. He could easily have led the track team. Often, he ran through their lengths in the morning just to tease them, setting out after his shower from his house near the school as the gasping athletes limply limped back to their coach. He worked weights in his garage, wore the right clothes. Honestly? He was incredibly handsome. His blue eyes inspired trust and his costly, white teeth always shone through his smile, even in the darkest rooms. His tanned skin betrayed a healthy glow that only later would we learn hid the carcinomas that would someday lead him to costly surgery and a night-world existence terrified of the sun he had once adulated.

Down the hallway, he led. It was Tuesday, May sixth and, beneath his smile, lay the tension of the orphan being sent away to his adopted home. For our schools were the orphanages of the late twentieth century, not only for us but for all children. A part-time orphanage, to be sure. It held us for just about eight hours every day, while our parents - Arthur often relished in the riches of living with both parents - left us for destinies untold. What destinies? Our own. For one day, we would take our parents' places in the sweat shops and salt mines and textile mills of the information age: customer service, telemarketing, retail sales. Until that day, though, it was in our orphanage that we remained, progressing through our graded years. From the beginning, it seemed like torture, taken from our familiar homes, sardine-canned into those overcrowded classrooms. It wasn't until those last months of high school that the understanding of our privileged position was gleaned like stray nuggets of abandoned gold. So much time wasted! We were the sheep, soon to be led to the slaughter, trying to tell the kids in the field to enjoy the grass while they still could only to see them spit it out with contempt.

June was coming; soon, we were to graduate.

The hallways there were all built in exactly the same way, with the exact same height, width, and length in every building. It was said that our school was built by a firm that had designed prisons as well, all the better for us inner-city students who'd be better off getting used to such an environment, or so it seemed to say. No attempt had been made to make this place look any less like a prison, with paint or furniture right on up to the instructor's guarded frowns, lest we be unable to appreciate it.

Still, Arthur walked as though heaven awaited at the end of those halls.

"And why shouldn't I," he asked, his arms spread, uplifting the two of us from our typical malaise.

"For the simple reason that all is not as good as you might think it is from up there, Arthur," Abby snapped one of her trademark replies.

Be you an over-achieving demigod like Arthur or someone more like myself, you had to love Abby. There was more in her words than mere letters. Sadly, there is no earthly way that ink on paper can capture the music of her voice. If this page could rise above its font-enshackled bonds, however, her words would dance. Her words would smile. Her words would truly live!

Just thinking that nearly brings my heart to break because I know, just as surely as you will, what became of her words, how the poetry was stripped from them by the world in which she lived.

Though we called her Abby, the name her father gave her was Abigail Sorina Ayrnes.

Ayrnes, the name of her father's family, the name of those proud brothers who had started a school in Chihuahua long before there were even paved roads running through the region. Martin and Jose were both well-educated men from the south who were sure they could bring prosperity to this region with their school. They'd prepare the many children for the colleges in Mexico City and, yes, even in el Norte. Shortly after the school was built, they both took wives from among the local families and built homes for themselves on the school's property. There, they flourished. An entire town sprang up around them. A little hacienda, a couple of chickens, and a church down the road; who could ask for more?

Soon, the first offspring was born. His name was Ricardo Ayrnes, Abby's great-grandfather, born to Martin and his wife, Maria. The compulsion that drove his father and uncle drove him just as hard. North. Always north. Abby's father, Ydalgo, had felt it running hot through his blood, too. He would never admit to it, though. He would put the blame on a discarded magazine and indoor plumbing.

In 1966, while Ydalgo was picking in a neighbor's field, he first laid eyes upon Sorina.

Sorina Medina had come from a long line of Medinas, which stretched back to her grand-sires who had bought the family farm in Columbia in the 1850's. That gilded memory was of a farm that had grown enough coffee and cotton to make the family rich until the Depression of the 1930's had driven them from the land, paupers. Northward, they had come. Bourgeois turned beggar, the Medina clan migrated like summer birds, north, always north. At every town in which they stopped, they'd beg - not for bread but for work. The old and the young, together they worked the land graced by pacific breezes. Along the way, some of them caught the germ of communist propaganda so popular at the time. Should that be at all surprising, given Abby's later leanings? Eventually, they stopped in the northern Baja. Few of them remained. Proud Catholics, their rugged lives left many dead babies, like Darwinian road marks, by the side of the road.

Sorina would become Abby's mother. Sainted, according to Ydalgo, she died in the throes of childbirth. But she was happy in the end, Ydalgo always said. Smiling that smile that he had first seen across the fence.

It was because they had gone to el Norte, America. That's what Ydalgo's mother claimed was the reason for Sorina's demise. Abigail Ayrnes, Abby's grandmother had once lived in el Norte. It had been Ricardo Ayrnes who had driven them to live on a bracero outside of Los Angeles where her father and her mother, her mother's grandparents, and her four sisters had all lived in the tiny, one room shack. There, they picked, from farm to farm, strawberries, lettuce, broccoli, chard, oranges, peppers, tomatoes - the bounty of the rich, Californian land. They'd leave in the morning before dawn and work until their fingers were cramped or bled and wait until nightfall when her father would be through. Her father's idea to go there, to leave the home and history of Chihuahua, to drag the family to this new place with its concrete and "prosperity" had ended in the only way it could end, tragically. He had told them they would have a better life, a life with schools and plumbing and appliances and cars and dignity. But what did they get there? A shack fit for a dog, little furniture, an outhouse rarely cleaned, and a life of fighting and scraping for the barest essentials. Then, the grandparents died, one on the fields, the other days later. They'd worked until their last days never to know the comforts of this "opportunity" el Norte promised.

Ydalgo's mother couldn't take it. She saw her sister's bellies round with babies who would be born in the mud of the field. But not her. No. She swore it! She'd run away! Run to Chihuahua if she must but she would get away!

No, her mother told her. If you must go, don't risk the long journey alone; so she was told to go, instead, to Rosarito where friends of the family could watch over her. There, she was allowed to blossom. Her rich red hair, always short to keep it from her face as she worked in the fields, grew long and her fingers grew soft. There, she'd met Ydalgo's father, Raphael.

Then, the war came. Married only two years, her own belly swollen large with Raphael's seed, she could not sit idly by when Raphael began boasting that he would go north and enlist in the army el Norte was sending against Japan. He couldn't leave, she told him. He couldn't! Soon, she promised, his child would be born and they would be without him. She couldn't bear it! But he promised her he would send his checks and he would send his letters. Raphael was never a liar and he told his wife, his eyes pinched with sincerity, what he knew to be true. Late one night, there was no more talk. She awoke with labor pains to find that he was gone. Ydalgo was born in November of 1943. His mother swore to him with hushed breaths, warm breaths, blowing through his downy, newborn hair that she would never leave him. He would never experience abandonment as she had so many times in her life.

Raphael kept his word. He sent her checks. He sent her letters. One day in May, only months after he'd left, a letter came that wasn't from him. It told her that no more letters would arrive. Raphael had abandoned her for a bullet and a cause on an island in the Pacific. The island didn't even have a name, just a number. When his body arrived, his family mourned. Ydalgo's mother held her baby in her arms, silent.

She never remarried. Ydalgo was now her life. She told him that he'd never make the mistakes her family and her husband had made and gave him her name, Ayrnes, to be sure he never felt drawn to emulate Raphael. Her in-laws felt betrayed when she denied the boy his heritage but gave her a room in their hacienda and a small place in their lives. She worked on their farm and Ydalgo joined her, first as a fumbling child, then as a lanky boy. He was still working with her on the family farm when he was a man of twenty.

"What is wrong with you," she'd ask him. "Don't you know you have a responsibility? Where is your wife? Where are my grandchildren? Look at my hair! It has gone grey. Must I be dead before you marry?!"

Ydalgo, his hair cropped short, removed his Dodger's baseball cap. "Mama, it's not that easy. Besides, I help take care of you, don't I? You're also my responsibility."

"Fah," she spat. Just as her grand-daughter would one day, she grew grouchier as she grew older. "I have taken care of myself all of my life! Get out of my sight!"

He would go but never so far that he couldn't keep his eye on her.

In time, though, his eyes strayed. He was twenty-one. It was spring. And Sorina was walking on the other side of the fence. It was just as Ydalgo had always imagined. He looked into her eyes and she looked into his and by summer, they were married. Ydalgo wore one of his uncle's suits. His uncles had always been important to him. They were like his fathers. Sorina wore her mother's dress. They were married by the ocean on a morning when the sea was all mist and people were worrying about the dress and the suit and the flowers. "I don't need those things," Ydalgo told the families, sounding much like Abby would many years later. "They are only things. They aren't love or hope or life. They will be gone to rot and to ruin but the love that brought me here will always remain." And, with those words, they were married.

Soon, it was 1967, and Ydalgo's mother was impatient. "Where are my grandchildren," she'd ask. "What is wrong with you? Are you not a man!?"

"Mama," Ydalgo would scold as he found he often must. There came a time when he scolded her and hesitated to continue because he knew how she'd react. Sorina had found a Better Homes and Gardens magazine that one of her sisters had discarded after reading. Both were living with her parents, where there was more room, and Sorina had relished in the pictures of the beautiful homes in America, encouraged by Ydalgo who had his own dreams of the forbidden el Norte. The beautiful things he showed her in that magazine. The bathrooms, in particular, held her in its chrome and ceramic embrace. To think! Indoor plumbing! Showers! Sinks with cabinets covered in tile! Virginally white toilets, with nary a stain, that really flushed! With their heavenly gleam, the pictures showed Sorina an impossible land of impossible promises.

"Mama," Ydalgo said on that occasion, his voice lowered, "Sorina and I have been saving. We have nearly five hundred American dollars."

She eyed him suspiciously. "What need have you of that kind of money? Babies are expensive but -"

"It's not for a baby," Ydalgo interrupted. He took his mother's hand as she sat there at the dinner table. "It's to bring with us. Sorina wants to move to America."

He thought she'd scream. He thought she'd stamp around in a tantrum, throw things at him, invoke his father's name as she so often did when he disappointed her but she didn't get up. One hand clutched her knee. The other was in his but quickly slipped out as she drew it back. A soft hiss betrayed the air fleeing her lungs as an icy grip clutched at her heart. "I - I see."

"It won't be long and then you can come with us," he promised, hoping it would be enough for her. She'd always ranted about el Norte. El Norte gives us sand for our food and waste for our oil, she'd say. El Norte breaks the back of our people and leaves us crippled, she'd say. But, surely, Ydalgo thought, she'd feel differently if she could actually live there. "You'd like that. Wouldn't you?"

"When?" Her voice was hoarse as she asked, as if she hadn't the energy to speak let alone scream.

"In a month."

"Where?"

"To Los Angeles, mama." He stopped, frightened by how she spasmed at its mention. She'd never told him about her family because she had never heard from them. As far as she was concerned, they had all died in Los Angeles. "Sorina knows of a dress shop that will hire her. She'd good with her mother's sewing machine. There's bound to be a job for a hired hand."

"I see," she muttered, standing. Her body shook as she struggled to her feet and a moan escaped her lungs.

"Mama!"

She put a hand to him to keep him off. Then, she turned and walked back to her room. "Goodbye, Ydalgo," she muttered.

As the weeks passed, Ydalgo tried to see his mother again but she would not come out of her small room. His uncles tried to ease his mind. She would come around in time, they told him, and then she would write to him. But that wasn't good enough for Ydalgo. Sorina was pregnant and his mother would want to know that. He couldn't leave and let someone else tell her that. Aunt Maria kept him from her door. "No," she said, her large, doughy body blocking his way. "You must respect her wishes, Ydalgo."

"No," he shouted. "I will not leave until I see her! You go in there and tell her that I am going to enter right now whether she says to or not."

But she didn't need to go. The door opened behind her and his mother, Abigail, stood there. "Disrespectful boy. Go, Maria. You won't want to be here. I will tell you what he says."

Maria said nothing, giving them both a worried look. She had always conceded to Abigail's will, it seemed, until now. Maria didn't think it wise that the two be left alone.

She had little choice in the matter. Abigail opened her door and Ydalgo entered, the door shutting behind him. "You need to talk," she yelled at her son. "You will disrespect me in front of our family? Talk, then! Make it quick!"

From the youngest age, Ydalgo had been taught to respect women. He had been taught that family comes before all else. His mother didn't realize how her words pierced him like hooks and tore at his flesh. "Very well, mama. We leave for California tomorrow. We will do this with or without your blessing but I'd rather we had your blessing."

"My blessing? You've thrown away everything I've taught you to cherish! How can you do that and still believe you would have my blessing!?" She wouldn't sit down. Her hands were balled into fists and her breath hissed through clenched teeth.

"You taught me to honor family," he shouted. "Well, Sorina is part of my family, now! I have just as much a responsibility to her as I do to you! We will send for you once we find a home there! What is wrong with that?!"

When she replied, her voice was deceivingly quiet. "I know why you want to go there." She sat down on her bed, set deep with thick blankets. "You're not going because of family or love or respect or duty or Sorina!" She spat the last word. Her daughter-in-law's name was a pariah to her lips. "You go there because of the things they have there, the things in their houses and the things they drive and the things they buy. You want to have those things! You greedy, little bastard! You leave me because of all the things you want to have! Well, you won't have them, I can tell you! What do you think you are?! Look at your skin! Don't you realize that, to them, that color makes you no better than the dirt?! You think you can strangle your tongue and speak their language, too?! Well, you can't! You are Mexican!"

Ydalgo shook his head. "There's no talking to you, mama. Your heart is withered up and I cannot reach it." He turned, his hand resting on her doorknob for just a moment, and he remembered why else he'd come. "By the way, you will have a grandchild in el Norte, mama. Sorina is with child." He heard his mother get up. She was coming to him. To ask his forgiveness, he thought. He'd finally gotten through to her. He took his hand off the doorknob and turned to forgive her.

Her right hand was raised in the air and it came down hard upon Ydalgo's face, leaving his left cheek dark red and his body leaning over.

"How dare you," she shouted. "That you would do this to your own mother and your own wife is one thing but to your own child?!"

Ydalgo felt hot tears flow from his eyes. "What is so wrong with what I'm doing?!"

"Wrong?! You do not see?! Just look at the life you've had, my son. Think of the family that won't be there for your child. Think of the history he won't know. He won't know who he is! He won't know where he belongs! He'll be treated like dirt by all the little, white children. He won't have any dignity, Ydalgo! He won't have any hope! He'll be nothing in el Norte! Nothing but a dirty, rotten Mexican!" She said the final word like a curse, hoping it would sink in.

Ydalgo looked at her, appalled, rubbing his face. How could she know this, he wondered. No words came to him. His own mother had stooped down to lies just to stop him from leaving. So, he walked out without saying another word. She'll change her tune when I send for her, he hoped.

Five hundred dollars didn't last long in el Norte. Their train stopped at Union station, where Ydalgo and a rounder Sorina were met by the friends who had found her a job. But dress factories, the titular precursor to the sweat shop, didn't like hiring pregnant women. She could tell them she was just fat for only so long. By her eighth month, they were out of work, out of money and, sadly, out of friends who had the wherewithal to help anyone but themselves. Ydalgo heard about the orange crop being harvested in groves around the county. Sorina couldn't bend over but she could reach up and she worked at his side for several agonizing weeks.

Then, the labor pains came very quickly one day as they were working the fields. She knelt down as her water broke and Ydalgo didn't think she'd get back up again. He started to panic. "Get me a midwife," he asked the foreman. "We need help!"

The foreman was just as dark as he but considered himself white. "We ain't got none of your voodoo medicine here, Ayrnes. Get her to a hospital and get her quick."

"Where?! How?!" Ydalgo's attention was split between the unaffected foreman and his love clutching at her gut, her body racked in pain.

"Don't none of you boys got no trucks?"

Ydalgo ran through the groves, his legs pumping like hammers over the soft, valencia leaves, shouting through his burning lungs for a truck. "Foreman says that I am to get her to a hospital," he cried. "Please!" But no one would leave the fields until the day's work was finished. Their lives, too, depended on what they could produce. Ydalgo ran back to Sorina to find her on the ground, dirty and sweating. She no longer cried, though; she had passed out. He took her in his arms, crying in terror, running out of the fields to the street. Ydalgo was never a strong man but, if Sorina was suffering, he could carry her as long as she needed. He sprinted out into the street, stopping cars around him with the scream of slamming brakes.

"Hospital! Aqui!"

It was Caroline Ell who took him, the only one to stop who didn't drive away with eyes averted as one looking into the white hot intensity of their own guilt. As they were close to Chapman Avenue, she brought them to Orange County Hospital where Ydalgo ran out without saying goodbye. Into the first open door, he carried his wife, screaming for help in both spanish and english, making little sense in either. When he found a doctor, and his beautiful Sorina was taken away, ashen and still, Ydalgo stood silently. Afraid to sit, he clutched at his hands, holding them against his stomach. Hour after hour in the white hall passed until the tears leaking from Ydalgo's eyes ran dry.

Then, the doctor came out. He spoke no spanish but Ydalgo knew what had happened by the look on his face. No words were needed. Ydalgo's beautiful Sorina had died. On that sunny day in June, Ydalgo felt the curse his mother had placed upon him when he left her deep in his gut but knew he was blessed when he learned that the baby was alive.

She was going to be all right. Ydalgo counted fingers and toes. She was perfect. More so, she already had a full head of hair, fiery and wavy like an ocean of obstinance burning bright. She had her grandmother's hair.

That day in the high school hallway, Abby's fiery, red hair was cropped short as it had been throughout her senior year in high school, defying gravity for a fraction of an inch before its short curls reached out and swirled around, refusing to be ignored. She stood at only five and a half feet but the hair made her stand out even from Arthur. She hadn't the body of a goddess, lips that were too thin and tended to frown and hips that were too wide and held record of a tendency towards dairy products but I don't think Arthur noticed and it didn't matter to me, either. She could have been in student council; she was smart enough. Or, like myself, journalism, she was more than able. Sports escaped her interest and cheerleading was beneath her.

Abby wrote.

Her words were poetry, rhyming or not. Through word of mouth, students knew her and asked her to bless them with her words.

"Nathan? Has your tongue been cat-nipped?"

"Huh?" Startled from my reverie, I stopped in my tracks.

Abby had stopped as well and Arthur looked back at me and asked, "What's up?" Arthur wasn't known for his words.

But I didn't answer. One of the janitors pushed his squeaky-wheeled garbage cart out into the hallway from a classroom right in front of us. When he followed it, pulling another cart holding brooms and mops, cleaning fluids and rags, his face expressed a hatred for the entire world. His name wasn't known to us. We knew that the less sensitive called him Poncho, a name attributed thanks to the ratty, old garment he wore, rain or shine. It was clear that he didn't love his job, just as it was clear that he had less love for those around him.

And he rarely spoke. I know that because neither Arthur nor Abby had heard him say as much as he was about to say. I remember every word.

"What are you smiling about," he asked, his speech slurred by bad teeth. "You so happy, are ya? Well, remember it and remember it well. Because there's gonna come the day when you won't be smiling. You remember this! You're gonna find out that you were wrong to be happy. You're wrong to be anything but sick. Sick! You think you got any chance once you get outta here? Huh? You're nothing but grist for the mill, that's what you are! That what everybody is! Grist! Flesh for them to feed on! You're gonna get out there and you're gonna have to get a job and before you know it you'll be too old to make anything of your life! You can't get out of it by buying the things they say you should buy. They'll take all your money with their lies and their illusions. They're gonna get you so deep in debt that you'll never have the time to be happy. You won't be able to do nothing but work and hope everything changes somehow and you'll have a chance again but then you'll realize that you're only fooling yourself and even your hope will die! And what choice will you have but to get swallowed up by the world. Oh, they'll feed off ya! They'll suck out everything you got and leave you dry." Deflated, he seemed near tears, finished with his tirade, facing the truth. "Vampires. That's what they are. The whole society. Vampires."

Without another word, he took his carts and was gone. He left the three of us still. Certainty that we'd never end up like him counted for nothing and we were silent and the hallway seemed very dark.

### Chapter 2

### As long as there is a consumer-driven society, there will be a class of citizens consumed.

The doctor told Ydalgo that he wanted to observe little Abby for twenty-four hours before his baby girl could go home. It was simply as a precaution; the circumstances surrounding the mother's death were no mystery. Abby recalled it well later in her life. As long as there is a consumer-driven society, there will be a class of citizens consumed. You don't think that Sorina died because it was unavoidable, do you? She died because the United States economy relied, as it always has and to this day still relies, upon cheap labor. When my ancestors were released from their bonds of slavery, the people of the United States began to consume the european immigrant on one coast and the unfortunate asian on the other. That gave way in the west to an appetite for the hispanic. The immigrant class has always been grist for this mill. A large portion of society wishes to keep it this way and would rather not see them recognized as human beings. The barrage of laws passed in California during the late 1990's barring illegal immigrants from education and health care is only a small sign of this. Many forget that lady liberty's sign reads, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free", replacing that noble sentiment in their minds with, "Give me only your hardest workers, your smartest, your wealthy investors who are the select few ready to contribute to our G.N.P." While this attitude would reduce the immigrant population in the United States, the consumer-driven society has opened its mouth to engulf all. There are people all over the world who are ready to be exploited, pierced by the fangs of America. South-east Asia, Africa, South America, the third world is recognized by the consumer-driven society as the lowest link on the food chain.

And, so, Sorina died.

With the day he had, Ydalgo knew he had to work a miracle to provide for his newborn child. He wasn't necessarily a praying man; his mother had seen too much of life's horrors to believe that a loving God was guiding her. Impartial, perhaps. Loving? Certainly not. He remembered, as a boy, reading a Superman comic book one of his uncles had brought him from Tijuana. One of the advertisements inside was for Sea-Monkeys. Taking one look at the ad, Abigail intoned, "And God created all the beasts on the field and in the sea," her voice full of disgust.

His mother's curse wore painfully upon his back. How could she have been so right when she'd told him not to go? Still, the results remained. He had a baby now. Everything had changed. No longer could he work the fields or rely upon the whim of the farmer for his income. Another way, a more stable way, had to be found. But, how? His language skills were pathetic in comparison to the whites he'd seen. In those days, english was the only language the whites spoke and there was no doubt about it; the whites ruled. So, he had to remain within the hispanic community. The small room he and Sorina rented in Santa Ana at Garfield and Fifth Street put him near its very heart. And every day, that Heart was growing. He had to do something.

He remembered the grocer who used to drive his Buick wagon into town back home and thought, perhaps, this could be his answer. But the fifty dollars he had was not enough to buy a car or even to buy goods to sell. When one is forced to do a wrong to benefit what is right, Ydalgo asked himself, what is the moral choice?

Did it matter? Morality had lost its meaning when Sorina had died. Now, everything Ydalgo did, he did for little Abby. Leaving the hospital, he walked back to the orange grove where he'd been only that morning. It took him hours. When he got there, his legs were cramping and his clothes were moist with sweat. The June sun had been forgiving but the walk had been more than fifteen miles. The next step of his plan had seemed simple when he'd first thought of it. Now, however, exhausted from the walk, things seemed less simple. The grove's owner had never put up a fence and Ydalgo could walk right in. The carts were resting against the storehouse, huge wheelbarrows for carting nearly a hundred navels. Ydalgo and Sorina had moved many boxes of oranges from the fields, dumping them into these carts so the carts could then be wheeled into the storehouse. There had been a few times when taking the cart in had been Ydalgo's job. He knew well how steer it. Lifting it off the ground, so the wheel wouldn't squeak, waking the owner in his small, one-storied house, only a few feet away, Ydalgo stole the cart. Moral or immoral, Ydalgo had never before thought along those lines.

As Ydalgo taught his daughter, morality is to have your actions judged by someone else. The church taught morality. Thou shalt not steal. Why? Because they said so. The purpose of morality is not to teach and the great thing about that is that no one has to learn. One just has to remember. Raised in the church ("the church" being now and forever in the Ayrnes' history the Roman Catholic church), Ydalgo understood morality. Morality, with its disinterest in teaching and impersonal infliction, allowed for loopholes. Thou shalt not kill... unless there's a war or some other justification. Thou shalt not bear false witness (lie)... unless you have something to protect. For every cake you had in "Thou shalt", every exception let you eat it, too.

But when Ydalgo picked up that cart, he understood the difference between ethics and morality. It is the moral man who lets his action be dictated to him. The ethical man? He decides what is right and what is wrong. Is it just a coincidence that ethical and existential look and sound so much alike? To be ethical is to decide one's own fate. It also means being implicitly honest with ones' self. To lie to yourself is not to be ethical. When you chose an ethical road, there is no room for exception.

Then, there is the man who has neither morals nor ethics. The man who has only his urges. The vampire. The vampire is not the personification of evil. He is the personification of entropy. When the energy or commitment towards right doing and right thinking are reduced to nothing, all that remains is the vampire.

In the vampire society, all that matters is "getting what's yours". That could be a fortune or it could be a cart full of fruit.

Ydalgo didn't discover ethics that night because he saw his actions as ethical. On the contrary, as he stood there, in the pitch black night, as the skies above eastern Orange County so often were in the 1960's, holding the cart in his arms like a cross, a burden, he knew he'd sunk below ethics, below morality. He felt his fangs grow a little. But he swore to himself and he swore to his god that he'd make up for this somehow. With his first and last criminal act, he'd use any benefit gained towards raising his daughter.

Slinking in the darkness through the trees, Ydalgo put the cart down beneath the best trees closest to the street and began picking. He knew the fruit would be ripe. These were scheduled to be picked within the week. The owner wasn't keen on doing what the rest of the local farmers had begun to do, what the consumer-driven economy demanded. He wouldn't pick his fruit before it was ripe, letting days on the store shelf turn them artificially orange, giving them only the appearance of ripeness. He would keep his oranges in his trees until the fruit was full, sweet, and ripe. One orange farmer could not hold back the vampires, though. His farm would fail before the decade was out, the ground leveled and covered with homes.

Ydalgo kept picking until the cart was so full that the fruit was threatening to fall out and he could barely lift it. Then, an agonizing push brought the cart up the embankment and into the street. There were no streetlights and Ydalgo was unconcerned about oncoming cars. He snatched up the fruit that had fallen, putting it back in the cart, and caught his breath. Then began the long walk back to Santa Ana. It was even further than the hospital, nearly twenty miles away. His limbs were already tired from the long day and now, picking up the cart, he began the final stretch. One step after another brought him pain and, by the time he'd reached Chapman, he was in agony. Miles later, reaching Grand Avenue, he could barely move. His stops to rest grew longer and more frequent. Further on, at Seventeenth Street in Santa Ana, he was in tears. Still, he kept on going. If he was going to make good on his misdeed, he would have to make it home; he had to return to the Heart.

Pickers were not permitted to sell the produce they took off the farm and could only take what the owner allowed. This meant that the most generous only let the Picker take a handful of whatever they were picking, docked from their pay. This was never enough to help the Picker's family, which was usually too poor to afford enough food already. This is why Ydalgo brought his oranges to Downtown Santa Ana. With no markets for miles around, most of the chain stores had abandoned downtown Santa Ana years ago, only humble, little wholesale stores and pawn shops did business there. Ydalgo's cart full of swollen, ripe oranges, stopped in front of the Woolworth's the next morning, was like a beacon. Ydalgo could barely stand and his hands were sore as he took in the money for his sales. The nearby families bought all of his oranges within hours. With almost twenty dollars, Ydalgo figured that if he could keep this up every day, he and his baby would be rich.

He took the cart back to the Jenson home and his rented room. The Jenson's were one of the few white families still living in the Heart. Their house was a conservatively painted, grey, two-storied structure with white trim. The garage was detached and set back away from the house, in the back yard. Its appearance said that no amount of poverty that crept up Fifth Street would touch their home; they'd fight it with their last breath. The home would remain theirs until the mid-1980's when the Jenson's would lose it to the vampires as a result of the Lincoln Savings scandal. A harbinger of the vampire society, people like Charles Keating wouldn't lose so much as a night's sleep over the whole matter.

The Jenson's allowed Ydalgo to park the cart in the back as he didn't have a car. In the light of day, it would need work. The cart had never been painted and the wheel was wobbling, seemingly unsure of its relationship to the cart. Ydalgo couldn't take the time to fix that now. The Jenson's knew about Sorina's death and the new child that had come into their lives. May Jenson, vibrant looking in her fifties, unaware of her fate, pulled her Dodge out of the garage and encouraged Ydalgo to get in. Chris Jenson was at work as usual, owner of an auto garage on Main Street, but had encouraged May to help him. Strict Lutherans, both felt awful about not helping the young couple when they could and would now help the lone father and his child whenever the opportunity presented itself.

"Come on in, 'Dalgo," May shouted, her west-Texan twang pulling heavily in her voice.

As the car's engine rumbled, tired of being limited to park, Ydalgo stepped tiredly into the car, sitting with a thud onto the bench seat. Seatbeltless, May veered out onto Fifth Street and let the car roar to the stop sign. "Isn't this exciting," she said more than asked.

Ydalgo shifted on the cool leather, watching the streets as they passed. Unsure of his english, he looked hard at her for a moment, then smiled. "Oh, si. Um, yes. Very happy."

"Do you have everything," May asked, turning down Main Street. By the time they reached Seventeenth, Ydalgo still hadn't replied and she quietly wondered if she should ask again. She never was very comfortable with her spanish. "Um, tu... have everything... tienes?"

Ydalgo smiled again, watching Bristol near. "Um, yes. Sorina... sewed blankets."

May didn't want to be rude. She waited as they drove through the light, afternoon traffic for him to continue. Yet, even when they turned down Memory Lane, the short connector to The City Drive and the hospital, he still hadn't continued. "What about diapers," she asked.

He formed the strange word in his mouth. "Di-a-pers?"

"Oh, Lord," May quietly intoned. The young father had no idea what he was in for but May swore she'd see to it that he was prepared. Chris would have wanted it that way. As she pulled into the hospital's driveway, she told Ydalgo, "Now, I'm just gonna dash out and get something from the shops. You wait for me, hear?"

Ydalgo nodded. "Si. We wait." He hadn't completed his reply before he turned and ran towards the hospital's entrance.

To hear Abby tell the tale, as I did so many years later, was to see a daughter's face light up with pride in her father. Ydalgo didn't speak english very well and stumbled around, from ambivalent desk to ambivalent desk, asking, "Mi baby? Mi baby?" No one would help him because even those who cared couldn't understand what he replied when they asked if they could help. On, he continued through the hospital. Thankfully, this was long before the day when security guards would be posted to keep people away from their loved ones and vampires turned hospitals from being places of healing into places of profit.

Ydalgo couldn't find anyone who spoke spanish but one person did understand that he wanted to find the maternity floor. By that time, Doctor Esperanza was called up from the emergency room to translate for Ydalgo.

"Estoy buscando mi nina," Ydalgo said.

Doctor Esperanza took Ydalgo to the nursery where sixteen clean little beds lay set out in a square. Nearly half of those baby beds were taken but Ydalgo didn't have to look for long before he saw his. He knew her right away. It was that flaming red hair. Only a few wisps at the time, it was more than enough to alert anyone coming. This was Abigail Ayrnes' grand-daughter! She was so small and so perfect, laying there so still in her sleep, Ydalgo didn't care to wipe the tears falling down his cheeks.

Doctor Esperanza opened the door to the nursery and asked the nurse on duty, "Where's the mother for that one?"

He pointed and the nurse knew immediately of whom he spoke. "Died in labor."

Doctor Esperanza nodded. "Somebody's got her file? I'll help him fill it out."

This was the world when Abby was born. A world of charity and kindness. A world where people did the things they ought to do. Also, perhaps, a world that never existed. For every good deed, there was wrong doing. It was the 1960's. The Klu Klux Klan was still at the height of its power. Nigger was a word as commonplace as any other. The best schools were for the richest offspring. But from a time when equality was so hard - and you didn't have to look farther than your evening news to see that - we've come to a time when equality has come far too easily.

I'm not saying that Abby was born into a perfect time, no more so than any era is perfect. Look, Abby would be scorned many times as a child as a "dirty Mexican". But, you know what? It would still happen after she graduated high school, just as there would still be racism. It would just be more covert, more insidious. And in that time, how far did we go? Children have gone from being our future to a crude tool for so-called "pro-lifers". There's no longer a need for welfare. Throw them out on the streets because they're equal with the rest of us. The different ethnicities have become so "equal" so quickly that no one had the time to realize that we're all human. This shame brought my people to introduce such ridiculous euphemisms as "person of color" and "african-american" which brought responses such as "What color?" and "Would that mean that all americans need a prefix?". There's no longer a need for charity. Even employers have happily accepted this new "equality". The day of the valued employee has given way to the "temp". Loyalty has been reduced to meat, blood, and bone. We're all equal. Manners, decency, scruples - they've all given way to this new equality.

It's a vampire equality, darwinian in its scope. Only the brutal survive. The worst of us rise to the top. Abraham Lincoln would never survive here. Nor would Martin Luther King. Gandhi, Emmanuel Kant, Jesus Christ, none would be able to flourish in our utilitarian, vampire society. Ironically, though, sensitivity survives. Sensitivity has been packaged and wrapped, smoked, cured, pressed, and sliced for our convenience and consumption. What else would be worthy of our vampire society? Churches will call upon sensitivity so they can pay salaries and built monuments to their reverent folly. On any given channel of the television at any given time, organizations are asking for money for diseases and other ills your donations won't go towards curing. And then, the marketplace sells sensitivity in all sorts of odd packages. So now the Klu Klux Klan has gone into hiding. Nigger has become the "N" word. Our schools have settled securely into the lowest common denominator from which only the brightest can fail. Our society is weak and the vampires are fat.

But as Ydalgo held little Abby after Doctor Esperanza helped him fill out his forms, he anticipated none of this. He thought only of his child. There, in his arms, she made it very clear to him how he was blessed. Her skin was so soft; he brought his index finger down along her face as she lay there, sleeping. In time, she'd wake and she'd speak and, then, she wouldn't shut up.

As Ydalgo walked out of the hospital, carrying a folder full of pamphlets in one arm and his newborn daughter in the next, he saw May Jenson smiling from her car. "Oh, it's beautiful," she exclaimed, reaching to hold her. Swaddled in a pink blanket, Abby was clearly a girl. "What is her name?"

Ydalgo had known what her name must be from the first moment. "Abigail," he replied, his voice thicker with emotion than from his accent. Every time he thought of her, he wanted to cry. He knew Sorina would have loved her, would have died for her, and that made her passing easier to bear. Though no one would ever replace her, he tried to believe that, perhaps, her death wasn't meaningless. As he took back his daughter and May started the Dodge, he knew the meaning was in his hand. He'd never resent Abby for the loss of his love. There was a deep understand that death gave way to life and that no life was to be more cherished than that which had meaning.

May drove back to her house, silent. Ydalgo held his daughter like he'd never let her go. The huge trunk behind them was filled with diapers, bottles, and clothes. As the sun sank over the Pacific, little Abby had everything she would need.

And when they returned to the Jenson home, more awaited them. Some would have called it a miracle. May certainly did, thanking god for Ydalgo's good fortune. Ydalgo, however, would never reduce it to a name so meaningless. Before them, just as full as when Ydalgo had pushed it, burning his hands with the blisters that now rested against Abby's soft skin, Ydalgo's cart had been transformed. Where it had once been grey and worn, it was now painted with yellows and oranges, reds and browns. Fiesta colors for a fiesta day. The wheel had been fixed, replaced with one newer and stronger. The split and splintered handles were taped strong. And inside it was full as it had ever been, full of ripe, juicy oranges for Ydalgo to sell.

He knew who had done it. Somehow, the Pickers had learned about what had happened. They knew about Abby's birth and Sorina's death and, in the face of that, cared little about Ydalgo's crime. From where the cart had come was meaningless. Where it was going, the new paint and fresh oranges told Ydalgo that was what held meaning.

This is the charity of friendship, the charity of community. Something not often seen in our times, something saved for Christmas movies or church sermons but rarely performed in real life. The republican party, the party of the vampire in that time, proposed in the early 1990's to abolish social welfare programs in favor of this community form of charity. Mind you, they knew full well that such instances were few and far between but, spitting out their cynical sludge, could still make the proposal with straight faces.

But there in the Heart, the hispanic community was tightly knit. So, it always was with immigrant cultures until becoming disjointed by El Norte. We saw this happen to the hispanic community during the 1980's and 1990's until, finally, they were at each other's throats, vampires.

Ydalgo tried to find his friends to thank them for what they'd done. He asked Robert Elzinga down the block but Robert claimed to have had nothing to do with it. Ramon Calderon denied providing any oranges or paint as well. Down the blocks he went from door to door, trying to find someone to thank: Javier Prieto, Levi Lacruesta, Jimmy Sanchez. None would confess to the deed. There was no need to - it wasn't done for credit but, rather, because it needed doing. All that mattered was that Ydalgo knew he had people who cared and who were willing to do whatever it took to help him.

He returned to the Jenson home happy and not sure why. One look at his daughter's face, though, and he knew exactly why. It was to her that the credit belonged. Ydalgo would never have survived Sorina's death if not for her. And though the theft of the cart would always leave a stain upon his soul, he didn't care. He had done it for her. That's why the people in the Heart had been so kind to him, because of her. She was his savior and he worshiped her.

Chris had returned by the time Ydalgo walked back into the Jenson home. He and May were looking upon the beautiful little girl laying so quietly in the crib they had pulled out of their garage, remembering their own children for whom it had originally been saved, now grown and moved away. In the vampire society, families rarely stay together. Rugged individualism is preached. People are reduced to interchangeable parts that will go anywhere for a job. As the right wing began to discover the "family values" platform that would carry them through the 1980's and 1990's, no one actually did anything to save the family.

Chris had been glad to see the stacks of fresh, cloth diapers that May had picked up from Tidy Didy, a local diaper service. To Ydalgo, it looked like another miracle, and though he couldn't find the responsible parties for his cart, he knew exactly who did this. Tears sprang forth for the second time that day and he put his arms around May, whispering a hoarse, "Gracias."

He had never embraced May before, had never had more than a few words for her when the rent was due. May stepped away from him, took his hands, and looked him squarely in the eyes so he understood what she was going to say. "You're all alone now, 'Dalgo," she told him in straight, Texan language. "You're gonna need some family. Somebody you can count on. You understand?"

Ydalgo was only getting a few words. "Alone," he understood, along with "family" and "somebody". All in all, though, he was getting the message. He nodded. "Si."

"We'd like to be that somebody. We'll be your family now, 'Dalgo. You're a good man. We know you always did your best by Sorina and we know you'll do your best by little Abby but you cannot do it alone, 'Dalgo. You need family. We'll be your family, 'Dalgo. We'll be your family." She looked over at Chris, who had listened quietly, and asked, "Isn't that right, Christopher?"

Chris nodded at Ydalgo. "You bet."

Ydalgo didn't know what to say and, if he had, he didn't know if he would have been able to say it. He simply whispered in reply, "Gra - Th-thank, thank you."

With Chris' help, Ydalgo moved the crib into the room he had shared with Sorina. There amidst the pictures she had brought from her home, her hairbrush sitting next to their mirror, and her bedclothes set upon the bed like it was just another day, Abby was placed beside the bed. Ydalgo moved slowly through the room as if he was swimming in the deepest ocean. First, he picked up Sorina's bedclothes, a large men's pajama top, purchased from Woolworth's, that had covered her belly and ended at her knees. Ydalgo remembered unbuttoning one or two buttons at her swollen belly and caressing her in the night when her discomfort was greatest. And the way her moans would turn to sighs.

"'Dalgo," Chris asked, intruding in his sorrow. "'Dalgo?" Ydalgo looked up from the soft cloth. "We talked to the hospital. They needed to know what to do, um, with her... body. We didn't much think you'd like the idea of her being cremated so, well, there's this place in Tustin off of Fairhaven. It ain't much but we thought it's the least we could do."

Ydalgo heard words as if they were spoken underwater. Abby may have saved him from the destruction of his tragedy but she couldn't save him from this, from his circumstances. The pain he felt holding something Sorina had worn, knowing he'd have to get rid of them, tore at his guts. Not being able to know what Chris was saying angered him terribly. Knowing that he could do no better for Abby was even worse. He looked up at his landlord. "Chris. Do you, um..." He put his hands out flat, holding them at subtle angles to each other. "Book," he exclaimed. "To reading for my daughter."

Chris nodded. He understood. "Books. Yeah. Of course, I'll get you some!"

"Gracias," Ydalgo replied, hoping he'd made his point.

It took a few days before Chris found just the right books, something Ydalgo could read to Abby yet would hold the new father's interest. May went out and bought an extensive spanish-english dictionary and Chris fished out from the stacks of boxes in their garage his hardbound editions of C. S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia.

And, so, Ydalgo began to learn english. Reading aloud to his baby girl about the wondrous wardrobe and the lands beyond, is it any wonder, then, that Abby would end up working so much magic with her words? Is it any wonder that her words inspired so many and that so many loved her? And is it really any wonder that her voice died on that hot, November day in 1987 when she held Ydalgo's dead body in her arms?
Chapter 3

### Even as the vampire society consumes, it teaches us that we must be vampires as well.

I wasn't born in Southern California but rather was an unwanted baby found one morning at the front door of Swedish Hospital in Seattle, Washington. Perhaps that explains my affinity for rain and why I get so perturbed at Californians who gawk at a few drops, running around in the mildest sprinkles with their umbrellas and coats, conned by some wily vampire of their necessity.

Though I was an unwanted baby, I believe it should be made very clear that I would never advocate the vampire's so-called "right to life" platform. For, even though I may be a beneficiary of such a belief system, how then would you rationalize the trend started in the 1980's, which grew much worse in the 1990's, as abortion and other birth control was increasingly restricted to women, of babies being thrown into garbage cans?

Abortion is a form of birth control, make no doubt about that. However, few are the women who would opt for an abortion had they the access to other forms of birth control, no matter what the vampires will tell you. The "Christian Conservatives", the republican party, and all the rest of that fang-toothed breed, however, have consistently tried to prevent the use of any form of birth control, not just abortions, save their own. They call it "abstinence". To abstain means to keep yourself from doing something. To have others tell you to abstain is to let others tell you what you can and cannot do. It's control, the vampire's optimum condition.

Does it matter that birth control helps to prevent the dissemination of diseases such as AIDS? No. The vampires were the first to brand AIDS "the gay disease" or, worse, "god's punishment for the homosexual's sins". Does it matter that birth control helps prevent the occurrence of abortions? No. The vampires care not a whit for the mother or the baby. And does it matter that birth control and abortions help to control the population? Absolutely not! For the vampire needs but one thing: fresh meat. New bodies. It needs to consume, to feast. When babies are thrown in the garbage, they behave shocked. They say that it is indicative of the immorality in our society. When babies starve, they gasp. They say that it shows the family is falling apart.

They're right, you know. And the joke's on us. Our society is immoral. Better, it's unethical. Families are falling apart. What the vampires aren't telling you is that it is they who are the culprit. Even as they look for blame, they are to be blamed.

It is the horror of the world in which we live.

And, so, I was fortunate to have been born before the age of disposable babies. My parents, whoever they are, put me in a basket like something out of a movie upon the shores of an empty sea. It would be two years before I was rescued, washed up to my family, the Wests. They were a white couple doing something very frowned upon at the time. My mom always said that they didn't notice the color of my skin until that day I spoke to them about it. They are the most color-blind people I know and they raised me with the decency and respect that comes only from being open-minded, educated, and Kantianly ethical. They were a rare breed of folk you don't find much today who put their beliefs before their memberships. It was for this reason that they belonged neither to a church nor to a political party.

They maintained a modest lifestyle, never buying more than they needed and seldom desiring that which they couldn't have. They only owned one car and drove it little. They composted before it was fashionable, recycled once it was allowable, ate as little meat as possible. In short, they were an anathema in a society leaning further towards the proclivities of the vampire.

My mom couldn't get pregnant. For a couple with love to spare, it was a cruel joke that mom's anatomy denied her. Unlike many infertile couples in our vampirian age, here in the early twenty-first century, my folks only wanted a child. Any child. It didn't have to be "theirs". They were honorable enough not to submit themselves to the vampire. They wouldn't breed like rats thanks to some fertility drug or impregnate someone else just to say it was "theirs". All children needed love, they knew. And that's how I entered their lives. I'd been shuffled around from orphanage to foster home, from state to state, ending up in Southern California and in my parent's arms.

Why adopt a black kid? My mom always said it was my good looks and I always believed her. Still, I think there was more to it than that and, though they never strayed much from Mom's story, Dad gave me an inkling of the truth just a few years ago. "Do you know who does most of the adopting, Nate," he asked me. "Affluent white families," he said, providing the answer. "No, it's true. I mean, most affluent families are going to be white just because of the way our society is. And who are they going to adopt? I hate to say this, son, but, with only a few exceptions, they're going to want someone who looks like them." I already knew this. I'd been told for years, "Hey, nigger, those ain't yo' folks!" That people dwell morbidly on each other's differences is a reality impossible to escape, a weak genetic trait yet to be purged. My dad, however, continued, "What we saw, Nathan, that nobody else saw - not even our case worker - was that you did look like us. Remember what I told you?"

I remembered.

It was what I remember as one of the Talks. It seemed like my dad had prepared these before I was born, these Talks. There have been many of them throughout my life and, now that I'm older, I'm always hoping for more. There was the Girl Talk. The Responsibility Talk. A variety of Ethics Talks. The God Talk. The Achievement Talk. The Compassion Talk. And then, one summer afternoon, while backpacking with my dad, there was the Race Talk.

It was usual for him to wait until we were far from home before he started. On this particular occasion, we were hiking through the Cleveland National Forest in south-eastern Orange County. He had hiked silently all morning long until we came upon a particularly inviting rock formation. He climbed up onto it and invited me up. "Have a seat, Nate." Sitting beside him, he reached out and took my hand. He was always a very physical man, hugging me whenever he felt like it, so it came as no surprise. Carefully, he inspected my hand down to every line in my palm. Pronating and supinating, he examined every angle. Then, lowering my hand back down to the rock, he put his down beside mine. "Look at that, Nate. Look at our hands. D'you see any difference?"

I remember smiling at the question. "Well, yours is bigger than mine." I was only thirteen at the time.

"Yes. You're right. Mine is bigger. Mine's older looking, too. It's got a whole lot more wrinkles. But, what else do you see?"

"Well, that's simple, dad. I'm black and you're white," I replied.

He nodded. "That's the last time I am ever going to allow that to be the right answer. You understand me, son? It's true that I'm white and you're black but from here on in I want you to forget that. Now, you're going to have a lot of people in your life tell you that it's something important. They're going to tell you that either the whites are better because they're white or that the blacks are better because they're black but what have I always told you about extremists?"

"That the truth lies somewhere in the middle," I answered.

"Find the mean. That's what Aristotle said. I'm telling you, you're going to find good folk and rotten folk with white skin and with black skin and with every shade in-between. Just because a white person does something wrong it doesn't make it okay just because he's white and if a black person is found doing something wrong, their skin color doesn't pardon them, either. Blacks and whites, browns and yellows, reds and greens all have the same organs, the same number of fingers and toes, the same senses, the same heart, the same brain. They all come from the same family, Nathan. They're all human. From this day forward, when you look at these hands," he said, putting our hands back together, "I want you to tell yourself that they're human hands. Now, they're all different; you're going to find that out. But the color of a man's skin never makes him any better or any worse than any other. Understood?"

Actually, I hadn't a clue as to what he was talking about. I was too young, I guess. Not yet old enough to understand "right" and "wrong". I was in those "do as you're told" years. My dad never allowed that, though. From my youngest age, I remember him insisting that I understand and never letting up until he was sure that I did.

And, so, my dad was still after me to understand the wrongness in the races when I got my first clue. I remember it was during physical education class and I wanted to play racquetball. "You don't play racquetball, boy," the coach yelled. "Come over here and play basketball." Himself a black man, he couldn't understand when I showed no natural aptitude for the sport.

"Sure he didn't," my dad explained that night. "Son, he's going to expect you to excel in football and track as well. He's going to expect you to listen to a certain kind of music played in the inner city and speak in broken english as well."

"But, why," I asked.

"For the same reason he would expect a white student to play baseball, eat bologna sandwiches... maybe even surf and have no rhythm. It's all part of the stereotype. Let me ask you something. What kind of food do mexicans eat?"

"Um, mexican food," I answered.

"What's their favorite music?"

"Mariachi?"

"Do they get involved with gangs?"

"Sure. F-Troop," I replied, citing one of the largest gangs in Santa Ana.

"Exactly," my dad answered, looking so smug that I knew I'd fallen into his trap. "But none of that's true. You know? That's like saying you should eat nothing but chitlins and black-eyed beans and I should live off of nothing but macaroni and cheese and meatloaf. You see? You've fallen for the stereotype. Do you see how insulting it is to say that mexicans are nothing but mariachi singing gang members who eat greasy food?"

I laughed at the thought. "I guess."

"So, you've got to break out of that stereotype, son. Next time your coach tells you that you're supposed to play basketball - and play it well just because you're black - ask him if he thinks you should get yourself a 'fro as well. Then, respectfully inform him that you'd rather play racquetball." He took my hand and put it next to his. "Remember? Skin color does not make a difference. We're human beings. We're all brothers. Got that?"

And so, the next day, I asked the coach when he instantly assigned me to a basketball team, "Say, broth'a! You want me to get a 'fro, too?!"

He turned around slowly, his eyes filled with contempt. And I knew why. I had been given reason to give that look before as well. He thought I was mocking him, the way some people not of my ethnicity mocked me. It was the stereotype, come back to haunt us. Like someone making a joke about the vato cruising down the "boulebard in his Che-by" or the slant-eyed chink who yells "Banzai!!" or the dirt-poor indian drunk off one beer... it didn't end. "I'm sorry," I told him, "but I don't like basketball. I'd much rather play racquetball."

"Fine," he spat. "You go play racquetball." I could see that he wanted to say more and only his professionalism prevented him.

What would he say now, in the first decade of the twenty-first century, when the black male's stereotype has become a bunch of gang-bangers, blasting hip-hop and talking about their "homies in the hood" and other crap like that. A large part of the stereotype is, and has always been, the vernacular. Ebonics. Not a language. Not much of a derivation, either. There are those out there who say it is something for which the black people should be proud. My dad always told me that poor grammar was just poor grammar. I can't help but wonder what some blacks would think if white people called pig-latin a different language, which they held dear. The funniest part is that once it was called "Jive". The Bee Gees sang about it. There was a joke about it in the movie "Airplane". Yet, here we are in the age of the vampire, when black people have to have their own language. Not even an honorable language such as one from our native continent, they have to embarrass us with this slang.

There are just as many black vampires as white, though the white people have had a pretty good head start. I am grateful, though, to my dad who insisted I not place the weight of my pride solely on the color of my skin. It has given me a great deal of perspective when people try to tell me that my "race" is better than others or that other "races" are better than mine. When Reverend Farrakhan spews his hate, acting as though it somehow benefits my people, I can laugh or I can cry but I sure as hell don't believe a word he says. The same goes for many white leaders through the years, like Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, Newt Gingrich, or the leaders of any other religion or ethnicity. For I know that the color of one's skin is only skin deep. And if God created people in so many different shades then why wouldn't he allow all kinds of different viewpoints?

Simply put, there is evil in every group of people, every segregation you can imagine, just as there is good. The only breed that crosses all lines is the vampire.

So, I went to the equipment room and checked out a racquet and a ball. Walking back to the courts, I could find only one not occupied. The rest were filled with competitors of all colors and sizes. One label I will put on them, though, was that, to a person, they were all embarrassingly good. Embarrassing for me; I didn't think I could fly from one side of the court to the other, high and low, like they did.

"Have you come to be beaten by a girl or just to watch?"

I looked behind me and saw her there, sitting on the concrete in her oversized, school-issued shorts and men's t-shirt, a Pee-Chee folder bent back over one knee propping it up. A pen was in one hand while the other reached for the racket at her side, a sly look in her eyes. She wore her hair longer then; this was during our freshman year in high school.

"Neither," I replied, slowly. I pointed at her notebook. "You look busy, anyway."

"Never," she said, shutting the folder with a clap and setting it on a dry patch of concrete. "Never too busy to win!" As she jumped up, her racket now in hand, I could see that she retained some of the baby fat from her earlier years. Though I'd never call her fat, Abby was not one to listen to the new conventional wisdom of women's fashion which dictated an Auschwitz vogue, bodies resembling to a frightening degree the drained victims of the vampires.

She pulled a ball out of her pocket and bounced it. "Ready?"

I looked into the court with an expression of uncertainty. "Looks like all the rain's puddled up in our court." The remnants of a recent downpour remained only in our court, which is why all the others were taken.

She stepped into serving position. "You ever skipped a stone?"

"Sure, I -"

"Just remember how you did it," she replied so quickly I didn't have a chance to finish and, with a deft swing, smashed the little, blue ball into the wet corner. The water didn't seem to slow it and it went spinning to the court's edge. Spraying the water it had retained, it was going to land inside the court despite its speed. With a quick sidestep, I brought my racket down, stopping it but as it lobbed toward the wall, I could tell its spin had worked against me and it landed in the puddle with a plunk. "Damn," I muttered.

"Don't feel too bad," she offered. "Most guys won't go after the Wet Willie."

Later, we both sat upon the hard concrete and I asked her, "So, what's in the folder?"

She'd pulled out a pad of paper and was sketching in that jagged, cubic way of hers. She was sketching me though she wasn't looking up. "Pieces," she replied.

The pieces, as it turned out, were unfinished poems, things she'd often start but never finish. One of them read:

Baby, you can drive my car

Wherever you go there you are

Roads are made of more than tar

So you better be cautious

Another read:

Money is nothing but meaningless paper

And just for a taste of it, gladly, a caper

Would be pushed and be pulled no matter the toll

This paper will charge on your unlucky soul

Abby had always felt she'd be an artist, someday. Since a young age, she'd been playing with words, images, structure and sound, never knowing where her art would finally take her.

The pads of paper came cheapest and most readily. So, it was convenient for her to etch out words or pictures. Ydalgo sold them from his van at a dollar each, though he only paid thirty cents from the office supply clearing house with which he dealt.

Much had changed since Abby had been a small girl. It wasn't long until Ydalgo's friends could no longer provide him with free produce for him to sell. Within two weeks of Abby's birth, Ydalgo was asked how he planned to support his child and the person who asked him wasn't one of his friends or his new family. It was Robert Elzinga's wife who approached him one gloomy, June morning, casually asking her question. Ydalgo had no answer and his lack of response locked him up like a dry piston. He knew her question was far from casual and its urgency lay in the fact that his friend couldn't ask him. Robert had resorted to sending in his wife!

"Is something wrong, 'Dalgo," Chris Jenson asked him that night, approaching Ydalgo as the young father looked on at his cart. He had no ideas and no oranges and only thirty dollars in his pocket. Now, somehow, he had to tell his landlord he was out of money.

Ydalgo turned around, his hands shaking. Instead of diverting his eyes, he brought his head up, hoping to keep his dignity despite the tragedy befalling him. Once there, his eyes wouldn't move, wouldn't budge. They were held like a magnet and Ydalgo couldn't speak so long as they were held there.

Chris said, "I know that look." Stepping forward, taking Ydalgo's arm, he led him inside. "Come on, let's talk about it over a beer."

Once Ydalgo started talking, he found he couldn't stop. Months of solitude spilled out from him. Before he was alone with his child, he'd been alone with a pregnant wife. He'd been alone ever since his mother had shut him out. And, so, it was that Ydalgo told the tale told by so many in our society. The tale of aloneness. Sure. Aloneness is an existential fact of life; we're born as we die, alone. But only in America, in the vampire society, are individuals raised to embrace aloneness. Parents are taken from their children to earn a living and, from an early age, children are taken from their homes to attend schools so packed with others that they become alone in the crowd. Just as employment in our vampire society is a succession of jobs held for such a short time that long-term relationships, a sense of family, cannot be formed, so, too, are the schools to which our children are sent. Long term employment has given way to habitual downsizing (or whatever the politically correct phrase is these days) and temporary employment. Schools are composed of class after class of blender-mixed rosters, impeding the formation of bonds and friendships. To compensate for this, clubs are formed in schools and organizations and support groups are established for adults but how can any of these, how can a family hope to, survive in a society where the very act of living has been turned into a panicked search for something better? Even as the vampire society consumes, it teaches us that we must be vampires as well.

And how does the vampire society address the plight of those who are alone? How does it help people like Ydalgo, who have no safety net to catch them when they fall upon hard times? Well, Ydalgo was not yet a citizen and his residency had not been finalized by the time Abby was born. He was eligible for nothing. Had he been a citizen in today's vampire society, the situation would have been just as bleak. Welfare has been turned into Workfare. The Great Society, the Helping Hand, has been turned into a meat grinder. Acts of conscience are as temporary as anything else in our vampire society and if you don't find a job, you will be cut off. The vampire society can't use people who are down on their luck and would rather forget all about them.

That's what our communities have done. Just as people are dropped through the poorly patched net of Workfare, they are dropped into our streets with whatever they are fortunate enough to keep. These are the "homeless". Without homes, they are also without hope, grace, and even their dignity has been stolen from them. The vampire politicians say that churches will help them in the end but churches are too busy building monuments to their leaders and mansions for their god to consider helping a mere human being. Even Jesus Christ has been given fangs.

Chris was worried. He and May didn't have the kind of money necessary to help support a new family. The supplies they'd bought for little Abby had nearly broken them. But he was always a firm believer in the middle ground. Surely, something could be done if only they thought hard enough.

It was May, stepping in to tell them that dinner was ready, who had the first germ of an idea. "Well, if you're sellin' those oranges downtown cause there ain't any stores, why don't you just drive him down to the Market Basket, Chris?"

Chris shook his head. "Cause, May, he won't turn enough profit for it to be worth his while."

"Well, why don't you buy more? The man in the produce section's bound to cut you a better deal, then."

"No, May, you just don't understand. We'd have to buy a whole lot and the only people who..." Chris turned back to Ydalgo who'd only seen things going from bad to worse until Chris smiled. "You used to pick. Right, Ydalgo? You know the farm owners?"

Ydalgo shook his head, slowly. "Si."

Chris was already up and going for his keys. "Get in the car!"

Dinner was cold when they returned. Being before the days of the microwave oven, May used some of her small-town sensibility and made a dark gravy for the meatloaf, warming the food that it dressed. "Ydalgo's got an in with just about all the farmers in north county. We put in an order of oranges with one and let the others know of our interest," Chris explained, shoveling in his plate of food.

"Yes," Ydalgo added, dunking one of May's homemade rolls. "I owe Chris a deep debt."

May tried not to look angry, asking, "How deep, Chris?"

He looked up. "They needed some money up front. We're new to them and it's a small account. We'll more than make up for it, though. Ydalgo's going to pay us back and he's agreed to give us ten percent for storage fees."

"Storage fees," May asked.

Chris put down his fork. "Well, May, it's gonna be crates of oranges. We can't store them here. 'Sides, I got that back room at the garage. It'd be good for storage."

"What about this debt, Chris?"

Taking a deep breath, Chris replied, "A hundred dollars."

A hundred dollars? May kept her composure though her husband had spent part of their mortgage payment. She knew he'd tell her they'd make it up next month but she worried how many times they'd have to bail out Chris' new partner, even if Ydalgo was nearly family. Okay, she thought, I'll let him slide on this one. He knows what he's done.

Suddenly, crying erupted from upstairs. "Darn it," May swore. "I was sure I had her down for at least a little while."

Ydalgo shoveled in his last piece of meatloaf and said through a full and chewing mouth. "Don't worry, May. I promise I paying you back soon."

As he ran upstairs, she turned to her husband. "You, my friend, do not know how to say no."

Ydalgo was able to pay them back before the July fourth holiday and was able to take some money to purchase a crate of lemons which he sold on that day at an exorbitant rate to his hot customers with a promise that the lemonade would be perfectly quenching. Without the help of Chris and May Jenson, he would very likely have been out on the streets, begging for the bus fare to return to Rosarito. An incredible stroke of luck, when you think of it. What typifies the vampire society more than the "I, Me, Mine" attitude? The focus is on what I have, what I can do for Me, and what is Mine. How rare in any neighborhood that someone would display some charity or generosity? More words handily purged from our vocabulary and left only for unrealistic bed-time stories.

It seems ironic to me that Abby's father became a merchant. What separates that from a vampire, after all? When Abby would one day rant against the vampires, wasn't she doing nothing more than carrying on against her father? That has yet to be seen.

With Chris' encouragement, Ydalgo quickly moved away from selling citrus and began stocking the harder to find produce which those who lived in the Heart desired. Tomatoes, zucchini, and the perennial favorite, strawberries soon found their way onto Ydalgo's cart. Slowly, as the years passed, he came to realize that he was once again safe. Though little Abby never had everything she wanted, she never went hungry.

It was 1979 when the big change came. Ydalgo had been thinking about it for over a year but everything had to be just right. He had nearly five thousand dollars in the bank. His residency papers were finalized. Abby was leaving her elementary school and would be moving on to junior high. The cart, though it had gone through more than a dozen paint jobs and nearly as many wheels, wouldn't last much longer. Though he'd patched it several times, it was clearly falling apart. Most of his old customers were gone. Markets were moving into the Heart and downtown Santa Ana was changing. It was becoming a scary place, much like Los Angeles had become. Ydalgo often heard of muggings and gang activity and tried his best to keep to his safe route and only be out during the day. These indications were a constant reminder to him. Things had to change.

The Ayrnes family had to move on.

May Jenson didn't like it much. She'd watched little Abby grow from diapers to their first trip to Disneyland. May had been there on Abby's first day in school and helped with the first math homework. It wasn't that Ydalgo didn't love his daughter; Abby was his world. Sadly, though, like most single parents in our society, he had to work his fingers to the bone just to eck out a decent living, rarely giving him any real time with his daughter. May Jenson was the person who spent most of the time with Abby. She felt, and rightly so, like Abby was a daughter to her. She was the mother Abby never had as well as the aunt and even the sister. Chris became Abby's uncle, enjoying May's happiness. He was more interested in teaching Ydalgo how to run his business and Ydalgo learned for eleven years.

Perhaps it was her close relationship with May that kept Abby from ever fully embracing her roots. Mexican, she would admit she was of that heritage but when asked her nationality, she would unwaveringly reply, "American." She spoke little spanish, just enough to please her father, and, with her red hair, never really looked the part of a latina.

This is what drew us together in high school. She, a red-haired mexican raised with the help of a white woman. Me, a straight-haired black raised by white parents. I felt, just as she did, that an invisible wall had been put up between myself and others of my culture. I had few black friends as a child and that continues through today. We just don't connect. There's something missing.

Is this wrong? In a small way, perhaps it is. But the misdeed lies, not with my adopted parents but, rather, with myself. Like people turning away when they see someone with a handicap, I've never really made the effort to reach out. I've become comfortable with my handicap. But I can't help but think that this must become less common as years go by. Just as people used to look away from those in wheelchairs and those bound to their chairs felt isolated inside of them, people of mixed, ethnic backgrounds will no longer feel isolated or the need to isolate themselves. Barriers are breaking down daily which once separated ideologies, regions, languages, cultures, and, yes, even the so-called "races". It is my hope, if not necessarily Abby's, that this sensibility will one day lead to an understanding of the vampire society. For only through understanding our flaws can positive change be achieved.

Ydalgo didn't want to cry when he gave the Jensons the news, but fat drops smeared his face anyway. What Abby would call "sorrowful rain". May held his hand and assured him that everything would be all right. She and Chris would still be there for them, she told him, having no way to know that, within a decade, they would lose everything they had and have to move back to Amarillo and live with her sister's family. Chris, too, gave his support and sat with Ydalgo through the evening, discussing his business plans.

While the general idea remained the same, Ydalgo saw how it could grow. The next morning, the two men went into Los Angeles where the police department was holding an auction of impounded cars. For two thousand dollars, Ydalgo was able to purchase a 1978 Dodge Van. The passenger seats had been torn out but, while others saw this as a flaw, it fit right into Ydalgo's plan. Chris looked over the rest of the van to be sure there was nothing else wrong with it. It took them two more weeks, while Ydalgo looked for an apartment outside of the Heart to share with his daughter, for he and Chris to convert it according to Ydalgo's plan. Metal shelving was screwed into the walls. A freezer was bolted into the floor. The passenger's door was sawed in half and a counter was fitted atop the bottom half. A permanent window was put into the window frame and Chris rigged bolts and locks so the top could be removed when necessary and put back in place and locked so the door was more secure than it had been before. Then, Chris tuned up the engine and both began painting inside and out. On Abby's eleventh birthday, Ydalgo drove up in it, parking it in front of the Jenson's home. On its sides and on the back was painted the words, " **Ayrnes Mercado del Móvil** ".

It was Ydalgo's belief, after selling produce and other sundry items from his cart for over a decade, that his success was only limited by his mobility. A fact of life, within the Heart, was that the big, chain stores were afraid to establish locations there. They'd say it was because there just wasn't any business to be had, no money to be made, as if immigrants and the poor didn't eat. They'd say that it just wasn't safe to build stores in the inner city because there was too much crime, too many gangs, as if there wasn't crime or gangs anywhere else. Most likely, it was a mix of both, along with heavy doses of racism, bigotry, paranoia, and fear, that kept them out. This meant that the only places where people could purchase their groceries was any one of the myriad, small liquor stores that sprang up in response to the need of the destitute and hopeless to drink. These locations were easy pickings for robbers. This gave businesses the impression that investment into those communities was dangerous and so the cycle continued. The liquor stores rarely sold good produce, if any at all. Ydalgo knew that there was a need. His job was to fill it. He'd continue to purchase his produce straight from the local farms, waking up at four o'clock three times each week to select his goods for sale, but he wouldn't limit himself. With the extra room the van afforded him, he'd stock other perishables, varieties of Pan Dulce, tortillas and loaves of bread, frozen foods in his freezer, little treats for children, some canned goods, and school supplies, including the yellow note pads which Abby would someday find herself doodling and waxing poetic upon.

Abby stepped out of the little house and saw the van there as something sent to carry her off to her death. Tears welled up in her eyes even as her father stood beside her, bragging about how much money it would bring in and what a fine new apartment they'd be living in. None of that mattered to Abby. It was the worst moment of her young life and it had an impact that would last even into high school.

I remember reading on her yellow notepad:

You've come to take me but you don't know where

You've come to take me but you don't care

You've come to take me, that's what you want

You've come to take me to see what you got

You've come to take me like nothing else mattered

You've come to take me but it's my life that you've shattered

You've come to take me and you think that you can

You've come to take me with all the certainty of a man

You've come to take me in your bright, shiny van

But I'd much rather stay.
Chapter 4

### Our vampire society has created a caste system based upon the amount you own.

Abby later told me, "My parents never had sex but I knew they loved each other. My mom was married to another man with whom she was in love; my dad came along later. I'm the only person I know whose parents separated before they ever married because they did, you know? From the first day that my dad took me away on that rolling acid trip (a sobriquet Abby had invented after seeing the overly colorful Dodge drive down the road), I felt as though May had relinquished her rights. All I was left with was the odd visitation."

Sometimes, not even that.

Their new home on Williams Street wasn't a world away from the Heart. In fact, it was less than five miles away. But set amidst the new apartment complexes, so near to Prentice Park and the Santa Ana Zoo and upscale Tustin, it was so far from the history and the heritage, the culture of the Heart, that it may as well have been in the North Pole. Ydalgo drove Abby to the complex of apartment buildings at which they'd live, parking on the street because he didn't know where his parking stall would be, and reached over to unlock Abby's door, which could only be unlocked from within. He ran out of the van and around to Abby's door, to find she still hadn't opened it. He opened her door for her, bringing his hand up to her face and pushing back a lock of hair. "What is it, mija? Your guests aren't supposed to be at your birthday party until noon. Right?"

She didn't speak, choosing only to nod her head.

"Hey? What is it?" Ydalgo went to embrace his daughter, all the better for picking her up and carrying her out of the car, but she wouldn't leave. With one hand holding tight to the chair and the other gripping tightly the big, pull-up, parking brake, she made her refusal clear.

"Abby," he scolded. "Don't do this." He turned and looked up to the many two-storied apartment buildings. "This is our new home! We'll have a swimming pool and we'll buy a television and you'll make lots of new friends." Turning back to her, he pleaded, "Come on. Get out of the car!"

In all her stories to me, it was always very clear: Abby loved her father. They shared common views on politics and society, long before her spirit became dark with the bitter reality of life. He loved her poetry. She always knew he was proud of her. It was very hard for Abby to hurt her father. But looking out of the van's door, seeing row upon row of anonymous apartment buildings, she knew all they held for her was expulsion from the garden. What Ydalgo saw as independence, Abby saw as solitude. What Ydalgo viewed as a step up, Abby viewed as a step down. As for the apartment he saw as theirs, Abby didn't know to whom it belonged. When Ydalgo gave Chris their monthly rent, it meant he was helping the two people who always treated her with love and respect. Now, some faceless entity was getting her father's money. The Jenson's were on their own. How vampirian.

But she couldn't stand to see the look he gave her, the hurt in his face. She let go of the parking brake, wanting to cry. Releasing the chair, she put her hand out to her father. "Okay, daddy."

He was nearly afraid to take it, almost afraid that she'd pull it away, but once her small hand was within his they were off on their way through the complex of buildings. Around them, families were moving into the recently finished units. Ydalgo's van fit in amongst the many trucks, the only one not moving things just yet. "Here it is," he said, leading his daughter to their new apartment. The manager had already given him the keys. They could have moved in on the first of June but Ydalgo had wanted his daughter to have one more birthday party in the house where she'd grown up. As he turned the key in the new deadbolt, he told his daughter, "Abigail. You're going to have a new kitchen and a new living room and a new bedroom, all your own. What do you think about that?"

Abby shook her head. Back then, when her red hair had been long, she'd worn it in a ponytail and it swished back and forth across her back.

He led her inside, where the tile and the carpet still held that thick, new smell and everything looked like it had just been hammered down. "Look at this! This is all ours, mija! Yours and mine!" He knelt before her, taking her hands. "And, if you want, we can write to your grandmother and she can come live with us. Would you like that?"

Abby didn't know who her grandmother was; she had no way of knowing how alike they were. Her father had never written to her grandmother, had hardly mentioned her before that day. He wouldn't tell her that he was waiting until her grandmother would have been proud of him. He wouldn't tell her that he first had to make a life for himself in el Norte, a life without Sorina. His mother had cursed him and turned away from him. Little Abby had become his only family. But now, perhaps now, Ydalgo's mother could forgive him. Maybe now was the time for him to show her how well he'd done.

Abby looked down at the thick, new carpeting, which was the same blonde color as that in all the other apartments, and whispered, "I guess."

Ydalgo barely heard her. He was looking at the apartment as if he'd never seen it before, as if he hadn't come back twice while looking for the best home he could find for his daughter, as if he hadn't already considered every square inch over the past few days. The clean walls. The big cupboards. The white, modern bathroom. "And look, here, Abby!" He ran to the sliding glass window not far away on the other side of the living room. "We have a yard!" He drew the curtains back and displayed their yard. Only a few yards square, most of it was covered in cement. This is what passed as adequate housing in the late 1970's. Things would only get worse towards the end of that century and into the next. While the rich built the mansions whose rooms they would never use, people like Ydalgo and Abby had to be content with a couple, cramped, cookie-cutter rooms and a "yard" absurdly true to its name. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to play. Only room enough to survive. Pens to hold the cattle upon which the vampires could prey.

As Abby sat on the floor, her back against the white painted wall, she thought of the other things that were missing. The familiar scent of May's favorite perfume or the cooking in which she took such pride. The sound of their voices to fill this hollow space. Even the light was missing something, passing as it did through the plain, beige curtains. May always had her pictures and her tiffany lamps, which seemed to soften the light and fill it with goodness. Now, everything was empty, the sounds, the smells, the feelings... like a prison.

Ydalgo looked down at Abby and said, "Aren't you happy, baby? You've got your own room. Your own yard."

"Yes, daddy," she replied, lacking the energy to look up at him. "But didn't we have all those things before?"

Even when they moved into the apartment, it remained empty. Their few belongings, instead of filling this small space, made the walls seem that much more imposing, cavernous, and alone. May and Chris allowed Ydalgo to take a few things. Abby kept the twin bed that had once belonged to one of the Jenson's children. Neither May nor Chris foresaw any use for it and Abby was loath to part with it. Even after she moved away from home, later in life, she kept her bed, one of the only things she still had from the only time in her life when peace had prevailed. Ydalgo was given a few pots and pans, some towels, a few dishes and a couple of odds and ends as well.

The first thing he bought was a sofa. It helped to fill the living room that, while small, Abby remembered as being so deep without it. Like just about everything else they owned, Ydalgo bought it from a garage sale. Among other things, the vampire society is a trickle-down society and the small Ayrnes family lived on one of the lowest rungs of that ladder, off of other people's cast-offs. Other furniture would have to wait until Ydalgo could afford it.

Sadly, the transition of his business had not gone as well as he had hoped. The women in the Heart who went to do the shopping for their families while the men worked, mostly at day labor, relied upon continuity to keep their lives stable and their aches and pains, from walking miles to the shops and carrying everything by hand, to a minimum. When they found that Ydalgo's cart was gone one morning, they forgot the weeks of promises he made to show up at their doorstep (or outside the increasing number of apartment buildings) with an even greater variety. They resigned themselves to having to walk down to the A&M Market on First Street, miles away, if they needed produce. Meanwhile, Ydalgo was driving the same route every day, never varying, lest anyone who heard him one day miss him the next, though he feared that he might be missing sales somewhere else. After this went on for four days, Ydalgo stayed up late one night, drinking his tea, trying to understand where he had gone wrong. Alone, he'd stop at buildings and knock on doors, only to receive no answer. People weren't waiting for him to come to them.

The next morning, he rose earlier than before. This time, he would enter the Heart before anyone started their long, unnecessary walks to the markets. Abby awoke as well. Ydalgo thought it was cute that she was seeing him off and was surprised when she said, "No, daddy. Please let me go with you!" Each day that Ydalgo had spent suffering in the warm van, Abby had remained in her room, sometimes crying because she was so alone. "I can help you. You'll see," she insisted, holding his shirt sleeve as he tried to make his way out the front door. How could he say no? Smiling at her enthusiasm, he picked her up and carried her to the van as she giggled.

Things would have gone much worse for them if it hadn't had been for Abby. Hanging out the passenger's side of the van, shouting like some miniature carnival barker, she yelled (partially at her father's prompting) to all of the houses. "Venga afuera! (Come outside!) Compre sus comestibles en su umbral! (Buy your groceries at your doorstep!) No vaya a la tienda cuando la tienda puede venir a usted! (Don't go to the store when the store can come to you!)" It was her voice that awoke the Heart. Stopping on Garfield, Ydalgo's surprised eyes spotted several of the local women coming out to them.

Did he have grapefruit? Yes! He had grapefruit, fresh from the farm, too, not that waxy stuff from the store. What about onions? Ydalgo carried both yellow and red and he'd been afraid that his four cases would go soft even stored where they were in the dark and cool of that back room at Chris' garage. As he drove, going slowly now - people were gathering as if he were Jesus - he soon began to sell some of his tortillas, packaged products, frozen goods. It was Abby, encouraging his customers in her innocent way. "Wouldn't those beans be good with tortillas, Miss Ortiz? Yes, my daddy has them!" "My daddy has the cumin if you need it, Mrs. Dominguez." "It's a good thing my daddy has cheese, isn't it?" He didn't know if he was happier with himself or his daughter. Clearly, she had saved him again and by day's end he had depleted the stores he had in the van.

That night, after she'd brushed her teeth, he tucked her into her bed. It was Paddington that he brought down for her this night and she hugged the bear with a smile. She'd been so good, he thought, as if working with him had brought her out of her depression. While he had fried potatoes for dinner, she had volunteered to make the beans and she had eaten with more energy than he'd seen in a week. "You were wonderful today, mija," he whispered, giving her a kiss.

"Does this mean we can go back home now, daddy?"

The question blind-sided him and he sat back down in the small chair by her bed, afraid to talk. All of his energy for months had been put into giving Abby a new home, their own home. What was important was that it was _theirs_.

It's that kind of thinking that the vampires like. Everyone must have something all their own. Homes. Cars. Televisions. Video Tapes. Books. Video Games. Camcorders. The act of borrowing in our vampire society has become equated with the act of begging. Only the poor take mass transit. You aren't successful until you own your own home. One television in a family isn't enough. You need two or three or more. The same went for computers and telephones. Libraries have become antiquated museum-like settings where students go to write papers. People no longer check out books. You need to own your own. Such is the habit of the consumer and our consuming society has taken it to the extreme, turning us all into vampires.

But Abby had it right. Our vampire society has created a caste system based upon the amount you own. Abby saw that how much you own means nothing in the face of what is right. It had been wrong for them to move into that apartment; Abby always knew that.

"This is home now, mija. Please, try to see that," Ydalgo quietly replied.

The smile dropped from her face and Abby replied, "Yes, daddy."

The next morning, she remained in bed after Ydalgo came in to tell her he was leaving. He silently finished his coffee, picked up his wallet, and headed for the door. As he was turning the knob, Abby came running out. Dressed in shorts and a pull-over shirt, she panted, "I'll come along, if you want."

He looked down at her with a smile. "Okay," he said, closing the door. "I'll fix you up breakfast. You tie your shoes." She looked down at her laces akimbo on the tile and went to tie them as he fried her up an egg with some of the potatoes from the previous evening.

It became a regular routine, her standing at the passenger's side door, shouting welcome at the customers. As new customers turned into regulars, it was Abby's idea to take their orders the day before so Ydalgo could have them ready the next day. Abby suggested changes and new products as she got older, quickly growing more savvy about their mobile market than Ydalgo. When school time came, she'd get in the van and Ydalgo would drive her to school. Though she was a new student, entering in the sixth grade, which was the lowest the school taught, she was just as new as everyone else. Within a month, she'd convinced some of her teachers to buy some of their groceries from her father's van. Within the year, he had a steady stream of customers every morning as he dropped his daughter off. Through junior high school, she worked with him and she continued to upon entering high school.

I saw her getting out of the van the morning after our racquetball game. "Hi," she shouted, greeting me. "How're you doin'?"

She wanted to talk there but I couldn't. I was in shock that morning and needed to be alone. We walked to the bleachers at the nearby baseball diamond where we could have some privacy and I told her my news. My mother and father were splitting up.

Marriage in the vampire society is, like charity, a good idea that survives only in tales of princesses and lands of lore. Lip service is paid to "for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part". How could such sentiments stand to survive in a society that thrives upon individualism, mobility, and the disposable? How could the bond of two people in marriage hope to survive in a society where individual rights are tantamount?

Think about a couple who are deciding to get married. They'll no longer be just two people but the start of one new family. At some point, "you and I" have to give way to the new entity of "us". But the vampire society teaches us that we should never subjugate ourselves, never surrender any of our personal liberty no matter the benefit. The high priestess of this society, Ayn Rand, tells us that to surrender anything, to stop looking out for only yourself, is a sin. Is it any wonder, then, that couples no longer share money or property, assume any subservient role, such as that of the caretaker or house cleaner, no matter how necessary. It is not a virtue in the vampire society to sacrifice one's self to the greater good. No. It is better to go out kicking and screaming and damn the greater good. In this case, the greater good is the marriage, the family. The husband or the wife are commanded by the vampire society, and Vampiress Rand, never to perform any altruistic act for the betterment of the new family. I ask you, is it any wonder that marriages fall apart?

And when one does give of themselves, what do they become? A pariah, a leper, and worse, a figure to be pitied. It's a sign of weakness and poverty of will. The vampire society has created a new class of victim in a society of victims: the generous. For generosity is to be employed and to be commanded of you only in church. To a fault, religion in the vampire society has embraced the thirsty throat and kissed the forked tongue. Consumers? You won't find any better than the televangelist. He preys on this new victim and makes the generous truly a victim for they are gullible as well. He'll steal money from anyone, the sick, the old, and the weak in any walk of life.

And, so, the food of the vampire society is formed. At its highest level are the corporate executives who take millions in bonuses while the worker slaves for pocket change, the basketball player who gets his millions for playing a game while school teachers struggle to scratch out a living, and the preacher who shouts about a humble loving Jesus while raping his victims over the TV screen. At its lowest level? The retiree who can't afford to eat because his savings have been stolen by his bank or by his government. The many children who starve on our streets every day, while we eat our hot meals and stuff our faces with their futures. And marriage.

Think about it. What good is a family to a vampire? Here's a group of people working together, possibly happy with their lives. Happy people aren't scrambling for the next thrill, chasing after their next spoon-fed product like some junkie. Why encourage the ethics and ideals of togetherness when dissension pays so much more? Single parents are forced to work more for less pay because they cannot take the risks that someone with a support structure can. Unhappy children are raised in a society that cons them into believing that they can buy happiness. It's in our movies and on our TV screens: happiness is over there, beyond the next highway exit. Not here. Oh no! Over there. Look over there.

It's sad but true. Marriage is like filet mignon to a vampire society. Vampires, by their very nature, are not monogamous.

All of this said, I just couldn't believe it when my folks told me the news.

"It's not you, Nathan," my mother said, her hand on my knee as she sat across from me. They were both sitting in plastic lawn chairs, a great symbol for what the vampire society has given us. I sat across from them, wishing I wasn't there. "I don't want you to blame yourself for this."

I nodded my head. "Uh huh."

"You'll stay with me, if that's okay with you," my father said.

I looked over at my mom. "It's what we decided," she said.

"We can't begin to tell you every reason why," my father told me, as if reading my mind, knowing my next question. "You're mother has some things she needs to work out. She needs to do some things for herself. She just didn't see herself here at her age."

Where did she see herself? Somewhere over there, fulfilling her needs, satisfying her wants, making her plans, living her life. And, so, another victim fell to the fangs.

"Where does that leave you," Abby asked.

I wasn't looking at her. Leaning over on the bench, my head was in my hands, my elbows rested upon my knees, as she sat beside me. "Here. I guess. She's gonna go up north. Napa Valley or something. Says she wants to paint. I guess there's nothing to paint here."

"When?"

I looked over. "Today. Can you believe it? She's getting all her stuff out of the house while I'm at school. Dad told me that we'd sell it as soon as we could. Then, I guess it's into an apartment like you." Though we'd known each other only a day, I knew quite a bit about her. We'd hit it off immediately, spent some time hanging out after classes. There has always been an intimate sense of knowledge between us, as if we could see right into each other. "She said it'd be easier if she left right away."

"Of course," Abby replied. "She has less responsibility this way." Her words were hurtful but they were true. The fact of the matter was that my mother didn't love us. She didn't want to be a part of a family with my father and me.

Confirmation would come in the next few years as my letters to her would go unanswered and then be returned to me with no forwarding address. "Some people can only take so much responsibility, Nate," my father told me on my eighteenth birthday. "When you were born, things weren't good between us then, either. The only thing holding us together over the years was you. She didn't just want to up and leave you. I guess when she finally did, she was too ashamed to answer your letters."

That's how the friendship began with Abby and me, in adversity. She became my shoulder to cry on and my ear to bend. "You really should write about it, you know," she told me after a couple of months. "Write about it. Get it out." I'd seen her write about her troubles. So many of her poems dealt with her concerns and the things wrong in her life. But me? Poetry? No. I couldn't form a rhyme let alone write a verse.

But it was with that thought in my head that I found out my english teacher was the advisor to the school newspaper. It wasn't that I read it, I'm ashamed to admit. I heard that from someone else. Write about it? That may have been easy for Abby to say but, for me, first I had to learn how to write.
Chapter 5

### With heaping spoonfuls of arrogance, we believe that there's nothing we can do about the homeless, workfare is welfare, and we deserve our "all you can eat" cruises.

It was with an act vampirian in its intent and scope that Proposition 13 was passed in the state of California in the mid-1970's. The voters, hungry for what they thought was theirs, demanded a cut in property taxes. It was called a voter revolt. In its wake, social services and funding for schools were cut dramatically and what was most revolting was the fact that the voters had known that would happen. They went into the voting booths or mailed in their absentee ballots knowing that their selfishness would threaten their children's education, school lunch programs, their children's very upbringing. They didn't care. The vampires cried "We Want Our Money" and the lawmakers listened. When it was challenged in court, someone should have said "No". Someone should have chastised the voters for putting their own petty, immediate interests before their futures, before their children, before their very blood. But a vampire does not wait for blood; he wants it now!

Then, after months of enjoying the dollars Prop 13 brought them when their property taxes were cut and they could spend it on something more immediate, something more fulfilling than merely educating their children, there came another outcry. Parents throughout the state raised their voices, wanted to know why. Why are the children getting crowded into the classrooms?! Why aren't there more teachers?! Why aren't there newer books?! Why are the buildings so run down?! By God! Something must be done, they cried out. To their rescue came the same kinds of opportunists who had stolen the children's education, now proclaiming that they would come to the children's rescue. This brought them many fat years in office but what did it bring the children? My high school, in the years between 1982 and 1986, was one where books printed decades before were still used. Students had to buy most of the materials they'd need, going off campus to find them. Classrooms were packed with between thirty to fifty students a piece. On hot days, there was no air conditioning. On cold days, there was no heat. On rainy days, ceilings leaked. Desks and chairs were old and battered. Teachers were considered fortunate if they made $20,000 each year while they worked night and day to teach an ever increasing roster as more students were admitted into the school while no new classrooms were being built or new teachers hired. Taught with tools from another time and by teachers with little time, the children of the people who voted for Prop 13 were made to pay for their parent's avarice.

In the light of that, why should the vampire society surprise anyone? As we consume, consume, consume, more and more, raping the forests and shitting in the seas and filling the air and sucking the ground dry, of course we don't care about our children. They'll be the next to live on this world and it will only convince them more and more that the only way they'll find happiness is the way of the vampire.

I remember when I was in elementary school, my teacher wore a button opposing Prop 13. She was quickly fired. It was not her place to warn the children of what was to come. For to tell the truth in the vampire society is the ultimate sin.

By the time I'd reached high school, Prop 13's legacy was profoundly around me. Though my school's newspaper was still in place, many high schools had to dump their journalism programs all together, along with their drama, music, arts, and other "elective" programs, it was only printed once a month. The style of schooling so popular when I entered high school was called "back to basics". The three "R's" was all that was needed. Those who spouted such nonsense would then count off "Reading, Writing, and 'Rithmetic" as if their ignorance was some kind of joke. What would a child need with music or drama, after all? What could that possibly teach them? All a consumer needs to know is how to read the advertisements. And to be consumed, you didn't need to know that much at all. So, the journalism program, held in Miss Gill's class after school, went in a monthly cycle with some activity for a two-week period and little activity for the next two weeks. The newspaper would be issued on the first Monday of each month, which would allow for nine issues each year. Pathetic preparation for a weekly college newspaper with approximately forty issues each year or for a job on a daily newspaper with 365 issues each year.

Perhaps journalism is a fitting subject to be sacrificed on the altar of consumerism. The strength of a democracy can only be measured by the intelligence of her citizens. The state of the journalistic trade today, with the same, tabloidal stories, sex scandals involving politicians, actors, and the like, being printed, read, or aired day in and day out, is a garment the vampire society wears like a fine suit, proud of its label and ready to defend it.

It was during one of these lackadaisical periods between printings, in the midst of a warm November, when I first walked into Miss Gill's classroom after school. Only a few people sat in there; you would never have known that a school newspaper was being put together. I thought I'd walked into the wrong room because Gill wasn't there.

An attractive girl was sitting behind her desk. Perhaps a teacher's aide, I thought. She immediately looked up from whatever she was working on and asked, "Can I help you?"

I paused, uncomfortable in the surroundings. Things were obviously different here. Instead of the desks being lined up in rows, they were divided into three sections, each along one wall, all facing the center. This was done so that the students were forced to look at each other. They needed to interact, understand they were more than just grist for the educational mill but thinking individuals, all in the same boat. But there was a certain comfort in the conformity of rows. There was no danger, there. No risk of embarrassment. Rows of desks are always laid neatly in lines, just as children are always taught that they should be. Lines mean order and conformity. These desks facing each other meant fewer to blindly follow, independence, individuality, the horror of free will. In the rows, students weren't people; they were just students. It's what schools teach best, the safety of that label. To do as you're ordered and believe as you're told. Destruction of the will, that's the vampire's way. In those seats, only a few people now sat, all working or reading something or another. One young man had a few tables arranged so that he could recline.

"I said, can I help you," the girl repeated.

"I, uh, I'm looking for Miss Gill," I replied, trying to sound less nervous that I was. I mean, I had no real experience with writing up until then. I'd only written school assignments, spoon-fed to me by teachers who had to make the assignments just as easy for all students, another slip towards the lowest common denominator. I had no idea what journalism was about.

"And you are," the girl asked.

I replied, trying to slink back out. "I guess I'll just come back another time."

She repeated, "And you are?"

"I'll see her during school."

"And you are," she practically yelled as I was getting the door opened behind me.

"Let him go, Anne. It's obvious he's trying to run away," the reclining student insisted.

Run away? The barb stuck through my skin. I hadn't been trying to run away, I convinced myself. I was only trying to arrange my entrance at a better time. But I could feel my skin turning red and I took a long look at my detractor. Tall, skinny, his hair long and dirty, he was obviously a senior and he obviously didn't care much.

"Hank, shut up," Anne hissed. Looking over at me, she asked, "Are you interested in joining the paper?"

Trying to will the redness from my face, I walked toward her. "Yes," I answered.

"Good," she replied. "But don't listen to Hank. All he cares about is his column." I didn't look over at Hank but kept my attention on Anne. As it turned out, she was the editor-in-chief and Hank was her editorial writer. She was too pleasant, I thought, to ever write the poison-penned editorials her paper ran. And over the months that I knew them, she seemed more thoughtful and he more inclined towards action.

Abby's suggestion that I write about the upheaval in my life, though it was a good one, never quite worked itself out in reality. Until now, I haven't written anything about my feelings on the whole thing. Losing my mother. Now it seems like such a small thing but I remember that fall of 1982 and how my every glance would be looking for her. But I didn't write about it. Instead, I was put to work writing headlines. Probably the least risky job on a high school newspaper, if I didn't write a good headline, the article's writer always had something in mind. I became the newspaper's go-for. I'd be sent about by the writers and editors on this errand or that and, by the end of the year, I was sick of it.

"I thought I was going to become a writer," I told Abby one evening after class. Though I lived close to school, she had to wait until five in the evening when Ydalgo finished his routes for him to pick her up. Sitting at the lunch tables outside of the cafeteria, we'd try to do our homework but mostly we'd talk.

She'd been getting me to talk by being so quiet, etching me on one of her yellow note pads. "When do you think you will," she asked.

"I don't know," I answered. It was already June. The last newspaper had gone out three days before. I certainly wouldn't have a chance to become a writer in my freshman year. "Maybe they'll let me write next year."

"Let you write," Abby asked. She lowered her pencil and put down her pad. "You're waiting for someone to 'let you write'? I am shocked, Nathan. Next thing you'll be waiting for someone to let you breathe!"

The thought stunned me. "Well... I..."

"It's all about control, Nathan. Are you going to have it or are you going to allow someone else to have it? Are you going to believe someone when they tell you they have control over you or are you not going to allow them to take your control? If you want to write, then _you_ write. Don't let someone else tell you what you can be. It's your call! Your judgment! The minute you let them take it, they got it and they ain't giving it back."

It's all about control. Thinking back on that, I can't help but cast that generality upon the black canvas of the vampire society.

It's all about control. We're medicated with the cool assurance that we have to buy minivans and S.U.V.'s, only the poor and unfortunate drive small cars anymore. We're prescribed the dogma of futility, that there's really nothing we can do for our environment, voting does no good, conservation is for the suckers out there, and that jobs come before the environment around us. Cattle production is more important than the mountains of grain it takes to feed them. Loggers are more important than the forests they destroy and the animals they kill. Water recreation - I'm talking about all those jet-skis and speedboats that tear up our lakes - is more important than maintaining the habitat. We're told that the person who dies with the most toys wins, and we swallow that. With heaping spoonfuls of arrogance, we believe that there's nothing we can do about the homeless, workfare is welfare, and we deserve our "all you can eat" cruises. You deserve what you can afford and if you cannot afford it there is something wrong with you. And drip, drip, drip, like a fatal sedative, as things get worse and worse, we accept the futility of hope. After all, someone else was supposed to fix things, the government, the schools, the churches, the rich, and they didn't.

It's all about control. What's the difference between an over medicated patient and a heroin addict, both doped out of their minds? Isn't the needle the same? Aren't the drugs just as destructive? The intent was surely different. The patient allowed his control to be taken from him. The addict's control was given up with that first try. Neither of them took control. Both of them thought someone else was better trusted. In the end, the result is the same. It's like the vampire society. Truck driver, corporate exec, baptist minister, news anchor, telemarketer, politician, insurance salesman, doctor, lawyer, student, and liquor store owner, all play different roles in the vampire society. Some are feeders; some are fodder. Some welcomed the vampire's bite with the ambition that this would allow them to feed as well; some accepted the futility in avoiding the fangs. In the final analyses, when all the bites are counted between the devourers and victims, all are to blame.

This vampire society isn't the result of a select few, steering our world into ashes and blood. It is the result of all of us giving up our control, accepting with complacency the idea that there was no choice, giving in and giving up. Nobody forced you to choose that gas-guzzler over an economical car or a hybrid or alternatively-powered car (or, god forbid, NO CAR!) and nobody said you had to drive the two blocks to the store instead of walking. That was your control you gave up and you gave it up willingly. Nobody prevented you from picking up trash as you walked down to the store and nobody held you back from composting or recycling. There's no law against conservation and no police making you use that gas-blower or power mower. You weren't force-fed the steak that you knew was raised on land that used to be rain forest and you aren't required to make meat a part of your diet. Nobody has to be a member of a church that promotes intolerance towards homosexuals any more than southerners had to join the Klan in the 1960's and you don't have to accept their perverse "right to life" bullshit any more than you have to accept their bizarre distortion of Christ's humility and donate more money so the minister can buy a new mansion.

The control is yours and you are to blame for the mess we're in. Nobody else. This is all your fault.

And my fault.

And we give up our control willingly. Why wouldn't we? Who doesn't want a new car or a juicy steak? Who wouldn't like the biggest house or the newest things? Isn't it easier to ignore the hell we're making of our world and point our fingers blaming someone else than to accept that we're at fault? Of course, it is. It always has been. Remember childhood? As children, we surrendered our control because we were lost and confused. So, we let someone tell us what to do. It was so easy to let someone else control our days. No wonder that way of life continued even into high school. We are raised with the profound belief that someone else is in control. "God", the President, the teacher, the boss, we can't take control if we're always told that someone else has it. And to take control means accepting a certain level of responsibility - accepting the shame of the blame. No wonder that the vampire society has proliferated. The vampire thrives on confusion and if we don't take control from the vampire, the vampire certainly isn't going to give it back.

I promised myself that would be the last time I allowed my control to be taken from me.

During that summer, as Abby rode with her father, attracting new customers, I was determined to learn all I could about journalism. When I refer to journalism, I am still referring to the print media. Television news is nothing more than empty heads mispronouncing words that their minuscule vocabularies cannot comprehend while reading stories about which they do not care. Radio news has become a contest over who can read the shortest clip fastest while racing towards the next plug or the next stream of commercials. That said, newsprint is still a terrible waste and paper is yesterday's medium. Newspapers have proven to be more useful over the Internet but continue limping along, a white tiger hunted by progress. Sadly, though, it is still the best media for getting the news. This is journalism's true home. Ignore the front page. The flash stories, repeating yesterday's TV news lead-ins are nothing more than that, bland repeats of a faster media. Look further, though, into the paper's body, and you will find the true heart and soul of journalism. These are stories you won't find reported anywhere else. The real news, not the glitz. This is where I learned my trade and, by autumn and the beginning of my sophomore year, I was ready to write for my school's newspaper.

We met one week before the first day of class. The previous editor, and her acerbic columnist, had graduated which left me less intimidated about taking control. Other editors were elected - front page, editorial page, feature page, sports - and stories were brain stormed. As the last was assigned, though, I found myself in a familiar position. Nothing had been assigned to me. Again, I had been left out. "Miss Gill," I said, after the others had left, "I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh. Right, Nathan," she said, looking up from her notes. "I want you to get the roster for the football team. Go to the cafeteria and see if they're stocking anything new. Find out from Carmen in Administration what they'll be teaching in those new trailers and the names of the teachers teaching in them."

"Actually, Miss Gill, I wanted to talk to you about maybe me writing for the paper this year."

She looked up at me, disregarding her notes. "You?"

"Well, um, I just thought that, you know -"

"Nathan," she said, standing, "I need you to be my research person. I can't trust the writers to do all their own research and get it all right. I need you to write the headlines, too. To help me out. You're the only person I can trust."

"Well, um, thanks," I replied.

"Why don't you help me out by doing the research and helping out with the headlines and things for the first semester this year, at least. Then, we'll see what we can do about getting you a story or something."

"Sure," I answered, dejected. "Okay."

And, so, my sophomore year passed. Week after week, the hope that I had, feeling so sure that my dedication to the newspaper would be rewarded, slowly turned into a deep sense of self-loathing. I'd let this happen to me. I had allowed the possibility of writing a story for the paper to be stolen from me. No more, I decided. Two years of being someone's lackey were two years too many. In the last week of school, however, Gill took me aside. "I want you to come back next semester, Nathan. I see a great deal of promise in you. Okay?"

Okay? I felt like a horse with a fresh carrot. Little did I know that it was intentionally suspended just out of reach. How difficult is it to admit to yourself that you're being manipulated? To say that you were too stupid to know otherwise? I wasn't strong enough to do such a thing. I went back.

I saw immediately that the next year would be a replay of the same thing. Right away, Gill had me running errands, making calls, being her go-for. My hope wasn't as strong in my junior year as it had been in the years before. After only two months, I had decided to call it quits. "They cast the winter play, didn't they," Gill asked me one morning. "Get the cast's names for me so we can assign that, Nathan."

As I stepped from her room, I decided to do more than that. Oh, I did her research and I got all of the information she asked of me but when I turned it in, it was not in the form that she wanted. She was looking for lists of facts and figures, information that one of the paper's writers could have used to put together the article. What she received was a story, 2,000 words in length, with quotes and background information none of our writers would have had the motivation to get.

She was mad at me, at first. "What is this, Nathan? This is not what I asked for." Her voice was rough and biting with none of the nice words she had for those who were so obviously her favorites. I was never one of them but I knew if I didn't take a step I'd be forever denied my chance.

"It's okay. I'll admit that," she whispered, reading more. "But the article can only be about 1,200 words. Make it fit," she ordered, handing it back to me. "And, Nathan, from now on when you're given an assignment, do the assignment. Elizabeth wouldn't give you another chance," she observed, referring to our new editor-in-chief.

I did make it fit and, the next week, when the paper had been printed, Abby read the article with a smile. "And, so, Mr. West becomes a published author. And it's about time!"

I laughed. "Not much of a start."

"Ah, but your revolution succeeded," she pointed out. "That's what's important."

"Revolution," I asked.

"Sure," she replied, putting the paper down. "In a contest of wills, you won. It was either Gill's or yours and Gill's will would have been ill will."

"But why do you call it a revolution?"

"That's what it is whenever you assert your will." She leaned forward to explain. "Look. When do you think anyone takes control of their lives? Do you think control is something we take without a fight?"

I thought for a minute. "What about when you decide to do something on your own? Like when a baby takes her first steps?"

"It's not the same," Abby argued. "That's not taking control; that's using control. I decide I won't eat any ice cream; that's me using my own control, my own will, to make my own decisions but the times when that happens are fewer than you might think."

"What do you mean?"

"We're fighting for control from the time we're born, Nathan. Look at your baby. She gets hungry; she starts to cry. She is taking control over her situation. It's her mother that concedes in that contest."

"Sure," I said. "Either that or listen to the brat crying."

"But, you see, there's always someone trying to take your control from you. I mean, we're thrown into school almost as soon as we can walk and from then on its teachers and administrators and parents and counselors. They tell you what to do; they make you feel like you have no control."

"Right," I conceded.

"That's why it's a revolution!" The excitement in her voice was palpable. "You rebel against the people who have taken your control. You say no or you make them give a little or you do what you did: you go ahead and do what you want, anyway. Revolution!" She was laughing but the idea stuck and made me wonder.

"What about you, Abby? When's your revolution? When do you take control?"

She sat back. "I don't know what you mean."

"Like your poems. You never show anybody your poems. Are you gonna hide them all your life?"

She put her hands over her Pee-Chee and looked as though she had something to say but remained quiet.

"And your dad. You're always doing what he says but you don't like working on the acid-van." There was a honk and we both looked over to see her father pull up. "Speak of the devil."

"I gotta go," she said, picking up her books, and I could tell she was upset.

"You should think about it, Abby," I yelled after her. "That's all I'm saying."

It wasn't long after that when she wrote:

Get control. Get it back.

Something missing that you lack.

Whether in the chair or in the sack

You've got to get control. Get it back.

Get control. Clench your fist.

Lest it disappear within the mist

Whether near or carelessly dismissed

You've got to get control. Clench your fist.

Whether clear or lost within the black

Dear or just a minor tryst

Years ago or just last night

The worthless are not worthy

Whether peer or common hack

Unclear or you get the gist

Mere or not the least bit slight

The worthless are not worthy

Get control. Hold it tight.

When doubt drives you close to flight.

Whether if you may or if you might

You've got to get control. Hold it tight.
Chapter 6

### No person can say they have never benefited from the sacrifice of another. The Civil Rights movement would never have occurred out of self-interest. Earth's environment will never be restored because of the sanctity of one individual.

"Looks like a girl's poem." These were Arthur Silvada's first words to us. The person with whom we would spend much of our remaining high school years, his first words dripped with derogation.

I'd convinced Abby to come to the journalism room with me after school. I had to show them the new poem, which I liked very much. Always protective of her work, I had assured her that everyone else would like it just as much as I.

Arthur Silvada was there to do an interview with one of the reporters. I didn't know it but Arthur was our junior class president. Arthur had a gift; people liked him just by looking at him. He oozed charisma. That was how he got elected so quietly. He hadn't needed posters or speeches. All he had to do was be seen and people knew they'd vote for him. This worked to his advantage because, though an instinctive attractor with his long legs, athletic build, and flowing hair, he had a bad habit of saying the wrong thing at the right time. Even when he didn't, his condescending tone made the most uplifting compliment sound like a knife to the heart. His interview for our paper, part of a collage of articles on the student body's government, would be full of insults aimed at his fellow juniors and insensitive boasts. For a short time, students questioned why they'd ever voted for him. Then, he claimed in front of several of his admirers that he'd never said those things. Like armor, his charisma turned his own words back on the paper, which then became known as being "after Arthur". Even Gill was asked by the principal why the paper had printed such blatant untruths.

That day in the journalism room, Abby snapped back, "What if he wrote it?" I turned out to be the unwitting target of her accusation.

Arthur gave me a look up and down. "Then, he's gay."

"What," I asked.

"Not that you dress like it. If you are, you hide it well."

Abby stepped in front of me. "Let me handle this, Nathan."

"I didn't say it was bad," Arthur spat. "I don't know what you're getting so pissed off about!" Though he had not come out and plainly insulted the poem, it was the way in which Arthur spoke that made people angry. It took some getting used to the fact that if Arthur wasn't careful, his natural tone of voice sounded downright insulting. He'd learn in life that he had to practice what he said lest it come out naturally. He could give short speeches but tire him out or ask him a question that he hadn't prepared for and he'd make the finest thing he could think of sound like he was proposing sex with your dead mother.

That's why he quickly became part of our little group; other people could not stand being near him. Oh, he could fool you enough to get you to vote for him but closer than that, you'd find him loathsome. It was Abby's idea to let him sit with us after school. He had initially asked her out on a date. She was suspicious because she was a late bloomer and still kept quite a bit of her baby fat even at that age. Other girls already had women's bodies and, by her reasoning, he should have been looking at them. Oh, he'd tried but, past the first couple of sentences, he'd disgusted them. And, so, she approached me. "There's something about him, Nathan. Something authentic," she said, looking at me from across the table.

Abby was always looking for "authentic" people. After all, she'd been raised to admire that from people like Chris Jenson, who never hid the fact that he was a self-made man, May Jenson, who retained her Texan drawl even after living in California for over a decade and, with Chris, sacrificed all they could for the new family, and her father, a man who had literally done whatever it took to give his daughter a better life. Virtuous, that's how she saw them. Proud to help in whatever way they could, proud to sacrifice. Vampires would call this foolish. They'd say that the individual came before all others and only through self-interest was the individual preserved. To give of yourself wasn't virtuous, it was stupidity. What they miss is the fact that no man is an island. No person can say they have never benefited from the sacrifice of another. The Civil Rights movement would never have occurred out of self-interest. Earth's environment will never be restored because of the sanctity of one individual. The truth is clear; selfishness is not always a virtue.

It was through the example of these "authentic" people that Abby equated authenticity with the potential for virtue. When it came to Arthur Silvada, however, it was my belief that Abby had stretched that equation too far. I couldn't say no to her, though. It seems that I could never say no to Abigail Ayrnes. Even as she was refusing his first offer for a date, and though I'd never asked her, I could feel a thread between us that held us close. It was made of steel and strength and I didn't dare think of the day when it would break. "Abby, I think you're nuts but you aren't going to listen to me."

She smiled. "That's because he needs your positive influence."

She rose from the table and quickly walked to the library, where Arthur was waiting. For the last time, I thought, it's just me and her. Her hair was still worn long, bright red waves flowing past her shoulders, and she wore her typical combination for that time, slacks, long sleeved, pastel shirt, and loafers, a no-nonsense combination like some antiquated komrad. Now, things would start to change. When she returned, Arthur walked too close to her and her hands were in her pockets. He'd probably tried to hold her hand. She sat at the table closer to me than before and Arthur found himself seated across from us. There was the sense that this was some kind of interview.

"So, you guys just sit out here every day? What's the point of that?" His voice seemed to say that we were losers, nobodies who had nothing better to do with their evenings than sit in an empty school. Perhaps, but now he was joining us.

"Abby gets picked up by her father every day," I explained, leaning forward on my books. "So, we sit out here and wait for him."

Arthur shook his head. "So? What's your excuse?" The way he said it made me look at Abby in defense. He almost made it sound perverse. "I mean, you aren't waiting for a ride, are you?"

"No," I growled. "I walk home. But Abby's my friend and we don't see each other until after school and my dad doesn't get home until late so we don't eat dinner until later and what's it to you, anyway?!"

"Hey. Hey," he shouted, his hands up, mocking defeat. "I was just asking a question!" It's possible that he was but after a moment, he continued, "You actually wait to eat dinner with your dad?"

I exhaled, slowly. "Yes."

He laughed. "Whatever." Arthur always behaved as if he didn't care about anything, always saying he was "just along for the ride". It was all a facade, of course, and, later in life, it would come back to bite him. The reality of the situation was that he'd grown tired of caring. While he boasted about having both parents and about how they made more money than both of our single parents, he never spoke of his two brothers and sisters and how his parents were always fighting, sometimes physically. He'd quickly grown tired of caring if they killed each other or not as he was growing up and when, every time they'd make up after one of their separations, they'd have another kid, he grew tired of being the eldest, more forgotten with every new child born. Year after year, a ceramic shield grew around him, cutting off his nerves, assuring that he'd feel nothing. Maybe, that's why he was so insensitive. Maybe, that's why all his words came out sounding as though he couldn't care less because that's exactly how he wanted to be heard. As he grew older, though, he realized how that only worked against him. Even as we sat there, he found real communication difficult. "Still, you'd think you would want to be more like normal kids."

Then, it was Abby's turn to growl. "Look, Arty. You better realize in a flash that the chair you're sitting on is gonna fall out from beneath you."

"Huh?"

"You're not a lock, white-boy," she clarified.

"I was just -"

"You was just asking a question," she interrupted, imitating Arthur. Her voice was cool and her eyes were piercing; she wouldn't let him so much as move. "Why aren't you more like normal kids, Arty? You know why? 'Cause you don't have anything to give except your smart mouth. You know that just as well as we do but it's easier for us to say it. Nobody is going to let you in, Arty. Nobody is going to be your friend. You can be elected into as many titles as you want but that will not get you anything really. We all know that, Arty." It was a name that would stick. Whenever she was upset at him, he instantly became "Arty". "I don't care if you're president of the junior class or of the world; as far as I'm concerned - as far as we're both concerned - you are nothing but Arthur Silvada. You think you can hide what you are behind what you think you are, you got another thing coming."

Of course, she was right. It's a fallacy we all fall into. People reach a place in their lives, sometimes early, sometimes late, when they give themselves titles. You may be financially successful, a stock broker, an investment banker, a CEO, or some media mogul. You may be politically powerful, a senator, head of a PAC, a lobbyist, or even the president. You may be Ted Turner or Bill Gates or Donald Trump – you say, "This house is who I am. This car is who I am. I am this job. I am this title." \- but it doesn't matter. You are no different from the bum on the street or from the homeless woman trying to find food for her children. You have no more right to dignity than they. You have no more right to comfort than they. You can say that you've worked hard and that you've struggled and that you've studied and that you've sacrificed but it doesn't matter. All those things will get you is a right to be proud of your accomplishments. They do not give you the right to let others suffer while you profit. Maybe that's not exactly what Abby was saying but it's certainly what she meant. It's certainly true.

"Hey, I'm not saying I don't want to be like other kids," Arthur answered defensively. "You gotta admit, they don't hang out at lunch tables after school. They got cars; they go to malls. They go to the beach or sit around their pools. They hang around with the popular kids or they are the popular kids."

"You are so full of shit," I muttered.

He stopped. I don't think he'd heard that before. "'Scuse me?"

"You," I said. "You get elected as class president. You have all these people fawning over you and here you are, bitching about the popular kids. You are one of the popular kids!"

Even as I said it, his head turned down and he looked at the pavement. Abby knew why. "But it's all a lie," she told us. "It's just an act he does. He has this ability to behave like they want him to but he can't really be one of those popular kids because then they'd find out it wasn't real. Wouldn't they, Arthur?"

"I've tried," he admitted, shaking his head. "I just -" He stopped talking but we could see what it was. His need not to feel was fine as long as he didn't get too close because, eventually, he'd have to say something unrehearsed. Eventually, he'd have to be himself.

Abby reached across to him, sensing his hurt. She knew that the worst of it was that he'd brought it all on himself. "You got it all mixed up, Arthur. You think those kids are popular but they are only the ones we are told are popular. They know the kids or they are the kids we're supposed to emulate. Some of them are in student body with you; some of them play sports. We are spoon fed what we're supposed to admire and we're the ones who tie on the bib." It wouldn't change, either. When we grew up, we'd be told by the media what movies we were supposed to see or what television shows we were supposed to watch. Our co-workers would tell us what we should be wearing or eating. Advertisements would tell us what we should enjoy, what we should buy. The vampire society has made everything so easy; there's no need to think anymore, to make decisions. Everything is served to us with so-called convenience but it's all a lie.

Arthur thought for a moment. Maybe he was trying to think of something that wouldn't sound hurtful. "What do you know," he asked. "You're just this fat, underdeveloped, hippie-wanna-be poet."

I was speechless but Abby was sketching on her pad as if nothing wrong had been said. "Won't work, Arthur Silvada. You want to be our friend. You want to be out here with us." She emphasized "want", rubbing it in. "You don't want to be normal or popular or whatever other adjective misnomer has been foisted upon you. No. You're here with us because you know we're worthwhile. You know we're better than you deserve. And, you know I'm right."

"Right," Arthur spat. "I don't know about right. I don't know who you guys really are. You're not the star reporter for the paper or nothing," he said to me before turning his head to Abby. "I've only seen one poem and I wasn't that impressed. A little early for you to be saying you're right. I don't see what makes you think you're so much better than anyone."

"Watch your transference, Arty. We never said better. You're the one who thinks he's better than anyone."

"No," Arthur corrected. "I'm the one who admits it. We both think it. I think it because I was voted number one person in our class. I have proof of that. You think it because you think of these empty tables after school as some kind of throne. But you don't know what you're talking about. You know I'm better than you. You don't impress me.

"What will impress you," Abby asked.

"Huh?"

"It's just a question, Arthur. What will impress you?"

"What do you mean," Arthur asked suspiciously.

"Simple," Abby said. "You tell me what it is and, if I do it, you have to shut off your snide."

"My what?"

"Snide, Arthur," I said. "Look it up."

Arthur grimaced. "Why don't you -"

"I mean it, Arthur," Abby interrupted, leaning on the table. "You gotta leave your mean behind. When you're with us, you come unarmed." She looked right into his eyes and he looked into hers. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

"Fine," Arthur remarked, his eyes not leaving hers. "You want to impress me? You want to show me you're better than anyone? Why don't you get elected to student council? Oh, that's right! Because you can't."

"Because it's meaningless," Abby retorted. "You and I both know that winning a popularity contest in high school won't be worth a free coffee when you get out. Any rewards your position might give are meaningless to both of us. You don't appreciate the feeling of helping your peers and I don't desire the spotlight. Talk to me when you run for congress. What's next?"

"Well, if you're going to dodge any real way –"

"I'm a writer, Arty. That's what I do." I could see he was getting under her skin. I wished I could get under her skin like that. "Now, if you want to see some of the things I've written."

"Sure," he said, mockingly. "Why don't you write a good poem for a change?"

She looked down at her books, fishing for something. "I've got a few right -"

"No," Arthur yelled. "Not one that you probably copied so you could impress your little friend, here. I want one that I know you did."

"And how can I give you that?"

"You write it about what I tell you to write it about."

She didn't take a moment to think about it but asked, dispassionately, "Which is?" She was angry at his accusations but wouldn't let him get to her. It was best, she decided, to let him play his little game.

"Something you can't write about." Arthur flipped through his books, trying to find the least poetic thing there was. "Physics," he finally decided.

"Physics," she said.

I, too, couldn't think anything less poetic. "Physics?"

"That's right," he replied. "And you gotta do it in one day. I want to see it by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she said. "Okay, Arthur. If that's what you want."

"You bet, that's what I want."

She stood up. We could see her father's van waiting at the street. "But you're going to owe me, Arty. I'm not going to tell you what or when I'll call you on it. Just know that you'll owe me." As she walked away, all of us were quiet.

"Fine," Arthur yelled after her. "Whatever! You can't do it, anyway!"

Soon, she was out of ear shot. She stepped into her father's van and they drove away.

"You really know how to impress, Art. First day and you already piss us off." I grabbed my books, wanting no more to do with him.

"I don't care," he yelled. "I don't want to be your friends anyway!"

"Oh, really," I asked, turning back to him.

"That's right." He stood up beside the table so he could look at me at eye level. "I'm only in this for one thing!"

"One thing? And what would that be?"

"That know-it-all mouth of hers, right here," he shouted, pointing down at his pants.

I wanted to tell Abby how her judging people by their "authenticity" had brought this upon us. I wanted to tell her that she should have known what kind of person he was from the first words out of his mouth. Something inside me was strangled, though, and I couldn't. I couldn't because I knew without having to ask her that she wouldn't believe me. So, the only person capable of speaking up, I withdrew from her my trust and didn't tell Abby what she'd let into our friendship.

Abby, meanwhile, drove home with her father, and asked him about physics.

"Physics," Ydalgo asked her. "No. No. No. I don't know anything about science, honey. What has got you so interested, anyway?"

She thought for a moment. "Simply a friend at school."

He looked over at her from the driver's seat, his hair and mustache neatly trimmed, a smile growing eagerly, showing his white teeth. "Is it a boy, little one? Eh?"

"No, daddy."

"He's a boy in the science club, isn't he? Some very smart boy? And you want to be able to talk to him?"

Abby couldn't bring herself to tell him that the boy was not in science club. The truth was, as she saw it, that the boy was little more than an insensitive smart-ass and, while he held some strange kind of attraction, she simply wanted to put him in his place.

Ydalgo turned the van down Civic Center Drive, away from home.

"Where are we going, daddy?"

Ydalgo pointed. "We're going to get you to the library, honey. You gotta learn what you can about your physics if you're going to be able to talk to this boy of yours."

Though it hadn't been Abby's intent to do the research necessary to understand physics, she thought she could get by with some key words and work around them, she certainly didn't think the library could hurt. There, on the corner of Ross and Civic Center Drive, Ydalgo turned the van into the parking lot of the Santa Ana Public Library. He waited outside, hoping to make a sale, while Abby went inside. Opening the door, she was met by the clichéd air, thick with book dust and other people's breathing, so common to a library. At the tables around the shelves, the elderly sat hunched over while some children wandered and chased each other through the aisles, some looking for answers while others ignored the knowledge around them. Abby went to the reference desk.

"Can I help you, dear," the lady asked. She seemed so old to Abby, covered in the dust of many volumes, but she was only in her thirties.

"I'm looking for books on physics," Abby told her.

The answer brought the woman to pause. "Physics," she asked. The implication seemed to be: What would this girl want to do with Physics? Why wasn't she ingesting the romance novels so plentifully stacked for consumption? In many libraries, cheap works of fiction are made more available than books of learning. It dulls the senses, eases you into collusion; it's the vampire's way. A sin to the intellect, while libraries are supposed to be the bastions of knowledge, more and more they are eviscerated of any books of learning and twisted into the stacks of green hay where the vampires wish to herd us, their cows.

"Yes," Abby replied. "Physics."

The woman shook her head. "I don't think we have too many books on that," she said, wandering off towards the back without a word to Abby. Abby followed her, anyway, and they both stopped eventually before a visibly unused shelf of books. "These are our science books. Um. Down there." Bottom shelf. "Here's something." Pulling out an old, time worn copy of Cosmos by Carl Sagan, she handed it to Abby.

But Abby needed more. She took the rest of the books she could find on physics, Relativity by Einstein, A Brief History of Time by Hawking, along with several books about Galileo. Some of the books had been written in; all were covered in a fine dust. Abby brought them back to an empty table and laid them out before her. After an hour, though, nothing seemed to fit. No key words or ideas seemed to impress their meter. Her mind was blank. So, she went to the wall of encyclopedias, many of them older than her, and leafed and leafed, skimmed and scanned until one idea struck her. Chaos Theory: the idea that amidst all the chaos in the universe, some order existed. How better, then, to sum up her own feelings, feelings towards a boy who she didn't understand? He drove her crazy but, at the same time, felt like he fit in her life. That's what Arthur Silvada was to Abby. Chaos Theory.

One phrase wouldn't suffice, she knew, to make the whole poem about physics. So she copied down a few words and ideas, confident that she could fit them into her poem once she got home, and left the library.

Albert stood in his New York apartment room

said as he stared at the rain, "She'll be my doom."

All of her best parts are mocking gravity

she even defies relativity

Minutes seem like hours but forever is coming soon

we've got a love

that's faster than light

it circles existence

is low at its height

it never knows limits

but seems a bit bleary

I can't explain it

It's chaos theory

Galileo sighed and peered through his telescope

and asked as he squinted, "When will she give me hope?"

I can't seem to get a look at the sky

when I point the viewer to the side

and so I'll stare at the heavenly body in her window

we've got a love

that ellipses my heart

her celestial perfection

is only a part

I'm so full of strength

but I'm so weary

I can't explain it

It's chaos theory

Steven sat sedate sippin soda at his Cambridge desk

and resolutely recon'ed, "Boy, she makes my mind a mess."

A black hole won't hide me from her tempting tease

she's disturbing as a cosmological sneeze

and when I think about her I feel fusion in my chest

we've got a love

but don't expect it to be right

it will talk without language

it will see without sight

it'll touch without fingers

it'll listen without hearing

I can't explain it

It's chaos theory

"It's a love poem," I said, reading it for the second time.

Abby grunted; she was drawing again. As promised, the poem had been written in one day and that afternoon, as we sat as the table, Arthur was nowhere to be found.

"I mean, it's good," I added. "Just when he said physics, I didn't expect a love poem."

"I think the fact that I was able to write a poem about physics overnight is enough." Her voice was bitter, almost defensive.

I looked across her for a moment. "Is there something you want to tell me, Abby?"

She looked up for the first time. "Tell?"

"Well, you know, he asks you to write a poem and the first thing you come up with is a love poem," I explained. "What's going on?"

"Going on," she asked, putting down her pad. "I don't see why anything has to be going on. Those are my words, Nathan, and it is my choice how they're put together. So what if it's a poem about love or war or grocery shopping. That's a poem about physics!"

I felt my chest go tight. She'd never yelled at me, before. She had never had a reason and she still didn't. I didn't want to say anything to make it worse. Whatever was going on in her mind would have to remain a secret, for now. Besides, I could see Arthur coming. "Okay," I replied, quietly.

"So," Arthur asked as he approached, "how badly'd you do?"

Abby's face clenched. "You better shut your ugly hole, Arty."

"Why? Because I'm about to be proven right?"

"Maybe because you're about to be proven wrong," I told him.

He casually pulled up a chair. "What? Did you do it?"

"Maybe I did," she replied. "Maybe I just realized that you're too much of a slimeball for me to let you read it."

He tilted his head back. "Oh, cause you didn't write it."

"No," she said.

"She wrote it," I added.

He didn't even bother to give me a look. "Then I want to see it."

She handed it over carelessly, trying in her own way to disregard her emotions. As he read it, she looked away, disinterested. She didn't do it as well as he, though. I could see through her defense. That she had written it for him was clear. Now, I could see that she had really wanted him to like it. She had wanted him to be impressed, touched. His greeting, though, had struck her with the ice-cold realization of reality. Now, she had to show her mask of disregard or else make it clear how hurt her feelings would be when he said what he would inevitably say. When he hurt her again.

When he finally did speak, his words shocked us both. "It's a love poem." His words were neither condescending nor hurtful and they were completely unrehearsed.

Abby looked closely at him. "Yes," she asked as though her hopes had momentarily been raised.

He looked at it again and this time, when he spoke, his words were devastating. "I tell you to write a poem about physics and all you can come up with is some rotten love poem? You expect me to be impressed? I was more impressed by that other, gay, little poem than I am by this piece of shit. Why didn't you -"

"I don't care if you're impressed, Arty. Do you hear me?!" Abby rose from her chair suddenly and angrily, shoving the table forward. "I don't care if that's the last poem you ever read or if you go fucking blind, you prick! But I do know that's the last poem of mine you ever read. And I know I don't want you sitting here anymore!" She circled the table just as Arthur put the poem down on the table and got up, backing away. "You want to be friendless, asshole? Fine! Then, you be friendless! Just do it somewhere else. Away from me!"

Arthur tried to speak. "I was just -"

"GO!"

Her words echoed off the concrete buildings with a heavy retort, leaving us in silence. Arthur left silently, his head hung low. He didn't return for several months. He didn't have the time. As the school year wound to a close, it was time to elect the student body government for the next year. Arthur found relief in the facade of the politico.

But Abby had written Arthur's poem and, as far as she was concerned, he owed her. Soon, she'd be calling in that mark.
Chapter 7

### And who are the vampires?

### All of us.

Sitting at a table alone, at lunch, I couldn't help but overhear the following conversation:

"- but they're so stupid. I mean, like, who cares who's gonna be in student body government."

"I know. It's just so stupid. I'm, like, so sick of school, anyway. When's summer gonna get here?"

It was May 15, 1985, the day when it was announced who would run for the student body government positions. News or not, I didn't care. No paper would be published until after the elections. Still, I had to listen to the three girls who sat beside me as the third replied to their apathy.

"Don't be so stupid. You know Art Silvada's gonna go for Senior Class President, don't you? You better vote for him!"

"Who," the first girl asked.

"Duh! Arthur Silvada."

"Oh, okay."

"Guy's an asshole," I told them, leaning their way.

"Oh, like you know," one snapped.

"Yeah, you're just jealous."

If Abby'd been there, she'd have known what to say. She would have told them who Arthur Silvada was in terms they'd understand, with language undeniable.

How are we to involve our children in representational government, in their futures, if we don't let them participate in some form of it? But, if we are to do that, we need to first educate them on the meaning it holds and methods through which it is realized. It is no wonder that the peer pressure of party politics is so potent when you realize that most schools only give a few minutes of instruction on how to cast a vote. Thus, most student body elections are nothing more than popularity contests, strong-armed pressure campaigns, and "Me Too" bandwagon rallies as are their equivalences in the elections held by and for adults.

Abby wasn't there, though. She wouldn't be back for several days. Ydalgo had taken her out of school on Monday, after he'd received a letter. The letter was from his uncle, Hector, his mother's youngest brother-in-law and read:

*Dear nephew,

It is with great sorrow that I reply to your letter from Easter. Abigail, your mother, is dead. She died on April 20. She never had a chance to read your letter. She was very sick. The doctor says it was her kidneys. We have buried her here in Rosarito, on the family's plot. I am sorry that this letter bears such terrible tidings and hope that it finds you and Sorina well. Congratulations on the baby!

Your uncle,

Hector

*translated from the original spanish

It had taken so many years for Ydalgo to summon the courage to write to his mother and now it was too late. He could never show her how well he'd done or introduce her to her granddaughter. She had died far from him and, he was certain, bitter, disappointed, and hateful. Even in his letter, he couldn't bring himself to tell her about Sorina's death for it seemed too much a validation of her predictions. He was hoping to tell her once she had met her beautiful granddaughter. More than that, it was his hope that his daughter would be able to meet her. He wanted Abby to knew her heritage just like her grandmother had once wanted. He wanted her to know her past.

He'd told Abby about her grandmother many times over the years, often when Abby was being head-strong, obstinate, acting just like her. Abby began to take it as a compliment and it was her goading that finally brought him to write the short letter that he finally sent. Shorter than his uncle's reply, it simply asked if enough time had passed and could he come visit.

He knew he could wait no more. He drove directly to Abby's school and took her out. Once they were home, they started to pack. He had to get to Rosarito, had to make it to the cemetery while the earth was freshly turned while he could still feel some sense that she was there that he hadn't left her for good... that he wasn't this terrible creature that he felt he was, vile and sick and so, so wrong. That night, Abby called me and, in the morning, they were off, driving south along Interstate 5. Tears were constantly in Ydalgo's eyes; he hadn't cried so much since Sorina's death. He hadn't been there for her, then, and he hadn't been there for his mother. Shameful and full of self-loathing, Ydalgo drove to the border.

In Rosarito, nothing had changed. There was the house where he was raised, looking just as ramshackle as ever. Over there was the garden in which he'd worked. There was the fence where Sorina had once stood. Ydalgo stood outside the van taking all of this in, while Abby scanned her surroundings as well. Like something from a Steinbeck novel, it all looked so hopeless, so poor. Children ran about naked, disturbing the chickens and chased by an old, grey dog. This was her heritage? This was her past? She started counting the moments to when they'd turn the van around and head north.

Ydalgo heard the little, grey mongrel barking and laughed. "Bandi," he shouted, his salutation completely ignored by the elderly dog. "That's Bandi," he explained. "Aunt Izzy got him the year your mother and me were married. I was only, what, about 21?"

"Then, he must be ancient," Abby replied with typical, teenage sensitivity.

"Who is there," came a spanish voice from the loosely hanging door.

Ydalgo walked along the dirt driveway to the home's front gate. A dusty, white fence surrounded the property, stretching out several acres in both directions. The house might have looked like many of the houses in Santa Ana, three bedroom, one story homes with a common room and a kitchen, if it wasn't for the several rooms added haphazardly onto the sides like modules. More had been added since Ydalgo had left and looked sorely in need of support beams or they were certain to fall during the next big storm. Ydalgo remembered the last time he'd been at that gate, when he'd left his mother, so sure he was right. That was a long time ago, long before Sorina's death. "It's me," Ydalgo replied, also in spanish. "It's Ydalgo."

A female voice let out a cry as an older man stepped out of the house and asked, incredulously, "Ydalgo?! Ydalgo Ayrnes?!"

"Uncle Eduardo," Ydalgo asked, surprised at his uncle's bald head.

Eduardo quickly opened the fence and put his arms around his nephew. "Oh! Is your Aunt Maria going to be surprised! She'll go through the roof! Izzy," he called at the fat, grey haired woman standing at the door, "get the family together! We'll have a special dinner tonight for Ydalgo!"

"What is he saying," Abby asked, annoyed. She'd forgotten most of her spanish, and certainly never spoke it as rapidly as they

Ydalgo bent over to his daughter, smiling. "You're going to meet the whole family, honey."

"And who is this, Ydalgo?"

Turning back to his uncle, Ydalgo introduced her. "Eduardo, this is my daughter, Abigail." Turning to her, he spoke in english, "Abby, say hello to your, um, grand-uncle, Eduardo."

Abby put out her hand. "Hello."

Taking it with great pleasure, Eduardo replied, "Oh, so this is the little baby you two had, eh? Why, she's so beautiful! And, where's Sorina? Is she still in the car?"

Abby gritted her teeth. "What is he saying?!"

Ydalgo put a hand on Eduardo's shoulder. "Sorina died giving birth."

"Oh, nephew. I am so sorry." As they embraced, Abby stood with crossed arms, irate.

The evening arrived quickly and, as Ydalgo laughed and drank with his uncles, Abby was stuck in the kitchen with an army of fat, mexican women. The house had no television, just an old radio whose latin rhythms the women jiggled to as they cooked and they cleaned. One handed Abby a rag and told her something in an indistinguishable language. "Excuse me?"

"Help dry off some plates so we can start serving," another woman commanded

Abby sighed, holding the rag uselessly at her side. "I don't understand you."

"Hey," the woman asked around her, "does anyone understand what this little one is saying?"

Abby put down the rag, fed up, and retreated outside.

Ydalgo found her, later. The dinner had already been served and the women were cleaning up. Ydalgo had drank a couple of cervesas with his uncles when he'd begun to wonder what had happened to his daughter. She was in the van, sitting in the passenger's seat. It didn't recline, so all she could do was bring her legs up and rest her head to the side. Ydalgo entered from the driver's side and closed the door behind him. When she didn't stir, he stroked her hair as it cascaded down her back. "Ah, little Abby. I forgot all about you, didn't I? Can you forgive me? You're out there with your friends every day. You sit with them and talk with them and laugh with them. I'm just glad you still come in and eat dinner with me at night. I lost all of that, don't you see? These people were my entire world before your mother and I left them to move north. We thought we'd be able to bring them all up with us but... then your mother died... and I was alone. I was just so happy to see them again."

Abby looked up. She hadn't been asleep but had been feigning sleep in the hopes that he would go away. Hearing his words, though, she began to understand. "I'm sorry, daddy."

He held her chin in his hand and shook her head lightly. "No. Don't be. I understand how you feel. Here are all these strangers you've never seen before, talking their strange language. But you once spoke this language, too, a little. I guess I should have taught you better spanish but I didn't want you to have the same problems I had."

"It's not just that, daddy."

Ydalgo folded his arms, trying unsuccessfully to curl up as his daughter had, looking at her intently. "What is it, honey?"

"Well," Abby started, uncomfortably, "they're just so poor. I mean, I thought we were poor but they're worse! And they all have so many kids like they don't even realize that every kid they have only makes a bad situation worse. I mean, daddy, if these people would practice a little birth control, they'd be a whole lot better off."

Ydalgo nodded. "Maybe. Maybe you're right. Maybe we should send them all a big box of rubbers when we get home, huh?" He laughed at the thought, bringing laughter from Abby as well. "But they're happy, though. You gotta admit that. They're happy. Isn't that all that matters?"

Abby looked down at the floor, thinking. She thought for a long time as the music played from outside. Someone had pulled out a guitar and people were singing. Still, she thought, it would have been easy to agree. Yes, she could have said, in the end happiness is all that matters. But it was too easy. If happiness were all that mattered, then why prevent drug abuse. Aren't drug abusers happy for a while at the beginning? Why not just help them after their abuse turned painful? If people are happy driving at 100 miles per hour, why not let them? It's dangerous, just as dangerous as letting people become addicted to drugs. Too, it was dangerous to let people breed excessively no matter how happy it made them. Every additional child taxed the meager incomes of the people down here so much that they couldn't afford good health care, proper shelter, or a better environment. The belief that a larger family meant a happier family was unfair both to the parents and the children. Every additional child meant less for those already born. And, so, Abby could only answer, "No."

Ydalgo cocked his head and gave Abby a strange look. It was a look he would now give often, a look that said he didn't understand. Abby was forming her own ideas, ideas most people would find strange. "Then, do me this, mija. Go out there with me for my happiness. Okay? I promise not to exclude you."

She nodded and, as they stepped out of the van, family approached her. She'd been standoffish before but most had known her grandmother and just accepted it. A plate of carnitas was laid out for her and, as Ydalgo talked with his family, being careful to translate everything for his daughter, Abby ate until she was full.

The next morning, Ydalgo took her for a walk. It wasn't far; the cemetery was on the outskirts of town just as the family's home had been. There, under the shade of a tree, Abigail Ayrnes' headstone stood. Her plot was slightly raised, the dirt not yet settled, and sod had been laid upon it to make it look less disturbed. Ydalgo looked at the simple words inscribed in the stone, knelt upon the sod and began to weep.

Abby remained silent, knowing that her father would not be comforted by what she was thinking. Her grandmother had been a victim of the vampire society, you see? As a child, dragged from her home to the fields of California, her family had been consumed as they had vied for the right to consume. As a wife, her love had been consumed before her eyes. For what is war if not rabid vampirism? As a mother, her son had left her for the same desires that had destroyed her family. Finally, as an old woman, her need for adequate healthcare fell victim to the vampires' food chain. Abby's grandmother had died as a result of the worst of sins, poverty, which is a sin the vampires commit upon others every day of their lives.

And who are the vampires?

All of us.

His face wet with tears, Ydalgo turned to his daughter and, on his knees, held her close so his head pressed against her belly. Then, he leaned back, sitting on his feet, and sighed, "Ah, mija, you are so important to me. I love you so very much. I don't think I tell you enough, Abby."

She knelt down on her knees before him and took his hand. "You do, daddy. I love you, too."

Looking back at his mother's tombstone, he fell terribly quiet. Sitting there for a long time, Abby watched her father as the warm breezes blew through her hair. Finally, he got up and brushed himself off. Abby rose as well and they walked back to the van. After a few steps, Ydalgo stopped and looked back. Crossing his arms, holding them there as if he was cold, he whispered, "Ah, la madre. Deseo que usted pueda estar todavía aquí. ¿Ahora, quién me puede perdonar?"

The drive home was quiet and somber. When they stopped to eat at a Denny's along the way, neither spoke much; their spirits were still in that cemetery and there they would remain for a while. You see, Ydalgo never had a chance to honor is mother before she'd died, he had robbed himself of his chances. Now, he could only honor her in death. We've created a society that no longer honors the old. Only the new and the young are fit for what life has to offer , leaving the old more fit for the vampire's consumption. This process only feeds upon itself. For whenever we cede to the bat, the guilt drives us like drunks to the bottle back to that unquenchable thirst for the new and the young. That's why old people are put away in storage in our society. I call it storage because they have no access to family there or to life. They are locked away, forgotten until they need to be put in the furnace or in a box, while our shame drives us back to the fold of the fangs. And it is not only shame, it is fear; for we know that is what the future holds for us, too.

Abby was so angry when she returned on the eighteenth. Looking around her, she could see the privilege and the pride and she knew that, but for fortune, neither she nor any of the other students would ever have experienced it. "The vanity around here is so thick it comes with gravy, Nate," she snarled as we sat at our table that evening.

I looked up from my book. There we were, sitting at one of the poorest schools in the county; her comment surprised me. "What was that?"

"These people strut around like the rest of the world is at their backs. If they could, they'd call themselves a different race from humans because they've absorbed all the wealth of the world while others have served it up to them on a platter." It was clear, something had changed in her. Now Abby spoke between her teeth, never quite opening her mouth. Even in her happiest times, she'd sneer, and when she was angry, she'd positively growl.

I leaned forward and looked at her clearly and intently, deep within her eyes, showing her my concern. "What is it, Ab?"

She leaned back, almost sulking. You could tell she felt uncomfortable in her sweater and pressed trousers. Having been taken from her comfortable life - many of the least comfortable in the United States were still far better off than anyone else in the rest of the world - and thrown into the truth of the poverty in which most of the world subsisted, still not seeing the worst of it, she could not deny the injustice. She was too honest for that. Nor would she ever deny it again. True, for many years, she wouldn't know what to do about it but she faced it just the same. Vampires are megalomaniacal liars. They can exist in this world, always grieving about how terrible their own lives are - "Oh, I need a new car!" "My VCR's broke." "How am I living without a cellular phone?" - without once considering the abject poverty in the world, which, thanks to the vampires, just gets worse every day.

She put her hand out and held the ends of my fingers. "Sorry, Nathan," she said and sighed loudly. Returning my stare, I could see how she was thinking. Maybe, I wouldn't understand. After all, I'd never been out of the country and, to the best of my knowledge, I didn't have any relatives outside of the United States. I could see her thoughts shift and, then, she continued, "I saw this thing on the news last night. Did you know that obese kids are a big problem in this country?"

"Did you just make a joke?" I asked her.

But I should have known better than question her bad mood. "Kids that eat too much! So, they were talking about all these different diet plans you could put them on and things you could buy them to get them to exercise. I mean, here are a bunch of kids who consume too much food, food that could go to the hungry, and the only answer our society can come up with is to use more resources to make them thin again! I mean, nobody considered just giving them less food!" She laughed but I could hear, from the edge in her voice, that it was eating away at her. Nor would it stop. From that point on she would think about the sick injustice of our world, especially the United States, but she wouldn't have a name for it, not just yet. She shook her head and looked into the sky. "It's just so frustrating."

"Frustrating," I asked, pulling something from out of my notebook. "Here." I handed her the paper. "This was put up after school Monday. They were all over the place when I got here Tuesday morning." The paper was yellow and there was a bad picture of Arthur Silvada taking up the majority of its space. Below, the words read: **Art Silvada is just as yellow as this paper! He won't debate what really matters to next year's senior class with his opponent, Jesus Diamond! He knows he'd lose! The debate is scheduled for May 23 at lunch. Be there! Jesus Diamond will be there! But Art Silvada won't be there - He's too yellow!!**

"That's all everybody's been talking about since Tuesday," I continued. "Will he show? Won't he? Of course, he won't show! He has no reason to show. And, you know what? There hasn't been any word from him about it. Nothing. Dead silence. And he could send around a reply to all the classes, what with his connections with the front office."

Abby had brought her head down, resting it in one of her hands, as I spoke. What could she be thinking? I was surprised by her silence and then more surprised when she started to laugh. "Can you believe this bullshit," she asked with a smile.

"What," I asked.

"It's ludicrous," she returned.

"Of course, it is," I countered. "Art isn't going to show. There's nothing Diamond can do to make him show. Everybody knows that Art's got the election without so much as putting up a poster."

"No. Not that," she replied. "I'm not talking about Art. I'm talking about Diamond. He's completely full of shit." She read from the flyer, "He won't debate what really matters to next year's senior class - as if there were such a thing! All our class cares about is how big a prom we're going to have or if we'll get to go to Disneyland on GradNight!"

"Art doesn't even care about that," I said.

"So, what's to debate? Is Diamond going to get up in front of the whole junior class and say 'I'm all for having GradNight at Disneyland. How does my opponent feel?'"

"Well, there's got to be something to debate, Abby. Otherwise, he wouldn't have put up those flyers."

Slapping the flyer down on the table, she concluded, "Then, you've fallen right into his trap, Nate. He's got you thinking just like he wants you to think." She tossed the flyer over with a flick of her wrist. "Actually, it's about time somebody out-thought Arty Silvada. Diamond isn't calling for a debate because he wants to debate Art, Nathan. I'll bet he couldn't debate someone if he tried."

"Then, why else would he call a debate, Abby," I persisted. "You're probably right. What's the Debate Club have? Two members? But if I was in Diamond's shoes, I might do the same thing. I mean, what's he have to lose?"

She shook her head. "Wrong question, Nate. We know what he has to lose. It's the election he has to lose. But what does he have to win?"

"Huh?"

"You know, Nate," she insisted, as if it should be as clear to me as it was to her. "If Art doesn't show up, Diamond's discredited him. Then, he has a chance, maybe. And if Art does show..."

I laughed. "Sure, Art'll shoot off his mouth like he always does."

"Diamond won't need to debate anybody!"

It was pretty funny, we thought. Poetic justice. Arthur Silvada was going to pay for his smart mouth. We would never again see karma's sting so effective. Immensely pleased with ourselves, we sat back, basking in the contented glow of righteousness.

That's when Art turned the corner. Whistling happily - it was, in fact, the first time we ever heard him whistling - he strutted across the campus like the cat who'd just eaten the bird. The election hadn't taken anything out of him. If anything, he looked even more in the pink, his hair a shinier brown, his body more lean, his clothes, neat on all occasions, more crisply pressed. Deep inside, it worried me.

"Oh, Arty Pants," Abby called out. Looking over at her, I heard her say, "I just want to have some fun with him."

Art cast his smile our way and approached without a care in the world. Before Abby could say anything, he addressed us. "Hello, losers."

"You seem to be as equally well stocked with shit as ever, Arty," Abby replied.

"It's a good thing someone as low on the totem pole as you are can think your funny, Abs." He looked at me. "And you can-"

"You better be careful who you call a loser, Silvada," I blurted out. "You'll be joining us soon enough!"

"Oh, will I?"

Abby held up the flyer and Arthur scanned it for several seconds.

"Oh. That." Arthur laughed sardonically. "You would get your jollies off of that."

Abby wouldn't let his haughty tone discourage her. "They've got you, Art. Like it or not, you're going to be made to look bad."

Arthur shook his head, taking the flyer out of Abby's hand. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Like it," Abby asked. "With all the shit that comes out of your mouth, I'd love it."

"Sure. You probably think that I'm due to be taken down. That would be right, wouldn't it?" There was something in his voice. It was too confident. It reached into my stomach and told me that, no matter what I might think, I was wrong.

Abby felt it, too. She replied simply, "Yes."

"Well, let me enlighten you two. You both think you're so smart. You think that all I've got going for me is my charisma. You don't think I'm smart, too! You don't think I see through this! Well, let me tell you, I do see though this. I see further than you do and I'm going to tell you just what I plan to do and do you know why I'm going to tell you? I'm going to tell you because you're just a couple of losers and nobody's going to believe a couple of losers over me and you wouldn't be such losers \- you could have been on the winning side - on my side - if you'd been my friends! Diamond hasn't got me. He hasn't got a clue. I'm not going to have to talk at his stupid debate and I'm going to be elected just because I didn't show."

I gasped. "What?"

"What are you talking about, Art," Abby hissed.

I'd always thought Art was a slug, the lowest person I'd ever met, ever since that first day but now he confirmed it. Speaking as if it had really occurred and we were just too naive to notice, Art said, "The teachers who had volunteered to judge the debate have all been bribed, Abby. They were all on Diamond's side to begin with but, just to make sure they wouldn't be swayed by anything I had to say, Diamond paid them all off. Knowing this, of course, I know I wouldn't stand a chance and I don't want to dirty my integrity by having any part in it."

Both of us were struck silent. I knew that the only thing I could think of saying would be pointless but, still, it had to be said. "There's no way you'll get away with this."

He looked at me like a tiger might look at his prey. "You ignorant, little twit. Haven't you ever heard of the Big Lie?"

It's an old strategy, the Big Lie, and it is a reflection upon humanity that it works so often. Call it gullibility or a need to trust out leaders or, perhaps, a desire not to be alone; when encountering the Big Lie it is only necessary to remember this: the more outrageous and outlandish your claim and the more confident you sound about its truth, the more people will believe you. There are many examples. Hitler told his people that the Jews were responsible for World War II. Stalin told his people that there were no slave labor camps. Ronald Reagan insisted that giving more money to the rich would make the poor richer as well. Churches around the world preach to millions of believers that they will all go to some magical wonderland after they die but only if they do precisely as they are told. Those who live in our vampire society are convinced by industrial propaganda that the scientists who warn about environmental catastrophe, providing volumes of support, must be either mistaken, stupid, or representing the "liberal special interest". The Big Lie is something that we, as humans, do not want to believe in. We don't want to admit to our naiveté. Sadly, however, it is this denial that makes the Big Lie so powerful.

"People aren't going to believe you, Art," Abby tried to counter. "There's no way they'll accept that a student could have bribed a teacher."

"Of course, they won't accept it," Art agreed. "That's why I expect this to last long enough to carry me in the election."

Abby's teeth clenched. "You could get them fired!"

Art shrugged his shoulder. "They should have thought of that when they took his side."

"They're not taking anybody's side," Abby shouted, her voice ringing off of the buildings. "They're just people, trying to do their jobs. Christ, Art! Who the hell do you think you are!?"

Art had started walking away as soon as she had raised her voice. He turned his head to answer, "Senior Class President."

"We can't just let you do this," Abby called out to him, standing from her seat.

I stood with her. "Yeah. We'll find a way to stop you."

"Go ahead," he replied as he walked away. Then, he turned, smiling. "Yeah. Go ahead, Abby. Everybody's going to believe you." Turning around, he kept walking. Soon, he turned a corner and was gone.

Her trust betrayed, and with it the belief that "authentic" people were somehow superior, Abby was silent.

But I couldn't bear the silence. "What should we do?"

The first thing we did was go to Gill. Before we could explain our case, though, we were summarily denied. "This isn't your private printing press, Nathan," she scolded.

"But, Miss Gill, he's going to spread lies that could really hurt the teachers who have volunteered to judge the debate," I insisted.

Sitting down, she asked me, "So? Have there never been rumors spread about teachers before? Has an unkind word never been uttered by a student?"

Leaning against Gill's desk, hoping to get her point across, Abby replied, "But these will be listened to, Miss Gill. You, of all people, should know that." Abby was referring, of course, to the compromised position Gill had been put into when she allowed a writer to use Art's derogatory quotes which Art had later denied. No one had doubted him.

"I couldn't do it if I wanted to," Gill said. "We'd have to give equal time to each candidate. Otherwise, it would appear we were trying to affect the outcome of the election. Besides that, we don't have the money."

"Then, let us type something up and photocopy it and allow us to distribute it," I pleaded. She sat there silently, thinking. "The truth has got to count for something."

"No," she answered. "I can't let you."

We didn't even get that far with Jesus Diamond and his friends. Somehow, he'd seen us with Art after school. He thought we were his friends! Abby surprised me by not denying it flat out. "Whether we're his friends or not doesn't make any difference. You'll do well to listen to us." They laughed at us.

It left only one alternative. Abby wouldn't tell me what that was; she knew I'd reject it.

She hadn't told me that Art had given her his phone number. This was back when they'd first met and he'd been so desperate to have her that he'd risked her calling his home. Normally, he didn't want anyone to know about that side of his life. She didn't tell me when she called him. She wouldn't. Despite the many times he wronged us and would continue to wrong us, Art was Abby's project, if not her life's work. She was sure, as sure as she was of anything, that there was goodness in Art, that somewhere within that festering boil of a person there existed one who was good and decent. Just as she was sure of that, she was also sure that she did not have, nor would she have, my support. As far as I was concerned, Art was shit.

He didn't answer the phone. It was his sister, Melva. "Are you one of Arthur's girlfriends?"

Abby took the phone away from her head for a moment and looked at it. "What," she asked, indignantly.

"Arthur's always getting new girlfriends," his little sister answered as if it were a foregone conclusion. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

"I don't know what Art's been telling you," Abby replied. "Put him on the phone."

"Art," Melva hollered, "it's one of your girlfriends and she's really mad at you!"

"What," Abby heard Art say on the other end. "Who is this," he asked into the phone.

"One of your girlfriends, Arthur," Abby flatly stated.

"Who?" Arthur was silent for a moment and Abby let him think. "Abby," he asked, timidly.

"Yes, Art. I guess I'm the only one of the many girlfriends who calls you at home."

"Yeah, right," Art scoffed, resuming his cocky air. "What do you want?"

"I want to come over. You and I need to talk."

"No. You're not coming over here." The last thing Art wanted was for his brothers and sisters to see Abby if they were going to think she was one of his girlfriends. See, Art had been showing them pictures from the yearbook and other pictures he could get his hands on of the attractive girls in school, saying they were his girlfriends. For as much as he claimed he was attracted to her, Abby just didn't measure up to the story he had been giving his younger siblings. None of them went to our school and they wouldn't until Art was long gone. So, then, why the lies? According to Abby, it was simple. It was the same reason why he needed to be in student body government.

He couldn't make friends; he wasn't willing to make the changes in himself necessary for true friendship. Lowering his defenses. Sharing his weaknesses. Occasionally, it might have even required that he subject himself to another's will.

Ayn Rand tells us that this tantamount to putting your face beneath their grinding boot. Raised in the vampire society, Art had grown up learning to apply its demented principles even to his personal life. Who was it that said the children are our future?

"We'll meet at Taco Bell," he conceded. "Your people eat that crap, don't you?"

"Careful, Art," Abby said before she hung up. "All your charm ain't gonna work here."

Within an hour, Abby was sitting at a booth, drinking a soda, watching for Art to arrive. When he did, he didn't bother to order anything. Sitting down, he asked, "What?"

"It's that rumor. That one about the teachers," Abby told him. "I don't want you to spread it."

"You don't want," Art asked. "Why should I care what you want?"

Abby pursed her narrow lips. She wasn't made up and was still wearing her school clothes, though Ydalgo had told her she should make herself look nice if she was going to meet a boy. It wasn't her intention to woo him into changing his mind. She knew that the power of her argument had to be enough.

"Doesn't matter," she answered. "The fact is you do, otherwise you wouldn't have told me. You want me to stop you from doing this. It's low, Arthur, probably the lowest thing you've ever done, but I know you won't stoop that low to win. That's why I don't think you'll go through with it."

His face grimaced, filled with hate. He moved to leave the booth. "You don't know me."

"Don't get up, Arty. I mean it. You made me write you a poem, remember? Now, you owe me. Don't do this, Arthur. Keep this rumor hidden away in your sick, little mind and we'll be even. If you try to be civil, we can even be friends again."

"Is that what you think I want," he hissed, spitting venom. "You might think because of your little tag-along that you're something special but let me tell you something. You ain't nobody! You're not in student body. You're not in sports. Hell, you ain't even in band! It's just you and that dumb, black kid so what makes you think you're so cool that I'm dying to join your little gang?"

"Because you're here. You didn't have to come but you did. You still want me to be your friend." She took a deep breath, hoping not to sound as nervous as she was. She didn't want him to know that she probably wanted him even more. "Look. You're probably going to win anyway. Diamond's not that close. Just run the race fair and square and look back on this time with a little integrity. If you can't do that to keep a promise, at least do it for yourself." She was tired of this. Arguing made her tired. It wasn't often when she and Ydalgo fought and, when they did, neither of them liked it... not like Art. Art seemed to prime himself for the next barb. She rose before it could be thrown and walked out.

The debate was the next day. All through our morning classes, we waited for some sign, some indication that Arthur Silvada knew what it meant to do what was right. Lunch came, though, without a sound. So we walked to the auditorium, the two of us, anticipating Arthur's coup.

It didn't come.

The auditorium was shut. There was no debate, only a crowd of anxious students wondering why.

The reason why came later, just before the end of the day. It didn't come as a bold flyer, as with the challenge to the debate. Nor did it come as a statement from the Principal's office, as we had expected it would when Art dropped his bomb. No. It came as a rumor.

Did you hear, it went, Jesus Diamond has dropped out of the election. He did? Yes, he was too chicken shit to debate Art, I guess. Now, he looks like a freaking idiot. Nobody would vote for him, anyway.

But why? What would make Jesus Diamond cancel the debate and drop out of the race on the same day when he was certain to score points against his opponent?

"I told him what I was going to tell everybody," Arthur told us after school.

I couldn't believe it. "You what?!"

"Your girlfriend, here, asked me not to spread the rumor, so I didn't. I went to Diamond, instead. I told him what everybody would think of him. He could have been expelled. He knew I'd do it and he knew what it would mean. So, he gave in." Art was actually smiling, as if he'd done some good deed.

"Oh, Arthur, how could you?" Abby was sickened, sitting low in her seat.

"What," Art asked innocently. "I did what you wanted me to. You didn't want me to spread the rumor so I didn't."

Abby insisted, "That wasn't what I meant."

"I'd be thankful if I was in Diamond's place," Art continued. "He's just lucky he had me as an opponent."

"That wasn't what I meant," Abby repeated, sitting up taller in her chair.

"You told me not to spread the rumor," Art said, spelling it out for her. "I didn't. You didn't say I couldn't use it some other way."

"I told you to show some decency, some integrity," Abby shouted, jumping out of her chair. "Instead, you sunk down even lower! You blackmailed the poor guy! How can you live with yourself?!"

How? There is this very popular belief in our vampirian times that legality, morality, ethics only stretch as far as it is necessary to entrap us. You know: "It ain't wrong unless you get caught". Tax cheaters and highway speeders use this a lot. So do shoplifters, polluters, adulterers, frauds, taggers, and thieves of all kind. But do you see what this means? This philosophy of evasion has spread throughout our society. Should it be any wonder Art could live with himself when you consider how prevalent such thinking is? And even if it were not, even if such a belief had only taken hold of the most depraved minority of our society, it really doesn't matter. The belief that it is so is what makes such a belief so easy to live with and, after all, what is it these evaders say when they are finally caught? Like little children, they recite, "But everybody does it!"

In Arthur's mind, he couldn't understand why we would be so offended. He thought that, were we in his shoes, we would have done the same.
Chapter 8

### Everyone must consume.

With our senior year, many changes came.

It would start innocently enough, as we paraded into our new classes that bright, fall morning but would end with Poncho, like some Shakespearian soothsayer, warning us of the world to come. From what Abby and I saw, it was already there. The year was 1985 and the vampire society was already upon us. Ronald Reagan had been inaugurated into office for his second term as President of the United States. His opponent, Walter Mondale lost, it was said, because he told the American people early on in the race that they would have to tighten their belts if they wanted to make the country a better place. There was an economy to get back under control and real problems in our nation to fix. The American people didn't want that; they didn't feel it was their responsibility to fix the country's problems and they certainly didn't want to tighten their belts. Ronald Reagan ran on a platform of less help for the poor, less protection for the environment, less low cost housing, and fewer funds for education; his platform was "A rising tide lifts all boats" as if economics and government can be simplified into boat analogies. The American people liked simple analogies, though. They liked the fact that Reagan was going to keep the money from the poor, who, as everyone had been convinced, were taking it all, anyway. If the poor wanted food, they could work like everyone else no matter what their petty, little excuse. (Later, in the mid-1990's, Californians would use the same argument on illegal immigrants, saying that these, poor few were taking all the healthcare, education, and jobs from the citizens.) It wasn't the first time the American people fell prey to the ease of divisiveness and it certainly wouldn't be the last. The vampire society just made it so much easier to swallow.

Abby had anticipated the last day of her junior year but no more so than her father, Ydalgo. Ydalgo had spent most of the school year alone, driving his daily route in the van. As he grew older, he cherished the moments spent with his daughter. So it was with joy in his heart that he sat with her the morning after the last day of school as they followed the Saturday route. This time, she drove, having earned her license several months before.

Staying behind the steering wheel, she didn't let that stop her from greeting and talking with her father's long-time customers, people who had watched Abby grow up. But something had happened to these people, these old women and young mothers who ran out of their houses and up to Ydalgo's van like children to an ice cream truck, something that made their steps less sure and their eyes dart anxiously about. Abby could see it, could see the silence they held once they left the safety of their doors until they were next to Ydalgo's van. She could also see the spray paint stains upon the buildings and the iron bars in the windows, the strange men sitting conspicuously in old caddies and the sideways glances from the homeless who skulked about in the alleyways.

The Heart had changed.

Miss Carpenter, one of Ydalgo's few, black customers, asked Abby's father, "What you want to be bringin' a lovely girl like that into here for? It might be daytime but that don't make it much safer than at night."

"I'll be fine, Miss Carpenter," Abby calmly replied.

She was ignored. "You better keep your girl away from these here crack dealers, 'Dalgo," Miss Carpenter insisted. "Them dealers with all their money can be awful appealing to a young girl. You listen!"

Ydalgo did listen. He'd been listening and looking all year long. He remembered when he'd tried to sell his product from Birch Park, when it had been on the fringe of the Heart. Ydalgo'd been chased out of it because the street violence and the gangs and the drugs had been too much for one man with a cart full of oranges to contend with. It had been driving away his customers. Now, it was conspiring to keep him away from them.

Isn't crime, after all, a reflection of the society that gives rise to it? That's what some would have you believe. So, when crime grows worse in an Hispanic neighborhood or in a Black neighborhood, it must be the fault of those in the neighborhood. After all, it is said, those people are poor, both monetarily and spiritually. Should it be any wonder that such a place is rife with the criminal element? And the rich sleep securely in their beds, walk safely on their streets. Why? Because a rich man isn't going to need to steal. It is society's way of favoring the rich and crushing the poor; it is the vampire's way.

If you look further, you'll see that the rich neighborhoods have the finest policing. Why? Well, not only can the rich afford it, causing a greater dichotomy, but because everyone wants to be on the winning team. Police forces don't want to go into the inner city, where they'll be threatened, where their effectiveness will be at a minimum. Rather than that, they'll provide policing for the rich and show, by that example, how they're doing such a great job. So, crime is corralled and parts of the city are ghettoized, as the separation between the rich and the poor spreads inexorably like oil on a tilted canvas, more and more as the inner city grows larger. More prey for the vampire.

The Heart had started in downtown Santa Ana and had spread, throughout the years, to many of the outlying areas. Criminals had followed the families into the low cost housing and no one had done a thing to stop it. Ydalgo had seen the streets become scarier and scarier. Miss Carpenter was right. It was no place for Abby and Ydalgo knew he had been selfish to want to take her along.

"But, no daddy! You're not making sense!" Abby was near tears and finding it impossible to change her father's mind.

"Yes, it is sense, honey," Ydalgo insisted. Running his hand through his thinning hair, he motioned her to sit down. "Look. It's even getting worse in our complex. The apartments here, they're just getting all kinds of bad people in them. I can't get you out of this, yet, but I can make sure you don't have to go where I go every day."

Abby reached over to her father's hands, taking them as her long hair fell across her tired expression. "Then, why go there at all, daddy? You can sell somewhere else, can't you?"

"No, Abigail. It's like I told you. Those people don't got nowhere to go. They can't just go to the Stater Brothers or the Safeway. The only stores nearby are those liquor stores and their prices are too high. Anywhere else, well, they don't need no mexican driving around in a van, selling them stuff. Don't you see, mija? These people need me."

Ydalgo never intended to allow the vampires to reach inside his home and separate him from his daughter. I don't think Ydalgo ever really thought about the vampires. He probably didn't even think they existed. But they did it just the same. I'm not trying to say the cops were wrong for not patrolling the streets enough. Nor am I trying to say that the rich are to blame for affording better police protection. The vampires aren't only those with the most money or those with the most power. They aren't always easy to see, labeled for your inspection. In this case, you could call drug dealers vampires. That would be obvious. The slum lords and the gangs were vampires just as well. For every person in that neighborhood who let the children turn to gangs, allowed the drugs to be sold on the street, did not encourage community policing, voted for political candidates who claimed that education and prevention were useless against crime, and even walked down the street without picking up a piece of garbage to help keep the streets clean, you'd get extra points for calling them vampires as well. For, you see, the vampire society isn't just Them. Those people over there - the rich, the conservative, the powerful - they aren't the only vampires. It's the whole, damned society. It's all of us. Even for those few who try to keep out of it, like Ydalgo, it finds its way in.

The next day was the first time, with the exception of those times when she'd been in school or had been sick, that Abby had stayed home while her father went to work. At first, she tried to make the best of it. It was summer vacation, after all, so she slept in. After she awoke just past ten, she was stuck with the problem of what else to do. Television didn't appeal to her. Daytime TV was like fast food for the brain, tasteless, meaningless, never quite satisfying. It preached the virtues of the vampire. On the soap operas, women used sex against men because that's all they really had. On the talk shows, the poor were portrayed as stupid. On the game shows, people did anything for money.

Brushing her teeth, her hair fell in her face. She looked at it and thought something that had never occurred to her before.

It had to go. The long waves of red, cascading past her shoulders, seemed diffident in the face of the world. The world had changed. It wasn't the welcoming place where she had grown up. This was no longer the world of May and Chris Jenson, of the community who had come together to help Ydalgo when he was a new father, or of people like Caroline Ell, strangers who had helped him as well when he'd needed it. The Heart, the foci of the hispanic community in Santa Ana, had grown sick and feeble, drained of its soul. Drained by the vampires, weak, it let itself be torn apart from within. Abby got the scissors from the kitchen and began cutting. The soft curls that reflected the happiness of childhood were sheared away to show the harsher, tighter curls that were brought on by age, and a continuing awareness of the world.

Ydalgo came home that night, sadder than he'd been in years. The last vestige he had of Abby's youth - the fact that they could work together, be together, during the summers and that she had wanted to be there with her father - had been torn away from him. But, in fact, he was lucky to have had what he had. Most families are torn apart much sooner. The parents are forced to run the treadmill tracks of the rat race, sprinting for that elusive goal of freedom. That freedom, financial freedom, they believe will give them the time they deserve with the ones they love. It's not to be had, of course, for at the same time they are also told they must buy all they can. This cycle only speeds up the treadmill. Is it any wonder why retirement age keeps getting pushed back to an older and older age? In the end, only the rich can truly retire. The masses must have some kind of income - they couldn't afford nor were they conditioned to save when they were younger - and so they must continue to work, running a race that only wears them to death. That's where their money goes, after all. Their last cents and last years are spent in hospitals because they were too short sighted to respect the aged when they were younger and so are treated the same.

And what about the young? Well, they're taught to spend, too. They spend so fast that they're forced to take jobs at a younger and younger age. Parents cannot afford to raise an up and coming consumer but that is exactly when they've done, using television, a medium that is rife with advertisements, brain washing, as a pacifier. And so the children must work. They're torn away from their parents. They don't get a chance to benefit from their wisdom, not as if the parents had time to impart it. In the end, there is but one rule: Everyone must consume. And, in order to consume, everyone must make more money.

Ydalgo had always known that he'd been blessed. All his Abby had wanted were her doodle pads and he had been more than happy to provide them. He encouraged her doodling and her writing every summer day they spent together. She was taught the value of money whenever she saw a housewife try to afford food for the next meal and she was taught honesty as her father never tried to cheat them.

Now, he walked into their apartment more tired than he thought he'd ever been, putting himself down carefully on the sofa.

"Hi, daddy," Abby said, hurrying out to see him.

"Aaiee," Ydalgo screamed and, trying to maintain his composure, added, "honey."

His yelp stopped her in her tracks. She knew he was looking at her hair. There was no way to avoid noticing her hair. The way he was looking at it, though, made her feel insecure. Somehow, it made her feel wrong. "Well," she asked.

He continued staring like a man whose masterpiece had been pissed on and didn't say anything for a moment. "You cut it."

"Yes," she replied. "Don't you like it?" Up until that moment, she had liked it. She had liked what it said. All of the independence, the authority challenging, the unconventionality that was inside of her now shone through. Now, however, she was beginning to doubt if she liked it.

Ydalgo looked at her, then he looked at her hair, and a wave of indecision, uncommon for him, washed upon his face. Ydalgo wasn't the kind of parent to lie to his child but this time he had to be sure she understood the truth. He shook his head. "No."

"Oh," Abby replied, uncomfortably.

Ydalgo patted the sofa beside him. "Sit here, mija." As she sat, he asked her, "But you didn't cut that for me, did you?"

Abby shook her head.

"No," he continued, "you cut it for yourself. You cut it because you're growing up. Becoming your own girl. You don't really need me to like it, do you? You like it just fine, yourself."

As he took her hand, she replied, "I guess."

"And I don't need to like a haircut to love you, honey," he told her, taking her in his arms, "and I always love you."

I was a little less understanding. "If you don't take that wretched stare of your face right now, young master West," Abby told me as I stood speechless when we got together that day late in June, "I will personally make sure you cannot make it again!"

There we were, in South Coast Plaza, meeting for lunch. It was unusual in itself as Abby had never met me in the summer, always working with her father. She wasn't familiar with the mall, one of the oldest but only the beginning in the marketing bonanza that was Orange County; she'd only gone once before, many years ago. Walking around, looking at all the things for sale, all the money changing hands, she sighed, "I feel like I'm in a whorehouse."

I had taken a couple of steps as she'd stopped but I'd heard her just fine. "I'm sorry," I asked. "You want to run that one by me again?"

"A whorehouse," she repeated. "You know what a whorehouse is, don't you?"

"Not from personal experience," I replied. "But I don't get the metaphor."

"Analogy," she corrected.

"Whatever," I said. "What's your point?"

"Money for sex," she said. "Money for sin. Money for clothes and games and books and music, doo-dads, hairstyles, electronics -"

I quipped, "Money for nothing. Chicks for free."

"That's just it, Nathan. The money is for nothing. Just like a whorehouse, it's not buying anything but the thrill."

"Thrill?"

"The thrill of acquisition. These people just want to acquire more and more things. They don't need them. Like down in Brookstone, none of those things are necessities. They'll just sell them at a garage sale someday."

"Well, it is their money," I told her. "Don't they have the right to spend it however they wish?"

"Oh, sure they do," she said. "But they might as well be spending it at a whorehouse. They'll have nothing to show for it in the end. It's all just going for selfish gratification."

I thought that she was right for the most part but, given the situation, I'd probably do the same in their shoes. "You still haven't told me what's wrong with that."

"What's wrong, Nathan, is that it isn't supposed to be that way! Their money could go to feed the poor or cure the sick but instead it's going towards making themselves beautiful and glamorous and getting them more possessions." She looked down from the balcony upon the shoppers on the first floor. "When they pass by the homeless people in the street, they won't think twice about how their money could have gone to help someone instead of just helping themselves to whatever they wanted. They'll never learn that there's more to life than their own petty desires."

"Hey, nobody said that life was fair, Abby."

Turning her head, she looked at me with eyes that burned like her hair. "Of course, not. Someone would have to go out of their way, then, to make it so." She walked away without another word because, as I would later learn, she had nothing to say. She had inherited a great deal more than red hair from her grandmother and sometimes found her temper difficult to control.

I followed her downstairs to the Carls Jr. restaurant at the poorer end of the mall. We both ordered, took our food, and went to the back where a big-screen television was on. Abby went to a table where someone else already sat.

"Now, how is it I knew you'd be with her?" Arthur Silvada, reclining in shorts and a polo shirt, smiled up at me.

Abby stopped me before I could speak. "Before you say anything, Nathan, please sit down." We both looked at the booth before us. I certainly didn't want to sit next to Arthur; I hadn't before and I didn't want to start. But I'd always sat across from Abby, keeping things platonic, not too close. She made the decision for us and sat next to Arthur without hesitation. Then, she looked up at me as if she expected everything to be fine. As I sat across from them, she said, "I'm giving him another chance. We've talked on the phone and I think he understands. Okay?"

I looked down at my food. "Do I have a choice?"

"Sure," Art said. "You could -"

"Let's not start off on the wrong foot," Abby interjected.

That summer we learned the roles which we would play for the remainder of our high school sentences. Arthur as leader, decision maker. He was quick to talk and quick to act. He didn't seem to care what Abby thought and seemed to think he got more out of the friendship by not caring. On the other hand, I was always considerate of Abby. I always wanted her to know that she was special to me. No matter what I did, though, it seemed to have an opposite effect. She'd defer to Arthur who always led and I was left to follow.

Abby seemed oblivious to this triangle. The only feeling she had for either of us, she said on those occasions when Arthur prodded her, was friendship. And, if it wasn't for her, neither of us would have been within miles of the other. She was the glue that held us together.

But what about when we were apart? I'd always thought of myself as first among Abby's friends, her oldest and dearest. Then, I learned that she and Arthur were seeing each other away from me. We were no longer a threesome and, it turned out that when we were, Arthur was no longer the outsider. Whenever we were together, I had to feign disinterest as they giggled about their previous night's escapades.

And so the summer went.

By September, I was aching for school, for a little distraction. The newspaper's staff met one week before school began to brainstorm ideas for the first issue. After a couple years of this, I knew how it would end up. New services. New hours. New classes. New staff. The first paper would be, as expected, a repetition of everything new that year. No surprise.

Then, Gill approached me after the meeting. "I thought you might like to know about this. Jesus Diamond contacted me last week. He has witnesses who'll back him up. Apparently, Art Silvada threatened to spread a lie around campus about him and several teachers if he didn't withdraw from the race last year."

"Just like we told you?" I asked her.

"Yep," she said, nodding. "Exactly." She looked pointedly at me. "I want you to know we're going to run it."

"So?" I asked.

She walked over to her desk, getting her things as if to go. "Just that I heard you two became friends. Thought he might like to know that we'd like to offer him equal time to tell his side."

We're not friends, I wanted to tell her. We've never been friends. He's Abby's friend, and who's to say what else?! But she walked me out of her room and locked it up behind her. As she walked away, I knew I had to decide what to do.

The coined answer, of course, was to "do the right thing". Platitudes like that are rampant in the vampire society. But what could possibly have been the "right thing"? The trick – as I saw it – was to keep it vague so, as in this case, the decision maker could actually do the wrong thing but still feel good about himself.

In the final analysis, I am not proud of what I did. I knew that if I were to tell Arthur, he would have plenty of time to prepare. He could object to the accusation with all the charisma at his command, never flubbing because he'd memorized his lines. He would have remained student body president and Jesus Diamond would have remained humiliated. But would that have been right? Wouldn't that have been the same as admitting that what Arthur did to win the election was right? But it wasn't! I knew that! By not telling Art, he was forced to face the music. He would have had to defend his actions in the voice that came naturally to him, one that was bitter and foul.

Put that way, the decision was not simply one of right against wrong. But it was not on those points that my decision was based. I suppose I saw it as a question of great philosophical importance. All I could think of at the time was how bad Arthur would look. How Abby would be forced to see him as he was. How he would naturally be expelled from our lives and the girl for whom I felt such an attraction and held such respect would then be mine.

So, I didn't tell. I didn't tell him or Abby. In fact, I stayed away from them for the rest of the week.

School started. Every day I found an excuse not to be with them as they sat at the tables by the cafeteria. It wasn't that I was afraid that I would tell. I knew I wouldn't tell. I was really afraid that it wouldn't make any difference. Could he already know? Had he already devised a strategy?

No.

The first Monday of October fell on the seventh that year. The paper was passed around by the freshmen on the newspaper's staff to all of the classrooms. Class by class, Arthur Silvada's twisted knot of lies of unraveled. Building by building, the truth was learned.

It couldn't be, I heard a lot of students, even some teachers, exclaim. Art Silvada wouldn't have won that way! No! It was obviously a lie spread by Jesus Diamond to make Art look bad. The paper was printing lies just as they had before! None of the students believed the story. All of them had faith in their leader. All they wanted from him was a denial. Just a word. "No!" That's what they wanted! All he had to do was tell them he didn't do it and they'd praise him. They'd mock Jesus Diamond! They'd tear up every last one of the newspapers and every one printed from now on! All he had to do was tell them!

But he was just as surprised as everyone else. Everyone but me. "So what if I did it," he burst out, rising from his desk. "He was dumb enough to fall for it! He didn't deserve to win the election! And you think you're so much better than me? Well, you voted for me, didn't you?!" His outburst came just as class ended. With the colossal buzz of the bell, Arthur Silvada was the first out of his class, storming into the hallway.

"You didn't do this, did you, Art," he was asked. "The paper's spreading lies about you again, Art." "How can you stand for this, Art? You didn't do this!"

"Of course, I did it! I'm glad I did it," he yelled. "It got me elected, didn't it?!" Turning to another group of students, he asked, "Who would you rather have in office, anyway? Somebody who's willing to get the job done or some wimp whose afraid about what lies I might tell?!"

The uproar this created surprised only him.

Art was no fool. He knew he had to leave campus for a while. He had to shut up his mouth that was spewing his bitterness before his words would bury him even further. For several hours, he thought and he thought hard to come up with slick, charismatic answers. Answers that would work. Answers that would undo the damage.

But there was no undoing the damage. The damage was done. When he walked back on campus, it was like walking into a different world. Nobody would look at him, let alone talk to him. They didn't want to hear the answers he'd prepared. They wanted nothing to do with him. After lunch, he was called into the principal's office. He was stripped of his office, removed from student body, and suspended for three days. "I ought to expel you, young man," Principal McHaney told him, looking angrily over his oak desktop, "but, in this case, I am not allowed to do that. There's been no precedent – and I thank God for that. No one has ever been so low." His words came slowly and were carefully selected. He'd never been so close to losing his temper with a student.

As the principal breathed loudly, Art tried to defend himself. "I did nothing wrong. There's nothing written that says you can't -"

"It's called common decency, asshole!" McHaney's shout was so loud that it was heard outside of his closed office door and echoed off the front office's tile floor. The principal sat back down, having raised himself from his chair with his outburst, and added, "Now, I don't know if you'll understand this or even if you're capable of understanding but I want you to know that you're going to be a very unpopular person around this campus. If I were you, I'd lay very low and hang my head down as if you were actually capable of some shame. Now, get out! I don't ever want to see you in my office again!"

That afternoon, Abby sat at the table, alone. I went to her, relieved that I wouldn't have to see Arthur's face. "How're you doing, Abby," I asked her.

"How," she gasped, shocked at my good mood. "I'm sick, Nathan. That's how I am."

"Sick? Come on, Abby. It's not like he didn't have it coming."

"Of course, he had it coming," she growled. "But why did the paper have to be so underhanded about it? Why didn't they give _him_ equal time? They just ambushed him and let him suffer!"

"It's no different from what he would have done," I argued.

"It is different," she snapped. "It is different! And I'll tell you why! If they think they're so much better than him - if they think they're doing better by exposing him - then they shouldn't stoop to his methods! Dammit, Nate, I know Art's no saint! There's never been any question about that! But he's trying to change. You've seen that this summer. You know. They should have at least given him the chance to defend himself."

I still hadn't sat down and now that Abby had said her peace, I didn't want to sit down. "You know what would have happened had they done that. Either Art would have had a prepared reaction or he wouldn't. If it was prepared, it would have been slick. It would have been just the thing. If it wasn't, Art would know and he would have been able to tell everyone with his oh-so-perfect charisma that they were all lies. The truth wouldn't have stood a chance."

She looked away from me, as if sick from my rationalization. "Then, we should never treat him fairly, is that it? Because, if we do - God forbid! - he just might not get hurt." She said no more. The argument was over. Something she heard turned her head. Leaning on the last table, we saw Arthur looking at us. One arm cradled his stomach and his face was visibly bruised. By the redness in his eyes and the wetness of his face, we could see he was crying.

With a sick feeling in my gut, I knew. Everything had gone just as I'd hoped. And, as I snuck away, Abby was drawn further into Arthur's arms.

"Oh, no," she pleaded softly, touching his bloody hair. The football team didn't like being played for fools, it seemed. They'd been ardent backers of Arthur's campaign, pressuring everyone they could into his corner. That pressure was measurable. Even had he appeared in Diamond's debate, Arthur might have won on football team converts alone. When five of the varsity players had cornered him behind the bleachers - he'd been sitting out there, wallowing in self-pity - he'd told them he hadn't done it. Then, as each took a shot at him, passing him around, he'd held his arms up, trying to ward off the blows, shouting that he hadn't done it. When he was down on the cement, and the players were kicking him and pounding his head into the ground, he would have pleaded with them had he had the strength. That was at the beginning of the last class. An hour after school, he'd struggled to his only friend left. "Shhh," Abby said. "Stop crying. You're just making yourself more upset."

"I'm sorry," he struggled to say. His lower lip was bloody and it hurt to move his jaw. "I just -"

"Shhh," she repeated. With timing Arthur didn't deserve, Abby's father pulled up just then in the van. "Come on," Abby directed, putting herself under his arm and bracing him. "My father can take you to the hospital."
Chapter 9

### It's very easy to be a vampire. The easiest thing about it is that it comes so naturally.

The next morning, as Ydalgo drove Abby and Art to school, having picked Arthur up at home, I was in Gill's class. I'd arrived early to be the first one there. Though it was only a few weeks into the school year, Gill, who was also advisor for the yearbook staff, needed someone to write poetry for the yearbook. It was an inestimable position to be in; anyone could write captions. The poet would encapsulate the thoughts and dreams of her classmates. She would be their soul.

After four years of writing poems only to be seen by myself or Art, Abby was ready for just such a position. Her words would talk to everyone in the school and they would all know what I knew, how she was blessed. She'd be the envy of the school. She'd know success. Best of all, she'd have me to thank for it and she'd be grateful. Perhaps, then, she'd ignore her infatuation with Arthur Silvada.

"Abby Ayrnes," Gill asked. "Haven't you brought her in before?"

"Yes," I answered. "She's very interested in getting this position but she's also really shy. She afraid of rejection. So, you can't let anyone else know she applied if you decide to go with someone else."

She put her hand out flat. "Well, let's see some of her poetry and we'll find out if she's any good."

I fished out the poem which I'd typed from Abby's original. In case Gill wanted to keep it, I wanted to be sure I'd be able to sneak it back into Abby's folder.

When you walked the road to rapture

were you lost or was your map sure?

Did you glance without a care or seek?

As though the road were paved with spikes

you often paused along that hike

looking at the merest hills as peaks.

You worry at the smallest pond

stirring at the water there.

Don't you know that what you seek you'll find?

When you walked the road to rapture

desperately, you tried to capture

things that held less substance than the air.

Things with value are not owned

and quality is never sold.

There aren't shops along the roadside there.

You knock on every door you see

afraid to miss an answer.

Can't you accept that destiny is kind?

But still you walked that road to rapture.

You'd run confused and then you'd stop sure

questioning the instincts that you led.

Though offramps diverge by the score

still you'll walk forevermore

Avoiding rapture until the day you're dead.

That afternoon, Gill sent word to Abby to meet her at her classroom after school.

"How did you get a copy of one of my poems," Abby asked as she walked through the door. She tried to control her anger with little effectiveness. "I would have known if I gave you one."

Gill wondered if she was being played for the fool. "Nathan was in here with it this morning, Abby." She watched as the young poet fumed. "Is there some problem with that?"

Abby snapped, "Problem?!" The sound of her voice recoiling off of the tile surprised her. "Sorry," she said. "It's not your fault."

As Gill fished around for the poem, she said, "I didn't know this would be a problem." She found the typed page and handed it to Abby. "Here. That's my only copy. It was my impression that Nathan was doing this as a gesture to regain your friendship."

"Regain," Abby asked. "But we've always been friends."

"Oh." Gill thought for a moment. "Well, then I'm confused because I thought that was the reason why you and your boyfriend, Art Silvada, didn't listen to him when he told you about the Jesus Diamond story."

It's very easy to be a vampire. The easiest thing about it is that it comes so naturally. I know it did to me. It came to me because, though I might have avoided all of the materialistic pitfalls that teenagers are so prone to, when I did desire something, someone... Abby, the vampire's way promised the greatest reward. It's very easy to get when all you're interested in is taking.

"Who the hell do you think you are?!" Her voice was harder than I'd ever known it to be and her eyes pierced me like I'd only known them to pierce someone else: Arthur. I didn't know it at the time but I had hurt her. She had once thought her father had betrayed her when he took her away from the Jenson's home but she hadn't known betrayal.

School was out and I had been walking to the lunch tables, sure that she would be overjoyed to see me. As I said, I wasn't aware of the consequences of my actions. I stopped short before sitting down. "What?"

"You know what, you bastard," Abby yelled, getting up. No one else was around. She'd even told Art to leave us alone. She wanted me all to herself. "I thought you were my friend!"

My instinct to flee caused me to look for an escape route as I replied, "I, um, I am your friend."

"Don't lie to me, Nathan! You've done enough of that already!"

"What," I tried to ask but she shoved a piece of paper into my face before I got the word out.

"Look at that!" She stood only inches from me. I could feel the heat off of her face. The paper that she'd thrust at me was the copy of the poem which I had given to Gill. I looked down at it and looked up innocently, ready to talk. She wouldn't let me. With three, stiff fingers, she poked me hard in the chest. "You had no right! That was mine! Those were my personal, intimate thoughts and you showed them around without thinking about me!"

"But I did think about you," I shouted, trying to get my words in. "That's why I showed them to Gill, so your talent wouldn't go to waste."

"It wasn't going to waste. I was doing just what I wanted with it. I don't write for other people, Nathan. You know that." She clenched her fist against her heart. "I write to make _me_ happy."

I reached out to her, hoping to make her understand. "But don't you see? You can make other people happy, too. That's why I tried to get you on the yearbook."

"Oh, that's a load of crap and you know it," she spat. Flecks of spit bounced against my neck as she lashed out. But then, she pulled back, visibly trying to control her temper. As she took several steps away, I realized that I'd been bent backwards against her barrage. "Is that how you justify all you did, Nathan? You tell yourself that you're doing it for me?"

"Well, I -"

"So you thought it would help me if Nathan was beat to a pulp? Is that it?"

My voice caught in my throat so I whispered, "What are you talking about?"

She charged back at me. "You know damn well what I'm talking about! You know better than anyone! You knew before the article was published and you could have warned him! You could have saved him, Nathan! He lost two teeth because of you!" She sank as if she was spent, stepping back to her chair at the table and lowering her head into her hands.

Suddenly, I realized that she was crying. I approached the table and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't know that would happen. I only did it because -"

"I know why you did it," Abby said into her hands. "You're after the same thing Arthur's after." She looked up at me through her sorrowful rain, accusing me with her tears. "I just never thought you would sink this low, Nathan. I gave you more credit than that. I would expect something like this from Arthur but at least he'd own up to it. You think you're so much better than him but you're lying to yourself."

Her indictment stung me. I clenched my fist, trying to think of something to say. "Now, wait a minute."

"Don't try lying to me, Nathan," she shouted. "I don't have to be your friend! No more than I have to be Arthur's! I'd probably be better off without either of you! You think Art's scum? Well, you're no better! You just hide behind good intentions, that's all!"

I was silent, struck dumb. I had no defense and, had I one, it would have withered beneath her attack. Then, Ydalgo's van pulled up and I'd never been happier to see it. Abby gathered her things, rose from the table, wiped her eyes, and told me, "I don't ever want to hear you say a bad thing about Art, ever again. Because you're no better. You didn't just hurt him, Nathan. You hurt me."

Before I could say anything, she hurried to her ride. I lowered myself to the chair opposite of where she sat and felt my stomach crush the rest of my innards. I couldn't breathe. No tears came. I just sat there for nearly an hour wishing, more than anything else in the world, that I didn't have to be me.

Things did get a little better, after that. Abby let me remain her friend, though we didn't talk for several weeks. An undiscussed truce remained between Arthur and I. We even began to tolerate each other, if only for Abby's sake.

Abby did take the position on the yearbook, coming up with little rhymes for each page. She even wrote the Farewell at the end which read:

Nothing you ever do in your life is so solemn as when you care for another

and you shall always care for these people and these buildings

these sights and these sounds

will remain with you like no others

Memories will fade for they often do as we move from one year to another

but the memories in this book will keep you in its embrace

they will hold you and you will cherish them for they

will remain with you like no others

The things you take from this place you will someday pass to another

building the chain that is our lives, tying it back to this time

when things that were passed on to you

will remain with you like no others

And so this is a Farewell from one member of your class to another

and if every phrase I turn means nothing and fades into the mist

I know I've shared these years with you which

will remain with you like no others

She wrote those words in January, when the yearbook was being sent off to the printer. She had no way of knowing that one of her classmates had kept a copy of it. She found out less than a week later, though, when people started approaching her. "Write me a poem," they'd ask. "My grandmother's having a birthday" or "I've got to show Kelly how much I love her" or "Do one with my name in it" were their requests. She was an instant hit.

Poetry isn't taught in our public schools. Oh, sure, most home-room classes spend a few days analyzing something by Robert Frost or Edgar Allen Poe but, aside from lip service, poetry is ignored. So, too, are music and art neglected. There are, of course, the exceptions: marching band (which remains as a component to sports rallies and school spirit), drafting (which usually falls under the heading of art), and shop classes such as welding and wood-craft. These and other so-called "electives" are the least funded of any of the classes provided in public school. Rarely is a class offered to show a child how to paint or sculpt or even write from their heart. For that matter, only when a person gets into college is the opportunity presented to learn how to appreciate these things. Yet, these are the things which touch our soul, which stir our heart. These are the things with true meaning to us as individuals. The other subjects - math, history, spelling, reading, science - they are important to us as a society but rarely does a quadratic equation arouse pathos. Learning the capitols of the states does little to truly inspire. So, why are these things which we hold dear so neglected? Why do they take such a subordinate role?

Sadly, it is because a vampire has no need for poetry. Music takes time to appreciate. One has to stop to look at art. One does not need to learn about any of these things to become a good consumer. Exploring the aesthetic, for that matter, runs contrary to the purpose of the vampire. Vampires do not create. Their function is to consume, destroy.

And, so we do. Where the vampires have been able to latch onto an art form, they do so only with the thought of making a profit. The two areas in which the vampires have been able to make the most money have been in film (this includes both television and the cinema) and music (all styles). If we are to accept the vampire society as a child of the industrial revolution, just look at what has happened to these two forms as it grew into maturity. Film has always been a media of the masses so it is not surprising that it has always been a favorite of the vampire. Just think about it. Films are easy to package, they don't last long so many can be sold, and they can be sold in many different media. Movies can be sold more than once. By the opening of the twenty-first century, we had movies at theaters, on VCR's, DVD's, CD-ROM, on cable, on network television, and on pay-per-view. An entire entertainment industry has arisen whose main purpose is to support and feed on movies. Then, there is the rest of the package: soundtracks, action figures, posters, clothing, a cornucopia for conspicuous consumption. Product placement increases dividends. Mass marketing can turn the most meaningless drivel into a blockbuster.

Music is as old as man but the vampire society has made this, too, distinctly its own. Musical compositions have become shorter, again allowing for faster and more frequent sale. Music marketing has become an industry unto itself. Popular music is even engineered now to conform with the self-ignorant, blurred self-image of the vampire. Music must be upbeat, hold few minor chords, and contain ambiguous "feel good" lyrics - even songs which rebel are rarely self-critical. Even the same song can be sold via many different venues: on the album, on the soundtrack, in the movie, as background on a television show, in the collection, and then the various singles. And, though modern media is easily shared, the way one would share a picture or a sunset, such things are made illegal. Behind the mighty walls of copyright laws, they are hidden away, even as those laws are extended on and on. Eventually, there is no public domain. Nothing belongs to the public. All is property of the vampire.

Of course, I'm talking about popular music and popular films here, along with other popular, mass-marketed media, for, as the most popular, it is the most representative of the vampire society. Disposable products for disposable income in a disposable society.

As a vampire exists without a soul, it is sickened at the thought that someone might have something which they do not. If you teach someone to appreciate their soul, through poetry or another art form, they don't need to try and purchase it at the mall.

For all her popularity, though, as Prom approached, Abby had no suitors. After everything that had happened between us, no matter what the result may have been, I couldn't bring myself to ask her. So, Arthur did. "Come on, Abigail," he pretended to beg, using her full name as I was never able. "We've been friends for too long. Don't you think it's time you let me take you out?"

Abby smiled at Arthur and I thought, just for a moment, that she'd say yes. "You're right, Art," she replied. "We have been friends for a while." She took my arm which shocked me out of the attitude I had felt coming over me. "For that matter, so have Nathan and I. And I wouldn't want to have to choose between you. So, why don't we all go?"

"A threesome?" Art growled.

"Sure," Abby agreed, smiling back at his anger. "Why not."

"Okay," I agreed.

And, so, my father rented me a tuxedo, reminded me to purchase Abby a corsage, and gave me the money to pitch in for a limousine. Arthur didn't remember the corsage, tipped the driver, and was all over Abby along with his bad suit. When the band started to play, Abby asked, "So, who's going to dance with me?"

His ear keen to the beat, Arthur replied, "I'm afraid I can't dance the fast dances. That'll have to be Nate's job." As I began to smile, feeling as though I'd beat him, Arthur added, taking Abby's hand, "You'll just have to save the slow ones for me." So, that's how it would be. Arthur thought he'd planned it out just right so he wouldn't have to worry about making a fool of himself on the dance floor but still have every opportunity to get close to Abby.

"Hmm," Abby huffed, "we'll see."

Then, the lyrics began. The band was composed of several students in our senior class and they called themselves "Limited Infinity", perhaps to be abstract. We'd seen them play before at other school functions, so it was obvious they hadn't written this piece.

We got a love

that's faster than light

it never knows limits

it's cool when it's tight

it's always wanting more

can't get no satisfaction

I can't explain it

It's a chaos reaction

"What," Abby screamed. She'd never heard her poem put to music but, even though the lyrics were twisted, there could be no mistaking it. It was the same poem she'd given to Arthur.

He reached for her even as she charged the stage. "Wait," he yelled.

"Who the hell gave that to you," she screamed, halfway across the dance floor. "Who did it?!" She couldn't be heard. The music was too loud that close to the speakers.

Arthur caught up with her, taking her by the arms as she spun around. "It was me, alright?! It was me! I thought this would be a good surprise!"

Her anger made her stronger than he expected and her arms were quickly freed. "A surprise," she bellowed, punching his chest. "They ruined it!" By that time, she'd beat him back across the dance floor to where I still stood.

"I know," Art replied. "I'm sorry."

"What are you doing, giving away her poetry," I asked.

"You keep out of this, Nathan," she yelled. "You're no prize, yourself!" Returning back to the table, she lamented, "Why did I have to pick you two of all the people at school?"

It was all that was needed to ruin the night. We didn't dance at all. Only towards the end, did Abby's mood change for the better. She didn't mention anything the next day or for the remainder of the semester. Still, I couldn't help but notice that she no longer let us read her poetry.

Graduation day wasn't far off after Prom night. Day by day, our friendship grew more congenial even as it grew less intimate. As we headed towards June, I was almost glad it was ending. We were, by then, only the remnants of a friendship that once was. Abby didn't really need us anymore. She continued in her rise to fame throughout the school. In the yearbook, she would be voted as most talented.

Then, graduation day came and our fateful encounter with Poncho. "Vampires," he said. "That's what they are. The whole society. Vampires."

"He's right," Abby told us as the old janitor shuffled away.

"Right," asked Arthur.

"I'd just never thought of it that way until now."

I caught her eye. "But is that any way to think? I mean, our lives are just starting, aren't they?"

"No," Abby replied. "Not starting. They began a long time ago. Only now are we becoming aware of our place in them."
Chapter 10

### The vampire society is what occurs when the important, the substantive, the real, is replaced with the insignificant, the fragile, the illusory.

I still remember that day when we were called up to the podium one by one to receive our faux diplomas, just rolled up scraps of paper. Claim tickets for the real McCoys which were being held hostage against our best behavior. The commencement speech was given by a young, Vietnamese girl named Mia Dha who none of us had ever known. She'd been made our Valedictorian by virtue of having accomplished more rote memorization than anyone else in her grade. She had the highest grade point average in our class and, yet, she was only fifteen years old.

I can't help but wonder what the lesson was there. At fifteen, this girl had barely begun to live. Certainly, she'd been deprived of such a chance when, as she said in her speech, she spent five hours each night studying. Was this human? No. She was no more than a machine, a human computer, trained to do as she was told as efficiently as possible. What a fine vampire she'd make. The only thing she knew was how to work, not how to value or enjoy or live. Yet, she was put on display before the rest of us as an example of the best of us. Perhaps, if she was fortunate, one day she would wake up and wonder what she had been doing. Why she had listened to those who told her it was better to deny life in favor of work. For just as vampires seek only to consume, they also need those who will be their slaves: third world nations, inner city sweatshops, and young people like Mia Dha just to name a few.

Abby was among the first called to pick up their claim tickets and she smiled down to me as she took it and I to her. Then, I saw her gaze shift, not to her father but to another in our class and I knew to whom. When Arthur Silvada approached the podium, there was a smattering of boos launched from the graduating class. People still held a grudge but I felt almost bad for him and when he looked at me, I waved. One of the last, as I took mine I saw two figures cheering for me.

In some small way, I think that maybe we had found a way to overcome our individual bullshit and become friends, if only for a short time. Sadly, we wouldn't keep that. Even that would be stripped from us by the vampire society. It wouldn't take long for us to lose touch, only months. Arthur would be the first to go; he'd been accepted at Ohio State. His parents, for all their constant fighting, could still afford to send him and, by late August, he was gone.

Neither Abby nor I could afford to go away to college, nor could our parents afford to send us. College financial aide was not an option. It is offered only to the impoverished, middle class citizens are not eligible. There are the entitlement programs, scholarships and grants offered strictly to people of one ethnicity. These are offered not because a person is worthy of an education but, rather, because they are owed it as a result of their caste. If a democracy is only as strong as its citizens are intelligent then it seems a common sense solution must be found, one that does not insult an applicant on the grounds of their wealth or the color of their skin. Simply, money must be made available to anyone who wants an education. Loans? Absolutely! And if the objection is that these loans are too often not repaid then that is the fault of the collector and not of the new student who wants to learn and has never obtained a loan let alone missed a payment.

Why all of the problems with getting a quality, college education? In reply, I must again shine a light upon the vampire society. For, if the vampire society is composed not only of the politicians and the corporate executives but of you and me and everyone else, we must ask ourselves where lies the value of a college education? Young people learn on a daily basis the appeal of easy money. They are taunted with entertainment moguls, sports millionaires, and street crime, which includes the allure of drug dealing. In so far as our society around them allows them to be so taunted, society as a whole is thus attracted.

I will throw away any thought that our society can see an education as having intrinsic value. Despite any worth to the soul or the mind, people equate education with what it can buy you on the street. Money is yet another staple in the vampire's diet. And, if the same amount of money a college graduate makes, or more - much more! - can be had by playing sports or starring in movies or by making hip-hop music or by selling crack cocaine to school kids, people are going to take the easy way out. People, vampires, value money above intelligence. So goes the old saying, "If you're so smart, how come you ain't rich?"

So, why the problems in getting a college education? Simply, the vampire society does not value education. It's an easy answer. That's why so little of our tax money goes towards education. It could cure many of society's ills: disease, violence, poverty - it could probably cure the plague of the vampire itself but the vampire's allure is too strong. It tells us to value only those things we can see and touch and _buy_!

But those are mere words. In the end, neither Abby nor I went away to college.

Abby enrolled that fall at Rancho Santiago College.

There is a story behind that name and it goes like this: The college had once been named Santa Ana College. It was the oldest community college in Orange County, California which made for both a large body of alumni and the perception that it wasn't a good college. Remember, newer equals better in the vampire society. That's why we don't honor our elderly, cherish our history, or take pleasure in such antiquities as silent films, classical music, or classical literature. In Orange, a wealthier city to the east, many new, expensive homes were being built in the hills which were once park-land and wildlife habitat. Obviously, someone believed there to be more value in condos and so they were built mile upon mile. The city of Orange convinced the Trustees of Santa Ana College to build an extension school up in those hills, thus attracting more people to move into those condos. Remember that word, "Trustee", by the way.

So, the new school was built and the school's Trustees were convinced by the Orange city council that if it was called Santa Ana College it would attract a smaller student body despite its newness. What was needed was a new name. The Trustees decided upon the name "Rancho Santiago College" and put it up to a vote. When the student body learned of this, they brought forth a lengthy petition, signed by students, alumnis, and members of the community, to stop the name change. Hundreds of the alumni spoke against it. A columnist for the school newspaper, the el Don, wrote against it. The name change passed by all but one vote. That same columnist, Francis Ell, called the Board of Trustees all jackasses and was, summarily, expelled.

Trustees? Hardly trustworthy. But was their job to perform the will of their constituency, that being the student body and the community from which it came, or was it just to make money? Many believe that the duty of elected officials is to do what is right for the people, to do the people's will. They are wrong. Many elected officials will say, as did the Board of Trustees at what became Rancho Santiago College, that they must do what is best for the people, as if they were society's baby-sitters. Even so, if that were the case, if our elected officials did what was best for us would we really be caught in the vampire's fangs? Look at where our leaders have led us and ask yourself, "To what end?"

The punch-line to this whole story about Abby's college wouldn't come until 1999, when the Santa Ana Campus of Rancho Santiago College changed its name back to Santa Ana College.

We weren't a few days out of high school but I could sense, as I tried to call her and spend time with her, a definite message come across. Abby was going to major in art. This could have been her decision because she felt her drawings superior to her rhymes but it wasn't. Abby felt as though her words were tainted. They'd been stolen from her by the only friends she had and then raped. I couldn't see that at the time. I'll give Arthur the benefit of the doubt and assume he couldn't see it, too. We were just doing what we thought would make her happy. It was just too personal to Abby. As she bared her soul, we might as well have shown pictures of her baring her naked body. So, she had rejected her poems, severed that offending limb in favor of the only other thing she knew, what made her happy. She could have majored in business, like me, or political science, like Arthur, but she wasn't going to school to get a job. She knew something most people never know: possessions are not the key to happiness. She went to school to pursue her art, to sketch, to be happy.

But the message I got from her was clear, art was all she had left. I had ruined poetry for her. She couldn't trust me. She'd find someone she could trust. She didn't want me around any longer.

She didn't have to tell that to Arthur; he'd gone off to Ohio. And, with my father's help, I had gone off not so far away to major in business.

As Abby sketched and painted, she soon found herself another circle of friends, a family of art. Artists are a singular congregation; they find the outside world harsh and bitter like unripe fruit. Artists believe their circle to be the most fully matured of folk, the best the tree of humanity can produce. Perhaps they're right. After all, they can see things and say things and do things that normal folk are either blind to, afraid of, or are just incapable. No wonder compromising caricatures of Jesus or violent rap lyrics, art that is sometimes so foreign or so disturbing that it shakes us, is unaccepted in our society. Art on the edge is hard to consume. The vampire prefers the harmless, the bland, that which is less dangerous.

Abby's sketches were immediately well received. They all displayed a warmth of character, a depth about them that came from years of practice. As she learned new styles, new techniques, this warmth and depth carried over, making even the awkward pleasing to the eye. You see, Abby wasn't concerned with being on the edge. She brought all the authenticity which she sought in people to her work, so people could see what she was after.

By her second year, she was spending all of her days at school. She'd sold two paintings and was working on a charcoal sketch for a show to be held in Laguna Beach. She had no problem showing her work. It wasn't like her poems, a reflection of herself. Rather, her paintings and sketches were her reflections on the world around her. She sketched rapidly as she'd always done so as not to miss anything. If she sold this one, she could use that money on a birthday present for her father. Ydalgo wasn't getting any younger. His head bald but for a ring of grey around the back, he still worked every day, showing his daughter's newest sketches to his regular customers. And, so, she sketched.

The charcoal did sell. It sold for $450, an unbelievable amount to Abby. As her picture was taken next to the buyer, she was near tears, the happiest she'd been all her life. The money wasn't used to buy Ydalgo a gift, though. He'd been complaining that morning about a lack of energy and shortness of breath and it continued into the next day. Only after Abby questioned him about it did he confess that he'd been feeling it for nearly a week. The money from the sale was hardly enough to cover the visit to the doctor's office. Nearly a week after Ydalgo's visit, he and Abby were called back to the doctor's office for the test's results.

"Hello, Abby, I'm Doctor Mekstroth," the physician greeted her, his hand large and warm. "I asked you to come in with your father because I think you might be able to help with the treatment plan Ydalgo's going to begin."

"What's wrong, Doctor," Ydalgo asked, already sitting down in a chair before Mekstroth's desk.

The doctor motioned for Abby to sit beside him and sat himself in the high-backed chair behind his desk. "This isn't too uncommon for a man of your age, Ydalgo. You're going to be forty-four next month and, from your blood work, it's obvious you haven't been taking very good care of yourself."

Abby didn't know what the doctor meant. Her father may not have been an athlete, but his job kept him in good shape. He wasn't overweight, nor did he drink to excess or smoke. "What do you mean, doctor?"

"Please," Mekstroth begged, waving away Abby's formality, "call me Phil. My guess is that you stop for lunch every day along your route. Don't you, Ydalgo?"

Ydalgo nodded towards both the doctor and his daughter. "Yes."

Mekstroth grunted. "Hamburgers? Or beef burritos, maybe?"

"Yes," Ydalgo acknowledged. "One or the other. Carnitas, sometimes."

"Thought so. You're getting too old for your high fat, low fiber diet, Ydalgo. Now, I'm going to advise some changes to your diet. We're going to cut out that red meat, eat better, say goodbye to salt. We're going to put you on some medication to help get that cholesterol count down and I'm going to advise you to keep some aspirin around the house and take one every morning."

Hearing the doctor read his list of injunctions on her father's life, Abby couldn't help feel her guts shake. "What is it," she asked.

"Plague of modern man, I'm afraid," Mekstroth replied. "Your father suffers from acute atherosclerosis"

Ydalgo asked, "What's that mean?"

The doctor smiled. "It means you're going to have to get used to salad from now on. I'm not kidding. There are a lot of great cookbooks out there for people on a low-fat, vegetarian diet. The important thing is that you don't slip. You, Ydalgo, are officially on the wagon."

"What do I do?"

Mekstroth turned to Abby and pointed. "You are going to have to help him stay on it. Now, this isn't serious now - nothing we can't get out of - but it could get worse. You're father's heart has been under a lot of stress." Getting up, he circled the table to stand by Abby. "I don't want to prescribe surgery at this point; I know you don't have insurance. So, we're going to try a conservative approach first. Stick to your diet and stay on your medication and things should be fine." Handing her several slips of paper, he added, "Now, there's the prescription and the name of a few good cookbooks. These pamphlets give you all the information you need on your father's course of treatment. I want to see you both back here in a month." He took Ydalgo's hand. "Remember, stick to the plan and you should be fine."

"You see, mija," Ydalgo said as they drove home, "everything's going to be fine."

"I don't know, daddy," Abby answered, watching the road. "I'm worried that this could get more serious."

Ydalgo kissed his daughter on the cheek and rubbed her shoulder. "Don't worry, sweetheart." He wagged the cookbook suggestions in the air. "Let's go to the bookstore."

To Abby's relief, it looked like her father was right. With the right diet, and his morning medicine, it wasn't long before he started feeling better. Abby could get back to what she loved, her painting. In truth, she spent more time away from Ydalgo than she intended. If she wasn't busy creating her art, then she was promoting it both at school and at the three galleries that now sold her work, bringing in a modest income. In early November, she sold her biggest painting to date. Measuring 36" x 24", it portrayed the bustling crowd at the new, Main Place shopping center in Santa Ana. It was her most original work to date; even as their human forms were lost amidst the crass consumerism and cold capitalism, their faces remained distinct, ovular glimpses of humanity standing out from the conformity of greed.

The buyer's name was Jason Clay, the thirty-six year old Director of Marketing for the corporation which owned the mall. He saw the painting, not so much as a statement against his temple of wanton desire but, rather, as a demonstration of how the mall brought people together. (Abby didn't actually paint the work with any political or ethical motivations. She told me that she wanted to show that people in shopping malls were in such a hurry to look, to shop, and then to leave, that they often miss the fact that they are surrounded by other, unique people. All those faces.) One of the reasons why he bought the painting was so that he could put it up in his new office in Newport Beach. The other reason he bought Abby's work had nothing to do with the work and everything to do with its creator. Jason was taken with Abby the minute he saw her and broke the promise that he'd made to himself about not buying any more paintings.

A younger Jason Clay would never have imagined he'd be buying paintings of shopping malls or hold the position of Director of Marketing. Up until the end of his twenties, Jason had been interested in music, playing keyboards in a series of bands all around New York until, one Saturday morning, something occurred to him. These revelations that strike you as childhood is left behind as little more than a fond memory often strike you at the worst of times. He was pouring milk into his cereal bowl when his keyboards caught his eye. They looked different that morning, would never look the same again, appearing to him less as his instrument and more as a rebuke. He was twenty-nine years old and he had yet to cut an album. Both of his idols, Michael Jackson and Prince, had made it at a much younger age than Jason. Young kids were on top of the charts. Old artists, and thirty is pretty old in the music industry, don't often get radio airplay. It's rare to see someone still putting music up on the charts in their old age. The only examples Jason could think of were the Rolling Stones and Tina Turner. The sad truth hit him that morning like a freight train and he put down his cereal and didn't pick it up all day long: his chance had been missed, his time passed. He wasn't going to make it anywhere in the music industry. So, he pawned his equipment, moved back in with his folks in Detroit, and went back to finish school. He found a job in Marketing fresh out of college and rose to the position of Director before anyone could believe it.

At thirty-six, enough time had passed so he didn't quite feel the emptiness where his dreams had once been. When he did, he bought a painting. "My name's Jason Clay," he said, introducing himself with one hand extended, long, black fingers dexterously demanding of her that she take them.

"Abby Ayrnes," Abby replied with a smile. She'd already seen him and had felt a similar attraction, though one born of a much more innocent mind with less certain desires. He had such intense, piercing eyes and she wanted to trace each line along his strong, dark face with her fingers. His skin was shaved smooth for it was a face with nothing to hide and she did touch it, later, as he slept beside her in his bed. He didn't seem to notice as she traced his lines; her hands were so smooth.

It was all so easy. Jason arranged shipment for Abby's work, seemingly without a single interruption in their conversation. Then, as the night was winding down, he said to her, "Do you want to get out of here? I need to leave before the retailers start plugging their wares. The blood suckers."

Abby hadn't thought about vampires in nearly two years but was still taken with Jason's phrase. "I'd love to."

It had been her first time with a man and, though they'd only just met, he made it feel like making love, moving sultrily around her body to a rhythm he hadn't felt since giving up his music. More than fifteen years her senior, she tried to tell herself that it didn't matter. He treated her like a queen, buying her gifts, taking her out, and it was easy for Abby to assume that her father could take care of himself in the times when she was away and that he wouldn't be interested in meeting Jason.

One morning, though, when he saw her at home, he asked, "Why don't I see you anymore, mija? Where are you spending all of your time? I know you're busy with your painting but we used to spend time together. Did I do something wrong? Is there something you want to tell me?" Ydalgo was looking older, his pale skin hanging from his face.

"No, daddy," Abby answered, shaking her head, "nothing is wrong."

"Then, what's the matter, honey," Ydalgo asked her, touching her cheek. "Am I no longer a part of your life?"

"It's not that," Abby said, backing away from her father's touch. "I've just been seeing a lot of this new friend."

As she entered her room, her father asked, "A man?"

Abby turned and looked at her father. A man? He didn't know the half of it! "Yes, daddy. A man."

"Well, then bring him by," he said with a smile. "I know you have good taste. I'd like to meet him."

"I -" Abby's voice caught in her throat. Meet him? Meet the man she'd been sleeping with who was nearly twice her age? Oh, she had kept her love life a secret from her father. He never found her condoms and her lingerie was kept back at Jason's town home. But, the thought of introducing him... "I've got to change," she said. "I have a class meeting."

It was the shame, she later told me, the shame of being in a relationship that had no future and that she only remained in because of their desire for each other. It seemed to her that her father's life had been so filled with sacrifices, to her, her mother, her grandmother, that for her to spend her days and her nights in wanton passion with a man who held nothing in common seemed to spit in the face of all that sacrifice. And, so, she spent more time with Jason in a whirlwind of a month that simply swept her off of her feet. There were nights of dancing, days of shopping, mornings waking up in his arms. She was spending the weekend at a health club in Santa Barbara when she realized it was her father's birthday. Thanksgiving was spent at a ski lodge in Big Bear. The days flew blindingly towards Christmas, every day more wonderful.

Then, one Tuesday morning, Jason stirred in the bed beside her. They'd taken a long weekend at the Resort del Coronado in San Diego, treating themselves to a sail around the harbor where they'd made love. He stroked her hand, his soft, brown fingers mixing with her creamy, tan skin. "We should write Christmas cards," he said as if proposing marriage. "You used to write, didn't you?"

She sat up from the edge of the bed as if waking from a dream or a nightmare. "Yes. I used to write."

"What did you write, Abby? It must have been colorful, like your art." He reached out to caress her back but she rose up as her words came to her.

Money is nothing but meaningless paper

it doesn't bring love; it doesn't bring happiness

it vanishes soon like an illusory vapor

for you never really have it; you can't touch it, can't feel it

and the greed that you hold will not die out or taper

it will devour your heart until you've not a heart left

and you'll wish to take money around you and drape her

around your vile, vile soul that will no longer be whole

for it's been bought and sold by this meaningless paper.

It was one of the last poems she had written, that day at the end of high school, shortly after she'd first heard of the vampire society. The vampire society is what occurs when the important, the substantive, the real, is replaced with the insignificant, the fragile, the illusory. Big Macs have replaced the family dinner. TV sitcoms have replaced novels. Diet pills have replaced proper nutrition. Internet chat rooms have replaced friendships. Mass production has replaced hand-crafting. It doesn't end there. Our roads, our schools, power stations and waste reclamation is handled by the lowest bidder. Forests are replaced with freeways. Wildlife is replaced with zoos. Goodness and decency comes at too high a price these days. The vampires have convinced us that we can no longer afford such commodities so we are left with paranoia and fear packaged in styrofoam that we are told is safe for the environment as if waste was not waste and it is now in vogue to tell the world it can go fuck itself!

She'd tried to forget all of that. She had tried to forget the hurt she'd felt when the two men in her life had betrayed her. Yes, I was one of them and I carry the burden of what my actions did to her always but it didn't end there. All of your wrongdoings have consequences you cannot perceive and resolutions you cannot dream.

She looked at the fox fur at her feet and reached up to remove her diamond earrings. How easy it was for her to forget about the fox or the poor laborers in the diamond mines or how the money spent on those things could have gone towards something more meaningful. Or what about the wasted resources it took to grow that fox just for her coat. Or what about the pollution sent into the air and into the water, created just to mine those diamonds. I know there are people who would think that without production of luxury goods, the production of things we really don't need, our economy would be in trouble. People would be out of work. The market would suffer.

Yep. It's a damned shame.

She looked out her window at the olympic-sized pool and thought of how much room the resort took up. It hadn't occurred to her up until that point how many homeless could be housed there or how much of that land could have been used for a wildlife habitat or how their money could have been given to charity or how the gas it took to bring them there could have been saved and the pollution not created. All of her actions had consequences. She'd forgotten that. She looked over at the designer dress she had worn the night before, the dress which had cost Jason hundreds of dollars, and felt sick to her stomach.

There was only one thing she wanted now. "Jason? I - I want to go home."

It cut their weekend short. Jason had made arrangements for them not to have to check out until two. A boat was rented and reservations had been made for dinner. He knew her well enough, though, to see when she was determined. Up until that point, he had not seen her upset, happy and enthused about her art and caught in the net of their passion, this sudden mood told him there'd be no convincing her. She was already dressed and packed by the time he'd returned from settling their bill. Into his Jeep Grand Cherokee, they climbed and soon they were making the turn onto the freeway.

"Go fast, Jason," Abby requested, her voice no longer just upset. Now the fear was plainly heard in her voice. "Get me home." Jason had never been to Abby's apartment, never met her dad, and as they sped up the 5 freeway she had to direct him onto the 55 freeway north and told him to exit on McFadden. Through Santa Ana he drove, pulling up in front of the apartment complex on the edge of the Heart.

All the way home, she thought very carefully about her life and where it had been leading. She had developed very high ideals during high school and had a definite sense of purpose, a sense of self, when she'd left. Writ large upon the canvas of the world, that is how her life would be. She knew that. She could see that. She was voted most talented person in her senior class, standing out from those nearly three hundred students. Surely, this was a sign that she would stand out in the world. And how would she stand out? What would she do with this stature? Change things. That's what she would do. Change the world into a place where poverty was no longer acceptable and the poor were no longer swept under the rug of shame. Make the people of the world realize what they were doing to themselves, destroying the earth which had born them in the endless search for fulfillment. Abolish the vampire society.

So, what had happened? First, she had stopped writing. What was the point, anyway? People just wanted to use it to their own ends, clutch and twist those verses of herself, the lines of her soul. Poetry had brought her nothing but grief. Even when her fellow students were acting like her friends, they only did it so they could take her poetry and use it for themselves. Not once had anyone appreciated her words and loved her for them. Not like they did her paintings. So, she had abandoned her introspective art for a safer form of reflection. Everyone loved her paintings, it seemed. Then, people started purchasing them. She found that she liked having money. She liked buying things. The only thing that was missing came along in the form of Jason. The perfect man. He loved her just the way she wanted to be. He didn't need to know the real Abby, just the Abby that was comfortable being around him. He never heard about the vampire society, about responsibility or commitment. He was always so generous, lavishing her with gifts.

It was just so easy to forget about the needy and the needs of the world when there was nothing left for her to need. Then, that morning, her contentment meant nothing. Everything she had been and had left behind clutched at her gut like a rusted vise and wouldn't let go. It was her father, too. Her father. When was the last time she'd cooked for him? When was the last time she'd seen that he kept to his medicine? When was the last time she'd been at home? Told him that she loved him? Embraced him? Spoke more than two words to him? The last time she'd seen her father was Thursday night as he'd returned from his route and she was heading out to meet Jason. She hadn't even kissed him goodbye.

She swore to herself: that would all change.

Jason parked on the street, his detailed Cherokee looking lost amidst the vacant wrecks left where they'd died. Abby took his hand and pulled him to her apartment. She'd introduce him to her father. She didn't care about his age anymore, nor would Ydalgo. She'd been wrong to misjudge her father.

She wouldn't misjudge him anymore.

A strange scent hovered at her doorstep, a sick scent. Had some animal vomited on their landing? They didn't get many animals in Santa Ana, rats, cats, dogs, the occasional possum. Maybe one of them had died there at her door.

She shook her head, trying to cast out that terrible omen, and jiggled her key in the deadbolt to get it to turn. Opening the door, the smell only grew worse.

Looking at Jason for an answer, he only repeated her unspoken query. "What is that awful smell?"

She stepped inside but didn't see her dad. It wasn't such a small apartment that he wouldn't be immediately visible. "Daddy," she gasped, trying not to inhale the pungent odor. She went to his bedroom, wondering how he could breathe.

Then, she heard Jason shriek. "Abby!"

She turned and her life spun slowly around her.

Jason was pressed up against the wall.

His hand was out, one finger pointing to the kitchen floor.

Behind the counter, her father lay like some toppled scarecrow in the midst of the gusting Santa Ana winds on the white formica. Arms splayed, legs bent, Ydalgo's mouth was wide open and his eyes were gazing in amazement.

Abby's mouth was dry as she heaved onto her tongue and she tried to choke out the word, "Daddy." The floor clutched at her feet and she tried to race to her father's side. The air around her was like pudding and her eyes were filled with ocean. She didn't even have the energy to spit out the bile. "Daddy," she heard herself scream like a child lost on the moon. Sounds escaped her mouth that were loud and animal-like. She didn't know what they meant or what she was saying. She was speaking the language of terror.

Down to her knees, she dropped beside Ydalgo's still form, her eyes so full she could no longer see. Her hands went around him - he was as cold as a winter's morning - and came away, sopping with the man's bodily fluids.

Time kicked back in. She turned her head and vomited her guts upon the carpet, screaming the entire time. Then, her body shook in paroxysms of sheer and utter abandonment and her mouth opened and she bellowed her fear at the top of her lungs.

Her hands jiggled out in front of her, yelling in their own language. Jason responded to them, dropping down on his knees to hold her. Yes, hold her. That's what she wanted. Just to be held. But then, as his arms took her, she knew it wasn't his arms she wanted around her and she shocked herself, pushing him away.

She wanted her daddy. She just wanted her daddy.

But she couldn't have him. She couldn't have his kind arms around her anymore. She couldn't have her tears kissed away. She couldn't have his rough but tender hands push her hair out of her face.

Never again.

And so, she sat there, next to her father's dead body, brought her knees up and cried and cried. "Daddy," she blubbered. "Oh, daddy."

After a long while, there was a knock on the door. They had never closed it. Someone had called the police.

"Do you live here," one of the officers asked Jason.

"No," he responded, quietly. "She does. That's her father."

Abby looked up to see an officer standing over her, a cloth clutched to his face. "Oh, god," he muttered. "Call the coroner," he yelled. "We gotta get out of the apartment," he said to no one in particular. Kneeling beside Abby, he said, "Come on, miss. You shouldn't be in here."

Abby was already looking at him but could hardly see him through her tears. She couldn't speak. She could only moan in terrible sadness. She couldn't even move.

The officer, Joe Ronnets, slipped one arm under her legs and brought the other around her back and lifted her. She was so weak, she was trembling. He carried her out and set her down on the grass and she never even noticed.

She just cried and cried.
Chapter 11

### In a vampire society, it is a crime to be destitute, homeless, poor. They cannot consume. They are not vampires. What are they?! They are simply the husks that remain after a vampire feasts. They are the victims no one wants to look at. Their bullet wounds are hopelessness. Their despair runs like pus.

The police asked her to stay out of her apartment for the rest of the day and the on-site management received authorization to put Abby up in a nearby motel for two nights while they cleaned the carpet and the tile. Abby didn't care. She felt as if her whole life had been taken from her. She didn't wonder what would happen to her now, she wondered why she should care at all.

Jason remained by her side that evening as she sat in her motel room, powerless to move from the edge of the bed. Even laying down seemed pointless. Being the survivor in the family, she wished it had been she who died. Word came to them when it was determined how and when death had come. Massive coronary, a painful death. Ydalgo had lain dead in that apartment for nearly a day before he'd been found. "We should eat," Jason told her. "You need something in your stomach." But the thought of food made her sick. The concept of pleasure was a plague. The one man who had done everything for her, given everything for her, she couldn't spare the time it took to fix him a proper meal, to look after his diet, to see that he kept on his medicine.

Abby had killed her father.

Though she was sure that no tears remained, a heavy drop coursed quickly down her face. "You should leave, Jason."

"Leave," he asked as if he hadn't been hoping that she'd say those very words. "No. I should stay with you."

His shirt was crumpled, his face slightly unshaven, his tight curls unusually loose from all the stress of the day. There had once been a time when she had thought she could love him. Though she did not yet understand exactly the reasons why, her heart was sure. She stood up. "Yes. Go on home." Already in her sneakers and jeans, her oversized t-shirt tucked in, she grabbed her thick, down jacket. "I need to go for a walk."

"A walk," Jason asked.

Abby stepped out of the room and Jason followed her. It was the first time she'd led during their relationship. She locked the door behind her. "Just go home, Jason. I'll call you." If he said anything more to her, she wasn't listening. She walked out onto First Street without another thought of him.

The Santa Ana winds were blowing and she had to pull her jacket more tightly against her neck. She remembered how her mother, May Jenson used to wrap those long, knitted scarves around her when she was small. She stopped on the corner of Grand and First, thinking about her, remembering how those scarves were sometimes bristly but they were always warm. When the Santa Ana winds used to blow, they'd go out armed with rakes and the trash can and clean up the collected mess of leaves from the front yard. As the gusts threw paper and leaves and other garbage around Grand Avenue, she wondered where May had gone. She wouldn't know for years and then it would be too late. Then, she would feel just as responsible for the Jenson's fate as she felt for her father's.

Into the night, she walked. Oblivious to the wind. Oblivious to the cold. Oblivious to the other lost souls walking the streets with her. These people exist all over the world but especially in the big cities where, because people are less drawn together and folks remain faceless and nameless, hope tends not to reside. She turned when she reached Edinger and, again, when she reached Bristol. At Warner, she stopped. She'd crossed from one end of Santa Ana to the other and she recognized Warner because it led directly to the sea. She remembered how Ydalgo had taken her this way almost every Independence Day as he took his business to the beach. She turned west on Warner - why not? She'd already gone more than ten miles - and let her thoughts sink into those fond memories.

"Are you having a picnic," she'd called out from the acid-van.

"No. A barbeque," the dude with multi-colored hair had replied, hefting a bag of briquettes.

"We have corn," she'd said with a smile. "You can barbeque that!"

"Yeah," the dude had agreed. Then, he'd turned and shouted, "Hey, Neal!"

Across the parking lot from where the acid-van was parked, there had come a reply. "What?!"

"Yo! Do we got any corn, man?!"

"No," Neal's answer had been shouted. "Why?!"

The dude had replied, "Makes for a killer 'que'!"

"Cool," yelled Neal. "Get some."

"Bitchin'." The dude had turned to Abby. "How much for four?"

Abby, never strong in math, had tried to figure the numbers. "Um, they're three for a dollar."

Then, Ydalgo had leaned forward, younger then and leaner. Abby recalled how full of life her father had been on days like those. "We can throw in the extra ear."

The dude had put his hand up. "Don't sweat it, man. Neal's got his old lady and their daughter coming later for the 'que. Why don't you guys come on down when you're finished? Then, we'll have six."

Ydalgo had smiled. "Only if the corn's on us."

"Cool," the dude had said, nodding happily.

"My name's Ydalgo," Abby's father had said with his hand out.

"I'm Charley. Charley Rose," the dude had replied. "And who you be, little lady?"

She had put her hand out palm down like the ladies she'd seen in the old movies. "I'm Abby."

"It's my pleasure, Abs," said Charley.

Abby remembered as she passed Brookhurst how her father had brought the corn and Abby had taken some churros. What had happened to Charley, she wondered. She remembered how he'd put her on his surf board in the water just before it got too deep for her to stand and they pretended like she was surfing.

So many people gone from her life. Her father, her mother, the Jenson's, Charley Rose, Art Silvada and myself. It didn't have to be that way, she knew. We weren't all dead. But how hard it is to hold onto the ones we love in this world where love is just a dream and dreams are leased to reality. Just as Poncho had warned us, she could see how much of her life had been surrendered.

And for what?

By the time she reached the beach, it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Her feet were sore and her legs were cramping. She wouldn't be walking back, that was for sure. With her down jacket wrapped around her, she sat down on a bench covered with moist sand. It wasn't particularly cold with that jacket on and the sea air kept her from maudlin thoughts, a salty slap of rhythmical distraction. Somewhere along the line, she fell asleep.

"What are you doing here, young lady," a loud, harsh voice awoke her. She slowly stirred, trying not to open her eyes, seeing the bright sunlight through her lids. Then, a nudge shook her shoulder, not permitted a casual awakening. "Do you have somewhere to go?"

Her eyes now open, blinking against the bright day, she looked contemptuously at the police officer. Standing above her with his partner in their little shorts as though they was just some other beach-goers. What if I don't, she wanted to ask. What if I was just another homeless person, of the thousands of homeless persons, of the army of homeless persons that tried to survive in America. What then? Nobody knew what would happen if the homeless ever demanded their basic human rights. Shelter, food, fair treatment, decency. It was the kind of Marxist/Leninist/Trotsky-ist kind of question we'd all been taught not to ask as children. Look away from them, we were told as children - are still told. Don't look at them. They're different. Pariah! Unworthy! That will never be you or me - or so we hope.

Abby was too tired to ask that, though. She answered, "Yes. I just fell asleep."

As one officer turned away, the other said to her, "Well, then, you'd better wake up and get wherever you have to go. We'll be back here in a half an hour."

Abby gazed on, shocked, as the police walked away. What would they do if she didn't leave? What would they do if they came back in a half hour and she wasn't gone? Take her in? In a vampire society, it is a crime to be destitute, homeless, poor. They cannot consume. They are not vampires. What are they?! They are simply the husks that remain after a vampire feasts. They are the victims no one wants to look at. Their bullet wounds are hopelessness. Their despair runs like pus.

But aren't the streets public property? Aren't the beaches and the public buildings owned by the public, too? Don't the homeless have just as much right to walk on them as anyone else? To sit on their benches or rest on their curbs or use their bathrooms? Once a person is homeless, after all, where else can they go but to public property? For them to go on private property is considered trespassing under the law. Where else do they have to go?

The argument is as undeniable as it is inescapable. But the vampire is a tricky lot. They've convinced us as we've convinced ourselves that such an argument has no right to exist much less any necessity for an answer. Look at them, they say and we say. Look at those homeless monsters! They're so filthy! Why don't they bathe? They don't brush their teeth! They don't buy new clothes! Ordinary people - that is, the people with homes - don't want to be around them. They don't want to go to any public place where there are homeless. They wouldn't want to frequent a beach where there are homeless. This has an effect on the economy. If people don't go to the beach or the public park where homeless people reside, then the businesses lose customers, money. Property values go down. Businesses are hurt.

Businesses have money. Money equals power. Call it the result of big business or of wealthy right wingers if you will but, since it is you and I who give these businesses their money and, therefore, their power, we are all to blame for what has become of the homeless. By the end of the millennium, loitering laws were passed in just about every major city in the United States. These laws prohibited a person from staying on public land longer than permitted, overstaying their welcome as it were. Illegal to be on private property, illegal to be on public property, thanks to all of us homelessness is a crime in America. It is really the only crime wherein the perpetrator is also the victim. They can't be imprisoned, though. Our jails are too crowded for that. Can you imagine? Even that form of housing is denied them. They can only be moved along, away from the nicer areas with the wealthier businesses, crowded into the slums and ghettos and shanty-towns of our age. Where else can they go?

Where else can they go?

And then, when they are segregated and denigrated into a place where the rest of us think they belong, we are told - as a society, a vampire society - to look away. Don't look at them. Avert your eyes. But that's wrong! Wrong, dammit! You should look at them! Look at all of them! Look at the old woman who's dying in the cold and the small child without food to eat! Look at the unwed mother who never had a chance to finish school and look at the drug addict who can't afford treatment! Look at them! The young, the old, the black, the white, and everything in between. Look at them! For they are you! They are what's left at the end of the vampire's binge and they are what is spewed in his purge! I know you think you can't do anything about it! You can't buy them homes! You're probably just barely making it yourself! You're probably only a few dollars before your next paycheck away from being homeless yourself. If that is you, if there's truly nothing you think you can do, think again. Because there's one thing you can do. You can look at them. Look into their eyes and see that they are human. Look at their numbers and see that they cannot be ignored. Just look at them. And don't forget them. And remind your children that they are there. And don't ever let anyone look away.

Only then, can it change.

In Nazi Germany, Jewish merchants and bankers, artisans and bakers, men, women, and children were all made homeless. Their condition – that they were alive at all - was made a crime and they were moved by the authorities of the time into slums, into ghettos. People were told to look away and people listened. They turned their eyes and ignored the hunger and the pain and the hopelessness. They turned their eyes and ignored when the ghettos were methodically emptied. They turned their eyes and didn't see the smear of black as it belched out of the smokestack.

Don't ever look away.

Abby didn't look away. Her eyes were glued to the vile forms dressed in police costumes as they strolled away from her down the cement path. She'd been thinking about her father all night. Only now did she think of herself as she wondered, "What's going to happen to me now?" It was the ninth of December, only one day after her father's death. In a few, short weeks, Abby would be homeless. Her rent would no longer be paid. She no longer had her father to rely upon. Maybe the cop's accusation came only a few weeks too soon.

If time had stopped with her father's death as it had slowed after she'd left high school, crawled as she'd pursued her art, deftly applied its brakes as Jason had romanced her, if time truly had stopped as it had seemed to do for the past day while her heart was clutched in its tight fist then suddenly, with all the wild abandon of a vampire in a shopping mall, it was released and flew forward again with a velocity that made Abby's skin ache. She was on her own, now. She had to take care of herself. She had to figure out how and she had to figure it out soon.

She hadn't taken her purse with her. She had no wallet, no bank card, no money. Her feet hurt so much that she knew she wouldn't be walking back. What had she been thinking? Walking to the beach?! Nearly twenty miles? But she could feel what drove her away even as she decided how she would get back. Her father's dead body lay back there. The home that they had shared lay abandoned. Her life was back there and it frightened her.

But she couldn't dwell on that. She had to focus on the moment. She needed to get on the bus and get home, which was a little hard to do without money. They think I'm homeless, she thought. Fine. Putting her hands together and bowing her head as a proper supplicant, she did something she never thought she'd find herself doing. She begged.

And she was good at it.

Less than an hour later, she had over two dollars in change. She hoped that would be enough and, as the clock neared noon, she woke up, sure enough, in the Orange County Transit Authority's central depot, her bus coming to its final halt. Placed in the midst of the Heart, an area that had once been small homes now supported concrete and glass medium-rises, she could walk up First Street back to her motel room. While the Santa Ana winds had pushed her away, now they were calm enough not to impede her journey back. The stairs up to her floor were a welcome sight and she had her key out as she approached her door. Too tired to dwell in her sorrows, she plopped down on her bed, falling asleep.

The knocking awoke her. "Abby?! Abby?! It's me!"

"Hold on," she groaned, recognizing Jason's low baritone. She'd somehow become rolled up in her blanket and afternoon had turned to night. Stepping out of the blanket, she was still in the same clothes she'd been in all night. There wasn't much she could do for her appearance. She ran her hands through her hair, all of which was standing angrily up, and opened the door. "What do you want," she asked. Then, seeing someone else with Jason, she added, "And who is this?"

"John Fitzpatrick," the older gentleman introduced himself. "I suppose I should say good morning."

"Morning," Abby replied.

Fitzpatrick was a tall, lean man with an unassuming face, comforting when confronted with the steam coming off of Jason's. He smiled. "I'm the manager here. Didn't get a chance to meet you before. Your boyfriend was worried that something had happened. He explained the circumstances and I was going to let him into your room if you hadn't answered."

"Who knew where you were or what you were doing," Jason fumed. "I thought you might have... you might -"

"Hope you understand," the manager added. "I'd feel kind of bad if that happened under my nose." He nodded as if everything would be fine and walked away.

Jason was still fuming.

"You thought I was going to kill myself? You thought I might have gone crazy?"

"I didn't know what happened to you."

"We're not married, Jason. I can do whatever I want, especially after my own father dies."

He took her hand. "I was just concerned."

"I know." She moved her hand away from his, placing his back at his side. "Look. I have a lot of things to do, to figure out. I'm going to need some time."

"Time?" Jason Clay had never been in love. He wasn't even sure if he was in love with Abby. But he had imagined them growing closer as he provided the support she needed after her father's death. Abby, however, did not want support. Only one man could give her the support she needed and now he was dead. Jason tried to joke. "I thought you'd need dinner."

She put her hand on the door and shook her head. "I'll call you," she said and shut the door.

But she didn't call him. Not when she found her father's will and discovered that he'd already purchased his plot, right next to Sorina's. Not when the life insurance adjuster had come by with the check for her father's policy. Not when the counselor at the mortuary had tried to bilk her for a finer style of coffin for her father's body, as if the dead needed silk and gold trim. She didn't even call him to let him know when her father's funeral was being held.

It was the Saturday after Ydalgo's death and his casket sat on a frame over the plot. This way, it could be lowered down easily. All of his customers had come. Abby had driven the acid-van along his route, passing out signs that she had made which told them of the time and place. Nearly a hundred people attended, each dressed in the best clothes they owned. Ydalgo had helped them all, touched them all. He had supported his daughter while doing a great good for the community. All of the people there knew it and they all honored him.

Some, less knowledgeable folk, might have called these people poor.

"No priest," Abby heard someone ask.

She was walking with the funeral director who was ushering her to her chair. She looked back and replied, "No." As she was seated the director looked at the crowd, standing before Ydalgo's coffin and announced, "Welcome all." The director, an older gentleman with a bald pate and bright, shiny blue eyes, looking comfortingly upon the assembled. "It is so good to see that so many cared for Ydalgo. He was truly blessed. His daughter, Abigail, has requested that this be a non-denominational service. Ydalgo was not a religious man but that didn't stop him from being a good man. Abby?" Abby stood up as the director stepped back.

Why was it that she felt no connection with these people? Weren't most of them the same folk to whom she'd shouted greetings as her father had driven up to sell them groceries? Hadn't she embraced some of them and tried to meet their needs along with her father? Why did they all seem so distant? For that matter, why did everything?

She felt so alone.

"My father," she began, "came to this country looking for a dream. He dreamed of having a place of his own and owning things of his own. It wasn't a pie in the sky kind of dream. It was very simple. He never intended to bring happiness to people, never thought he'd end up helping anyone. That was just the kind of man he was. He was a man who couldn't withhold his love if you tied his hands behind his back. Doing for others came as naturally as breathing." Abby felt her cheek dampen and found she couldn't breathe. Whenever she tried, more tears ran down her face. "My father," she said through her tears, "he didn't do any of this because he felt he had to. He started his mobile store because he knew it would make money. That was all he wanted in the beginning. But he also knew how many of you were without a place you could go for decent food. How shut off all of you were. He stayed because of a dream and I think he wanted me to know that it was possible to attain that dream. He wasn't a religious man. He wasn't a saint. He was my father. He was good and decent and true." Her hands trembled and she felt her legs go weak. "Thank you all for coming," she finished, sitting down.

Slowly, the casket was lowered and people started to rise. They wished her well although she didn't listen. She was reliving her grief, something she thought she was over with. Her chest was so tight she could hardly thank those who walked past as they hugged her or took her hand. Mrs. Ortiz knelt before her and looked in her eyes. "Your father? He was too a religious man. And you were his church, my dear."

When everyone had left and the chairs were collected, Abby watched as a back-hoe pulled up and covered her father's grave with earth. She was all cried out. She had stayed because she had nowhere else to go. Should she return home? Return to what?

Abby just wanted her daddy.

"I didn't think you'd still be here." It was a voice she had hoped she wouldn't hear. Jason walked up next to her and waited for some reply. She didn't give it, though, not even a sign acknowledging his existence. "I thought I'd be invited."

"Why would I invite you," she replied after a while.

"I'm sorry?"

"Really, Jason." She turned and looked up in his eyes. "Why?"

He looked down at the ground and shrugged. "Well, he was your father."

"Yes, he was. How nice of you to remember. You sure didn't seem to remember when he was still alive."

"What?"

"You never wanted to meet him! You never once asked to!"

Jason opened his mouth as if to say something but stopped himself. "I didn't know it meant so much to you."

"The man was my father."

"Then why didn't you say anything to me?!"

Abby diverted her eyes, ashamed. "I've been thinking about that. I, um, I didn't want him to meet you, either."

"Why not," he asked. But she didn't feel like answering and she turned away from him.

But he wanted an answer. He took her arm and turned her back towards him. "Why not, Abby? Is it because I'm black? Is that it?"

"Oh, please," she spat. "Don't be so ethnocentric! Not everything is about color, Jason."

"Fine," he said, removing his hand. "Then, why?"

"Because you're so much older," she answered, sounding as though she wasn't sure of herself.

"I wanted to meet him, Abby. I just wasn't sure what would be the right moment."

"I know, Jason," she said soothingly, touching his arm. "In so far as you can be, you're a decent guy."

"In so far - ?"

"Look, Jason, I can't see you anymore," Abby blurted out. "I've been meaning to tell you but the timing was never right."

He huffed. "Well this isn't." For a moment, they were silent as traffic passed on the street outside. "So, that's it? You're breaking up with me because I never met your father?"

"No," she said, looking out over the graves. "It's not just that."

"Like what, Abby?"

"Other things."

"Like what other things?" He waited for an answer but she remained silent, looking at everything but him. So, instead of turning her, he stepped in front of her. "Tell me, Abby. You owe me at least that."

"Fine," she muttered. It didn't take her long to collect her thoughts; only one other thing had occupied her thoughts for days. "My father didn't die from a heart attack, Jason. Did you know that?"

Jason squinted, trying to peer into her thought processes but couldn't. "I was under the impression that -"

"Do you want to know what did kill him, Jason?"

He nodded.

"This whole damned society. This whole damned world! They chewed him up and spit him out. Just like my mother. They worked her to death and never gave her the chance to have health insurance or prenatal care or a decent wage and so she died giving birth to me. My dad worked nearly every day of my life and what did that get him? One two room apartment, an old van, and a heart attack. He didn't have a mansion. He never even had a vacation! That just isn't right."

"That's just the way it is," Jason pointed out.

"Maybe," Abby agreed. "But that doesn't mean that it has to remain that way." Abby could hear her voice rising and tried to calm herself before she started shouting. "You see, Jason, most people think just like you. They think that just because things are fucked up they have to remain fucked up. Not me! I know better!" She muttered almost to herself, chastising herself, "I've known for years." She looked up into Jason's eyes and asked, "When a society becomes interested in nothing but consumption, when their entire society is driven by consuming, what does that make them?"

"Capitalists," Jason tried to joke.

"Vampires," Abby spat. "The whole society is nothing but vampires! You're taught from the earliest age to consume! As you get older, you're encouraged to consume until, by the time you have to look after yourself, you don't know how to do anything but consume!"

"Everybody consumes, Abby," Jason told her. "You have to eat. You have to have clothing."

"That's not what I'm talking about, Jason, and you know it! Just look around you for crying out loud!" She spread her arms and gestured at the graves around her. "Even in death we are encouraged to consume." She pointed at a headstone standing several feet high. "What the hell does a dead person need that for?! For that matter, what the hell do we need cemeteries for?! It's housing dead people, dammit! They don't need all this land!"

"Some people have religious beliefs," Jason stated.

Abby sneered. "Religious beliefs are the hobgoblins of weak minds. And that just brings me back to you, Jason."

Offended by the obvious jab, Jason asked, "Me?"

"You obviously don't care where this world is headed. Anybody that can defend a dead person's right to land that can be used, instead, to house the homeless or grow food for the starving obviously doesn't care. Look at the Jeep you drive!"

"What about it?"

She pointed at where he'd parked and answered, "What the hell do you need a vehicle that large for? Most of the time, it's only you in it! It's obvious you don't care about the damage all your exhaust is doing to the environment! If you cared even a little, you'd drive a car with better gas mileage!"

Jason thought he'd come to do her a service and all she could do was insult him. "I guess it's one of the perks of making more money."

"And that's another thing," Abby shouted. "Why should you be able to pollute the earth and destroy the environment simply because you make more money?"

"Why not," Jason yelled in reply. "I see your people overpopulating it with all the damned kids they have!"

"You're right," Abby agreed. "Did you think I'd argue that?"

Jason took a deep breath. "So, you're breaking up with me because I pollute? Well, who doesn't pollute? Everybody makes garbage; it's one of the hazards of being alive."

Through teeth gritted so hard they hurt, gritted because she knew that, no matter how righteous her cause, she was making a mistake, she whispered, "You just don't get it, do you?" She wiped fresh tears from her face. "Yes, everyone pollutes. But does that give people the right to throw their trash anywhere? Does it give them the right to waste resources? Does it give them the right to not recycle? Of course, people consume! But does that give one man the right to own a mansion while millions go homeless? Or another man to eat a feast while others starve? Should everyone be allowed to waste what little we have or just the rich? How long should we as a people be allowed to murder our future before someone says it's enough?!"

Jason couldn't understand any of this. He had thought their relationship had been going well. Now, she was spouting socialism! "So, what -"

"So, what that means is that I can't see you anymore," Abby screeched, her voice tired after a horrid day. "Look at you!" She hit him in the chest, hit his expensive suit, before he had a chance to ward off her blow. "You are the fucking director of marketing for a god-damned shopping mall! Everything the vampire society strives for, you facilitate! You sell worthless goods! You profit off others empty desires! You provide the buffet for the fucking vampires to belly on up to!" Suddenly, she was in tears, collapsed at his feet.

Jason's back went straight. He'd had about all he could take. He knew that Abby was upset and he knew she needed someone to take that out on but he also knew this wasn't necessary.

"Don't you get it," she asked, her voice too tired to be raised. "You're everything I hate. If I was a christian, you might as well be the devil. I can't stand the sight of you and I can't stand the thought of what I was when I was with you." She dropped her head. She looked as though he'd been battering her. "Just get out of here, will you? Leave me the hell alone."

Jason turned away but added, "You're making a mistake, Ab."

With all the strength left in her, she screamed, "GO!"
Chapter 12

### When the vampires are this obvious, the unconvinced only remain so through sheer force of will.

Abby felt a great need to give meaning to her father's death. After all, if she had been the one to drive him to it shouldn't she also be the one most changed by it? That was how she reasoned, at least. The vampire society had been feasting on her family's blood for generations. She felt it was her responsibility to avenge them. Jason was a victim of that vengeance. Not that Abby didn't have a point. She had been attracted to him, in the beginning, by the very fact that he had more money than she'd ever seen. He bought her things she'd never imagined owning. Even the most determined socialist can get caught in such a trap.

Was that what Abby was? A socialist? She walked home that night and went out first thing the next morning to purchase a copy of the Communist Manifesto. She imagined Marx and Engels rolling over in their ancient tombs at the thought of paying six dollars for such a book.

And it was I who would end up selling such books.

Dad wanted to be able to send me away and have the full "college experience" like he had but the money just wasn't there. His optional hope was that I be able to attend close to home so I could keep in touch with all of my friends. Neither happened. Dad's job moved out to Azusa and I moved with him. There, amid a landscape of cities that had been built on arid, desert land to house a growing population that was too stupid to slow down, the closest school I could afford was Citrus College in Glendora. I dove in headfirst, hoping to make friends rather than learn something. Those friendships were transient, fading from one year to the next. So, 1986 quickly became 1989 and I graduated with an Associate's Degree with emphasis in Business and only a few acquaintances. Acquaintances are people who are no longer needed once you become acquainted with them. I'd had a few girlfriends, short term relationships. None of them lasted more than a few weeks. There was always one girl whose memory prohibited my falling in love with another. Instead of forgetting about Abby, I seemed to miss her more every day.

I wondered what she was thinking when Manuel Noriega was indicted by the United States on drug-related criminal charges. Here was a man that we had put in power - by "we", of course, I mean a bunch of power mad white men who insisted they had the best interests of the U.S. citizens at heart - and here we were trying to take him down. Why? The age old story: he had bitten the hand that fed him. The CIA had allowed his drug trafficking, probably even encouraged it to keep his people in line, but the minute Noriega had started to sympathize with Cuba and other, communist factions, he became the enemy. It would be two whole years later before Panama would be invaded by U.S. marines and Noriega would be ousted from power. They didn't kill him, though. No. Noriega was of more use alive, for PR, than dead. And, by the beginning of the twenty-first century, he had disappeared from the media radar altogether – returned, perhaps, to some tropical clime. The vampire society has long had a firm grip on the resources of central and south America. The United States has been putting puppet governments in place for generations, perhaps, with no end in sight. But when the U.S. went in to take down Noriega, a man who had done more for el Norte than for Panama, how more obvious could the vampires have made themselves?

Oh, but they would. It would come in another country, Iraq. As the 1990's began, Iraq's leader, Saddam Hussein, another man put into power by the US, quickly invaded the small kingdom of Kuwait, taking the country and stealing their oil fields. Yes, it was oil that brought Hussein to Kuwait. Oil was money; it may as well have been blood to that vampire. Hussein was a godsend to U.S. President George Bush, whose popularity in the United States was sinking. First, he used U.S. influence to get several anti-Iraqi resolutions passed in the United Nations. Then, he sent troops to the Persian Gulf, calling it Operation Desert Shield. Good wars needed good publicity. Look at the great job done in the two world wars and then think about Korea and Vietnam. It was oil that drove Bush to the Gulf but it may as well have been blood. Then, Bush attacked. He had to. Investment in war technology through the Reagan and Bush years had been greater than at any time in the country's history. All these new weapons had to be field tested somehow. United States' casualties were minimal; the Iraqi army had not stood a chance since the beginning which was one of the reasons Bush went in there in the first place. So, on January 17, 1991, the Gulf War, Operation Desert Storm, began. It didn't take long before Hussein's forces were out of Kuwait. Yes, we'd liberated the small kingdom of democracy haters and muslim, right-wing fundamentalists, all in the name of freedom. Don't ever let anyone tell you that the Iraqis were any different from the Americans. It simply isn't true. The real reason we went into Kuwait was the same reason Hussein did so: oil. Money. Fodder for the vampires.

But the accounts of wars fought for imperialist pursuits could fill volumes. When the vampires are this obvious, the unconvinced only remain so through sheer force of will.

I was ashamed to see all the so-called "Patriots" cheering for this rotten, little war. They just wanted cheaper gasoline so they could drive their cars all they wanted. Then, I laughed when so many of them complained when gas prices didn't go down.

Oh, there were plenty of reasons why gas prices stayed up. Oil was being thrown away by man's negligence all over the world. In Prince William Sound, Alaska, the supertanker Exxon Valdez ran aground one day in March 1989, releasing 240,000 barrels of crude oil into the water. It was an environmental disaster, killing fish and fowl for miles, doing irreparable harm to the ecosystem. Eventually, some of that oil will get into human children as its toxins work their way up the food chain so you would think people would have been punished for it. Right? How about the executives of Exxon Oil, who skimped when purchasing those supertankers. The Exxon Valdez was not a double-hulled ship, one that may have been able to withstand such an impact. No. They kept their jobs. How about the crew that grounded her? Weather in the Sound wasn't so bad that they couldn't see the land coming. No. They were just shuffled around to other positions in the company. Well, then, how about the captain? Isn't the captain of the ship supposed to be responsible? After all, it was later found that he was drunk at the time! Doesn't that make him negligent?! No. He was never convicted - no one was ever convicted - of any crime.

As the song says: the Exxon Valdez sank itself I suppose.

Lawsuits were filed as lawsuits are always filed. The residents of the Sound sued. The fishermen sued. The state of Alaska sued. Exxon spent years in court and, in the beginning, it appeared as if they would be made to pay. They lost all of the initial suits. They probably knew they would. Unlike the plaintiffs in those suits, however, Exxon could afford appeal after appeal. Because they could afford it, they eventually won the appeals. In the end, Exxon didn't pay more than a pittance.

But you did. You paid then. You pay now and you'll continue to pay in the future. Think of the terrible waste of resources that was! Now, it's all been brushed under the rug of time and multinational oil conglomerates still use single hull ships and convince you that you need to keep buying their oil. Maybe you'll remember again when the toxins from that spill and others like it work their way up into the food chain and into your children. Probably not.

But the accounts of oil spills caused by people who wanted their money and damned the future could fill volumes. When the vampires are this obvious, the unconvinced only remain so through sheer force of will.

With such disregard for the environment, should the hole in the ozone layer have come as any surprise to any of us? Oh, but it did! It came as such a surprise that a whole flock of people believed the republican "scientists" when they claimed it was all a hoax. Even when evidence became impossible to ignore, people still bought their hoax theorem, even as some of them got skin cancer. The republican party fought hard to stop the Montreal Protocol of 1987. Hell, they'd been stopping such agreements for years! Dow chemical, along with the "Christian Conservatives", had the republican party in their back pockets and were telling them to jump! But there were other nations to whom Dow was an anathema and who pushed through the Montreal Protocol mandating international compliance for reductions in chlorofluorocarbons because of the depletion of atmospheric ozone.

But so-called conservatives wouldn't stop there. They carried on blindly as if nothing could harm the planet. Rain forest clear cutting, ground water pollution, atmospheric emissions, nuclear hidey-holes, nothing clued these people in! Under the Reagan and Bush administrations solar power research was sacrificed, nuclear waste became sunshine units, the E.P.A. was eviscerated, the Department of the Interior sold off forests for deforestation and land for mining and filling with garbage at a frantic pace, pollution restrictions were taken off of industries by rampant de-regulation. These old men couldn't move fast enough because they knew they only had a limited time to make all of their money. They didn't care about the future. Damn the future! They told us again and again that no harm was being done, even as we could see the damage being done all around us!

No harm to the ecosystem? What about the millions of dead fish that washed up upon U.S. shores during the 1980's and 1990's? No abuse to the system? Go back to the same shores and look at the medical waste on the beaches. No harm in deforestation? Look at how the Amazon basin started turning to desert once the biomass was gone. Plenty of landfill space? Sure, if you're rich enough not to have to live on top of it or drink the water that it poisons.

Here's a joke. During the 1980's and 1990's, people started drinking bottled water in great quantities. Why? Because tap-water was found to be full of impurities. Why? Because ground water supplies were contaminated? Why? Because of man's waste. So, people started drinking their bottled water. The water was contained in plastic bottles that people threw away once they were done with them which filled the landfills which contaminated the water which made people want bottled water even more.

The punch line? The water in those bottles was often more tainted than that coming from their tap.

So, no harm was being done to our planet.

Sure.

Here's another joke. Back in the 1960's, scientists were telling us that we were creating too much waste. The so-called conservatives called that a pack of lies. But it turned out the scientists were right. Rivers and lakes were fouled and trash covered the landscape. But we learned to live with filthy water and a filthy landscape. Then, in the 1970's the scientists were telling us that we were burning far too much fossil fuel. The co-called conservatives laughed at the thought. Turned out the scientists were right. The air around us became unbreathable. Childhood asthma increased along with lung cancer as a result. The skies became brown. Even outside of the big cities, the air grew toxic. But we learned how to live with foul air. For a while, we even built smaller cars and researched fuel alternatives. It didn't take long before we were convinced to start buying sports utility vehicles and brushed off the idea of solar power. I swear that one day, if we make it, people will be ashamed of the acronym S.U.V. Then, in the 1980's, the scientists tried to warn us about the hole in the ozone layer and about the consequences of global warming. I remember seeing one republican politician laugh during that winter, pointing at the snow outside, and say, "Doesn't feel warmer to me." Then came hurricane Andrew and the record flooding in 1993 of the Mississippi River. The lesson seemed obvious, short sighted, so-called "conservative" policies, only seeing up until the point when their check was cashed, had ignored a planet which, in response to man's carelessness, was turning against us.

But accounts of man's carelessness and the times when mankind followed their leaders blindly could fill volumes. When the vampires are this obvious, the unconvinced only remain so through sheer force of will.

The United States, by the close of the 1980's had become a nation of opportunists who wouldn't think twice before using the rest of the world as its trash dump or as consumers for its toxins. Increasingly, it hated its less fortunate (homelessness was epidemic), filled up its jails (and that would get even worse after the passage of "three strikes and you're out" laws), turned a blind eye to its failures (few noticed when a Dow chemical plant exploded in India, killing hundreds), dismissed the principals upon which it was founded (but those who wanted to sacrifice freedom of speech to stop the burning of colored bits of cloth would argue that), and ignored those who protested or tried to change things. So, if things were going so poorly, you'd think the rest of the world would have turned away from the U.S. Right?

Wrong.

As the 1980's ended, it became increasingly clear that the soviet system was doomed to failure. In 1989, the Berlin Wall fell. Bricks were smashed on the evening news as soldiers looked on impotently. Poland came out from behind the iron curtain under a reformed constitutional government. Václav Havel, a political dissident in Czechoslovakia was elected president of that nation. Hungary drafted a multiparty constitution. All of this happened because these nations saw how much the United States had and they wanted it. With their attempts to mimic the U.S., they hoped they'd achieve similar wealth.

Even the Soviet Union fell in 1991, splintering like a dropped mirror. The Warsaw Pact crumbled. The Council for Mutual Economic Assistance shattered. You'd hear republicans cheer about the capitalist system, saying that it had won the Cold War. But what had really lost the war for the soviets was its immense expense. They simply could no longer afford to fight such a war any longer. Neither could we. But they had come to the realization that all of their money was simply going into an arms race and they were trading food for bombs. Now, while they could still get it, they wanted what America had. It wasn't about freedom or liberty or human rights. Don't let anyone tell you that. Despite such violations in these socialist states, the reason that all of these changes came about was economic turmoil. And when capitalist systems were put in place, and there were still shortages, more problems came.

In 1989, a pro-democracy protest occurred in a forgotten place called Tian'anmen Square. Most of the protesters were students inspired by the United States' way of life. The punch line came when tanks were called in to disperse the protesters. At first, the tanks didn't fire upon them and folk like me, watching around their televisions, believed the protesters had a chance. Then, the protesters were killed on the evening news. Unsuspecting, they couldn't flee fast enough when the bullets began to fly. Some of the survivors were exiled, most were imprisoned. The moral of this story? You didn't need to stay within U.S. borders to see the vampires thrive. People like Jiang Zemin, who became leader of China's communist party, are just as fang-toothed as any American. They were simply able to hide behind nobler intentions than the American motto: "You should be able to buy whatever you want if you can afford it."

You didn't have to go very far to see the vampires feed, though. In 1992, the 27th amendment was added to the U.S. Constitution, requiring that an election occur before a change in Congressional pay can take effect. A noble sentiment and cheers were heard from every constituent sick of seeing Congress vote itself a raise year after year. But do you see what this says about us? Our leaders couldn't be honest enough to control themselves without the amendment. Like greedy children, a lock had to be put on the cookie jar. And these are our leaders?!

In Los Angeles, the same year, four police officers were acquitted for beating an unarmed black man named Rodney King half to death in the street. Not only were there eyewitnesses but there was video tape of the whole thing! Should it have come as any surprise when rioting erupted throughout the city?

In the same year, President Bush lost his reelection bid because he refused to recognize the economic dilemma in which the country had fallen. He thought everything was peaches after winning the so-called war with Iraq. But it wasn't. We were in the midst of a recession. What caused the recession? Primarily, an astronomically high national debt. What caused the national debt? Astronomically high defense spending during the Reagan and Bush years. At least Bush got to use some of those toys they bought.

The new president, Bill Clinton, was something of a joke. "I feel your pain," he'd tell the unfortunate masses from his limo. At least he tried to do something, though. In 1994, he tried to pass extensive health care legislation. It would have given health care to all U.S. citizens at a time when few had it and fewer could afford it. Then the conservatives came in saying, "You don't want a government plan. You don't want to have to deal with another bureaucracy." Idiots that the democrats running Congress were, they bought into it, not wanting to look like "liberals" in the next election, frightened by no more than the damage it would do to their public image. Idiots that we were, most people believed them and opted for no plan at all.

That's how things were divided in the U.S., by the way. Conservative versus liberal. Republican versus democrat. All republicans were necessarily right-wing conservatives and all democrats were necessarily left-wing liberals. The days of liberal republicans and conservative democrats were long behind. Party lines were so clear that, more and more, your party meant more than your actions on election day.

And so the years after high school and the remnants of the twentieth century slipped by. Most offensive actions were faceless, like Chernobyl, some without a single criminal to pin blame upon, like S.U.V.'s, but there were those with faces and whose names I cannot forget.

Dan Quayle was a rich kid whose dad got him everything he wanted. He even got him out of the Vietnam War, something war-mongers are always good at doing. He grew into a congressman and immediately started showing his true colors. Yeses for military spending. Nos for civil rights, reproduction rights, and a ban on prayer in public schools. Who cares about a separation of church and state, anyway? His ultra-right tendencies made him George Bush's Vice-President in 1988. There, he went after the E.P.A., the Super-Fund, H.U.D., and the Food and Drug Administration. Anything to make a buck off a generous lobbyist. When it looked like Bush would lose in 1992, he even abandoned his President to more favorably position his political career. But this guy was obviously nuts. He had a fight with a television show character - in real life! He was trying to push the republican's idea of what "family values" should be onto a fictitious character!

While they pushed these "family values", they refused to enforce child support laws, refused to make life safer by restricting and banning dangerous weapons, refused to endorse pre-natal care programs, Head-Start, and allow greater funding for public schools, refused to make the environment cleaner for those children, and refused to even give a woman the right to choose when she would have a child. Their idea of "family values" meant the absence of a woman's right to choose when she'd bear children, freedom of speech, and in some cases the freedom of religion. The republican party was so controlled by "Christian Conservatives" at the time that disagreeing with their right-wing christian view was even viewed as anti-family.

One of the leaders of the christian right was Pat Robertson. Owner of television networks and millions of souls, in 1992 he wrote a book called The New World Order, reviving long-dormant conspiracy theories involving powerful bankers, all of whom had Jewish names. People like Farrakhan, Robertson, and others built their arguments on raw or sanitized versions of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a blatant forgery--published in their present form in 1905--purporting to be a document outlining the plans for a Jewish takeover of the economies and governments of the world.

Pat Robertson, a christian leader? Funny. I thought I heard once that Christ taught love.

Apparently, that didn't matter. In 1992, even though George Bush easily defeated Pat Buchanan in the republican party's primaries, the extreme right wing of the party preached their message of hate towards anyone different on prime-time television. They shouted out hate for homosexuals, hate for Muslims, hate for anyone allowing a woman an abortion, hate for liberals. They hated anyone who got in their way and made sure everyone knew that was what the republican party represented. Is it any wonder, then, that Bill Clinton won the presidential election that year?

The republicans couldn't stop there, though. They faced another election in 1994. Their new strategy was called the "Contract with America". It was a list of promises all of the republican candidates were made to sign, not for the benefit of the American people but for their party. These promises, though, were fed to the party by the right-wing "Christian Coalition", which held the party in its pocket. Among the promises were major tax cuts for the rich, an anti-abortion platform, an all-out assault on the social safety-net, and increased defense spending for a nation with no enemies possessing any sizable army. Portraying this violation of their trust with the American people as a thing of value, no democratic candidate was strong enough to fight it and the republicans gained enough votes to hold a majority in the Congress. They used it avariciously. They passed bills to undermine Medicare, depriving health care to poor families who needed it. With Clinton turning a blind eye and even signing the damned thing, they passed a bill that, instead of reforming welfare, destroyed the whole thing and made it into "Workfare", while, conversely, increasing the welfare that went out to big businesses. They cut taxes for the rich. They cut farm subsidiaries for poor farmers and social services for other, poor families. Further, they pushed for the destruction of "affirmative action" and helped erode immigrant's rights. Their christian masters insisted on the adoption of school prayer and english as the country's official language but, in these cases, more reasonable heads have thus far prevailed

The republican Congress stopped President Clinton's attempts to reform health insurance to provide coverage for all. They refused to pass the budgets he recommended, causing two separate government shutdowns. They almost stopped the Brady Bill, one of America's first gun-control laws. All of this because of their petty, party affiliation. To hell with the interests of the American people. If a democrat was for it, they were against it.

This cannot be entirely one-sided, though. The democrats are equally to blame. Are they to blame because they, too, are evil, or are democrats just plain stupid? Was it sheer stupidity that made the democrats allow the republicans to lead them with collar and chain. The democrats never had the nerve to challenge the republican's ties with the "Christian Coalition". The republicans would say "we are representing the beliefs of the majority of Americans. People have the right to have their beliefs represented in their government," and the democrats would believe them and to hell with the separation of church and state. The democrats were dumb enough to go along with the republicans when they made it illegal for homosexuals to marry, creating, in effect, an heterosexual tyranny, depriving gays of their human rights. Sheer stupidity. Let's face it, nobody wanted to lose their jobs over something as petty as right and wrong. So, perhaps, it was stupidity on the democrats side. But let's not forget that the "Workfare" bill was proposed by Clinton himself. Clinton increased the nation's military budget while decreasing that which went to help the poor. Neither was Clinton a saint nor were his fellow democrats, and you can chalk it up to evil or stupidity if you like. Look where it has gotten us.

Long before Clinton was elected into his second term, his republican rivals had threatened that they'd make his life hell if he won. They'd find some dirt on him, they promised. They'd make it impossible for him to do his job. Sure enough, Clinton won the 1996 Presidential race and, very quickly, the republicans went public with the dirt that they had. And what was that dirt? It was that he'd had an extramarital affair. It wasn't the first such accusation and it turned out to be true. There were those in Congress who believed Clinton should be impeached, claiming that it was the role of the President to be the country's moral leader. Why?

What purpose would be served by making the President a de facto moral leader? It would become necessary, then, to put them upon a pedestal, make them the guide by which we make our moral decisions. Is this to say he can be a crook? Of course, not. The difference here is that crimes are delineated by law while morality is far more vague. This creates a very fine way of casting blame. Moral leadership must, by definition, never waiver. Human beings, however, are inconsistent creatures and can never stand up to such a standard.

And what if he were our moral leader? By naming the President as moral leader, you are also making him supreme arbiter of morality in our country. How more un-American than the de facto appointment of such a glorified position? But, obviously, he is no such arbiter, holds no such power to dictate morality, which points to how insidious this label is. What we are saying is that he is our moral leader only when he fails, and he's not a member of our party. No one has ever called the President our moral leader in any instance when it was not to blame him for some short-coming.

Was Clinton, then, impeached for something that was not a crime but was presented as an immoral act? Indeed, he was. And, though he did not lose office, he and his party were made to pay for it.

But the accounts of opportunistic politicians could fill volumes. When the vampires are this obvious, the unconvinced only remain so through sheer force of will.

And so the years after high school flew by like a bullet in a fog-bank. No matter how many times people were hit in the head by the despicable acts of their leaders or the wretched acts of their neighbors or even by their own odious behavior, most folk ignored the world around them and were good, little vampires, consuming lest they be consumed. If they changed at all, people just got worse.

In 1991, as I was looking for a school at which to continue my education, my dad's job moved to Phoenix. The entire company up and moved to the desert where property taxes were less and corporate tax cuts greater. It abandoned all of its employees and the community in which it had once expressed such kinship all for the money. Only a few years later, the company would move outside the country altogether. How's that for dysfunctional? So, as many other employees were doing, Dad gathered his memories and prepared to move. He asked if I'd like to come but I chose to remain in southern California. Phoenix was the fastest growing city in the United States at that time and was also quickly becoming its most polluted.

I took my few belongings, wished my dad well, and moved back to Orange County.

Another family eviscerated by the vampire society.

Though I only had an associate's degree, I was able to find a job as the manager at a bookstore called The Upstart Crow and Company. It was located in an odd, little offshoot of the massive shopping mall in Costa Mesa, South Coast Plaza. I call it odd because, in addition to not being all under one roof, the stores were not customarily packed tightly next to each other. The atmosphere was relaxing, not aggressive. As many others would soon do, this bookstore was also home to a coffee bar and café, setting an intellectual and informal tone. I still had plans to return to college but the job paid well enough for me to rent a place of my own and to begin saving for a car.

Two years later, I had the car, a used Ford Mustang, but had yet to return to school. Still, I was comfortable. An avid reader, I had all the books I wanted and had made friends with my coworkers and other people working in the neighboring shops. Dad and I kept a running correspondence. I was content.

That would end.

June 25, 2000. It was a Sunday afternoon, warmer than most, and I'd just come off of my lunch break. The kid who worked with me left at two o'clock and I settled down to pass the rest of my day, sipping an iced mocha. That's when the kids came in. Four of them. Black kids. I took notice right away because being a more relaxed shopping center we were naturally a more expensive one which meant we didn't see an awful lot of kids or, more specifically, black kids.

And they weren't there to shop.

"Shit, man," one of them yelled to the others. "What the fuck is this?!"

Another laughed. "They just sell books and shit."

I approached them, trying to sound as domineering as possible. "You boys looking for something in particular?"

The biggest one, dressed in baggy jeans, a brown t-shirt, and an oversized jacket despite the weather smirked. "Check it," he said to his friends. "Home's with the tie."

"Tryin' to dress white," another one added. This one, like one of the others had his head shaved. None were any older than sixteen.

I tried to ignore the comment. "If there's nothing you're specifically looking for, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"You ax'in us to leave," the third one asked. This one didn't look any cleaner than the others. His parents obviously weren't concerned about his appearance. "Why? Cause we black?"

"Don't be stupid," I replied. "I'm black, too."

"You ain't no brother. Look at you, keeping us from the books! Cause why? You think we're gonna fuck 'em up!"

I herded them towards the door. "This is a place of business, boys. You're not entitled to anything, here."

The other three had started to exit but the third spat back at me, "Not entitled?!" Then, he straightened his back, drawing up out of his slouch and pushed me back. "You wanna act like we ain't got no right to be here!? I'll tell you what we're entitled to, old man! We're entitled to some respeck, decency! Just because we don't come in looking like none of your regular customers don't mean that there ain't nothing that says we don't got no right to be here!"

I wasn't used to having people yell at me, especially younger people. I'm afraid I began to shake. I tried to show him the door. "I'm sorry if I offended you."

"And what the fuck wrong wif' you, anyways," the boy continued to yell, already attracting the attention of everyone else in the shop. "Why don't you step up 'stead of turning gainst your own people? Somebody fuckin' wif' your head that you can't even see one of your brothers when they come in? Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Fine," I conceded. "If you're here to shop, just do it quietly." I opened the door for them but the boys looked at me with something less than contempt.

"No," the third boy said as the others walked off. "It looks to me like they done put you in a cage, dog. That ain't no place I want to be."

As they walked away, a cold shiver worked its way up my back, fighting my resistance as I restrained my panicked shakes. But how more right could he have been? I turned back to look in the store. Everyone was still watching me. Okay, so I liked books but that was just my excuse to keep the four boys out. What had happened to me? I'd never been comfortable with other black kids growing up, they always seemed so open and sure of themselves, ready for confrontation. Me? I suffered from chronic orphan syndrome, always fearing abandonment, not used to confrontation. That's why it was always so hard for me to make friends, because I was afraid of what that might bring. I had been able to admit that to myself.

But to so abandon others - not just those of my pigment but others as well - to the point where I put the business before the people it was meant to serve, it was the same kind of betrayal that Abby had felt in that resort hotel room with Jason. Here I was amidst all of these books and what is the purpose of books but to educate? Even the most entertaining books educate. And those boys could have used the books but I was more interested in seeing to the concerns of my bosses. Keeping the appropriate clientele, as they might say. And I had done just so with no concern as to what might have been right.

It left a sour feeling in my stomach.

So, I asked for someone to take the register and I went for a walk.
Chapter 13

### The compulsion towards selfishness is the compulsion of the vampire.

Just as Abby had betrayed her upbringing and the poverty of her forebears by relishing in the riches that Jason could afford I had betrayed my past by thinking I could judge a person by his appearance. Fell right for the stereotype.

As my father's words came back to haunt me, I entered one of the newer stores which had opened around the corner from mine. "Back To Nature" featured everything to cater to the new, environmentalist mindset. Hemp purses. Sea shell earrings. Organic cosmetics. Just the kind of thing for Orange County yuppies to blow their money on.

Then, I saw her. She was straightening a display by the window.

I swear she hadn't aged a day. Her fiery hair stood straight, cropped just short enough so their natural curls didn't take off too much, complementing her rose cheeks. She'd lost some weight, I could tell, and, in her tank top and jeans, she was wearing less than I'd ever seen before.

I gasped.

She looked up at me, smiling because, I'm certain, she didn't recognize me.

And I fainted.

Was it seeing Abby after all that time that brought a flood of images and ideas into my head? Was it the shock of her presence that filled my head with thoughts? Who's to say? I looked back upon years and years and discussion after discussion.

When I awoke, it was clear.

All this talk about the vampire society ignores one element, the individual, for what part does an individual play amidst the vampiric hordes. Isn't he a vampire as well? How can one survive amidst the vampires and, beyond mere survival, is happiness possible?

The vampire has always been seductive, never forget that. He doesn't break down your door like Mongol hordes but, rather, waits to be invited in. And you invite him of your own, free will and he seduces you, and when he finally bites into your neck and feasts upon your blood are you in agony? Are you left screaming? No. There is but a pinprick and then there is ecstasy and then, and only then, there is sheer terror. And once one is drained and no longer of any value, he is not listened to because he is worthless. He is homeless or he is sick or worse and worse. We have been raised not to listen to them.

In a vampire society, we are all vampires. It is up to the individual to wake up to this fact, to come to this realization. Only then can they truly begin to cast off the vampire and become human again, become real and become truly happy.

Oh, happiness is available to vampires. You can have it many ways. You can devour it in drugs, both injected and ingested. You can buy it in property, buy it in people, or even buy it in food. These methods are available to everyone. They make the vampire happy because they are feeding their vampiric nature. They are consuming. That is what every vampire longs for.

But is true happiness unavailable to them? I'd have to say it is.

Oh, they can try. I'd go so far as to say that those who try are already attempting to cast off the vampire, because true happiness requires selflessness, acceptance, patience, and generosity to start. And generosity is impossible to the true vampire. To give? Of one's self? There are those who can give, knowing they will attain greater rewards down the road but to truly give with no ulterior motive is not possible for the vampire. And so they fall short of happiness and fall back into consumption. Why do you think the United States, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, was rife with obesity, diabetes, and heart disease? These are some of the physical symptoms of the disease of consumption. The drives of the vampire society were killing the individuals within, even as they rushed out for another Big Mac.

The vampire society makes true happiness nearly impossible. It shuns those attributes necessary. To give of yourself makes you a sucker; you are judged as gullible. To accept makes you naïve. The response to patience was embodied in the maxim, "You snooze. You lose." And generosity? Oh, generosity.

It's like a feeding beacon to the vampires. Vampires take. That's all they do. The generous human being in the vampire society is bled dry, discarded, and left for dead

So, then how is happiness possible? It would take years to find out and even then I was never really sure. But at that moment, I knew the most important step down that road, the first step, was when one was awakened to the vampire that they had become. It was the hardest step to take.

Most people don't want to admit to it. They say to themselves, "Look, I recycle aluminum cans. I buy girl scout cookies. I give to my church. I even use detergent with low sulfur content." Is that good? Of course, it is as far as it goes. Is it enough? No. It's like a mass murderer being acquitted because he never killed on Sunday. The epidemic of vampires in our world goes far beyond your own home. Tend your gardens, yes, but never fall for the illusion that that is enough. Reduce your waste; don't just trade in your cans. Give of yourself; don't make little girls hawk junk food. Question what your church is doing with your money; vampires do not fear crucifixes. Do more than you are doing now. The compulsion towards selfishness is the compulsion of the vampire. No person should surrender all they have but if you have more than you need, you don't need what you have. And this is why it's so hard to awaken to the vampire we've become.

I know that in my case, I had only been craving a little blood here and a little blood there. And I knew that when the four, black kids left my store, when the things in the store were more important to me than the people outside of it. Abby's case was the same as any extremist, and Abby had always been more extreme than I. Her fangs had grown long and the blood she drank was abundant. And when she came to that realization, when she had learned that her father had died, she was frightened by what she had become and turned away from that, from Jason, from all that she'd attained.

And when I saw her, it was only like a day had passed.

What I didn't know then was that my whole life had been changed in that very moment. Nothing would remain as it had been for me. But then, how could it? I had never forgotten Abby. Odd as it might sound, it had been her socialistic sermons that had brought me to learn about business and economics. Originally, I had supposed that I could develop some new change in the system that would push businesses into assuming some form of social responsibility. But we see where that got me, managing a book store.

At that moment, I realized everything had changed because I was no longer standing, and my feet were up in the air. I heard voices, coming from very close, from above me. I opened my eyes and say a heavy-set, middle-aged, white woman leaning on a countertop, high above. Another voice came from the other side. Eventually, the woman looked down at me. "He's awake," she said, by way of "goodbye", and left.

Abby came around the corner. "Nathanial?" she asked, leaning down. Her smell was heavenly.

"Abby," I replied. It was as though we had seen each other every day and there was nothing odd with our positions on the ground.

"Would you like to get up?" she asked.

I thought about it for a moment. I wasn't incapacitated. I could get up. I just didn't want to. I was actually quite comfortable. "I was just about to ask you if you wanted to join me."

She put a knee down. "Why not? This looks like it's going to be a dead Sunday, anyway." Turning herself, she laid herself next to me, her left arm pressed against my right.

She gave it a minute. "This isn't that bad," she admitted.

"Here," I said, moving my feet over. "Put your feet up."

She did. And she sighed. "Ah, much better." I grunted a small agreement. "And this is good for your back," she added.

"That's why I came down here," I lied. "I only pretended to pass out so you'd move me into this position."

"Oh, really?"

"Sure. I tried the deli but -"

"But their floor's harder?" she asked. We laughed and looked at each other. "It's so nice to see you again," she said.

I could hardly breathe without getting hypnotized by her scent. It wasn't a perfume or a soap. It was her. "Yes, it is," I agreed.

Abruptly, she took her feet down and turned towards me. "Now, please don't tell me you live in Budapest and you're only in for a few hours because of a layover at John Wayne."

"John Wayne doesn't have layovers."

"Los Angeles, then."

I took my feet down as well, turning to her. "And what would I be doing in Budapest?"

She thought for a moment. "Professor of English - no, Gaelic Literature in the Dark Ages! You're married with three daughters. You have dog, a basset hound, named Chester. You drive a big car despite all those talks we had in high school and you smoke a pipe with cherry tobacco."

"Um, no," I replied, getting up and wandering her store. "I don't drive a big car. It's not really small but it's not big, either. And it wasn't very expensive." She looked at me for more answers, without saying anything, and I paced around the store. "I don't smoke a pipe. I could never even manage a cigar when they came back. I don't have three kids. I don't have any kids. I've never been married." It was a strange admission to make at nearly 32 years of age but there it was. I'd only ever met one girl in my life that I could fantasize about being with and she wouldn't have had me.

"I notice you're not mentioning Budapest," she said, as though she'd gotten that right.

"Come here," I said, putting my hand out. She took my hand and, for only a brief second, it was like plugging my hand into an electrical socket, as goosebumps sprang up all along my arms and back. But I didn't let go. I wouldn't. I pulled her up to her feet and walked her to the door, pointing across the little shopping mall. "You see that store over there?"

"The coffee shop?"

"It's also a book store. I work there. I'm the manager."

She looked at it silently.

"So, I won't be going to Budapest and I'm not a professor of anything."

"You work there?" she asked.

"Yep."

"For how long?"

"Nearly three years."

She looked at me stunned, taking several steps back, and then, her hand over her mouth, she did something surprising. She began to laugh. "Oh, Nathan," she said, laughing. "Oh, Nathan," she said, laughter bursting from her.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Look, I know it's not funny. In fact, it's terrible. It's awful."

"What?"

"I've been walking around this mall for nearly two years, looking to open my store. Oh, other malls as well – but I started looking here nearly two years ago!"

Breath rushed from my lungs. Two years. For two years, we'd been separated by feet, by chance, by opposite ends of a tiny shopping mall, which might as well have been a continent. But shopping malls are built for consumers and we had both weaned ourselves of the frenzy to consume back in high school. Neither of us looked around for new things to buy. We did our jobs and left, not knowing who waited just a short walk away.

And we both laughed. We both laughed because neither of us wanted to cry about it within minutes of meeting each other again. We'd have time for that later. We laughed, and amid the laughter we held each other and touched each other and blatantly grabbed onto each other and it was only later that night that I realized that it was the most physical contact we'd ever shared.

Intense, though it was, it only lasted a few minutes.

Afterwards, she asked, "What about Chester?"

"Chester?"

"The dog?"

"Oh, " I said. I shook my head. "No dog. Sorry. I have a cat. His name's Bud."

"Bud?"

I nodded.

"Bud and Chester are both guy's names," she said, and I agreed. "So, I was close." She smiled over at me.

I remembered that smile. I had missed it so much. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What happened to you? Do you own this store? Started after a torrid love-affair with an affirmed capitalist that you broke off after he found out you owned a copy of the Communist Manifesto?" I had been joking but, as she drew herself back, I couldn't even finish the sentence. Abby crossed the store and sat behind the counter. "Abby?" I asked. "Abby?"

She looked at me. "I'm sorry. I'm - I'm just being silly. For a minute, I wanted to ask you who you've been talking to."

"Oh. I was that close? I was just -"

"This is my store. I don't own the building; I lease the space."

"Well, that's great -"

"And, yes, I started it because I realized I'd turned my back on everything I'd believed in, all that stuff I used to talk about." She paused, but I wasn't going to say anything this time. "But he was good to me, Nathan. He treated me well - and it wasn't as though he was a bad man. He was honest and he was - and I wanted to want that. I wanted to be able to have that. To love him. And to be with him. But it just killed me to just walk away from everything. My dad had shown me what the stakes were - what they are. He had shown me that to be really alive means to connect with others to not just isolate yourself with you and your friends and your money..." She covered most of her face with her hand and, for several minute, she remained quiet.

I walked around the counter and knelt down before her. "Abby?" She clenched herself up and she was breathing very deeply, as though keeping herself from tears. "Abby, are you all right?"

She lowered her hand and looked at me, a few tears had come through. "I'm sorry, Nathan. I haven't - I guess I didn't have anyone to tell that to and it's only been a couple of years and I guess..." She took a deep breath. "My father died, Nathan. It wasn't a – you jerk, it wasn't a copy of the Communist Manifesto. My father died. He died all alone because Jason and I were too busy spending his money. I did a horrible thing. And I found his body cold. It was on the kitchen floor and it was cold." Her body began to shake and her breath was shallow.

And suddenly, she was in my arms. "Shhh," I said to her. "Shhh. It's okay. I'm sure it wasn't your fault, Abby. I'm so sorry. Your father was a very good man." I talked like this for a while and I don't remember exactly what I said. I just knew the feeling of her clutching my jacket, her face against my chest, was better than anything I'd felt in a long time.

Her breath was warm on me and she just breathed there for a while. And then, she sniffled, and asked, "Communist Manifesto?"

"Well, I was going to say the Anarchists Cookbook, but knowing you - heck, you probably sell it here." We looked at each other. "I really am sorry. But you can't blame yourself, you know? There's such a thing as personal accountability but there's also such a thing as driving yourself crazy with guilt."

"Find the mean," she said, looking very serious. And it reminded me of my own dad, remarried now out in Arizona. I should call him, I thought.

I also thought I should ask Abby out to dinner. "Listen," I said. "This is going to sound - well, I mean, it might - look, would you want to -"

"Yes," she said, and I realized she was still in my arms.

"I was thinking about dinner."

"I don't eat meat anymore."

"Okay."

"I'd love to."

"Saturday?"

"Today's Sunday. That's a whole week away."

"Oh."

"I'm opened until eight o'clock, Monday through Friday."

"Okay. Would tonight be too soon?"

"I'll close up early."

Suddenly, she was moving around, putting things in order. So, I kept myself busy, looking at her wares. I started close to the counter, where bath soaps were displayed. All natural bath soaps. All natural, vegan bath soaps. Whenever a customer would ask Abby why anyone would buy vegan soap, she'd ask, "Why would anyone want to wash themselves with meat?" Next, I went to the pet department. Bio-degradable cat litter and dog poop bags. Natural medicines and shampoos with no petroleum by-products. Vegan dog food. "Dogs are carnivores in the wild," Abby would hear the un-converted mutter. To which she would reply, "Make sure you take his leash off before you set yours free in the woods. Wouldn't want him to get snagged." She had a simple philosophy about her shop: "Ignorance is a shame. Pride is pointless. Intolerance is intolerable."

One wall did not display her "Back to Nature" goods. All along it, covering every inch, were beautiful paintings. I stood there for a while, admiring them.

"You like them?" Abby asked, standing next to me.

"They're very good. And very cheap. Who makes them? Someone local?"

"Yes," she replied. "Me."

"You?" I asked. "But you don't paint. I've only seen you doodle at times."

"Nathan, you have been looking at my paintings. I do paint."

"But they're so good, why are you charging so little? You could get twice what you're charging. Three times as much."

"And then people wouldn't buy them, they wouldn't be able to afford them."

"Sure they would."

"No. Oh, investors. Companies. Shopping malls... but real people, honest-to-goodness, authentic people wouldn't be able to touch them. And that's not how I want it. Anyway, I stopped being a professional artist years ago. Now, this place keeps me more than busy. When I want to paint, I figure I'll sit outside and paint."

"You should have done that when you first moved in," I muttered. She very nearly heard me and was about to respond but I spoke up. "Do you still write?"

It stopped her short. "No," she answered, grabbing her purse and jacket, nonchalantly. "No, I don't do that anymore." Her tone was undeniable and unapproachable. To Abby, poetry was in the past.

We didn't have to go too far away for dinner. A restaurant respectably vegan and yet with a diversity broad enough to allow others in lay right around the corner. We were seated quickly, brought our drinks - a beer for me and tea for her \- and abruptly thrust in to the discomfort of stalled conversation.

"So, your father moved out of state?" she asked.

"Arizona," I replied.

"Does he like it there?"

"He has arthritis, so..."

The waiter brought out our order.

"Do you ever hear from your father's family?"

"I, um... I did once," she said. "It was a letter. But the handwriting wasn't too good and neither was my spanish so..."

And we began to eat, looking at each other every so often and smiling. And then, she said, "I didn't just up and leave him, you know?"

"I'm sorry," I said, a bite of food just in my mouth. "What do you mean?"

"The man I was seeing when my father died. I was afraid I'd made it sound like I'd lost my mind or something. Or that..."

I took a few more bites, expecting her to continue but she didn't. "Or that, what?"

"You know, it's nothing. I'm sorry."

And so, we finished our meal.

And we left the restaurant.

And we walked back to her store.

And she was going to walk back to her car and all the warmth and good will that I'd felt in the first few minutes of us meeting again would slowly evaporate in the evening sky. "Abby," I called out to her. She turned, stopped, and I walked up to her. "Look, I want us to be friends again. I want that. I don't know exactly what happened to us after high school. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was Art Silvada. Maybe it was just stupidity on all of our parts. But it just strikes me as stupid that we've been working in this same damned mall and we haven't even talked. What do you think?"

She looked at her keys, which she had taken out, and put them back in her purse. Then, she took my arm and we began walking. Not saying anything but occasionally looking at each other in the starlit night.

"Have you ever been to Las Vegas?" she asked. Living in Southern California, I had been there on several occasions. "I went there with Jason about a month before my father died. We'd often go away like that. I think that's when things started to go sour between us. Can you imagine? Me? In Las Vegas? It was a stupid idea. But I guess I was so far gone by then, he thought it wouldn't matter. I was making plenty of money and he, well, I think he'd always had money. But he wasn't rich. No. He'd say that." Her voice dipped as she imitated him, "I'm not rich but I have money." She laughed. "I mean, what's the difference? A matter of degrees? But normal people aren't good enough at geometry to figure those degrees, believe me. And a poor person, or a homeless person, to them...

"I was practically living with him by that time. Designer clothes. Designer furniture. Gourmet food. I don't think we ever had pizza. But I'd never had money like that before and I liked the way it felt. I mean, really. I really liked the way it felt. I guess I was blinded by it because, back then, I didn't see what was wrong with it. I didn't know what was wrong until I found my father, lying dead on his floor.

"So, Jason and I went to Vegas. He had a suite at the Stardust. It was old Vegas, he told me, as if that was less decadent somehow. And all around us, people were losing their money, throwing it away instead of taking care of their families or providing for their future. Have you seen all the pawn shops in Vegas, Nathan? There must be hundreds of them, all waiting for someone to lose their money and need just a little more, maybe for gambling, maybe for bus fare home.

"Did you know that it costs a million dollars a day to light Vegas? A million dollars a day! And I'm not talking about all the money that goes into gambling and restaurants and shows and - I'm just talking about lighting the place! Can you imagine if they dimmed the lights ten percent and put a hundred thousand dollars towards curing cancer? Or if the casinos took just ten percent of their profits from gambling and put it towards feeding the hungry? So, you can see why it snapped me out of the consumer haze I was in!

"I was outside the Stardust with Jason. The valet had just taken his car and I just started grabbing people on the street." She moved around in the empty parking lot as though she were back in Vegas, shouting at people to wake them up. "Why are you bringing your kids here so they can watch you gamble their futures away?" "Look, save your money. That's a sure thing!" "Can you imagine all the good we could do on this earth without abominations like this place!"

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "And then what happened?"

"I got arrested," she said with a giggle, taking my arm again. "Oh, Jason bailed me out but I was livid. I'm sure he thought I was nuts. Millions of people go to Vegas every year without one of them snapping on the street; so I guess that does make me nuts. After that, well, I couldn't live his life any more. There are plenty of people who can be perfectly happy while others suffer. He was one of them. I suppose I could have tried to make him see. I guess I just didn't want to make the effort. I had to rehabilitate myself first."

"And that's what the store is for?"

"No, that's just part of it. It's a way to earn a living without making myself sick."

"Your father would be proud. You know?"

She looked up at me. "He would?"

"Sure. You're carrying on his work. The Ayrnes tradition... without the psychedelic paint." This brought her to laugh and I laughed, too, and we walked, giggling, for a while.

"What about you?" she asked. "How'd you end up in a bookstore? I thought you were going to be a journalist?"

"Yeah, well that... That kind of died on the vine."

"You're a grape now?"

"Not really."

She took my hand. "Wrong color for a grape."

She felt warm. I hadn't known how to answer her before she'd taken my hand and now I was even less sure.

She continued, "And I don't know how I'd react if I ever did see anyone the color of a grape."

We laughed and kept walking.

Finally, I assembled my thoughts. "I wasn't in college long before I realized that the problem was journalism itself. I still wanted to write but..."

"But?"

"But nobody was publishing anything I wanted to write. I felt like I was in high school. All the stories were about the mundane. This person won this award. That person made this achievement. But nobody was writing about the problems we faced or the things we could do to make a difference."

"Those people aren't journalists, Nathan. They're activists."

"True. And nobody was writing about them." I stopped walking and took my hand from hers as I thought. "It wasn't just the college paper or the high school paper. It was any newspaper. It was the news on the radio or on the television. It was always the same stories about the same catastrophes or the same achievements or the same election results or the same polls. Nobody was talking about why the catastrophes happened or what the achievements meant."

"Or what the election results would mean?"

"Right. It was as if things happened in a vacuum."

"No context."

"That's right. A total lack of context."

"And if you don't understand why things happen or what they mean -"

"It's not news. It's just examples."

"I remember when Clinton was elected," she remembered. "There was an undercurrent of reasoning that Bush had overlooked the American people. But nobody wrote what that meant. And the republican's Contract on America. Nobody said that if these things comes to pass, this will be the result."

"Of course. To say it would be to put the republicans in a bad light. It would no longer be impartial."

"But it was true. Their goal looked bad because it was bad. It had a negative effect on people. It hurt people. But no, we don't want to actually say that. Even Clinton's welfare reform. While the republicans were eating that up, all you heard about was how well they were working together. Democracy in action! But nobody would step forward and point out all the people that were going to be hurt; what a horrible thing that was. It wasn't reformation; it was destruction!"

"And the few who said it were considered attackers. And who had the gall to attack Clinton when he was doing such a good thing for America?"

"Gall? I'd call it bravery - but I see what you're getting at. And when Clinton was being impeached, when he was stripped bare on national television over his infidelities, nobody would defend him, either. This they call impartiality!" She paused. I could see the subject angered her. "You know, it was during that time - it was when the sordid details of the president's sex life was broadcast for everyone to hear that I first knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Poncho was right. You remember Poncho? What he said? This crazy, broken man had the guts to tell us what no one else would. He was the first person to tell us about the vampire society and as I watched our President - like him or not - being humiliated in front of the entire nation for something that had nothing whatsoever to do with his job - impeached for an unimpeachable offense - I knew our country had hit a summit."

"Or a nadir."

"And there was no going back."

This time, I took her hand. "So, can you see why I lost my interest in journalism."

"I guess so. It would be like Galileo telling the world that the earth revolves around the sun but not allowing him to say why. And without the reason why, there's nothing to substantiate it. It loses all validity."

"All context."

"You know, as a nation, we really have no voice to tell us the things we don't want to hear. Why global warming is such a threat. Why we shouldn't drive our SUVs or tear down our forests or allow companies to pollute so freely or allow lobbyists... to live!"

"If you're lucky, they drop it in the back of the paper but never on the front page."

"Or you might find some niche publication."

"Maybe."

"Nobody has the courage to speak the truth any more. Doctors won't tell you the truth. They'd rather prescribe a pill than tell you to change your lifestyle. Teachers lack the courage to tell students that creationism is bullshit. Next thing you know, they'll have to admit validity to the Flat Earth theory. Religious zealots insist on getting respect for telling fables."

"Our society does not put a premium on the truth. I've heard parents argue about whether they should tell their kids there's no Santa Claus. As if there's value in lies." I could see we were approaching her car again, having circumvented the mall. "Anyway, that's why I left journalism. I got my degree in business."

"Business? Oh, Nathan."

"I know. And it landed me in a bookstore, of all places." We stopped at her car. "It's not so bad. I'm not peddling poisons. You know, for the most part."

"For the most part," she agreed. She leaned against her car and looked at me. "So, where do you go from here?"

"Oh, I don't know. Home, I guess."

"Home," she said.

We looked at each other.

"Would you like to come to my house? I could make some coffee."

I was stunned, amazed perhaps, as I got into her little car, and we drove off.

And we did go to her house. And we had more than coffee.

And when I woke up the next morning, with her by my side, I supposed briefly that everything had changed. And it had.

But not the way I had hoped, as I'd soon discover.
Chapter 14

### Our society is only as ethical as you are when you're given the wrong change.

For the better part of two weeks, we had dinner in our restaurant together. Nothing more. So many times I wondered if she thought our night together was a mistake. But how could it have been? To me, it seemed as though things were righting themselves and we were where we should have been back in high school.

To Abby, though, this was not the case. Or, at least, not as I had it figured.

She came at me, nearly two weeks after our reunion, with a newspaper article. It was folded up in her hand, tucked under her knuckles, as she sat across from me, each of us in our kitschy chairs, the waxy volcano of an old candle between us. "Nathan, what do you remember of us? I mean, of us in high school?"

"Us? We were good friends. Maybe I wanted it to be more. You can't really blame me."

"Even then?"

"Abby... even the first day we met." She smiled at me from across the table. I thought this was going someplace but I had the wrong direction. "I remember that first day. You tried to look so cool - but you were just as alone as I."

"We were both kind of loners."

"Sure. Remember how we used to sit on the lunch tables and wait for your dad to pick us up? He must have thought we were dating."

She shook her head a little. "No. He always thought..." She looked away a little. I thought, perhaps, she was thinking of me. So, I was surprised when she said, "Arthur. Do you remember Arthur, Nathan?"

"Remember him? How could I forget him?"

Again, the smile. "You didn't like him much."

It was more than just an accusation. It was like the years between us rallied back to life. I realized how much had changed and how little and the question formed in my head punctiliously, "Who is this person before me?"

"Didn't like him?" I asked. "What was there to like? No, seriously. What did he ever do that wasn't petty or crude or vile? Abby, the only reason I ever had anything to do with Arthur Silvada was because you were there. I felt I should stick around as your friend."

"Not just because you wanted it to be more?"

"Not after Art Silvada entered the picture. He did more than enough to help screw things up for both of us."

"You did your share, too, Nathan."

"Okay. Granted. I was a kid in high school; that's my only defense. Why are we talking about him, anyway?"

"Well," she said, playing with the paper, "you're not going to like this much."

"Is it an article about Arthur Silvada?" I asked, probably a bit too smugly.

"Yes," she replied. I felt my face drop. "Look. He's going to be at this coffee shop on Friday. He's running for the State Senate as a democrat." She unfolded the paper. It was one of the local rags, dedicating a great deal of space to any story in an attempt to mask the fact that nothing of any significance was happening in town. In length, it described the candidate, his tall, muscular frame, his tan complexion, his firm jaw and perfect hair, his fluency in spanish and smattering of vietnamese, japanese, and mandarin, his good education - it went on and on and didn't really say a thing.

"And you want to go?" I asked her.

"I want us to go!" She emphasized "us" as if there were an "us", as if - but I couldn't let my mind go there, not any more.

"Why?"

"Nathan!" She sounded scolding but she wasn't going to dominate me like that.

"Honestly, Abby. Why? Is this some effort to reconnect with your past? You've found me so now you want to find Art? Are you going to sleep with -"

"Don't say it, Nathan. Do not say it." Now, she was serious, the Abby I used to know. "I know why you didn't like him. I wasn't blind. I saw what was going on there. Both of you thought it was a contest to see who would date me first, who would bed me first. Oh, I know you never said that to each other but it was evident just the same. But I want you to imagine for just a second, just imagine, that I was friends with both of you despite that. I was friends with him because I felt there was something redeemable inside of him, something good. And I was friends with you because you were good on the outside and I was hoping you were just as good within. But I'll let you in on a secret, Nathan. I found that, when it came to certain things, you were both the same. That's why I stopped talking with the two of you after high school. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe that was my mistake. But, after nearly four years, I got tired of overlooking things."

"What things, Abby? You tell me how I am the same as Art Silvada!" My face was flushed and, as she pointed one finger at my chest, I only felt I could get madder.

"Right there. That way. Both of you believed you had a right to something and that something was me. I guess I felt that if I was your friend, you'd learn that I wasn't obliged to you but that I gave my friendship willingly."

"So, why'd you sleep with me, then? Or were you just fucking with my head?!"

"Sit down," she said, quietly. Only then did I realize I'd stood up. But I didn't want to sit down, not with her, not any more. But then she said, "Sit down," again. Quieter this time. And she took my hand as I did. And, for a moment, we shared that intimacy that only lovers shared. "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe you just caught me at a weak moment. Maybe I was just horny and got caught up in it." She gripped my hand tighter and looked deeply into my eyes. "Or maybe here's something that you weren't thinking, Nathan. Maybe I wanted you back in high school. And maybe I wanted Arthur. And maybe being with the two of you made me feel like I wasn't just this pudgy girl with weird hair but made me feel beautiful. And maybe that's why having both of you fuck with me in your own ways hurt me so much back then."

I started to speak but her hand went up. "Wait. I need to finish this. I think it's great that we found each other again. I think it's great that we still have the connection we once had - and that it's stronger. But I need to know what happened to Arthur. I need to know he's okay."

"He's running for State Senate, Abby. He's fine," I said.

"No. He's prosperous. And believe me - I know this - sometimes when people are prosperous they are farthest from fine. Go with me, Nathan. Do this with me."

And so, we went.

It was a typical Southern Californian evening in mid-July. Not cool. Not hot. The air was tepid and still and talk in the street tended towards rumors of "earthquake weather", and would continue until winter. Traffic was backed up both ways on the corner of Euclid and Katella in Anaheim as it was every night on every corner in that part of the state and, at the Cuppa Jo, the coffee shop where we would soon see Art Silvada, the lot was packed to capacity. We had parked our cars in the lot across the street, filled with vacant shops and trash, and as we crossed the street, she took my hand for just a brief second.

"I'm nervous," she said, sounding surprised.

But hers was nothing in comparison with mine. Everything inside me told me to turn away, fast. This could not turn out well. Arthur had always been more handsome, more charismatic, quicker with his tongue. And, as much as I'd tried to deny it, I knew he couldn't be the same guy I'd known in high school. He'd served a couple of years on the school board in Cypress. No one who couldn't be trusted to say a word unscripted could have done such a job, surrounded by angry parents and dissatisfied teachers, outside forces and other "community interests". Worse still, I had learned that he was a democrat. A democrat! How could such a vile creature have reformed himself so? I had been sure he must have grown up a republican. As little difference as there was between the parties, there was still the basic difference, stereotyped as it might have been, that the party for mean-spiritedness and short-sightedness, make a buck today and damn tomorrow, was still the republican party. (As if we could sequester the vampires into one political party.) And Arthur had become a democrat! The party of tolerance and welfare and common cause. I knew Abby had been more attracted to Arthur before, when he'd been such a rabid creature, but now?

I was nervous.

The street crossed, we made our way through the battery of cars to the coffee shop. There was an army of them, all shapes and sizes tending towards the SUVs. These were what politicians drove, automobiles that reflected their self-important status. Inside, there was a small area to place your order, leading into a large room filled with pool tables, dart boards, booths, and for today at least fifty or so supporters of Art Silvada, democratic candidate for State Senate.

We didn't try to push our way through. We hung back, at Abby's request. It took me a minute to find him but I could tell Abby had spotted him immediately. A slow smile spread across her face like a pleasant sunrise. Yes, I was nervous. And I spotted him, too, laughing and smiling and talking with people like he was an evangelist. He looked like a natural, even if he wasn't. I'd never seen this in high school. Art had changed or, at least, he was more skilled.

And then, he saw us. Puzzled for a moment, he gazed. And then, shock took him. It was a Christmas morning kind of shock, the shock of someone who got what they wanted.

"Excuse me," I heard him say, and he began his approach. "Abby?" he called out.

Abby took a step forward, so I did, too.

Arthur swept her up in his arms. "Abigail Ayrnes! I can't believe it! Everyone, this is Abby Ayrnes! We were great friends in high school." Then, he noticed me. "Nathan? Are you two still co-conspiring like in the old days?" He shook my hand. "So, did you marry her or what?" he asked with a laugh.

"Um, no."

"Look," he said to the both of us, "I just need to wrap up here but, please, don't leave. I'd love to catch up. Have some coffee. Wait. John?" He called out the name, looking around. A balding man, my height, approached us. "John, I want you to get these two some coffees. Maybe a danish. Guys, this is John Mitchell, my campaign manager. Get that and I'll be right with you." And, with that, he launched himself back into the crowd, saying, "Can you believe that? Those two were my best friends in high school. What a treat!"

"What would you like?" John asked, leading us to the counter.

"Is that what campaign managers do?" Abby asked. "Get coffee?"

"We also polish shoes. It's a highly skilled position," John said, self-deprecatingly. I knew Abby would like him.

He bought us two mochas and a raspberry danish and settled us into a booth, where we watched Art work the crowd.

"Schmoozing," Abby said, as if trying out the word. "Where do you think a word like schmoozing comes from?"

"I think it's Yiddish," I told her. From the sound of such a word, I would think you could tell it was insincere.

After a while, with people leaving one or two at a time, each looking at us as if we were on display, only a few people remained.

"I want to thank you for coming," Art said to a couple people who, to my eye, didn't look as though they belonged together. "You never know how you're going to get any press in this business." He looked at us. "Oh, wait. Tom," he addressed on, taking his shoulder, guiding him to us, "these are two friends from high school. I haven't seen them in - what? - over a decade?" he asked us.

"Since graduation," Abby offered.

"Right. This is Abby and Nathan."

"Pleased to meet you," Tom said.

"This is Tom Monroe, a writer for the Orange County Register."

"So, you were his best friends in high school?" Tom asked.

Abby laughed. "Oh, I don't know. Arthur was awful popular in high school. Weren't you Art?" she asked, teasingly.

"Don't believe her, Tom," Art corrected. "I don't know if I would ever made it through without their help."

"School work?" Tom asked.

"No, I'm talking about really making it through. Friendship. Companionship. You know, people don't consider what help kids are to other kids at times like that. You can come up with all the after-school programs you want but they'll only cost the tax payer money and never do nearly as much as kids can do simply on their own, helping each other out."

It was flattery. It was puffery. And not only was it factually incorrect, it was also wrong in a very basic sense. Perhaps the distrust began again there.

"Can we get a picture of the three of you together?" Tom asked.

"That would be a great idea," Art declared with a clap of his hands as the person who was with Tom pulled out a camera.

As we got up, Art pulled us both close in on each side so he was in the middle and wrapped his arms around our shoulders. As the picture was taken, he smiled that same, goofy smile that had become his trademark.

And then, the two journalists left with Art still beaming at us. "How great that you showed. I never expected it but I have to say your timing is perfect."

"Why do you say that?" Abby asked.

"Well, you know how it is. You can work as hard as you want for people you don't know but when you run into someone you do know, well, it all makes it worthwhile, doesn't it?" He asked us as if we knew, but we didn't know. "So, tell me, how did you find out about this?" he asked, sitting beside Abby. "How did you know I was going to be here?"

"Oh, don't play coy, Arthur," Abby said. "Isn't the whole point of this to get people to come? Isn't that why it was in the paper? Isn't that why you do this?"

"So true," he said. "But so few do come. It's work to get people involved, get people interested. You have to market yourself just right. You really have to sell yourself - not to get people to vote for you - just to get people involved in the process."

"Shouldn't you be getting them involved?" I asked, pointing at about ten people milling about.

But he brushed the question off. "No, they work for me."

Abby smiled. "My, you sure have changed, Arthur. I remember the days when you couldn't so much as say hello to someone without sounding like you wanted to put their cat in a blender and now look at you. You're smiling. You're engaging. My god, you're nearly down-right humble."

Looking down, he shook his head. "That took a whole lot of soul searching and learning on my part, Abby. I can't say I'm too proud of myself back then. But there came a time when I had to realize what I wanted to do and where I stood on this earth." He smiled at me. "Anyway, it's what I'm good at, right?"

"You always have been," I conceded.

"But you wouldn't believe how much of it is marketing."

"What isn't?" Abby asked. "These days, you see everything sold from which church you attend in your community to what water you drink. I mean, water!"

"Political campaigning, the marketing of a candidate isn't new. Even George Washington needed a PR man."

"And if it wasn't for him, we'd only remember Valley Forge for being a bit chilly."

Abby shot me a look, as if to say she wouldn't tolerate my sniping.

Art continued, "Well, it's just not easy. That's all I'm saying."

"I suppose it's not the selling of something that's the problem," Abby said, glossing over my comment. "If it's sincere. I remember seeing a commercial where Buddhist monks played basketball."

"Great commercial," Art declared. "I remember it."

"Buddhist monks play basketball?" I asked.

"I don't know," Abby said. "But having them jump around, shouting smack on each other - westernizing them, I guess, all to sell things - that bothered me."

"Bothered you?" Art asked. He shook his head. "Maybe I don't get it but it seems to me they were paid. They weren't hurt. Nobody forced them."

"True," Abby conceded. "But that wasn't my point."

"I'm sorry. What was it?"

"It wasn't brutal. I'm not saying it was violating their human rights. What I am saying is that it was insincere. It was demeaning."

"But isn't it their choice? Isn't that what freedom means?"

I asked, "You mean the freedom to be demeaned?"

"Arthur, if they made a commercial with black children being called tar babies, would that be all right if the children were paid?"

"No. I see what you mean," he admitted.

"I'm just saying that advertising, marketing, is okay by me as long as it's sincere. So much of what is done today is lacking in sincerity. Surely, you must see it from where you sit."

"Absolutely. Look at Joe Camel," Arthur told us, referring to a cigarette marketing ploy wherein a cool camel smoked cigarettes. "We know the whole reason for that is to market cigarettes to children. Well, we're putting a stop to that. We're holding tobacco companies to answer for that."

"But isn't that a bit hypocritical?" I asked.

"What?"

"I think what Nathan's suggesting, Arthur is that you can't tell kids cigarette smoking is bad for you if you keep selling them to adults. Smoking is bad for everyone; they shouldn't be marketed - they shouldn't be sold at all."

Arthur smiled. "Well, in a perfect world, we'd like that. We'd like to be able to tell people they can't smoke. They can't drink. That can't drive gas guzzlers. But we can't. We can't tell people what they can or cannot buy."

"But doesn't government do that all the time? They tell you that you can't buy heroin."

"You couldn't go to the store and buy a nuclear bomb," I added.

"Or people," said Abby. "And you can't say there's no market for it. If there was a market for the buying and selling of slaves, the United States government wouldn't turn a blind eye."

Arthur laughed. "No. No they wouldn't."

I didn't like his laugh much. "And yet, there are so many ways the government does allow things to be marketed that shouldn't be. I mean, look at the national parks. The government allows mining and logging by private companies on land that is supposed to belong to the people."

"You know, Nathan, I don't think anyone would say they want logging to occur inside national parks but sometimes things are more complicated than that. Look at the bigger picture. Those forests present a threat of wildfire if they aren't tended. We can't allow individuals to go in and cut whatever they want; that would get out of hand. The government has to act as caretakers of those forests. They can monitor the activities of logging companies and say that they can have this much or that much and good companies listen. Government can't be everywhere at all times but it does what it can. Where we can privatize, such as in the tending of the forests, we do. Just look at the strives we've taken towards education."

"Now we're on education?" Abby asked.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, laughing self-deprecatingly. "It just so happens to be one of my platforms. It's something I believe in. We can change things for the better if we move children into private schools and get government out of the business of baby-sitting."

"That's something coming from someone with a public school education." I was sneering again.

Arthur nodded. "But everyone can agree that private schools are better. It's where parents want their kids to go. It's where I'd want my son to go." Arthur had a five-year old son. He referred to him prodigiously on the campaign trail. "We have to think about what's best for the children."

Abby, who'd been listening, spoke up. "What's best for the children? What's best for the children, Arthur, is for all of them to get a good education. Not just the ones who can afford private schools but all of them, going to quality public schools, funded generously through fair taxation, even if it is higher for the rich. They'll benefit from it most, in the end, because they'll higher smarter employees. I'm sorry but, personally, I'm so tired of hearing about people thinking of children. It's all you hear. What about the children? It's for the children! But, in the end, what it's really all about is controlling kids, corralling them into designated places and schedules. If people really cared so much about children, they'd listen to children. They'd be concerned with real problems children really have. They'd give them the care they really need. You'd never see children homeless or starving or sick. They'd honestly take the best interests of children into consideration. You'll probably say I'm being cynical but the groups who tend to shout the loudest about the children - not as human beings but as some invisible lobby - are usually just trying to sell you something. And it's usually a set of chains."

"That is an awful way of looking at things, Abby." Arthur's face was clenched. I couldn't tell if he was sad or annoyed. "Look at how far we've come by taking others into consideration. Government has made great strides but only when they're taking the smallest of us, those who aren't able to speak up for themselves, into consideration. Look at the wonders we've made in the last thirty years with issues of racism and equal rights."

"What about them?" I asked.

"Well, that's just it. They aren't issues any more. Sure, they loomed over us for a time but now things are better and that's just how I hope we'll turn things around for children in this nation."

"You want to make things as good for kids as they are for minorities?" I asked.

"I think we have a long road ahead of us but, yes, I want to try."

The sneer was obvious now. "Then, I feel really sorry for kids."

"Nathan," Abby scolded.

"No. Hold on. You can't say things are good for minorities, that there's no racism, that bigotry's a thing of the past. Sure, it might not be institutionalized as much anymore but it's still bad. Why is it that most men who go to prison are black? Not only would it be dead wrong to assume they commit most of the crimes but that point of view feeds racist beliefs. Where are the equal rights for gays? For women?"

Arthur tried to maintain his tact. "Now, let's not overlook -"

But I cut him off. "I'm not overlooking nothing! Never try to tell a black man you know more about racism than he does!"

"Nathan," Abby said, and I could suddenly see the room was looking at me.

"Sorry," I said. "I'm just saying before you say you're going to take care of the kids, maybe you should take care of the people. Get some jobs in the inner city. Give homosexuals the same rights as everybody else. Allow a woman the same rights as a man."

Someone signaled over to Arthur and he nodded to them. "I don't know, Nathan. I'd say we're already there with women. They're in the Senate. They're C.E.O.s. I think women have come a long way."

"The glass ceiling still exists, Arthur."

"Maybe it does, Abby, but things have gotten better and women still outlive men, so they get that perk."

"What about abortion rights, Arthur? When are women going to have the right to take care of their bodies as they see fit? When are they going to be given the right to say when they will have a child?"

"Come on, Nathan," Abby chided. "You should know that men debating pregnancy rights makes about as much sense as elephants discussing unicycle riding."

"No, Abby, I'd say women have come a long way there as well. Roe vee Wade." It was a court case turned into a catch phrase. Roe versus Wade or Roe v. Wade. It was 1973. Justice Blackmun of the United States Supreme Court used the case of one woman suing the State of Texas for pregnancy rights to rule that women have those rights. From nearly the first day, people who wanted to control women and deny them rights over their own bodies, which in the United States consisted mostly of radical christian groups, the ruling was viciously attacked. And the rights ruled in the Supreme Court were never made law in the United States and those rights were only whittled down further and further in the years since.

"That isn't a right," Abby said. "It's an opinion."

"It's an opinion that holds a lot of water, Abby."

"Nothing holds water until it is an unalienable right," I said, and I was absolutely sure I was right. "Look at what's happened to women's rights since Roe v Wade. Can a woman get an abortion if she wants one?" I waited a moment, until he was just about to answer, to cut him off. "No. Right now, a woman cannot get an abortion after she's pregnant a certain amount of time, depending upon the state. She can't get one if she's under a certain age. She can't get one if she's poor."

"Nathan, I understand that you feel strongly, but you can't ask the people of this nation or this state to shoulder the burden of providing abortions to poor people or underage people or people who chose not to use some form of birth control."

"It is birth control. What else could you call it? And which is worse, shouldering that burden or the burden of bringing up a child or what happens to a child when they're not brought up right. And, speaking of rights, what about workers' rights? For all the progress the worker's movements and labor unions have brought us, do people have the right to a job? To a living wage? To food for their children or health care when they're sick or to be taken care of when they're elderly?"

"I feel like I'm being attacked," Arthur said, quite honestly.

"You are," was Abby's reply, her eyes burning through me. "Are you going to let him respond?"

"I wasn't... Sure, go ahead."

Arthur collected his thoughts and smiled like a true politician. "Well, it seems to me that what you're talking about here, Nathan, is socialism. And American has never been a socialist society. Would the labor leaders have made their demands if they knew they'd only be hurt in the end by them? I don't think so. But that's what happened. Businesses need to remain competitive and this is a competitive market, a world market. Workers in California are competing, not just against the guy in Kansas and Florida, but against the woman in Taiwan and even the child in Pakistan. Is that the way I want it? Of course, not. But it's a hard and unavoidable truth. We can't play separatist politics. This country tried that before World War II, and look at what happened. No, we have to exist in this world economy and even try to thrive in it. So, maybe we can't afford the luxuries those labor leaders were trying for but we can work towards a stronger economy so families will have the money they need to ensure their security for tomorrow in a lifestyle of their choosing."

I asked, "Even if some people are left in the dirt? Homeless? Hungry?"

"It isn't the government's job to hand everyone a check, Nathan. That's a misconception that's been around too long. We tried that and we ended up only hurting ourselves. No, it seems to me that the best job we can do is to make sure people have access to good schools and keep the good jobs here at home before they go to another country, a cheaper country."

"And if that fails?"

"There's only so much anyone can do. The sad truth may be that there will always be a part of the population who chooses not to work within the system. We can't change those people. And, you know, you mention things like food and health care and care for the elderly. We do that, Nathan. We already do that. Look at school lunches. Look at Medicare. Look at Social Security. Those are successful programs where government has been able to help people. Look, I really need to go. My people keep giving me the eye." He waved at one of them. "But it's been great talking with you both. You should keep in touch." And, with that, he began to walk away.

"Arthur!" It was the first time Abby had spoken directly to Arthur since his rebuke. She didn't get up. She didn't look at him. She didn't even move much. But her voice stopped him and he walked back though there was a look on his face as if he was questioning why he didn't just go. "Are you really as optimistic as you sound? Are things really as good as you make them out to be? What good is social security when, every year, politicians find new ways of dropping benefits behind the backs of so many elderly. Medicare has been turned into a series of hoops for people far too infirm to jump through. The definition of school lunch has become meat not fit for dog food and ketchup. Are things really that good?

"I'm not saying this to take Nathan's side or to create any more tension - you two make enough of your own. But I can't help wonder if things really are that good. Are abortions legal? Maybe, but you're made to feel like dirt if you have one. You have to walk through lines of spitting protesters - people protesting a woman's right to be free. Are things that good if we tolerate that in this county? Woman are allowed to work wherever they want but they're frowned upon when they want to take care of their children, in a country where children are perpetually supposed to be a priority. When all they really are are leverage."

"You can say that, Abby. A lot of people do. There's a cynicism a lot like that spreading throughout our nation but I like to look at things more optimistically. Are things perfect? No, but we're getting there."

"Perfect," I grumbled through a faked laugh. "For a lot of people, that's about as good as hell."

"Nathan," Abby admonished me, turning to Arthur. "I guess it's just that I can't help but think about how easy it is for people to ignore those sad elderly in seedy homes, while insisting we have a great social security plan. I can't think about Medicare without thinking of the sick who can't see a doctor. I can't think about women's rights without thinking about christians who want to deny women their rights. I can't imagine how children are a priority when we refuse to pay teachers and won't even bother feeding kids who don't have a home. Where's the priority? Where are the rights? But we've ignored all that. We've sat high in our cushy chairs with luscious pies with rich cream and we've forgotten that the names of those rights don't feed the poor and help the sick and cloth the shivering. We've become so good at ignoring the problems around us, we teach it to our kids. It's gone beyond an art form. It's a science. In a way, we've systematized ignorance. We've turned ignoring into a virtue.

"Think of it! Nobody says anything to us when we turn our head away from the bum on the street but we're chastised if we didn't watch the Academy Awards. The awards show is more important than the bum. The baby food is more important than the baby. The sea shore is more important than the sea. And that's only where it begins. Now that I think about it, we've exceeded the systemization of ignorance, because now we've really institutionalized, governmentalized outright contempt in so many ways. When a bum is picked up by the cops, he's a criminal, not a person. But what did he do? People still say rape victims brought it on themselves. And our government funds industries to go pollute other countries, spreading disease and harm wherever we go. But nobody questions it because we have rights. We have priorities. We're making things better! But things only get worse and worse when you look only on the national scale and not the personal scale, when you concentrate on your relationship with the government and not your relationship with other people. The institution and not the members, you know? The church and not the worshippers. You know, I can't do anything about the national debt but when you reduce it down to how you interact with people it's hard for me to say I can't give $5 to a bum on the street. I can't do anything about racism but I can make sure that nobody around me is a racist. And I can't do anything about war, but I can make sure that nobody I know fights in one. And I think that would really take off, you know? It would really take root. Because it's not about words written in laws or speeches by politicians. When you get right down to it, our society is only as ethical as you are when you're given the wrong change."

"And I don't disagree with you," Arthur said. "But is it government's place to control ethics? You see, I don't think so. We give people the tools they need to make the most of their lives, to make them effective citizens, and then give them the freedom to do that if they want. But we can't control that. Anyway, look, I've got to go. It's been great talking with you both. Abby." He leaned over a bit a gave Abby a hug. "And Nathan," he said, not stepping near me, "you keep this girl in line, you hear?"

And, with that, he was gone. His people gathered up their things, and gathered him up, and they were gone in what seemed like less than a minute.

I looked around and realized we were the only ones left in the coffee shop.

I looked at my watch. If was after nine o'clock.

"I think they're going to be closing," I said.

"Oh. Okay," she said, still looking at the back door through which Arthur and his entourage had left. I knew that look and I wasn't pleased by that look.

"Hey," I said. "Over here." She turned to me but her mind was still cast towards that door. "You were really taken by him, weren't you?"

"What can I say? He was charismatic."

"That's his job. So, we found out he learned a new trick, that doesn't make him any different."

"If you consider it nothing more than a trick," she replied, grabbing her purse and walking towards the door. I thought she was walking out on me. After all, we had taken separate cars. But, then, she stopped at the door and looked back, a mischievous smile on her face. "Come on."

And we walked out into the night. It was a bit cooler. Traffic was still bad. "He was charismatic," she said again, as if it were important.

Did she want me to admit it? What the hell, I thought, and replied, "Yes, he was... to a degree."

"Don't you see? That could be a very good thing. Let's say he turned a corner. He learned from his childhood. You heard him in there! The Arthur we knew in high school would have called him a chump! What if this really is a man who has been humbled by the years and simply wants to do with his gifts all he can do to help others? It could be great!"

She was crossing the street ahead of me, walking backwards as she talked. I caught up with her. "If that's the case? Sure. So, why is it that when I looked at him, I saw fangs?"

"You're jealous, Nathan. Not that you don't have a reason to be," she added, teasingly.

"I'm serious, Abby. I saw fangs. I mean, what if he did turn a corner, but the corner he turned was far less benevolent that the one you imagine. What if he learned to look like a chump just to look self-deprecating? What if he wants to do with his gifts all he can to help himself? Have you thought about that?"

On the other side of the street now, Abby was quiet, and even the streetlights couldn't defeat the shadow I had raised.

She walked to her car.

She turned and looked at me.

"Maybe I have. Now that you've told me, maybe I have. And, sure, maybe I can't see it. Maybe I'm just not perceptive enough. Maybe I'm just stupid, Nathan. I guess the only way for me to know for sure about Mr. Silvada is to spend more time with him."

"Abby."

"I can't think of a better way. Can you?"

And suddenly, with a terrible ferocity, I slammed my fist down onto my car. I don't know where it came from and I only hurt my hand. "What the hell is it about him," I yelled. "Back in high school! Even today! What the hell's so special about him?"

She took the hand I had hurt and looked at it. And then, she held it and looked at me. "Maybe he needs me, Nathan. Maybe he always has. You don't, I know that. That's why I like you. But you've never trusted me, Nathan, and that's why we never go anywhere." And with that, she let go of my hand, reached for her keys, and unlocked her car. "Goodnight."

### Chapter 15

### We were electing prostitutes, the highest paid in the world, who surrendered the necks of their constituents to the highest bidder.

I was at work the next day, performing my usual, morning routine mindlessly. After a few years at the job, I didn't really need to think to do my work. I often wondered what the point of the "brick and mortar" bookstore was in a digital age. Not only did it sell books in an antiquated fashion but also in an antiquated format. But I didn't think about that. I cleaned the store (though it had been done the night before), changed the display (it was "Books of the Jazz Age", an age no longer remembered, except in print), opened the new shipments, logged them in, and began putting them on the shelf as I opened the store.

At ten o'clock, the newspaper delivery arrived. Another antique in a store filled with them. I didn't even bother to untie the bundle, hardly any of the paper's ever sold. Most people got their news from the Internet these days, or from the sensationalized, celebrity-worshipping television news. Stocking the paper was a pointless waste and, yet, we'd be severely chastised were we not to stock it.

When the lunch rush came in, most of the customers went to the restaurant half of the store to buy their lunch, while a few browsed in the store. They wouldn't buy anything, of this I could be sure.

But then, an older woman stepped up to the register. "Could I get a paper, please?"  
"Sure," I said, ringing up the purchase.

"It's, um," she started to say. "It's tied up. Could you...?"

Of course! I hadn't untied it! "Oh, sure," I said, grabbing scissors and making a turn around the counter. As I cut the string, I realized that the papers were not securely bound together. The woman took her top copy as the others fell to the floor.

And, so, I cleaned them, putting one paper back together, and then another. Some were only fairly mussed. The last few copies, though, had lost all coherence, and I had to count off the sections: A (Front), B (County), C (Sports), D (Life), E (Politics) - and this is where I stopped.

There, on the front page of the fifth section, which was only ten pages long, I stared at myself.

When the part-time kid started at three o'clock, I asked him to take care of things and walked purposefully across the shopping center to "Back to Nature". Abby was making a sale over the phone, the store shipped to just about anywhere in the western hemisphere or Europe, so I paced the store, flapping the newspaper I held.

When she was off, I didn't wait a moment. "Have you see the paper?"

"What?"

"Have you seen it?"

"Yeah, it had something about Lieberman on the cover." Joe Lieberman was the democratic candidate for Vice-President, yet he made most democrats sick to their stomachs. He was a new breed of democrat, the kind most people used to call republican. A wolf in elephant's clothing.

"I don't mean the front page. Did you see the rest of it?"

"No. I don't buy the paper." But she saw the paper in my hand. "What are you going to show me?"

"This," I said, slapping the paper on the counter.

There, from above the fold, Abby and I looked out at ourselves. We were standing on either side of Art Silvada and he held us close, though he leaned into her a little more closely. The caption read, "Democratic candidate for State Senate (34th District) Arthur Silvada finds childhood friends on campaign trail."

Abby smiled a little. "That's kind of sweet."

Someone had walked in and began speaking with Abby about organic, animal-friendly lip-gloss.

I waited until she was gone. "How can you call that sweet? You are kidding, right?"

"Why should I be, Nathan? It's a nice story." She saw the look on my face. "What's wrong? Is it a lie? Didn't it happen that way?"

"You're telling me that you look at his picture, on the front page of the Politics section, above the fold, and you just think that's nice?"

"Well, what do you call it?"

"I'd say he's using us to his advantage, and I thought you'd feel the same way."

"His advantage?"

"Come on, Abby. He's the whitest guy we know, running in an ethnic district. You don't think he saw us as an opportunity to show people he's not so white, he's got some color mixed in?"

"So what, Nathan. Isn't that the point of being tolerant and inclusive, that you have some friends who aren't like yourself?"

"He's not our friend, Abby, despite how starry-eyed you might have gotten last night. He hasn't talked to you in over ten years. And I was never his friend to begin with."

"Oh, come on, Nathan."

"I was never his friend and you know it! That's what pisses me off the most. Childhood friend? Hell!"

"You know, maybe you weren't then, Nathan, but maybe that's how he sees it. Maybe he was feeling nostalgic about it?"

"Nostalgic? Arthur? Listen, Abby, the man is a snake, okay? You remember I said that and stay the hell away from him because I can guaranty you that this is nothing compared to what he'll do to you if he gets his fangs in. The man's got fangs, Abby. Fangs!"

"You're being melodramatic, Nathan," she said, like a school marm, as a customer walked in. She walked around the counter, her head and voice lowered. "And, I think, a little jealous. Now, you go back to work. I'll talk to you later... after you've cooled off."

"No, you won't," I said, a little loudly. "You're going to keep pursuing that asshole until he hurts you again but, this time, I'm not going to be around to pick up your pieces. You can forget about that." I turned and walked out of her store and walked out of her life for what I thought was the last time.

Perhaps to her own credit, she didn't contact Arthur as soon as I walked out of her store. But it wasn't as if she had his phone number. She couldn't just invite him to her bedroom, no matter how much I thought she might.

Meanwhile, I kept an eye on him via the newspaper, delivered to my store every morning. Abby, too, kept an eye on his doings through the local news. As he'd told us, he was working hard at campaigning. He campaigned in the rock-star fashion of politicians of those times. Crowds would be gathered together in his name or in the name of some cause, a cause he would purport to support, and he would come out and speak to their cheers and their attentiveness. From Santa Ana to Buena Park and back again and again, he stumped. And we watched him talk about everything from urban renewal to elementary school children's books to carjacking to traffic light synchronization.

And as I watched him in the paper and Abby watched him on the Internet and through the local television news, we also saw the world around us rotate with the approaching presidential election. The two-party system had chosen their candidates and nobody was too happy about it. For the democrats ran Vice President Al Gore, a capable man with a reserved manner who, while lacking his predecessor's natural gift with people, rode in on a budget surplus and a long list of accomplishments. Sadly, as a running-mate, he's chosen Joseph Lieberman, a petty, little man who chose video games as the nation's largest threat. Worst still, as previously mentioned, his natural republican-ity offended most democrats. For the republicans ran George Bush, Jr., who rode in on his father's coat-tails and a list of failures and disgraces that should have embarrassed any reasonable adult. His running mate was a war criminal named Dick Cheney. We only kept track of them on our periphery. After all, it was obvious who would win.

And so the next week passed.

But though Abby couldn't call Arthur, that's not to say it wouldn't be very easy for Arthur to call Abby. She was listed in the phone book, after all. So was her store.

And I'm sure it wouldn't take much imagination to picture the look on her face when he walked through her door one morning the week after.

"So, this is what you old hippies sell?" he asked.

The store was empty except for her, but it was still early. "I take exception to being called old," she replied. She was only 32.

"You're three months older than I am," he told her.

"Wiser," she corrected. "Not older."

He laughed. "I've got a full day ahead but I thought I'd stop in and see how you were doing."

"Oh really? Well, I'm fine, Arthur, but why did you think you'd stop in?"

"I, uh..." his voice trailed off as he looked at her brazen smile and he remembered why he was here. He remembered that little girl in high school who drove him crazy and who gave off lightening when you butted heads with her. "I realized I never gave you my number."

"And?"

"And... that was stupid of me. Let's have dinner. I have a big PTA thing tonight but I'll be free right after. Would you have a late dinner with me? Say nine o'clock?"

"That is late."

"I'll make it good."

"I almost believe that."

"Perfect, then." He turned, and began to walk out. "I'll be here at nine. Is that good?"

"That's good," she said as he left in a hurry. Almost too good.

The day moved slowly by, creeping at a snail's pace until nine. As if to make things worse, business was slow. It always was on Mondays, and today was the 25th of September, certainly not a day one would expect a holiday rush. Abby had time to read a newspaper filled with news of politics, the end of a presidential race approaching and packing the pages. More news of Bush/Cheney and Gore/Lieberman. Aside from their obvious differences - Gore was pro-choice while Bush had less savvy in foreign policy - what Abby found interesting were their similarities. Both campaigns were funded by the same sorts of people, big businesses. They both favored legislation benefiting big business and hurting working Americans, such as tax breaks and leniency. And a shrill chill clutched at Abby's chest as she realized that the vampires were getting larger and fatter and even more hungry every day. They were no longer mere humans; they become business entities more protected than a human could be and more entitled than you'd ever want a human to be.

She spread the paper out in front of her and looked at all the races and all the candidates and wondered, what do these all have in common? The answer seemed easy: they all wanted power. But that wasn't true. They weren't getting power. They were getting paid to surrender their power; they were selling their power to the highest bidder over and over and.... Abby laughed, though she knew she shouldn't. She suddenly realized that we were electing prostitutes, the highest paid in the world, who surrendered the necks of their constituents to the highest bidder. They were whores and we were cattle and it wasn't funny at all. And, so, she laughed.

Then, she realized night had fallen. The lights were on outside.

And then, he came through the door. He'd slipped his tie off and opened his shirt at the neck. His coat was a bit ruffled. There was the faintest trace of stubble on his chin. He walked with a sureness that defied his youth, while still possessing the energy of one our age. He looked at Abby with a crooked, almost accidental smile, his head cocked to one side.

And Abby had to admit to herself that my suspicions were correct. She wasn't just an old friend. Maybe she'd always hoped that this was the man Arthur would grow up to be one day, or had always wished he was. None of that mattered now, though. Her legs went weak and she was sitting down.

"Well, I'm here," he said. "Are you ready to go?"

"You're early," she told him.

"Prompt," he corrected. "To be on time is to be late."

"Or, in this case, it is to wait." He gave her a quizzical stare. "I still have fifteen minutes before I close and then I have to clean up."

"Don't you have a kid to do that?"

"My store. My job."

But even the quarter of an hour seemed an interminably long time.

"It's not that bad," she said. "My father worked much harder and made less money than I do."

"You must have more of a knack for it."

"Maybe... for a mall store. But he touched more people. There's no denying that." She gathered the trash and ran the vacuum. "Can you follow me home? I think you'd like me better if I showered, at least."

"I like you just fine."

"I'm sure," she said, closing out the till. "Just like you liked me in high school."

"In high school, I was just a kid. I didn't know what I wanted, back then. Now, I know what I want and I go for it."

She guided him out. "Well, let's wait until I'm showered, at least."

They laughed. It carried them out of the mall and down to the bank for the nightly drop, and then, as promised, to her place, where he waited in his car - the only person visible, his driver - while she went up and showered and changed and, by ten o'clock, the two of them sat in a booth at PF Chang's in Irvine, sipping tea.

"Arthur Silvada sipping tea... now there's a sight I never thought I'd see."

He looked perplexed. "What? Me having tea?"

"No. You sipping. You sipping anything. Sipping requires patience and relaxation. I never saw that in you. You were always too frantic, too..."

"Desperate," he offered.

She shook her head. "Yes. Desperate."

"Don't worry. I know. Maybe that's why I was never happy as a child. I always had to have one more thing, one more title, one more... person." He looked away for a minute. "Like you, Abby."

"Yeah, I remember I could sense that about you."

"But, not anymore?"

She gave him a long, hard look. She was hoping to find one answer but another, more surprising one, came. "No."

He lifted his glass. "A lot has changed about me, Abby. A lot."

"Yeah," she agreed, sipping her tea, "I get that." She took another sip, looking at him again. Then, she put down her cup and pointed to his hand. "This, for instance."

He looked down at his ring for a moment, and reached for his wallet. "Ah, yes. Marla and Andrew." He flipped a photograph out. "Andrew's nearly seven."

Abby looked admiringly at the picture, but she was only trying to be polite. Inside, she was shaken. "Wow. Wife and kid, huh?"

"A set."

Again, she said, "Wow," handing him back the photo. "But, why then...?"

"Why then come to your store? Why take you out to dinner?" Arthur smiled. "It's like I said. I've changed. Hopefully, for the better." She started to smile in reply but, then, he took her hand. "I don't see anything wrong with two old friends having dinner together. Maybe we could even become friends again. What do you think?"

Dozens of thoughts flooded her mind but she didn't have time to dwell on them. She shook her head slightly. "Sure. Of course, we can."

"Good," Arthur said, changed the handhold to a handshake and pumped her arm, and finished, "Friend."

"Friend," she replied with a smile. For a moment, there was silence as the two looked across the table at each other. But as the silence stretched out, they grew uncomfortable. There was more than silence there. What lay beneath it had just become impossible. "So, tell me about her."

"Who?"

"Marla. Your wife."

"Oh, please. Don't put me through that."

"Through what?"

"I'm asked that question about a dozen times a day because she refuses to go on the road with me. So, the church groups and the community boosters all see my being married as essential and they want to know all about her. I've got a pat answer I tell to people but, look, I don't want to tell you that. She's a good person but politics just isn't for her. She wants no part of it. But I know you like talking politics. So, let's not settle for small talk."

She smiled slyly. "So... what? You want to spar?"

"I'm always up for that. You seemed pretty fit the other night."

"The other night, I was being polite."

"And you say I have no social graces?"

"You? Oh, not you, Art. No, you've got them down perfectly. It's like an art."

"It takes practice."

"I would guess it must."

"Do you think the people of California would elect anyone who couldn't answer a question without being civil, let alone charming?"

"I don't know," she said, leading him on.

"In the land of Ronald Reagan? I don't think so."

"And so you decided to change yourself, to learn some manners, some graces... why? To win elections?"

"It's not just about winning elections, Abby. That's only one side of it. There are corporate lobbyists and activists and grass-roots groups coming at you from every angle every day and if you can't get them on your side before they have you on theirs, you've already lost. They're not doing you any favors; you're doing favors for them. And what happens to the work of the people? No. That's when you become a puppet and nobody elects a puppet. No," he said, sipping the last of his tea, "the trick is to always appear you're helping them when, in reality, you get them to help you."

"Politics as card trick?"

"Politics is far more complex than most people realize, Abby. It has as much to do with elections as making a cake is about cracking eggs."

Abby couldn't place it. Whatever change had occurred in Arthur was uncanny. Had he changed as much as he said or was it only a thin veneer, hiding an even darker soul? What had he said? Always appear to be helping... this focus on perception over reality made Abby wonder for a moment...

But then, Arthur was standing. "I have an early morning stop at a couple Starbucks. I should get going."

"Starbucks," Abby asked, rising.

"Catch the voters with their morning coffees."

"That must be fun."

"Yeah," he said. "But you drink so much coffee you end up jonesing for a cigarette and peeing like a race-horse."

It was such an off-handed remark, Abby felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. But soon, they were back in his car and returning to her home. Arthur made a quick call, the divider up between them and the driver

"Look," he said, inching over. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way but I can't walk you up to your door. I hope you understand."

She laughed uncomfortably. "Why?"

"Oh, you know. Married candidate with single girl at night..."

"Oh. I get it."

He inched closer. "But I want you to know how much seeing you again has meant to me. There was always something there between us, wasn't there? I mean, was I just imagining that, all those years ago?"

He took her hand and she looked down at them. "No," she whispered. "I don't think you were."

He was whispering now. "Things could have been different between us. We could have... you know."

"Yes."

He pulled her closer. "There have been nights, when I'm alone... sometimes... well, I've thought of you."

"Me, too."

"And what things would have been like?"

This time, she didn't speak. She simply shook her head.

"Look," he said, his voice husky and only slightly audible. "This might sound stupid. I guess I can't help but feel a little stupid when I'm around you."

Again, she shook her head.

"Would it be wrong - one time - if after all these years and all we've missed, if an old friend kissed another old friend good night?"

She shook her head, and realized she was breathing heavy. "No." She could barely be heard.

"No?" he asked, his arms around her, his lips near hers.

She didn't answer him. She didn't speak. She turned her head slightly and placed her lips on his. Within seconds, their tongues were intertwined. Within minutes, their clothes were off.
Chapter 16

"That know-it-all mouth of hers. Right here."

For me, the week crawled by so interminably that I would often stand outside of my store and look in the direction of Abby's, and I'd wonder.

With every day, I'd read more about Arthur in the newspaper and on the Internet. The newspaper stories gave only the briefest of descriptions about his daily routine, "Candidate for State Senate, 34th District, Arthur Silvada made an appearance at this week's meeting of Women for Abortion Rights, speaking out on the need to prevent second and third-trimester abortions.", while leaving out crucial details, such as that WAR is an anti-abortion rights group. The Internet, on the other hand, manically handed you everything you could possibly want to know about Arthur, with color pictures and charts. There was his boy-hood home. There was our old school. Finding a "Silvada for President '08" website stunned me for a moment. Then, something towards the bottom of one of the pages caught my eye. "Accusations that Silvada has always run dirty are easily refuted as rumors and lies spread by old rivals, stretching back as far as high school." So, it had followed him, reduced to the substantiation of a lie.

The more I read, the less I liked of him, and the more I had to read, hoping to be proven wrong.

And I only read about Arthur because I couldn't read about Abby. But in the hours between work and in the times I wasn't searching the Internet, my brain kept turning to Abby. Over and over. It could have been triggered by the smallest thing. When I read about Silvada's stand on illegal aliens coming in through the south, that he favored increased funding for the border until it was as an impenetrable wall, I thought of the stories Abby had told me about her family, both when her great-grandparents had come here to work and when her mother and father had entered legally to start their new lives. In the end, their legal status meant nothing to what kinds of people they were: hard-working, caring, loving, no-nonsense. When I read his stance on cutting state welfare benefits for the elderly, I thought of Abby's father, dying on his kitchen floor. When I read about Arthur Silvada speaking out against teen sex, as if he could or should stop it, I thought of the first time I'd seen him. "That know-it-all mouth of hers," he'd said, pointing to his crotch. "Right here."

And then there were those hours when sleep would be nearly upon me, and I would run the replay of the only night Abby and I had spent together. It was only about a week ago, and yet, it seemed like years. She'd wrapped the top-sheet around herself, claiming to be cold. Rarely one to use sheets, I sprawled like a cat and watched her.

"You're thinking of high school, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yep." I guess I sounded sort of smug. But, after all, we were in bed together after all those years.

"You're wondering why this didn't happen sooner."

"Yep. Tell me what else I'm thinking."

"You're wondering if I wanted it to happen sooner, too. You're wondering," she paused to bring one arm around me and to lean in and to kiss my chest, "if I'm as crazy about you as you are for me."

She laid her head down.

After a while, I prompted, "And?"

She looked up at me, a wicked smile on her face and a sparkle in her eye. "Oh, you're much more crazy about me."

And then, I'd doze off into fitful sleep, knowing that I was much more crazy and wondering what had happened.

It didn't get any better as the week ended. By then, I wasn't just standing in front of my store looking in her direction; I was walking in her direction. It began with a few feet, then a few more, and by the time the weekend came I was standing across the center of the mall. Still quite a distance from her store, I could see the lights on, the doors open.

Why didn't I just walk over? I'd tell her I was being a jerk. I'd ask her forgiveness. Would it have been that difficult? I'd been crazy about her since high school and I had lost her. Would it be that difficult if the alternative was losing her again? After all that had happened since our reunion, could I afford to lose her again?

No, I couldn't. I realized this only after the sun had long set and I was standing on an empty sidewalk across from her store. I'd walk over. I'd say, "Abby, please forgive me. I was stupid. If you think you need to talk to Arthur, to make sure he really has changed, even to be friends with him again, I can understand that. It's one of the things that makes you special. Your devotion to people is one of the things I've always admired about you. And I know I need to accept that and not be jealous about it because I want to be in your life and I want you in mine. We have an incredible connection. I don't want to lose that." If I was lucky, she'd smile and we'd embrace and we might kiss. Perhaps, all would be well.

That's when I saw Arthur walking up from the other side of the mall, lit by the mock streetlights. He was dressed better than me. He looked better than me; he had always looked better than me. He entered Abby's store and I could hear their voices, though I couldn't make out the words. I couldn't apologize with him around. I'd wait until he left. It wouldn't be long. Soon, she was closing the store; she'd ask him to leave.

But she didn't.

I sat on a bench and waited.

And when she did leave the store, Arthur was with her. She locked the door. She turned to Arthur.

And, arm in arm, they walked off into the night.

I sat there for a long time, a stone thing. Hardly breathing, I couldn't move. I just sat there, slack-jawed, staring after the long gone couple.

Couple. The worded repeated in my head, making it impossible to think. Abby and Arthur were a couple. It was as they'd always wanted it, as they'd always wished it could be. In high school, I'd been in the way. After, they'd gone their own way. But now, they'd found each other again.

Which left me sitting in the dark, on a bench, under a broken mock streetlight, out of the way. Soon, I was staring at the ground. For a long time, it would appear to any outsider that I was studying it. But I wasn't even thinking; I was numb.

After a long while, a security guard walked up to me. "You waiting for something?" He didn't understand what had happened; his tone was almost hostile.

I didn't know what to say. "I, um, I manage the book store."

"You do? Shouldn't you be going home? It's almost midnight."

Midnight? The thought shocked me and I realized I was cold. "Yeah. Sure. No problem." I got up and the security guard walked away. I was still numb, though, and it took me a while to make it to my car.

Home? I couldn't imagine going home. Home to what? For another night of Internet research on Arthur Silvada? In the last week, I'd become something of an expert on the subject, while Abby had started a relationship with the man. I'd wasted so much time. I couldn't go home. I couldn't return to another night without Abby.

I drove to a liquor store and bought a pint of whiskey. Then, without thinking about it, I'd driven to her street and parked across from her apartment building. Her car wasn't in her spot, so I waited. I drank half the pint in my car. That quickly became uncomfortable, though, so I stepped out, more drunk that I thought I'd be. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a meal. I remember I'd had a bowl of cereal that morning but beyond that... I leaned against a tree. Then, I sat at the base of the tree, my legs tucked in, and I looked across the street, waiting for Abby to come home.

And I drank my whiskey.

I wondered what I'd say to her. How would I explain my presence? Would I tell her I saw her with Arthur? Would I tell her what was becoming clearer and clearer, our need to be together? Would she be angry that I waited for her to come home? Would she care that I was drunk on the street?

My thoughts were dashed with the arrival of a large BMW that parked in front of her building. The rear windows were tinted and I couldn't see in but I knew who was in there and to whom the car belonged. My body clenched up in anger. I went to take another sip of whiskey and found it empty. Nobody got out of the car. It just sat there. But I waited.

I thought I knew what would happen, remembering the kind of person Arthur had been. They couldn't sit in that car for long before Arthur skewered himself on one of his own barbed remarks. Abby would get angry. She'd begin to yell. Arthur would yell back, probably about how he'd excelled in politics despite her obvious disapproval. She'd leap out of the car and into the night but he'd be faster. He'd grab her, screaming at her, and then, I'd be there. And I'd beat his face in, against that gleaming BMW, that handsome face, and he'd lose Abby and he'd lose the election.

In minutes, I was positive. I was getting ready to stand, waiting for Abby to exit the car, angry. My certainty built and, soon, I was standing against the tree.

Then, the door did open. It was Arthur. He walked around the car and opened the other door. Abby got out, putting on a shoe, and the two of them walked to her door, their arms tightly around each other.

And I hid on the other side of the tree. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Destroyed.

### Chapter 17

### Are the moments in our lives when we realize that we're just as bad as anyone else rare enough or far too rare?

They didn't see me. They were oblivious.

As they reached the door, Arthur said, "I could come up for just a little while."

"What happened to the morning commuters getting their coffee?"

"They can wait," Arthur said, his lean forward for a kiss uncomfortably like a lunge.

"No," Abby said, holding him back. "You have things to do and we've already packed more into one night that I, well," her breath caught, forcing her to start again. "I never expected -" She stopped as Arthur took her hand.

"Do you think I did? But it happened. We can't deny it. And -"

"No." Abby cut him off forcefully. She hadn't expected what had happened in the car and she wasn't going to be caught off guard again. Besides, more than sex had happened in there, and while it hadn't stopped her in there it was more than enough to grant her pause out here.

Arthur looked at her with a smile. Deep down, he knew he was getting nowhere. Anyway, at this point, he was being greedy. He already got what he'd wanted. "Fine," he said. Then, he smiled, "I probably lucked out, anyway, doing it in the dark car."

"Why," Abby asked, her interest caught by such a random statement.

"Oh, I just got some moles on my back. You wouldn't like them." He made a face and shuddered as if it was a joke. He didn't mention how long they'd been there, how large they'd grown, or their discolorations.

"But do me a favor, make yourself free tonight. I'm talking at the old city hall in Santa Ana at six. You know where it is?"

Know it? Abby had practically grown up beside it. An ancient building, mere blocks from the center of the heart, it lived on long after it was left empty by the city that had outgrown it. "I know," she answered.

He leaned forward and they kissed. But it wasn't a kiss like the ones before and Abby no longer looked at him quite so admiringly. Her eyes didn't sparkle for him. Now, her eyes were open.

Arthur smiled and gave a little laugh. "You know, the only man who was ever good enough for you was your father." Then, he turned away.

And Abby exhaled.

Had I been there, had I still been watching, I would have seen that. But I had left my hiding spot behind the tree for a wall. Following the wall, I came out in an alley. My footsteps were louder there but I didn't think Abby could hear them or know to whom they belonged. I walked for quite a while until I came to a street with a bus-stop bench, where I laid. Soon, I was asleep.

Arthur left the next morning for the Coffee Bean in Anaheim, where he was given a new suit, his hair was fixed, he brushed his teeth and said with a smile, "Now, who's gonna get me a cuppa coffee?" This brought broad smiles and a few laughs. Clearly, Arthur was liked wherever he went. As a politician, he was very talented. But even he would admit, the coffee helped.

In her apartment, without the aide of coffee, Abby was also awake. Her body wanted nothing more than sleep but her mind raced. She sat in her full-sized bed, several pillows behind her, a thick comforter bundled up around her legs, held her hands in her lap and thought powerful thoughts. They were thoughts without words, without sound, but thoughts she would remember thinking for years. I was in there. Arthur was there, too. And Abby was somewhere in the middle. But she wasn't playing a passive role. No. She was darting back and forth between us and she did not like that at all.

She'd slept with a married man.

And she had liked it.

Are the moments in our lives when we realize that we're just as bad as anyone else rare enough or far too rare? At this moment, she saw herself for what she was: a vampire. She saw herself clearly and accepted herself. Perhaps, if she saw herself this way more frequently, it would be harder to believe. Perhaps, if this had been the first time, it would have killed her. But she'd been here before. The last time, her father had died. What would the price be now?

The vampire never thinks about price in any substantive way. They see a price-tag. They take out their cash or their credit card. But in the end, that price is meaningless. It costs them nothing. They don't see the real price of things. People used to think "nigger jokes" were funny. They never saw the price of their actions, the intolerance, humiliation, and pain, until far too late. People burn gas without considering the worldwide death it causes, not just in smog but in production, poison, and inevitable oil wars.

Allowing one child to think it's okay to hurt anyone can be disastrous. This is how Hitlers are born. This is how vampires propagate.

Abby didn't feel guilt over the sexual act. It wasn't the sex that had hurt anyone. It was the person. It was the spouse. And though it surprised me to hear it, it was me. She knew that we'd never have what she wanted us to have; there'd always be that thorn there.

When the sun poked through her blinds, she knew it had to be late in the day. The building across the alley kept her apartment free from direct sun until nearly noon, and Abby'd always liked that. The thought of vampires favoring the dark and gloom passed through her mind, and she laughed bitterly for a moment.

Strangely, though, it cemented her in her bed and in her mind. She knew she couldn't move until she had a plan of action. She had to make things right again. She would make them right.

But how?

I was up before noon but when the sun poked through her window it was also poking through my eyes, on the street in front of her building. I'd slept on the bus-stop bench until morning. With the arrival of the first bus, I was awake, if only barely. I sat. I stretched. I scratched my head and remembered everything that had happened the night before. As it played through my head in sadistic slow motion - the still, silent car, the embracing couple - I sat there motionless. Few took the bus so few were there to disturb me or be disturbed by me. The vampire society's taboo towards sharing applies so adequately to the bus; the ownership world of the vampire says that everyone must own their own car. If you can't, a dirty bus is good enough for you.

I don't know when I walked back to my car or how I got there but I sat there a long time, looking up at Abby's apartment and then looking down at my shoes. Stricken with my own inadequacy. Impotent. I couldn't even go up to talk to her for fear that Arthur had gone in with her and they would answer the door together, in each other's arms, wearing only a blanket. My tired mind wasn't lacking in details and the warmth of the day only made the interior of my car humid. I didn't have far to drive and as slow as I went I was soon in my own bed, still in my dirty clothes, my face in a pillow. My blinds were drawn and I was thankful for the dark.

That evening, the three of us made our own decisions based on the experiences we'd just gone through.

I sat outside of my apartment, on my balcony, watching the sun go down in the diffused orange of industrial pollution. I knew there'd never be anyone like Abby. I knew this was probably why I'd never been able to have a long term relationship with any other woman. I'd always thought it was due to my mother abandoning me when I was a teenager but reconnecting with Abby showed me the truth. And the truth prodded at my gut. All I'd done was push Abby away, push her into another man's arms. Did I deserve another chance? Did I have one to begin with? Rationally, I had only one choice but I decided, instead, to beg.

Abby sat in front of her mirror. She looked awful. Her hair was natty and her eyes were shot and her face was the leftover color of too much makeup smeared on kisses and pillows. She didn't wear makeup very often. Perhaps, this was why, because when she looked at herself afterwards, she saw a mask. It wasn't one she used to hide behind; it was one that used her. It covered her beauty and left the vampire exposed. She knew she had to get cleaned up. She knew she had to go see Arthur. And she also knew it would be the last time she did so.

And, for his part, Arthur called his wife, and prepared.

Abby didn't want to arrive at the old City Hall too early. It was 5:45 when she pulled up into a capacity lot. "Down the street. There's pay parking," she was told. The lot was packed, as were the streets and the lots around it. When she finally did find parking, she was very glad she'd worn her sneakers. As she approached the old building, she could see the entire yard in front packed with people. This wasn't just an event for Arthur; he wasn't yet at the stage where he'd pull such a crowd. This evening's rally was for many of the local, democratic candidates. The flyers posted along the street read, "A New Democracy for A New Democratic Party." Abby wondered what that meant as she walked. After last night, she had some idea.

Abby had arrived too late. Someone was already at the podium, talking about the state lottery and gambling in Indian Casinos. She tried pushing her way closer but remained at the periphery. Abby's father would have known how she felt about Indian Casinos, she'd taken the opinion almost directly from him. "You come here or you are here and you need to make a life for yourself," Ydalgo would have said, were he there. "So, what do you do? What is your legacy? Do you do something good, that you can be proud of, that will show well on your life? Or do you sell people shit?" To him, anything dishonorable - selling a poorly made product, drugs, or even gambling - was just as bad. Abby would have put it this way, "Is what you're doing bringing humanity to a better place? Is it helping people?"

She was disturbed from this reverie when she caught sight of John Mitchell, Arthur's campaign manager. She couldn't remember his name, though, no matter how much she looked at him, his head turning as though he was looking for someone. "Excuse me," she called out over the heads of several people. As she got closer, she yelled to him, "Aren't you Arthur Silvada's campaign manager?"

This caught his ear and he looked around. She called again and he saw her. "Hello! You're Abigail Ayrnes, aren't you?"

"Yes. Did Arthur tell you I was coming?"

"Tell me? He asked me to watch out for you! You're his special guest! You're supposed to be closer, though. Come on." He took her hand and began to lead her through the crowd. "Can you believe this? It's like a concert! This is the biggest event Arthur's ever played to - and the most important. He wanted you to be right here to see it." He showed her a seat, three rows away from the podium. "He may be a while but, if you can sit through some boring politicians, I guaranty you there's no better seat on the lawn."

"I'll stay here," she told him.

He nodded his head and said, "Good," turning away from her.

To Abby, there was no such thing as a boring politician. She wasn't raised, as were so many Americans, to believe that they were there to entertain her. She listened to their words, looking for a lie. She studied their body language to see how sure they were about what they said. When the mayor of Santa Ana stepped up, she could tell that his recent personal problems, peppered with a heavy hand throughout the news, weighed heavily upon him. He was too quick to smile and too obviously avoiding it in what he said. Here was a man who would never seek re-election because he knew he could never win and was now simply doing what little he could to salvage his integrity. Boring? This was human drama beneath a drone of public policy.

But it didn't take a keen ear to notice that the public policy being droned on about was covertly under attack. It stood out in its absence. More cops but fewer schools. More prisons but less drug treatment. Rehabilitation had been replaced by the insipid and moronic catch-phrase, "Three Strikes and You're Out". After-school programs were dumped for anti-gang task forces. In the hour before Arthur walked out onto the stage, anyone could see that the society we'd grown up in was being torn up at the roots and replaced with a society of the selfish, of the frightened, of Me and Mine and not of Ours, a society where the weak were sacrificed to the strong, where rich ate the poor and the powerful ground the meek into fertilizer. It was a society of the greedy. It was a society of the perpetually hungry. It was a society designed for vampires, and that word, which had been in Abby's thoughts so much in the last few weeks, rang out in her mind. Just as when she'd first heard it in high school, now it clutched at her chest and threatened to betray her stomach.

Then, the last speaker before Arthur finished. Abby didn't know who it was; that wasn't important. It was yet another vampire, dressed in their uniform and fitted with their fangs.

And then, Arthur came up onto the stage. And what was that suit he wore? Was it the same uniform. Even now, Abby still hoped it wasn't because she knew there'd be no redemption for him. He would be too far gone. She didn't know who would be more without hope if that came to pass, him or her. He smiled at the crowd and his teeth shown. Abby didn't believe that the vampire's fangs were anything more than a metaphor, and yet she looked for them. She scanned his shiny, white teeth for sharpened points.

"Don't fuck up, you bastard," she muttered under her breath.

"Hello, Santa Ana! How're you doing tonight? Buenos noches! Cómo cosas son?" His voice was clear in the microphone and he sounded like he was having the time of his life. His eyes shined and he nearly laughed, he was enjoying himself so.

It took a moment for the cheers to die down; this crowd knew Arthur. "It's great to be back in Santa Ana. You know, I'm all over the place these days, talking to people just like you and finding out how things are, what we can do better, how we can help you, but it's always great to be back home. I grew up here in Santa Ana. I went to school right down the street. I know Santa Ana. I know what kinds of problems you face. And I know that, together, we can make things as great as they can be!

"Now, don't get me wrong - don't get me wrong \- I love this city. There's nothing wrong with Santa Ana that a few politicians can't make a mess of, am I right?" This time he did laugh, and a lot of others laughed with him.

"All right! We got a good crowd. You guys having fun out there?" More applause. Abby thought, maybe too much.

"All right. Well, I'd like to say I've been sent out here as a cheer leader to help pick things up - after all, I am the half-time show. I'm dead center in the middle of all these heavy-hitting ladies and gentlemen and I'm proud to be here. They say that dead center's the last place you want to be. That's because they figure you'll remember the first person and the last. But I gotta tell you I'm happy to do it because it brings me back home. But I want you to remember me because I'm here for more than just to pick you guys up and get you going. I've got important work ahead of me and I know I'm going to be needing your help every step of the way. I'm running for state senate in this, the 34th District, and I know I'm going to rely on you during this very tough election just as much as I'm going to depend on you once you help me take the seat. And we're gonna do it, aren't we?" He rallied them up to a roar and then he smiled again, that smile that told you everything was all right because he was there.

"That's right. But we got a lot of work. You know, I've been spending a lot of time meeting with people in shops and in schools and so many other places across this district and, heck, even across this whole county. Because I know you people are going to give it to me straight. You're gonna tell me what we need to do. I won't tell you I have all the answers because I know I'm not going up to Sacramento alone. We're going there together!" All of their hope came out in another roar but Abby just kept listening.

"That's right. Now, my opponents, both the republicans and my fellow democrats, I hate to tell you, they're gonna tell you they know they answers. They're gonna tell you that because they have pollsters and lobbyists and corporate contributors giving them answers. But they're not the answers you've been giving me because they're not listening to you! I'm not saying they're not good people - they are good people - but they don't understand that to really know what's going on they need to talk to you and work with you. That's why I jumped into this race because I saw so many of you being overlooked and I know just like you know that that is not right. You deserve a voice - you have a right to a voice - and I'm going to be that voice in a few weeks when we get to this election!" The people needed a voice. They were terrified. They saw the way government was slipping away from them and away from their interests. If he would give them a voice, they'd use it to shout their support, and so they did.

"That's right! That's right. They're gonna tell you that they can't pin me down, that I change my mind. You bet I do and I'm proud to do it when the people of Anaheim or the people of Buena Park or the people of Santa Ana tell me I might be wrong on something. I'm not here to be full of myself and conceited and to be a hotshot. I'm here to serve the people and that's just what I plan to do in November!

"So, what are they getting wrong so far? Well, folks, I'd give you a complete list but I just don't have the time.

"But listen to this! Folks on the republican side say we gotta make you use school vouchers. My democratic opponents, on the other hand, are blind to the option. I'm hearing you say you want a choice. Let's use vouchers! And if you want to keep your child in a public school, you should have that choice! I went to public school. I believe in public schools. But let's give you the right to educate your child as you see fit.

"My republican opponent is talking about this surplus as if it's money in his pocket while the democrats want to give it away to special interest. I say, let's invest it to help small business and get better jobs throughout this District and throughout California!" The promise of jobs was met by another roar from the crowd but it rang hollow and empty in Abby's ears. She knew the worst. All of her fears were coming true.

"That's right! And I'm looking around and I'm talking to people and I'm hearing that we might have missed the bus on school prayer. What's the problem with taking a moment to honor our spiritual heritage, whatever it may be? When did the Pledge and Patriotism become virtues we can't teach to our kids?

"That's right! People tell me they need low cost housing. What are my opponents doing about that? The republicans want mansions for their rich cronies and the democrats want to socialize everything. I say let's open things up and give cities some room to grow so we can offer good housing to people. Get the people good jobs so they afford the housing. Work together! And watch California meet the potential we all know it can reach if only somebody up in Sacramento would listen.

"Well, I'll listen! That's what I'm here for! A good friend of mine calls Santa Ana the heart of Orange County, and you know, it is the heart! It's right at the heart and everything that affects it affects the whole county and everything going on around the county, good or bad, come in here. I want that heart to beat strong. I want a strong Santa Ana, a strong 34th District, a strong Orange County, and a strong California!

"My name is Arthur Silvada and I'm here, I'm working with you, and I'll keep working with you. So, let's work together and on November 2nd you'll have a man from your town up in Sacramento working for you and all of California!"

The crowd roared. He'd played them like a fine harp. But Abby sat there, three rows from him, and felt her heart weight heavily upon her guts.

It wasn't over, yet.

Arthur stood there, beaming at the cheering mass. Smiling. Beaming.

And, suddenly, Abby realized he was looking directly at her.

Someone came up behind him. She was his height, model-thin. Her clothes were impeccable and her hair was wavy but very, very neat. The two embraced and then they kissed. Abby knew it could only be his wife. And he looked at her. And he laughed.

She knew he was laughing at her.

After nearly 25 years, Arthur had kept the promise he'd made to me. He'd never told Abby. Neither had I. But she knew what it was without being told, sitting there, alone in a crowd that was cheering for Arthur, unaware of what they were cheering for. It was an inside joke, lost on everyone but Abby and Arthur.

"Abby," she heard a voice yell behind her. She didn't respond. She kept staring at Arthur's beautiful eyes because she didn't want him to know how much he'd hurt her. Her face remained strong while, inside, she crumbled.

"Abby," came the voice again. It was John Mitchell, Arthur's Campaign Manager. She'd thought she was alone but Arthur wouldn't allow it. He took her arm. "Arthur wants you out back. Come on."

Arthur was walking away from the podium, his own arm locked around his wife's. Abby saw him walking and she was determined to see him "Let's go," she said. Making their way through the crowd was no easy feat, so many had pressed in to hear Arthur speak. They weaved across the lawn and down to the sidewalk. Then, they turned around the side of the building and past the partitions. Soon, they were behind the building. Only the streetlights lit them. As crowded as it had been in front, no one was back here and it was surprisingly quiet. Abby looked around. Besides her and the campaign manager, there was only a few private security guards looking mean and tough.

"Where's Arthur?" Abby asked.

The campaign manager didn't answer her. Instead, he said, very matter-of-factly, "It's quiet back here."

It took her a bit by surprise. "Yes."

"So, you should have no problem hearing me."

"I don't -"

"He's done with you, you understand? He got what he wanted and he's done. Why he'd ever want to fuck a little mexican slut like you is beyond me but that was his goal. He got it. He's done. Now, get the fuck out of here before I have security throw you out." It was delivered with no more passion than as if he was reading the ingredients to a cereal box. Most of the time, he wasn't even looking at her.

That's what did it, the attitude that she was beneath his consideration. He was picking gum off of his shoe as he told someone about his day. That's what broke the last thread that was holding her together. She'd been deceived. She'd been used. Now, she was being thrown away. And this bastard didn't even have the decency to tell her to her face. "Wait," she said, louder than she wanted, his back already turned to her.

He looked at his watch, only slightly annoyed, as if someone had just told him his flight was coming in late. "No," he said. "We're done."

"I'll tell his wife," Abby said, trying to sound equally dispassionate, failing terribly.

He turned to her and, on his face, he wore a smile. It wasn't a tense smile or a nervous smile or even a fake smile. He was genuinely happy. For, you see, Arthur Silvada had chosen well when he had hired John Mitchell. John Mitchell was the kind of person who thrived in the vampire society, the kind of person who loved hurting others and loved to see their faces as he did it. Pulling the wings off of flies or the whiskers off of kittens wasn't good enough for him. This is why he went into politics. "Please do. You think it would come as any surprise to her? She hates him. She always has. You might not understand this, thinking as you do - oh, Art's told me a few things about you. I know - but they have the perfect relationship for what they do. They hate each other and they look great doing it. So, go ahead. Tell her. And, while you're at it, you might want to write a letter to the press. Try to get on the evening news. Are you so naïve that you think anyone will listen? Anyone will care? The only way you'd ever get any traction is if you went to his loser opponents and we already have enough dirt on all of them to make sure they stay quiet without even having to ask." He turned around again, heading up to the back steps, lighting a cigarette. She heard him say, "So, please, don't waste your time."

Abby thought fast, not wanting him to get away. "He can't win," she said.

The campaign manager didn't even bother to look at her. "You wouldn't be the first person to say that and be wrong."

"He's not even a democrat."

This got his attention and he turned and walked back to her, puffing on his cigarette, shaking his head. "And he thought you were smart. He thought you were some kind of -"

"Low-cost housing," Abby spat. "He's taken so much money from resort developers, he can't honestly support low-cost housing. And he can't be for fiscal responsibility if he's talking about handing the surplus over to businesses as a tax-break."

"No," the campaign manager said, astonishingly. "You're right."

"And since when does a democrat support school prayer? What happened to individual rights? What happened to the first amendment? And anyone who's read up on school vouchers know it only helps the wealthy and hurts the public school system and the students it purports to serve!"

"Absolutely," the campaign manager said with a smile, taking a drag off his smoke.

"Then, then," Abby stammered, "why?"

The campaign manager looked her up and down. "What's your story? Did you fall asleep in 1960 and wake up in 2000? Welcome to the 21st century! Have you been so blind in your own idealism that you neglected to see the nation moving more and more to the right for the last twenty years? Of course, he's no democrat, not in the way you know. He's the kind of democrat who can win elections today."

"A republican."

"You're an idiot. Do you think that republicans would be as generous as this guy's being?"

"But school vouchers have been proven not to work. They destroy schools and communities. Democrats don't want that, surely! And what good does it do an economy when only the rich can afford homes? Surely, a strong middle-class helps the economy in ways -"

"I am unimpressed. He thought we'd have to be worried about you, that you'd be some kind of challenge. You're nothing but a stupid, stupid girl."

Up until that point, Abby had remained relatively calm. Her voice had raised and she'd become a little more desperate as she understood less and less. But now, her reaction surprised everyone. She didn't even wait to ball up her fist. She hit him so hard and so fast, open-handed, that he lay sprawled on the ground, his face bleeding from the nail marks. It felt so good, she tried to do it again, but one of the immense security guards was already on her, grabbing her arms and pinning them behind her back.

"Then, why, god-dammit! Tell me why!"

"To win elections, you fucking bitch! That's what it's all about! Do you honestly think we're here to serve you, like we're your fucking waiters?! It's about power, bitch, and if you're too stupid to see that it shouldn't surprise you in the least that he was able to fuck you so easily!"

Though his words came out with ineffectual ire and childish sobbing, for he hadn't been hit in many years, the power of his words still hit her like death from the barrel of a gun. And as she was led/shoved/carried to the street, she remained still. The security guard let her go and said, "You come back, I can arrest you," before walking back.

She saw that a button on her blouse had popped in the struggle and held the two sides together. Otherwise, however, she didn't move. She was too busy feeling the last shards of hope drain out of her. She looked down onto the street as if she could see it there. Hope for herself, that her faith had not been misplaced. Hope for Arthur, that there was goodness there. Hope for humanity, that they could so blindly chose leaders who had their best interests so far down on their list of priorities and self-interest so far on top. Perhaps it shouldn't have stunned her so much. The lessons of the years probably should have taught her otherwise. But when Arthur had come back into her life, their high-school friendship and the tension of what was more than friendship so unresolved, Abby felt she had to reconnect. Perhaps things had gotten out of hand or maybe they went just far enough. It was one of those moments in life that, in hindsight, was going to happen sooner or later and, therefore, came as no surprise. She was bound to be dealt this blow. Her life was leading up to it.

And so, she got back into her car and drove away. Only then did she realize that politicians were still speaking on the lawn and the crowd was still cheering. They'd keep on cheering. They'd always keep on cheering.

She parked her car at home and walked around to the front of her building. And, as she walked up, she looked and saw me standing there. Waiting.

And though it might sound like a strange time for it to occur, it was at that moment that her heart broke.

### Chapter 18

### The moment you know you haven't done enough is when you've convinced yourself that you have.

I had done a great deal of thinking. I'd had the time. I'd been waiting at her landing, either sitting on the stairs or leaning against a rail, since before it was dark. Abby had been driving around a while; it was now after midnight.

Everything had become such a mess between us since Arthur had re-entered the picture, and actually had always been a mess whenever Arthur had been in the picture, that had taken all night on her landing to figure it out.

Why had I gone there in the first place? Simple, there are times in your life when it's very clear where you're supposed to be and everything within me said I had to be at Abby's. Then, I had hours to figure out why. But as hour after hour passed, it just became more complicated the more I looked at it. Arthur was obviously more handsome than me, more charismatic thanks to whatever charm school he went to, and was really going somewhere in the world. I might have been smarter but beyond that... why would Abby ever choose me over Arthur? But, then, it had always been obvious that we were the better fit. Arthur and Abby grinded like two sheets of sandpaper trying to make love. Abby and I just seemed to fit. So, why Arthur?

Eventually, I had to abandon this line of questioning. It was getting darker and I wasn't getting anywhere. There was one basic truth behind everything that I simply needed to admit to myself. After that, everything would fall into place. It wouldn't matter how handsome Arthur was or how I'd long ago lost sight of any career or what I'd said that was wrong or what I hadn't said or what I could have...

I loved Abigail Ayrnes. I loved her. I was in love with her. The thought that I might lose her or that I never had her tore at my chest with knifes so I had to clutch my hand there and hold in my heart.

As the last of the sun dipped below the horizon behind miles of buildings, I finally admitted that to myself. And it was followed by further revelations, such as the thought that I might always have been in love with her and maybe that's what made high school so hard and leaving so difficult and moving on so impossible and...

What if she and Arthur were in love? I clutched the rail at the thought of it. I lowered myself down onto a step. What if she and Arthur...

I couldn't think it. It couldn't be.

That's when I decided I'd stay on that landing until Abby came home. I'd stay there and tell her how I felt and apologize for the ass I'd been and face the music... and I'd hope, something that seemed pretty impossible at that moment.

Sitting made me want to cower before the impossible, before the incredible odds. I knew I couldn't cower; I had to be strong. So, I stood. I tried to feign strength. I practiced it for when she arrived.

And then, Abby walked up. As if from out of nowhere, she was suddenly in front of me. And I so wanted to sit and cower and hide in the dark. Then, I noticed she was alone. As she approached me, I realized I did not know what I was going to say. Where to start?

She came up to me silently, looking into my eyes. Then, she brought up a hand, and she touched my chest. The touch turned to a tap and the tap turned into a thump. Like some coded message, the thumping continued as she said nothing. Even her eyes were no longer on mine.

And then, just a second later, she was crying. These fat, heavy tears exploded from her eyes as she thrust her head into my chest, driving her face into my shirt. I tried to put my arms around her; hers were around me. We lost balance and, seconds later, we were down on her stairs, sprawled out, her crying face still buried into my chest.

And I raised a hand to stroke her hair. It felt so good and, instantly, I felt as if I was in a dream world. I began to hear myself speak, not knowing what would come out until it did. "Honey, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I've been an ass. Whatever's going on between you and Arthur, I understand that I drove you into it because I didn't have the guts to make a stand. Well, I'm doing it now. I love you, Abigail Ayrnes. With all of my heart."

She jerked away. I thought it was out of surprise. I thought she was looking at me. "I love you," I told her again.

But she was up, stumbling, fumbling for her keys.

"I can't. I can't talk right now. I've got to \- where the hell? - I've got - shit - to be alone - where the hell?" She threw herself against her door and fell onto her landing, her hands still filled with keys, her mouth screaming a barrage of invectives. "Please go, Nathan! I can't take this right now! I can't!"

I was already back a few steps, shocked by her break-down, but I stood there with my mouth wide open, not knowing what was going on.

"Just go," she shouted. I tried saying her name but she yelled, "Go!"

So, I went. And she stayed on her landing for over an hour, crying, until one of her neighbors, a woman whose name she didn't know, came to ask her if she was all right. Then, she was able to find her key and open her apartment door, lock the door behind her, and cry some more.

She awoke the next morning, feeling exhausted. Her face felt bruised from all the crying. She was lying on the living room floor, not having moved since she got into her place, though the sun was shining down on her. It was a work day but she would not be going into work. Oh, she probably could have got herself cleaned up enough and emotionally stable enough to open her store but, then, she'd have to face the thing that tied her guts into knots and cut a hole in her heart. She knew she'd be forced to face me.

So, she stayed at home. She washed her face. She took a shower. She went to make something to eat but couldn't look at food, which was ironic because her mouth was filled with buttered popcorn when I called her a few hours later.

"Nathan, please don't say anything. I need time to think right now. I can't talk." She waited as I fumbled through "Goodbye" and hung up. She'd only been on the phone once that morning, to call the girl who helped out in the afternoon and let her know not to come in. Now, she swallowed hard on the popcorn and put down the rest. She turned off the television. She'd been watching a movie, an overly sad movie. So many of them were on the TV, it hadn't been hard to find.

Why are there many of those? Movies about fictitious people with overblown problems and shows about real people with problems equally exaggerated. Did it make people feel better to know that their problems, in retrospect, weren't that bad? Or was it indicative of the denial our whole society was in, avoiding the real problems of short-term gain for long-term loss, of vampiric greed with nameless victims, when you never saw stories of the real, incredible problems we all faced because they were covered by melodrama of the highest order. Melodrama was preferable to the terror we all faced when we woke up. Many people lived their lives in melodrama. Better to live in an incredible situation than to awaken to an impossible one.

Abby wasn't trying to be melodramatic. She'd worked hard her entire life and had pushed aside the petty, stupid problems most people relished in. But now, she was living in a world she'd hoped to avoid. She betrayed one man to be hurt by another and had known all along exactly how things would turn out. Well, not everything.

There was once a time when she'd known I was in love with her. She'd known and had been disappointed when I hadn't said anything. It was back in high school when romance, fumbling and awkward though it was, was expected. With all the dances and events, it was practically institutionalized. But Abby had never had it, even as she'd seen it all around. She had thought her romance would be with me. And then, she had thought her romance would be with Arthur. And then, high school was over.

Now, here she was, a woman in her thirties, reeling in the consequences.

She had never expected, after all these years, for me to tell her I loved her. She'd expected sex. She'd wanted sex. But love?

The thought of it made her guts sink.

The problem, as she saw it, hadn't been Arthur, because Arthur had never really been in the equation. Yet, she had sought him out, found him, and slept with him. She sat in her bed, cold popcorn next to her, emotionally beating herself. What had been the point of it? What had she wanted?

What the fuck, in the final analysis, was wrong with her?

And how could she face me?

For several days, she didn't.

I walked by her store each day and, when it was opened, didn't see her within.

I suppose I should have called her sooner. I spent every spare moment at work drilling the events of that night through my head, over and over. Abby hadn't told me how easy it had been for her to leave Jason, her one real relationship. Perhaps that was a good thing. Knowing would have only added to my torture.

"I know we need to talk," she told me before I could say anything. "This isn't fair to you and..." her voice trailed off.

"What isn't?" I asked her.

Then, she said, "Come over tomorrow night after work. Don't stop by the store. I'll meet you here."

I did go to the store the next day and, seeing her there, remembered her request and walked away.

I arrived at her apartment at six o'clock the next evening. I was nervous. I hadn't changed my clothes after leaving work. My throat was dry. A million things buzzed in my head like angry bees, to the point where they overpowered what had brought me there: my love for Abby. I even asked myself as I knocked, "What the hell am I doing here?"

The door opened to the most unexpected sight, Abby smiling at me as she always did. After spending three days away from work, after avoiding me, after whatever had happened to upset her so, she was still the same old Abby. I'd almost expected her not to answer or to answer crying or upset. No, she welcomed me in. But she didn't hug me or, for that matter, look at me much. She walked away, saying, "Why don't we sit outside?" And there it was, she was upset. The fading late of day on her patio would help her hide that.

"Wine?" I asked, sitting down. "What's the occasion?"

"I didn't have any vodka," she answered, almost laughing despite herself. The bottle was already half-empty.

Moments passed.

I raised my glass. "Cheers," I said, and held the glass for her to clink hers against. She only did hesitantly. I sipped, letting the bitter red wash down my throat. On any other occasion, it might actually taste good. "You wanted to talk?"

Her glass was near her mouth. "Yes," she said. Her eyes drifted away but they were stern. "Yes."

"Abby, you know how I feel about you. It's how I've always felt; I just didn't have the guts or the brains to figure it out, that's all."

"No!" The snap of her denial stopped the next words in my throat. "We need to set a ground rule. You can't keep saying that. You have to stop. Okay?"

The night was cool but my face was warm. "Okay."

"You know what the worst part about this is, don't you? I don't know what to say. I've been sitting in bed for three days now trying to figure out what to say, but - and it's not like I can't think of anything. It's a million things! It's everything about you since we met and how good you are and how good you've been to me and I think about how every moment you've been away has been a moment I missed out on sharing with you and... You see? I'm an idiot. I can't think." Instead, she took a long pull from her glass of wine.

"But that's good," I told her. "You feel the same about me as I -"

"No. No. No," she yelled, shutting me up. "You don't get it. You don't know. You need to know. I need to tell you."

"So, tell me," I encouraged, leaning forward. "We're not actors in some play, Abby. We're both adults, grown up. We can talk to each other like grown-ups. Tell me. I can take it. I promise."

"I don't know where to start," she said, and I noticed tears running down her cheeks.

I poured her some more wine. "Don't try and make it fancy," I said. "Just tell me."

She drank a little. "Do you remember, in high school, when you told the paper about what Arthur did?"

"I didn't tell. I just didn't tell Arthur they knew. You always saw that as a betrayal."

"And you thought you were doing what was right."

"That's right."

"I still can't decide which was which. You and I didn't talk for a while after that."

"Nope."

"We haven't talked in a while now, either."

"Nope."

"I guess we don't really change that much. Back then, well, Arthur was this beautiful boy." For a moment, she stared off into the coming night. Then, she turned back to me. "On the outside, I mean. On the inside, well..."

"He was poison, Abby. He always was."

She looked down. "I don't understand how you could ever say that, how you could know so deeply without questioning. How -" Her phone rang, killing her next thought. She excused herself and ran inside.

How could I have known about Arthur so early? How could I have judged him? Was it wrong of me to be so adamantly set against him? No, it wasn't wrong. I might have judged him but I never passed sentence. I let him do that to himself. My father had always taught me to turn the other cheek, to allow for redemption, to forgive and to see the world with an open mind. Above all of that, however, my father has instilled me with a sense of caution towards people who would look to put themselves above me. Perhaps, it was paranoia on his part, seeing the racism of his time and projecting it into mine. While I really haven't had to deal with the evil of racism, many others do every day. Though my father wouldn't use such an absolute as "evil", he would consider it pragmatic to always be aware. Arthur never wanted anything more than to be placed up above the rest of us and I immediately saw in him someone I should never trust.

Abby returned shortly, shaking her head. "That's why I usually work alone. At least, I know I won't ask to close early." She sat down with a sigh, looked at me, and I could see her body begin to tense up.

"Here," I offered, handing over her wine glass.

"What was I saying?" she asked.

"You were talking about Arthur. What he was like back in high school. You know, Abby, you weren't necessarily wrong for wanting to see some good in him. And I wasn't, either, for knowing what I saw. We just saw what we were brought up to see. Your father always gave you love and mine," I thought as I sipped my wine, "mine always gave me lessons."

"Which one was right?"

"I'm guessing you do what you do. I don't know a whole lot about parenting."

"You know," Abby said, looking into her glass, "I remember back then. You'd gone. I was sitting at our table. And Arthur had come to me - he'd been beaten pretty badly, you know? The whole football team. My dad took him to the hospital. He was so fragile. I thought, well, how could anyone go through that and not be changed, not straighten up, not..." She fell silent.

"He didn't." I didn't mean it to sound like an accusation. I was trying to prompt her.

But it was an accusation. "I didn't know that," Abby snapped. "I spent so many evenings with him, trying to help him."

While she took another drink, I said, "Look, I know you do that. You're very giving of yourself and I love that about you."

"Don't," she scolded. "I'm trying to tell you something. He took advantage of me then - no, I let him take advantage of me because I thought he'd be better. I thought he'd turn out better. He didn't. After a while, I guess, he got tired of me. He told me to go back to you. He thought you and I..."

"He knew before we did," I whispered.

"See, I kept hoping things would change but they didn't. Even after all these years, they haven't."

"I don't follow."

"He's still the same man, Nate. Oh, he's smoother, more refined. His rotten soul's been given a new coat of paint but it's still the same rotten soul. And I knew that. I knew if before a few nights ago when I last saw you. I'd gone to see him speak that night and nothing should have come as a surprise.

It did to me. And as I sat there, drinking my wine, she told me the whole story. Arthur's speech followed the same "aw shucks" kind of folksiness all he speeches did but it was what John Mitchell, the little campaign manager, said afterwards that I found unbelievable. Abby assured me, though, that she should have seen it ahead of time. She told me about the night the two of them parked out in front of her apartment, describing it as if it was simply a conversation, not knowing that I knew what went on in there - conversations don't rock the car that much. I imagined them sweaty, half-disrobed, the windows covered in steam although they were blacked-out.

Abby had asked, "But, honestly, Arthur. What's this all about? Since when were you a democrat? Since when were you so interested in public service?"

"Abby, my dear," Arthur had replied, probably pressing his flesh tightly against her own, "you can call the public stupid. You can call the public reactionary. You call them whatever you want. But I know what they are; they're scared. Democratic entitlements have taken them into a whole new realm of political correctness and tolerance and problems we need to fix that scares the hell out of them. Oh, they want to be democrats but they envy the republicans because the republicans don't have those problems. They scoff at political correctness, they kick over tolerance, and they can find a million things to do with the money that would go to fix those problems. Ignore all that shit, Abby, because behind every problem there's just another. So, I come in and I make people feel better. I'm a democrat who smells like a republican."

"You sound like a republican who looks like a democrat," Abby had countered.

"What difference would that make? The liberals fall too far left to get a vote and the conservatives always look like they're ready to burn a cross. I'm liberal enough to make people feel good about themselves but conservative enough to get votes."

"And what difference does a cross burning make every now and then?" Abby had asked.

Arthur just laughed.

Abby filled her wine glass, uncomfortably, as she finished her story. I couldn't help wondering if this happened before they had sex or after.

"So, what are you trying to tell me?" I asked her. "That I was right all along? If that's the case, why were you crying when you got home that night?"

"Because, don't you see, it's not enough that they're evil. That they're bad people. That doesn't describe what they are well enough. It goes beyond that. Maybe I was crying that night because it was the first time I really saw it. Maybe I was crying because I'd seen it too often."

"What are you getting at?" I filled my glass, finishing the bottle. Abby went inside to open another.

"Oh," she called out. "You've got to hear something." I went inside and Abby was fishing around, searching her counter-tops. Then, "Here it is." It was a cassette tape. "Listen to this."

She put the tape in a player and started it.

Love's faster than light

circles at its height

always wanting more

no satisfaction

chaos gets an insane reaction

The words, "sung" by a tired or poorly rehearsed band that mixed so many styles they were formless, were only slightly familiar. "Don't be surprised if you don't recognize it," Abby said, turning it off. "Arthur gave it to me. He said he has it on good authority that this is what happened to my Chaos Theory poem."

"What? This?" I asked.

"I just try to keep in mind that bastardization is the sincerest form of flattery, or something." She concentrated on unscrewing a cork. "But leave it to Arthur, right? I mean, this girl writes him a poem and he does everything he can to show her what a fool she is."

"You're not a fool, Abby. You have depths he could never see down. Surely, you know that."

She popped the cork. "But that's just it. I let him ruin that, take that away from me." She turned and put her hands on both of my arms. "Can I -" she took a deep breath. "Can I show you something?"

"Of course." I looked into her eyes as she gazed into mine, as if she were assessing the truth of my agreement.

Then, she reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. "I haven't written but four or five since high school... but this was my latest."

I took it from her and read.

I killed Jon Benet Ramsey

Just as surely as if I was there

I killed her with every tabloid I read at the supermarket

I killed her with every television show I watched

That told me all the salacious details of her young body

I killed her with every joke I listened to or told

I killed her by not providing protection for any child

Or a good world for them to live in

I killed her by allowing killing

With every selfish thought and unkind deed, I killed her

I killed Jon Benet Ramsey

Jon Benet Ramsey was a small girl nobody knew about until her grisly murder. Then, everyone knew. You couldn't help but know. Her image was splashed across the television and newspapers and magazines and books with child-porn specificity. And people loved it. They feasted on it like vampiric pedophiles, loving images of a dead girl.

I handed Abby her poem. "It's good," I whispered.

"No, it's not," she said, putting the poem away. "Listen to yourself."

"It is. It's just, well, hard to take, I guess."

"Oh, it's hell," she agreed, and we walked back to our wine glasses. "I used to write such pretty things." She took a sip. "But I never felt I could show them to anyone. Not after high school. Not after Chaos Theory, especially. See, I would never have shown that to Arthur, because I know what he would have said."

"That it's stupid?" I asked.

"Yes. Sure. But it's not just that he'd call it stupid. It's not just that he insults you. He makes you believe it! And then, he just reels you in and twists everything, he -" She stopped herself, suddenly looking at me. "We didn't see each other for months in high school, Nathan, but Arthur and I saw each other every day."

"That was a long time ago, Abby."

"Yes, but -"

"I already figured that part out."

Her face turned stern, almost angry, as if I'd challenged her in some way. "You probably did. But, see, now things aren't so different. He and I - and it wasn't even a week ago -"

I took her hands. "Just tell me."

"Nathan, how can I tell you I love you when I betrayed you? And it was with Arthur that I betrayed you?"

And there it was. In one breath.

I let go of her hands and leaned back.

"It was wrong. I know that. And it wasn't wrong because we were in a relationship. We weren't. It was wrong because it was Arthur, because he was checking me off a list of accomplishments, because I wasn't a person to him, I was a, a snack. He took what he wanted and I couldn't see that because I was still caught up in the idea that he was a better person. I really thought he was, too. He's fooled the state, why not me? But he's more sick inside than he ever was before. Compared to what he is today, in high school he was innocent.

"I know how you feel about Arthur. You've never hid that. How could you forgive me now? You probably hate me, too. I guess I'd understand." She finished, her head down and facing the ground. Slowly, she raised it again. "Nathan, please say something."

For a moment, I couldn't. My voice was caught in my throat. But I knew I had to say something. I knew she needed me to. "You're right," I admitted, my voice sounding overly-gruph. "I always knew Arthur was no good."

"I swear, Nathan. He uses people up." Her voice was clearer now that I'd spoken, as if clearing my throat had helped clear hers. "He doesn't feel and when he thinks it's just to scheme. He's like a shark but a shark doesn't scheme, doesn't think. And that's not the worst of it. He'll keep going, using up everyone in his path until he eventually runs for President. I know it. His campaign manager told me. And he didn't have any feelings, either. Both of them, just cold-blooded, using everyone in their path, just chewing them up. They're just these machines and all they do is consume."

She looked at me and I felt a spark connect between us.

"Vampires."

The word caught our breath in our throats because we'd both said it at the same time.

And then, "Poncho." Again, we said it at the same time. For a long time, we were quiet, almost expecting to speak in synch.

"High school," Abby ventured, speaking alone. "Was it the last day?"

"It seems like the last day," I agreed.

"They'll feed off you," she quoted. "That's what he said."

"An entire society of vampires. A vampire society. How correct he was."

One man had carelessly allowed the bitterness of his life wash over us and, ironically, we remembered this from high school better than the lessons of any class.

"And that's what he is, Nathan. Like I said, you were right. He just feeds off of people. He takes whatever he can, thinks the world is his, has no sense of remorse or guilt." She rattled off the charges, her voice shaking.

But that had never been the way I saw things. Poncho had an effect on us that day but the affect was different for each of us. "Is that what you think he was talking about, Abby?"

"Who?"

"Poncho. When he told us about the vampire society."

"Yes, I do," she said, her back straight. "And Arthur's the perfect example. He doesn't just put up a front, Nathan. He believes there's nothing wrong with the lies he tells. His virtue is corruption. His golden rule is plated. People like Arthur are ruining this nation; they're ruining this planet. And they've been doing it since time began. They get power and they suck dry the people they have power over. Vampires aren't the innocent, the helpless, the meek, Nathan. Vampires seek power. They seek anything they can consume and they feed! That's what Arthur does. That's what democrats like him do. That's what the republicans do. You can't tell me that liberals, that real democrats do that. You can't tell me – it wouldn't make sense if it was the whole society, if everyone was a vampire. That wouldn't make sense." She finished by drinking her wine, but she watched me as if expecting me to be contrary.

"You might be right," I conceded. "It would be hard for a homeless man to feed off of a CEO. But, it seems to me, there are probably hierarchies. We know that politicians feed off of businesses who give them money to vote on legislation that benefits the business, which really just hurts the government itself since the government is made up of the people who get screwed by laws that allow more pollution or destruction of the planet or laws that hurt people even more directly by allowing products that harm people or tax breaks that starve the government. Those politicians didn't start out that way. They were people like you and me. And the folks that run the business have kids, too, I guess. They're all people and they're all vampires. On that level, it's obvious. Then, there's the guy who drives an SUV even though he knows it hurts the environment. He doesn't care; he just wants his SUV. Vampires are led by a need to get what's theirs, by impatience, short-sightedness, and, like you said, no sense of remorse or guilt. So, look, when some clerk gives me too much change back and I don't tell her about it, I'm being a vampire. When I vote for legislation or some politician that gives me a tax break that ends up under funding schools, I'm being a vampire."

"Especially, considering you haven't any kids," Abby interjected.

"Exactly my point. The minute we're led by our own self-interest, we're becoming vampires. We're not on this planet alone. Part of learning to live with others and working together for a common good is learning how to overcome selfishness and greed. I mean, damn, those used to be bad things and now they're sold as virtue! So, no, we fund the schools with as much money as we can because that's an investment in our future even if we don't get the tax break right now. But, don't you see? That's not how our society acts. The United States of America, Canada, Mexico, Europe, and most of the developed nations of the world consistently behave as vampires, both towards each other, towards the underdeveloped, and within themselves. Our planet is turning towards the vampire. And we're not just led by the vampire, we are the vampire. The vampire society is each one of us. We're damned by our own actions and by our inactions as well, I guess."

"Sounds to me like a world in denial. Every person saying they've done their part when all they do is look out for themselves. I mean, I do that every day, tell myself I've done enough. I guess the moment when you know you haven't done enough is when you've convinced yourself that you have."

"But that's the vampire's way. People don't start out as vampires but they become tainted by them. I look at some crook, some CEO or politician or anyone else who's short-sighted and selfish and greedy and wonder when do I get mine? And the corruption goes deeper than that. We've corrupted the very concept of altruism. Humility, honesty, virtue – these things are based on how we're seen, not how we are. Even the concept of truth has been corrupted. The idea of lying to one's self has become so foreign it's been delegated to Jupiter. We're all allowed dishonesty now; we're allowed deceit, so long as we're not caught."

Abby had been listening to me, even seemed to be on my side as I spoke, but now she shook her head slowly. "That sounds like a terrible way of looking at things."

"Maybe," I said, finishing my glass. "But maybe it's what we need and maybe that makes it a good thing. You know, during the civil rights movement people said that all that talk of racism was a bad way of looking at things. During the Depression, people didn't want to look at the problems we faced, either. It's easier for us to turn away from the truth and lie to ourselves. But how do we defeat the vampires if we don't face them?"

"And how do we defeat the vampires?" she asked. "I mean, if we're all vampires, how can we win?"

I had to think before I replied. "What is it, otherwise? Just another class war? Just another way of saying I'm right and You're wrong? So, we're back at the Communist Manifesto. The haves versus the have-nots. Us versus them"

"No. The Communist Manifesto called for an economic and political revolution, changing the power structure. But those in power won't change anything. They only end up being corrupted by power."

"What then?"

"A social revolution. The only way things are really going to change is if everyone changes."

"So, we're going to create a social revolution. Here? Over a couple bottles of wine?"

"Stranger things have happened." It wasn't a quip. She sounded desperate. As intellectual and high-minded as we thought we were speaking, as if addressing questions that were out there and not in here, I could see that the problem was in here as well.

Now, I shook my head. "I don't know."

"I mean, if I say I'm a vampire, how do I...?" She trailed off and looked at me. She looked at me hard. "And I have acted like a vampire. Many times. Nathan, that's why I didn't want to see you. That's why I couldn't face you. I knew that seeing Arthur was wrong; it was selfish of me. I just wanted to be proven right. Even when I knew I couldn't be. When I went to see him speak, I already knew I'd be proven wrong."

"Maybe that's why you went. You needed proof."

"No, Nathan. That's a cop out. I wanted some justification that my faith in Arthur wasn't misplaced and it didn't matter if I hurt you."

I reached out to take her hand but she wouldn't give it. Though her glass was empty, she held it in both hands. "What do you mean, Abby?"

"I'm so afraid you're going to hate me. But not telling you would be selfish. Lying to you is wrong." I could see tears begin to flow down her cheek.

"What is it? Just tell me."

"I slept with him, Nathan. I'm so sorry. I know it was the wrong thing to do. It didn't matter if I hurt you. It didn't matter if he was married, even if that is a sham. I did that and, oh God, Nathan, I am so sorry."

And suddenly, it became my turn to speak. And I didn't know what to say. I knew she'd slept with him. I'd accepted that. But hearing her tell it made me angry in a way. And the anger felt wrong. "You know, I came here so I could apologize. Maybe if I hadn't been so selfish, maybe if I'd stayed around instead of taking off when you wanted to spend time with Arthur, you wouldn't have... it wouldn't have happened."

"Nathan, that's a lie."

"Maybe. We'll never know. The lie has always been what's driven us apart, the lie that we shouldn't be together."

"So, we're both responsible because we've accepted the lie?" she asked. The question, while embracing responsibility, somehow allowed her to let go of her guilt.

"I guess it's like the vampire society. The vampire is evil in its corruption but we're responsible when we accept it as truth."

"Still," she started to say.

I got up, took her wine glass and set it down, and took her hands to help her up. "Listen to me. I'm not going to say I feel great about you sleeping with him but I've accepted that. I can't accept us being apart. Maybe it'll doom us in a way, Abby, but all relationships are doomed one way or another. Either you break up or you spend your lives together and, still, one person usually dies first. All relationships are doomed in a way. Maybe all attempts at hope are doomed in a way. But if we turn away from hope, if we never give each other a chance, then we're doomed before we've even tried. All relationships are doomed, Abby. If I have to be doomed, I want to be doomed with you."

Abby was smiling. She stepped up to me.

And we kissed.

And we held each other.

For the rest of our lives.
Chapter 19

### We are all vampires.

Arthur didn't win that election but he would still go on to win others. He would win just enough to keep him in politics for the next decade but not enough to give him the power he craved, barely keeping his diseased mind fed until his diseased body forced him to hide from the limelight and, eventually, hide from the light of day.

George W. Bush lost the presidential election of 2000 but the republican machine helped put him in power, regardless. They had the brashness of the vampire to kill the American democratic process when they couldn't merely subvert it.

Then, on September 11, 2001, a tragedy occurred. It was a small tragedy when compared to those suffered by so many others in recent history but it was large enough for Bush's government to pursue their vampiric agenda. Was Bush behind the tragedy of 9/11/01? Even if we ever find that out, it doesn't really matter. In one form or another, the vampires were behind it. And while one vampire performed the act, many others benefited from it.

Now, still early in the twenty-first century, Abby and I live in a country that wages war for the vampire's benefit. It starves the poor so that the vampires can eat more. It disregards its citizens so that the vampire can thrive.

Nothing has changed.

The vampire is always hungry. It can never be satisfied.

And Arthur is a vampire. And Bush is a vampire. And you are a vampire. And I am a vampire.

We are all vampires.

We all live in a vampire society. Every one of us. And to find a way to not be a vampire is one of the noblest goals there is. Jesus Christ said this. Buddha, too. And many others. And somehow we've got to find a way to let others know and spread this message. Maybe, then, the vampire society will be a thing of the past. We don't know what the answer is but Abby and I plan to look for it together.

# Author's Note

Thank you for reading Vampire Society. You can find more stories and artistic endeavors on the web and in future publications.

As I draft this special, digital edition in 2011, I am actively pursuing a career writing novels and plays. You can find me all over the web. Just search by my name, **Ken La Salle**. You can also find me at the following locations:

**MY SIDE. THE BLOG** : http://mysidetheblog.blogspot.com/.

**ONE PATH** : http://twolivesonepath.blogspot.com/.

**KEN LA SALLE.** You can follow my writing career at: http://kenlasalle.blogspot.com/.

Selected reprints of the above blogs and other thoughts can be found at http://open.salon.com/blog/ken_la_salle. Thank you for your support in making my story a success with this and future work.
