Andy Lane

He wore a sharp, pressed suit that matched the color blue in his eyes, his blond hair styled and his posture statuesque as he sat across from me. His hands folded nicely on his lap, he made me wonder if we had gathered together for an interview or for an afternoon tea, though my visits to Scott’s homestead might have affected my feel for the latter. As Allen Hughes smiled, something about the gesture struck me as odd and out-of-place, and not for any lack of genuineness.

Maybe it’s because I knew too well what he was hiding in the effort.

“Is that muscle memory?” I asked, both breaking the silence and the ice by posing the question. I gestured the end of my pencil toward his lips before lowering it back down toward the small notepad I held. “The way you smile I mean.”

Whatever question Mr. Hughes expected me to ask, I doubted it was the one I issued. He burst into laughter and this time, I saw them – two sharp, pointed incisors that looked like they could puncture the lid of a tin can. He sobered quickly. “I suppose it is,” he said. “Considering I’m not aware I’ve been doing that.”

“How old did you say you were?”

“Two hundred and fifty, if we were going to round.”

I nodded, pushing my glasses further up the bridge of my nose and smoothing back hair a much darker shade of blond than my interviewee, the pencil still in my grip the entire time. “I have a hard time breaking myself of certain habits. I can’t imagine what it’s like to shake loose something you’ve done for centuries.”

The vampire shrugged and crossed one leg over the other. His hands settled atop his knee. “Had you asked me even a few decades ago if we would ever walk among humans, completely honest about what we were, I would’ve instantly disbelieved you. As it is, it’s still difficult to grasp this has become our reality.” He paused, and in the space between one comment and another, I saw a myriad of things pass through his gaze. He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Is this to be a piece about my philanthropic contributions to the city of Philadelphia or about vampires in general?”

“You.” I barked out the word so quickly it forced me to laugh. “Definitely you. I’m sorry, my best friend says I’m too curious for my own good. Believe me, it’s already earned me a dance or two with one of you guys.” I reached to the collar of my shirt, pushing it away enough from my neck to reveal the scars of two jagged wounds.

A small amount of the relaxed demeanor Allen Hughes had affected tensed again. He held fast to the convivial smile, though. “Are you certain that wasn’t some sort of mishap?” he asked. “Those are hardly clean cuts.”

“No, more like an attempt to cover them up. I’m not harboring any anti-vampire sentiments or anything about it, so don’t worry. I’m just saying my friend loses sleep over where I stick my nose.” Our eyes met and for a moment, I debated adding that I didn’t remember the encounter. ‘Yes, I know you could make me forget we ever had this discussion, but then I’d really wonder about the crossed off appointment I have written in my book.’ Fortunately, my sense of self-preservation won out this time. “What I am here to write about is the generous contribution you and your… coven, is it?” I waited for him to verify the jargon with a nod. “Your coven made recently to the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra. Do you consider yourself a patron of the arts?”

The polite smile shifted back into a more comfortable one. “Very much so. It was something instilled in me by my maker, in fact. He plays the violin and we used to attend concerts and live performances very regularly. I think the arts are some of the best forms of contribution human kind have ever made to the immortal experience.”

“Our own slice of immortality, I guess.” I flashed a smile and looked down at my notepad, scribbling down shorthand so I could remember to type this out later.

“You’re old-fashioned,” Allen Hughes observed.

I nodded, peeking up for a brief moment before continuing to write. “It seems to be the best way for my hands to keep up with how fast my mind goes. The laptop is for writing the first draft.” Lifting my head, I nodded for him to continue.

He took the prompting and drew a deep breath inward. I wondered – not for the first time – just how necessary that was. “But yes, as it has been a pursuit of ours for the better part of my vampire existence, I thought it might provide a gesture of good will to this community.”

“A gesture of good will?”

“Well, confidentially, Mr. Lane, we haven’t always received the best press throughout the years.”

He flicked a glance toward my neck when I looked back at him. This time, I offered him a knowing smile, hoping he read just how much forgiveness was being extended toward him and his in the process. At the same time, I could read an apology in his gaze and so, I settled my pencil and notebook onto my lap. “Do you that’s the biggest challenge facing vampires, now that you’ve made yourself known to the public?”

“Oh, I think our problems are myriad and will only increase as the years go by. We’ve only been a fixture on the visual landscape for the last year. But yes, if you’re asking if overcoming the stereotype of being psychopathic monsters is our greatest hurdle, I would have to agree.”

My lips quirked once more. “You mean you aren’t?”

He seemed to read the latent sarcasm in the question and answered as a co-conspirator. “Mr. Lane, with all due respect to humanity – and I trust I’m saying this off-the-record – I have found human nature itself to be more feared than anything which goes bump in the night. And I have met some vicious immortals in my time.”

“I’ll bet.” Clearing my throat, I nodded, and he seemed to read the gesture for what it was. A shift in dynamic; back to business, if you will. I began by asking, “What further pursuits into the arts do you see vampires making?” but it was just another question in the mound of fluff that would make up this blog post for the Philadelphia Inquirer. The world had become aware that vampires existed and there I was, interviewing them about the arts.

I reflected on that as I left his coven’s house and walked toward the nearest train station, hands digging into the pockets of my coat. Being on the fringe of Northeast Philadelphia – in a neighborhood called Fox Chase – brought to mind how few times I actually explored the bustling metropolis I’d called home now for over six years. More of my conversations were happening over Skype or FaceTime, more of my articles written at home or in a coffee shop than in the office. I trudged through a mound of freshly collected leaves and stole a quick glance back at the sprawling estate.

Reality had been flipped on its head, alright. And I had yet to figure out what it all meant.

A confident stride still marked my steps, though, and despite the chill of late fall, at an hour well past sunset, I didn’t let the cold get to me. I wove through the prestigious neighborhood, aware of the houses displaying ‘For Sale’ signs. It had to have been unnerving for some people – the less adventurous type – to figure out they had horror movie creatures in their backyards. Some had fled into rural areas like they were avoiding a member of the sex offender registry, and others had taken measures such as added security. I sighed as the train station came into view. Maybe my natural curiosity had already gotten me bitten by one vampire, but it hadn’t stopped me from enjoying my job.

I walked up a short flight of stairs and paused at the edge of the tracks, feeling in my wallet for the monthly train pass I kept tucked inside. The wind kicked around the edges of my coat, prompting me to fasten a few buttons shut and dig my gloves out from my pocket. It would be another few minutes until the train leading back to the city would arrive, but I wasted the time away much like every other person keeping me company on the platform. Smart phone out, I entered my passcode and flipped through screens until I reached my messages.

My mother had tried to call; I winced and immediately changed over to my text messages, grateful she hadn’t figured out how to do that yet. My phone chose that moment to buzz and chime, however, and the preview which flashed from the top made me laugh.

‘Caught up at work. Eat without me.’

“Well, fine, sweetheart,” I murmured with an edge of sarcasm to my voice. “But if you’re any later than midnight, I’m going to assume you have somebody else.” My thumb pressed the touch screen, bringing me to the message, and my other hand lifted to aid in the effort of responding.

‘The third time this week. I see how it is.’ I hit send and smiled to myself while pocketing the phone. Clacking sounds from a short distance away preceded a whistle and as we all peered up, the commuter train rounded the bend. I hitched my satchel’s strap further up my shoulder and formed a line with the others, climbing onto car as the vehicle came to a stop and settling myself in one of the seats. That meant I could go home, and regardless of how tempted I was to do just that, I also didn’t feel like occupying an empty condo in my current state of mind.

Times, they were a-changin’, and nobody knew that better than I did.

I had graduated from college two years prior to my interview with Allen Hughes, and my first year post-graduation had been spent slinging drinks at a small café when not shopping my resume around to every major newspaper up and down the East Coast. It was at the moment that I thought I might have to switch coasts that I found myself staring at the television, watching as whatever show had been on was preempted by one of our local news anchors.

“The president has announced that at 6 PM, Eastern Standard Time, a special message from the United Nations will broadcast across every network around the world,” he had said, pausing as though for dramatic effect. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is an unprecedented event and while all of us are wondering what would cause such a major, global simulcast, the bigger concern on everyone’s mind is this: Are we standing on the brink of a brave new world? We can’t begin to grasp the size and the scope of something so monumental and something tells me that after tonight, life as we know it will never be the same.”

While I had thought the idea a little on the melodramatic side, as we sat and watched President Obama and every other major world leader tell us that vampires were real, I suddenly understood what the news anchor had warned. Some people claimed it was a hoax, while others speculated what else might be out there now that we had been personally greeted – on live television – by one of the creatures of myth. I had still been in college when videos of “vampires” killing humans had gone viral across the internet. This, however, defied all understanding.

The bad news was how much the city lost its collective marbles over the next few weeks, until this new life settled into something resembling normal. The governor of Pennsylvania gave press conferences with every major vampire authority – from Allen Hughes to people who held titles like ‘Duke’ and ‘King’ – and others volunteered to be interviewed by members of the press of their own accord. The feeding frenzy resulted in something good for me at last, as a call from the Inquirer offered the first glimmer of hope I’d been given since receiving my diploma.

“We found your resume on file, Mr. Lane,” the voice on the other end of the line had said. “Would you be available tomorrow for an interview?”

“Absolutely,” I had responded, not caring how eager or desperate I sounded. After a little spit, polish, and shine, I appeared at the giant white monolith that housed the city newspaper and gave the interview my all. Whether or not that much effort had been required or not, I walked out with a paid, salary position. Brave new world or not, my ship had finally come in.

They wanted to know more about our fanged residents. As much as possible. An entire mountain of possibility had exploded like a dormant volcano and now, the major news outlets were celebrating in the aftermath. One month of employment resulted in eleven and as I sat on the train, I read over the notes I had scrawled down and couldn’t help but to feel both a sense of pride and a twisting in my stomach. I had lived in Philadelphia for six years now. I had a job for the time being, but other aspects of life were bending and shifting and this new phase of being an adult had taken some adjustment.

I pulled out my phone to read the screen.

‘I swear, you’re harder to please than my actual fiancée, Andy.’

The joke bore bittersweet tones to it, but I didn’t linger on them for long. Instead, I produced a set of earbuds and got lost in news feeds and videos for the remainder of the trip. I disembarked with all the other occupants in Center City and walked the length of the tunnel which connected the rail lines with the subway. A short hop on the Broad Street line brought me a block over from one of our favorite haunts, bustling, yet tucked away from the noise of the Arts district. Somehow, I knew there’d be a table there, though. It had become one of those gospel truths on which I could almost wager my life.

Outside, the building bore shamrocks illuminated in neon and the windows showed the passersby enough of the interior for them to get the hint they had encountered a pub. One of the many Irish joints Center City boasted and if you were looking for the tourist experience, you usually opted for Moriarty’s or Finnegan’s Wake. As I walked inside, however, I immediately spotted the reason why I preferred this place. It wasn’t just the jazz music belting over the speakers, though I appreciated that over pop music any day. The establishment might have been named Sláinte, but most of us liked to call it Boston Pete’s.

Its proprietor, the aforementioned Massachusetts native, looked up from the bar as I entered and waved at me from behind the counter. I saluted back, cinching my satchel strap once more on reflex and proceeding further into the place after the exchange of gestures. My eyes shifted past the pool tables in the back again, landing on the short, slim hostess who slunk down from the stool she’d been perched on to walk over to me. “Hey there, Andy,” she said. “Where’s your other half?”

“He’s stuck at work, doing important, lawyery things,” I said. I adjusted my glasses and pointed toward the back. “Have anything out of eyeshot of the screens? I don’t need to hear what plans the Eagles offense has for winning on Sunday.”

She laughed, a light, airy sound I wished I could find cute. Her name was Sonya – I remembered that much – and while she had been a student at Drexel University when we first met, that was back when being carded had become a unique, new experience for me and not the normal ritual it was now. Sonya reached up to tuck a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear and nodded for me to follow. “I think I have something for you. If the screen by the pool tables drives you crazy, we can always turn it off.”

“Nah, if you’re talking the far corner, then I’ll be able to work in peace.” I flashed her a quick grin. “Thank you.”

“Anything for one of our regulars.” Sonya winked and walked ahead of me, even though I knew exactly where we were headed. A nervous breath caught in my throat, rendering me mute even as she started chattering about how slow it was tonight, and did I hear it might rain, and how cold November could be one moment, but by Thursday it was supposed to reach as high as the mid-60s again. I nodded and slipped onto the bench seat, accepting the menu even though I could recite every item on it by now.

“Your waitress will be right with you,” Sonya said, offering one last, parting smile to me.

I nodded and lifted a hand, the wave a halfhearted failure that died by the time she had her back turned to me. Another deep breath chased away the last of the flutters in my stomach and as I tossed aside the menu, I put my feet up on the opposite bench and removed my glasses. Rubbing at my eyes, I felt the temptation to reflect on the sorry state of my love life for the fiftieth time that day alone.

“You alone tonight, Lane?” an accented voice asked, its interruption nothing short of a small mercy.

“Tonight. Tomorrow night. Probably next Tuesday, if you were looking for an opening, Pete,” I quipped. Lowering both hands, I reached for where I had set my glasses and slipped them back on my face. What had been a blurry image of a portly, middle-aged guy in an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt sharpened and I smiled at the pub’s owner while sliding my feet down from the bench. “How’s tricks tonight?” I asked.

Peter Gallagher snorted a chuckle and took a seat across from me. “It’s dead during the week when it’s not baseball season,” he said. “Fuckin’ Phillies fans can’t watch a game sober, seems like.”

“Did you see their record this past season? I can’t say I blame them.” Gesturing around us, I succumbed to a broad grin. “I like it better this way, but maybe it’s just me. You can actually hear the jazz music you play over the speakers.”

He mirrored my smile. “You see, this is why I like you kids. You appreciate the atmosphere.”

“Well, we sure as hell don’t come for the chicken wings.”

“You can fuck off, Andy.” A laugh defied the sentiment of his words. “I saw you turnin’ turtle on Sonya again, but I know you better’n most. That’s typical. This mood of yours ain’t.”

I indulged a sigh, preempted from answering only by the arrival of my waitress. Her nametag said ‘Gretchen’, and by the time my business with Gretchen was finished, I had an order put in for a burger and the porter they had on tap. She wandered off and I looked at Pete with a shrug. “I don’t know, it’s not like anybody took a piss in my Corn Flakes recently, but I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with my life now that my partner-in-crime is getting married.”

“They set a date yet?” Pete inched as far forward in his seat as his spare tire would allow.

“Not yet, no. To be honest, it’s not like they have any plans of running off to Vegas this weekend or anything like that, it’s just… things changing. I’ve been sorting through that since graduation and it doesn’t help that life got even more surreal a year ago.”

“Right.” The man seated across from me raised an eyebrow at me and held his gaze steady. “Like I believe for a moment the rain cloud over your head has anything to do with you landing the job you were tryin’ to get for a year.”

I frowned in response to the look in his eyes. “No, Pete. We’re not going over this again.”

“You ain’t never gonna tell him, are you?”

“Jesus Christ.” Both hands lifted, combing through the sea of floppy, dirty blond atop my head. I couldn’t imagine the mess they left behind and didn’t care at that moment. “No. No, I’m not. And that’s not the point here. I want him to be happy. Period. And I’m not sure he really is.” I scowled at the bar owner. “There, I spat it out. Can we change topics?”

Pete held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, but you’re getting pissier lately and I’m about to suggest you do somethin’ different.” He leaned closer to me, looming over the table, both hands coming to rest on the top. “Because I think him bein’ happy isn’t the problem here. I think it’s you.”

“I’m not going to argue against that point.”

“Good.”

We both looked up when Gretchen returned to the table, carrying the beer I’d ordered. She set it down in front of me without a word exchanged between us and I glanced at Pete once she’d left.

He sighed and rolled his eyes at me. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “You’ve got work to do an’ you want me to stop giving you unsolicited advice.”

My smile broadened, its undertones sarcastic. “This is one of the many reasons why I like you, Pete,” I responded. “You read between the lines.”

“Smart ass to boot, too. Go an’ get yourself laid if nothing else. You fuckin’ need it.”

Pete winked and I shook my head, unable to help the laugh that spilled past my lips and continued even after the proprietor had wandered off. Gretchen arrived with my food shortly after that, and as it cooled, I pulled out my laptop and settled in to work. The warmth of the establishment took the chill out of my bones and once I’d finished off half of the porter, I had the pleasant beginnings of a buzz to accompany it. One more drink and a full dinner after that, and I was in much better spirits.

The words flowed from my fingertips onto the page, and the melancholy that had been weighing me down hid somewhere in the recesses of my psyche for the time being. I finished the first draft of the article and saved it while polishing off the remainder of my beer. Movement by the bar captured my attention and I glanced over in time to see Pete look in my direction, the gesture too deliberate to be ignored.

I furrowed my brow at him. He nodded in the direction of the end of the bar, prompting me to look at whatever he was trying to point out with the gesture. When I failed to register it, I shrugged and this time, he lifted a finger and pointed, using his other hand to conceal the action. I sighed, craning my neck to get a better look.

This time, I saw it.

He wore a button down shirt and a black leather jacket over his shoulders, his hair cut short and bearing blond highlights Mother Nature had not been responsible for. ‘Really?’ the look in my eyes communicated to Pete, but he scowled back and took matters in his own hands. Reaching for a glass, he pulled it down and filled it a half-inch from the brim full of what I had been drinking. ‘No.’ I mouthed the word, but it was too late. Pete set the drink in front of the man and pointed in my direction.

“I swear to God, Pete, I am going to ship you back to Boston overnight delivery,” I muttered through clenched teeth, trying to smile when the stranger turned his head to look at me. He tentatively raised a hand to wave at me and I reciprocated the gesture, hoping he would drink the beer and not bother to say hello. The moment he slid from his stool, drink in hand, I realized I wouldn’t be escaping at least a brief conversation.

Well, Scott was working late tonight, and technically, I had until tomorrow afternoon to hand the article in. And granted, the guy walking over to me might have screamed everything from his sexual orientation to which end he favored, but the fact that a disorganized, bespectacled dork like me had been good enough to garner a ‘walk-over’ suggested I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

He paused a few feet shy of where I sat.

“Thanks for the drink,” the stranger said.

I lifted my own empty glass. “Simply sharing the wealth,” I retorted. The smile on my face felt a little less strained as I took in the sight of him. No skinny jeans; that boded well for him. Maybe a little vainer than I usually cared for, but really, I could’ve stood to be more myself. “My name’s Andy. What’s yours?”

“Justin.” He eyed the empty bench in front of me before his gaze flicked back to meet mine. “Is this seat taken?”

It was my last chance to tell him that honestly, Pete meant well, but I didn’t need his interference in my personal life. Instead, I extended a hand, pointing at the opposite end of the booth. The alcohol I had already consumed probably muddled my judgment, but that would be a problem for future Andy. “Make yourself comfortable,” I said, then paused before adding, “I’ve got nowhere else to be tonight. Why don’t we make the most of that?”

Next Part Available on Tuesday 7/26