(*Homes in Queens)

At 96th Street in Manhattan, I jumped on a downtown subway line. A duffle bag of clothes was slung from one shoulder, and I had a laptop bag on the other. There were plenty of places for me to go. But I didn’t want to explain the clothes and the need for a bed or a couch or the floor. I didn’t want to fake it.

For the time, my lady friend and I are heading our separate ways. But I don’t want to go into that right now.

It didn’t take long to conclude that there was only one place to go, my boss Nick’s house. He owns the demolition company where I work. Not much “human anything” takes place around him.

Everyone calls him Nick, though he has a real fancy first name and an old money last name. He has a son in Brooklyn, who never comes to see him, and an ex-wife that I know nothing about.

Two tall blondes in the subway car caught my eye. A time nearly three years ago came to mind. It was just after I had started working for Nick. I remembered how a pretty Russian realtor in Manhattan Beach failed to spark the man to life. After we had gutted one of her homes, she showed up on-site to pay the bill in tight tan riding pants and high black boots. She had cash, too. Yet neither the cash, nor her handsome face or curvaceous figure managed to illuminate Nick’s face.

But he’s not dead inside—not completely.

Nick’s like a summer home on the beach where a storm blew through, stripped it bare and left only the shell. Unfortunately, “this home” is beyond repair. He’s like Nick Adams without Hemingway.

In Times Square, I hopped on an eastbound line that went across Manhattan and the East River, out to his house in Queens.

His house is one of the thousands of humble, semi-attached vinyl dwellings in that borough. For some reason, they stuck all these in Queens. Probably because Brooklyn didn’t want them, Staten Island doesn’t do humble, the Bronx is just plain too gritty for much vinyl, while Manhattan is all about the bedrock.

During the work-week, when I shoot by there to pick up tools, the door to the house and garage are always unlocked. Countless times I’ve told him someone might rob him. “Nothing to steal there,” he had said once, the sentence in itself a marathon of words for the man.

(“Open door in dark room” – Photo art by Joe)

When I opened the storm door to Nick’s house, through the inside door, I saw him seated in front of the TV. I rang the bell instead of knocking or just letting myself in, thinking it would make him notice me a little more.

Surprisingly, he rose to open the door, though I guessed it would save him the human connection of waving me in.

Fully gray, in his late fifties, Nick is a powerful man, and it shows in his broad shoulders and equally wide frame. He has a small pot belly and arms that dangle like clubs at his sides from his height of over six feet. There is a hint of waddle in his walk as he leans forward in stride. Knowing first hand his brute strength, I sometimes think he’s ready to break into a sprint and tackle someone.

From the elevated doorway, Nick looked over my head and held the door open. “Cats,” he said, and stared into the street as I passed. By his tone, I figured he had a problem with them.

He was watching college football from an old cloth-covered recliner. I dropped a bag of chips on a cluttered table by his knees and set a can of Budweiser. He snapped open the beer and tore open the chips. I went and put the rest of the beers I bought in his refrigerator. The fridge, like the house, was cluttered with crap, but it was kinda clean. A wife of one of the guys at work cleans the place a few times a month. That was my doing.

Nick rarely lifted his eyes from the 35 inch CRT TV. Occasionally, he called his bookie. That call was unintelligible.

Jumping from channel to channel, the games did elicit slight facial changes from Nick. Already before him were a few empty cans of beer. Soon he retrieved a somewhat suspect can of Coke. He would alternately take a sip of the beer then the Coke. I figured he had “mother’s milk” in the Coke can.

Well, I thought that was cute, trying to hide his alcohol. I didn’t think he wasn’t a drunk. He just likes to drink. Not like he is saving himself for anything or anyone.

(“Shadow Between”)

Over the next few hours I relaxed somewhat. I had a few beers and a cup of Jack that I’d sip from.

I fell back and spread my arms over the couch. It was an old couch. Nick had probably fallen down on it face first, drunk and exhausted, hundreds of times over the years. Some of the men from work slept there, too. A few were transients.

After a time spent with muddled thoughts, a moment of clarity came over me, and I noticed the darkness in the living room. I was impressed by what seemed palpable layers of midnight blue haze. It seemed as if the light from the TV and an incandescent shining through the kitchen archway couldn’t reach me.

The windows were shaded and had curtains pulled tight. The room had a tall ceiling, about nine feet. It looked dingy and didn’t reflect the light very well. Stairs on one side of the room led directly up to the second floor.

My eyes returned a few times to the ceiling. I thought I might drift off to sleep. But I kept looking up and had no idea why, except that maybe I found the ceiling more interesting than the football, especially because Nick kept switching channels.

I felt so alone.

(“Dark plane”)

On the ceiling, I perceived a shadowy outline and cracked a smile. It was in the shape of a body. It clearly wasn’t a living body, or even an apparition. It was just a shadow on a dirty ceiling. I smiled because it was in such an interesting position. The shape looked like that of a person who had fallen backward into the ceiling. Or one that was hurled into that position, arms and legs turned out.

I got another beer and some more Jack. When I next cared to look up, the shadowy figure was gone. I switched my position around and still saw nothing. I took a swig of Jack and watched the football games for a while.

My attention drifted to the right of Nick. From the corner of my eye, I saw another shadowy outline of a body on the wall. A cluttered dining table cut off my view to the body’s lower half. I could just see how the face was angled perfectly toward Nick’s head.

All at once, I became certain that the linear figure was an evil spirit. I reached for the silver cross around my neck that my lady friend had given me. I thought of a **house blessing I had heard her say. As I spoke, I could hear her voice echo mine.

“We believe in living deeply, laughing often and loving always . . . We believe that everyone’s feelings count, and that the uniqueness of each of us strengthens all of us–”

The evil spirit’s face turned to me. I saw it had big, black, watery eyes. They were like that of an anime character. It struck me as the face of a young girl.

” . . . We believe in the power of forgiveness to heal and the power of love to carry us through. We believe in one another, in this family, in this home.”

Nick looked over at me with a dull look, though the light of curiosity came to him. It was strange, because I knew ”words” were gathering in his head.

I began to think of another house blessing.

“Waaa you doing?” Nick said.

“I’m aaaa,” I started, not knowing how to explain the blessing, or if he knew or believed in that type of stuff–evil spirits included. I didn’t know anything about Nick other than he liked Bud, Jack, and college football.

His eyes opened wide and he perked up in his chair. “No house blessings,” he said.

“It’s a good thing,” I managed to say, wondering what had just taken place with him . . .

“Stop it,” he said, looking me square in the face.

(“Monolith”)

All I could think was that the evil spirit had spoken to him. There was no way he read my thoughts. Not Nick. It was her. She had told him what I was doing.

I looked around and thought about how I had also just been under the spell of a demon.

“And don’t do what you’re doing with the cross,” Nick said motioning with one of his big hands.

“She’s evil,” I said, my thumb behind the cross, which I held out to the evil spirit.

“Stop it.”

“If it’s dead and it’s still here, then it’s probably evil.”

“Are you gonna stop?” Nick asked.

It was then, in this lowest of low whispers, I heard someone pleadingly whisper: “Nathaniel.” It was Nick’s Christian name.

Nick planted his hands on the armrests of the chair and lifted himself a few inches. His brow furrowed with deep concern.

“Nick?” I said and let the cross fall back inside my shirt.

“You best be goin’,” he said.

I was slow to my feet.

“You need money?”

“I’m good,” I said.

Nick stood tall with a firm stance. I put on my jacket and hefted both my bags.

“Lock the door on your way out,” Nick said.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Three

Empty Spaces

The Demolition Man’s Secret

Shapes

(*Archie Bunker’s House, 89-70 Cooper Ave, Queens, NY- uncredited)

–

**House Blessing: “We believe in living deeply, laughing often and loving always. We believe we were brought together to support and care for each other. We believe in celebrating together — our faith, our heritage, our traditions. We believe that everyone’s feelings count, and that the uniqueness of each of us strengthens all of us. We believe in the power of forgiveness to heal and the power of love to carry us through. We believe in one another, in this family, in this home.”

Update: The above is a traditional house blessing, and not necessarily a ditty that will rid your house of ghosts. It’s a little more involved. See Google for more.

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(St. Andrew’s Cemetery in Richmondtown, Staten Island – Photo by Joe)

Lately I’ve been thinking about making some changes in the direction of Bald Punk. The stories section will continue unabated. The Photos and Everything Else pages will change somewhat. I think I’m going to try and focus more on paranormal NYC.

Today I registered the domain ParanormalNYC.com. It redirects to BaldPunk.com.

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Blue Mango performs Shania Twain’s “Man I Feel Like a Woman”)

I saw my friend Sal’s (guitar) band last night at Manny’s Bake Shop in Queens. They played covers along with a few Filipino songs. They were very good. The lead singer’s name is Bessie. She has a fantastic voice and really has a great repoire with the crowd.

The video is kinda dark, but the sound is pretty good.

Manny’s Bake Shop is a Filipino restaurant and bakery. It’s on Union Turnpike in Flushing, Queens.

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(My work truck out front a Brooklyn jobsite – Photo by Joe)

On the subway back to Manhattan I sat with a vacant expression. I was dog tired from a long day at a thankless job. I do demolition, which is miserable work. It’s especially bad when you have to gut the interior of an old walk-up, where plaster over wire mesh-and-lath walls and ceilings were made to withstand Armageddon. Add soot-covered insulation that falls like snow and nobody wants to work. No one is happy, least of all me.

On the train, I had a protective hand over my canvas, black messenger bag that was on the seat next to me. Inside were various papers and notes, The Life of Pi by Yann Martel, my camera, and laptop. My attention drifted from the subway ads, to the girl across from me that would be very pretty if she didn’t seem impossibly distant, to a middle-aged Latin male with a pencil thin beard, to the grit in the cracks and seams on the floor of the shiny new car.

When the doors slid open at Bergen Street station, I saw Benny, “the cigar store Indian” standing as if the engineer had stopped the train explicitly for his entrance. My vacuity gave way to anger. I rolled my eyes and turned away. Benny sat next to my messenger bag. He seems to have a GPS on my position. It would be impressive if he wasn’t such an annoyance.

Yesterday, too, Benny had tracked me down. It was on my lunch break that he startled me. I had found a quiet spot on the third floor of the four-story walk-up we were gutting. Covered in dust, my eyes shut, I sat in a dilapidated office chair with my feet up on a pile of rubble. I cracked an eye. Particles gleamed with sunlight. To my surprise, I saw Benny’s thin frame appear and thought I was dreaming. That was, until he spoke.

“Even though Robert is a stolid, undead thing, a vampire,” Benny had begun, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the drone of meringue music that came up through the bare plank flooring, ”he has picked up on our intentions to kill him. I believe the odd spirit warned Robert. Now he knows my face. He will know yours. And it will be soon, a week, maybe less, that he will find his way to your door. Let’s kill him tonight, get it over with. Time is of the utmost importance.”

I had told him, “no.” True to his word, he had sought me out the next day.

The train rattled on into Manhattan and Benny had yet to say a word. It made me suspicious. Dressed in an old three-piece-suit that he had worn on all the occasions I’ve seen him of late, Benny–who is homeless–didn’t smell, nor was the suit dirty.

The trained neared Wall Street station, when at last he spoke. “You have the weapon I gave you,” he said resolutely as if I would need it soon.

I didn’t respond, though closed my grip on my messenger bag. Inside the bag, the blade he spoke of-was ensconced between the pages of The Life of Pi. It was a knife made from hardwood. Days ago after I had agreed to help him kill the vampire, Benny had presented me with it. The knife had a finely carved handle and a double-sided, blunt blade that came to a point. Because it wasn’t sharp, I had thought there was a mystical aspect to the wooden knife when used on a vampire. In the middle of a sleepless night the realization came to me that the knife wasn’t meant to slash. It could be made useful only by a violent plunge.

“I wasn’t of sound mind when I had agreed to help kill the vampire,” I said under my breath, eyes set past Benny, down the length of the bright subway car. Many of the riders looked dazed, between moments of “life.”

Benny scratched his nose with his index finger. His nails were very clean for an old homeless man.

“I was caught up in the moment,” I added before my cell beeped with an incoming text. “It was the Seaport,” I said, looking down at the phone. “That place gets the best of me.” I read the message and gazed about like an angry owl.

“What’s wrong?” Benny asked, with sudden sensitivity.

“Where’s Robert going to be tonight?” I asked.

“He usually goes to the Pathmark on Cherry Street and sucks the blood from the rats.”

“My lady is shopping there right now!”

—

I spotted our Camry in Pathmark’s parking lot under a bright fluorescent street light. Benny told me to follow him around the side of the supermarket. He said we should wait by the dumpsters for Robert, but I wanted to check on my lady friend(LF).

I went through the automatic doors and made my way across the front of the store between the cashiers and front end caps. I spotted her in a short black dress and gray leggings. She was pushing a cart in the coffee aisle with her back to me. The pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) were with her. They were dressed in jeans and stylish shirts. Given a quick glance, they looked like suave hipsters. But if one could espy their shopping ritual, they would see num and nuts dance about my LF in orbital patterns as they competed for her attention.

Num and nuts aside, my LF looked fine. Very fine indeed.

Benny grabbed my arm. “Look,” he said and pointed to a “man” who stared at us through the large front windows. I had never seen Robert clearly, yet I was certain it was him.

The vampire had a long, thin, pasty face and the most vapid look in his eyes. He raised his hand which seemed to have webbed fingers, and gave a single slash at his throat. Even then, his face remained expressionless.

Benny took off with hurried strides and waved for me to follow, though he didn’t look back. I caught up with the old man outside. Robert was nowhere to be seen in the parking lot. Without pause, Benny stalked around to the side of the supermarket. One spotlight fell on three trailers that were parked in loading docks. Aside them in the dark shadows was a dumpster that connected to the building.

Robert climbed to his feet from under one of the trailers and raced straight at Benny. The vampire raised his hands above his head. His shoulders rocked side-to-side while his legs were rigid.

Benny ran to meet Robert. At the last possible second–in a lightening quick motion–the old homeless man pulled out a wooden knife similar to the one that I now had in my pocket. He hardly had time to rear back. They met with a crash and a sickening thud.

Benny staggered back. He had impaled Robert through the breastbone. When it seemed I couldn’t turn away, I noticed to my right an unusually sleek space in front of the building’s grimy, white cinder-block wall. It was as if I was looking through a door to a dark room. A wide-bodied creature was “in there” and I saw vague motions flutter about it. I couldn’t make out a single feature or see the true outline of the creature’s shape.

My eyes jumped to Robert, who now spoke.

“There are many forms of death,” the vampire said in a surprisingly provocative voice. His lips were withered and a “new light” budded in his eyes as they met mine. “The one that comes for you is rarely by your own choosing.”

Benny stepped forward, and with the palm of his hand, smacked the knife deeper into Robert’s chest. The light rose in the vampire’s eyes. It was like he experienced a moment of life before death. Seconds later Robert fell face first. His body smacked soundly on the asphalt.

It was only then that Benny turned to the queer darkness, which had begun to dissipate.

“What is that?” he asked.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Eight - April/May 2010 – “Something to do with Vampires”

The Hunger

The Price Of Knowing

To Kill A Vampire

Death of a Vampire (or A Door Opens To A Dark Room)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(View from South Street Seaport Mall, 3rd floor – Photos by Joe)

Twenty minutes had passed since I sat down with a decent cup of Joe and turned on my laptop. I was outside on the third floor deck of the South Street Seaport Mall. Just upriver was the much marveled Brooklyn Bridge. Not far beyond it was the representative-blue-steel Manhattan Bridge. The early afternoon sun presided over pastel blue skies and an East River breeze flowed upstream from the mouth of New York Harbor, a quarter mile to my back.

Hyper-focused, I was reading through the opening chapters of my book about Max Beckley. People familiar with this blog know of him as the Revolutionary War soldier that was abducted by demons as he lay dying in the marshes of what is now Park Slope. Outside of this blog, I’ve written well over 100,000 words about his saga and have enough material for two books. I see his life best when I’m by the Seaport. It’s real. Probably why I’ve been warned to pull my snout out of his story.

Someone dropped down at the other end of the wooden bench and over the next few moments was profoundly still. I imagined they were enrapt by the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge. The span can be like a magical loom that spins out dreams.

I glanced up and to my displeasure saw the slight frame of Benny, “the cigar store Indian.” Benny’s a clairvoyant and old homeless man. He claims that in another life he had been one of the Lenape Indians who met Henry Hudson in 1609.

And his eyes were set on me, though his presence was ghost-like.

Benny wore an old, three piece suit and had a brand new pair of black cross-trainers. I remembered that my lady friend had bought them in TJ Maxx. Now I know who “the kicks” were for.

“What do you want, Benny?” I said gruffly as if he was a dog. “Want a coffee or some food?”

He put his lower lip over his upper and shook his head. His tanned face had a fresh sunburn. “I want to talk to you about Robert,” Benny said, referring to the alleged vampire that we both “ran across” a few days before out at Calvary Cemetery in Queens.

I gazed down at my laptop and reread the last paragraph in the first chapter. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not . . .

Karl let his gaze drift up to the second floor window, to the room where Max unknowingly waited for the couple. A sense of anticipation spread over his stomach. He closed his eyes, daydreaming of how eternal light might feel. He imagined the final door opening and a ghostly hand beckoning him onward. It was then that from the primeval depths of his mind came a long-dismissed hope . . . God is forgiveness.

“The other night I saw Robert at the Pathmark on Cherry Street,” Benny said.

“Shopping?” I said with a smirk.

(Pathmark)

“He was hanging around the dumpsters, catching rats and sucking the blood from them.”

“Cool.”

“He leaves the cemetery regularly,” Benny said.

“Good to get out of there, even if it’s at night.”

“I’m going to need you,” Benny said somberly, his countenance showing a seriousness that I’m not used to from him.

He wants me to help him kill the vampire . . .

I stiffened and looked to the Williamsburg Bridge that was the third span upriver. That span tends to get lost in the vista because of its utilitarian, Erector-Set-type design.

My mind’s eye took me further and “came ashore” on the Brooklyn side of the Williamsburg. In my head, I could just see the old Domino Sugar Factory set alongside Grand Ferry Park. My sight threaded up a small, paved hill and turned left on Kent Street. Soon my mind’s eye passed the new luxury condo towers that sit right on the East River and a sprawling, waterfront park. My “eye” made a right onto Greenpoint Avenue, moving through the urban landscape of brownstones, walk-ups, synagogues, churches, banks, and sundry stores that include Polish delis, bakeries, and butchers. Once over the border and into Queens, I saw the gentle slopes of Calvary Cemetery that were choked with tall monuments. Robert was interred there.

(Calvary Cemetery)

“I can’t do it by myself,” Benny said.

“What do you have in mind?”

Benny closed his eyes and gave a barely perceivable shudder.

“How?” I asked.

“Dismember him, limb by limb, until the soul slips off,” Benny said, with a serene light in his hazel eyes. (Btw, last time I saw Benny, I could have sworn his eyes were light brown.)

My body flinched, though it could have been my soul as it realized the mortal sin it might have to absorb. ”I’ll help you find him,” I said and carefully folded my arms so as not to tip my laptop. I thought we must sound like soulless killers. “The cutting up part you’ll have to do.”

Benny looked up into my eyes and smiled. In retrospect, I can’t believe how I wasn’t repulsed or ashamed. I had remained calm. I’d like to say that there was some element in Benny’s eyes that held sway over me, though I can’t be certain.

The old homeless man had set a brown paper bag in my lap. “It’s not a knife,” he whispered, head bent. “Just a harmless stick that has a finely carved handle. It’s an antique. Priceless to some. Keep it on you. I’m not a powerful man, if Robert kills me, he will sense you are near. When given such a creature, it is the weapon of choice.”

(Max Schreck as Count Graf Orlok in Nosferatu (1922)

“Is he a vampire?” I asked, closing my hand over the bag. I ran my fingers over a slender object wrapped in a thin cloth. I pressed my thumb on its sharp point.

“He likes blood. He’s undead. I would say ‘yes.’”

“There must be others like Robert,” I said.

“There are things in the night, more strange and perverse than vampires.”

“Good God help us.”

“Don’t concern yourself. They are things you may never see or feel.”

“Oh, great, thanks, like I’m just going to forget.”

“It’s the price paid for knowing,” Benny said.

I stiffened, knowing I had little recourse. “How does Robert get here from Queens?”

Benny laughed. “He takes the 7 train,” he said, his brows high and face radiant. “He has a MetroCard.”

I looked up the East River and tried not to smile.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Eight - April/May 2010 – “Something to do with Vampires”

The Hunger

The Price Of Knowing

To Kill A Vampire

Death of a Vampire (or A Door Opens To A Dark Room)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Calvary Cemetery – Photo by Joe)

We were at a cemetery late one evening last week and Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” had stopped to talk with an old woman whose name was Margaret. She was at the grave site of her husband and son. She said her son Robert, dead over twenty-five years, was a vampire. Now I’ve seen many odd creatures in my life, but I refuse to believe that there exist immortal fiends of the blood-sucking order. Yet when I spotted a hand rise from the loose soil at Robert’s graveside while we talked, I was in no mind to see the point proven either way.

“Time to go,” I had said and grabbed Benny by the arm, before either he or the old woman noticed the hand, which suspiciously had begun its ascent at the precise moment the sun fell behind the buildings to the west.

I had wanted to drive off and leave the alleged blood sucker and his mother. In the way of a clean get-a-way were my two other friends, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts). Their faces were scrunched like they were going to hurl. I knew they had seen the hand. For the record, my lady friend(LF) was standing right behind them, but she was browsing Facebook on her cell.

Num and nuts launched into the oddest, most prolonged screams I had ever heard. They began in the lower octaves, very closer to a moan, and then their voices rose like the siren of an oncoming fire truck.

“The high road awaits!” I cried and crashed past num and nuts who danced out of the way like skeletons on a string. My LF had looked up in bewilderment and saw my smiling face. “I’m starving!” I cried and stuck my tongue out. “Let’s get to your sister’s and eat!”

Num and nuts high-tailed it around her and clambered into the back seat. I slung Benny in with them and opened the passenger door for my still befuddled LF.

And then Margaret let out a harrowing scream. It was like something exploded in her bowels, and entrails shot from her mouth. Such a cry of pain, it was like a knife to my soul.

I cursed and went to get her.

Through the gloom, I saw what must have been Robert. He pushed up out of the grave aside his mother who had fallen to her knees.

Robert scrambled to his feet with stiff and unsure motions. Tall and wiry, as he walked his shoulders rocked side to side, while he clenched his butt cheeks.

My adrenaline had kicked into overdrive, but I still paused though not by my own volition.

It was a gruesome and unholy sight, made worse because it was a mother and her child. “The hall of records” in me had to absorb and catalog it. My body seemed to float aimlessly for a moment.

Margaret had turned milk-white. Her mouth was open, though she had grown quiet.

A yellow light flashed. I turned to see a pickup truck come up the road with a flashing yellow light on its roof. A bright spotlight affixed above the driver’s side door lighted on us.

I turned and got a better look at Robert. He didn’t walk fast, but seemed in a hurry. Each stride seemed to have him nearly stumble. Arms were pressed to his sides, and his hands trembled. I saw that he had long, curled fingernails.

Months ago I had seen a homeless man by South Street that had the same odd stride as Robert.

“Hey, hey–!” a man called from the pickup truck.

Robert flopped straight down to his right as if someone had tackled him. He began to crawl on his crooked elbows and knees. The motions were much smoother than when he was afoot.

“–Place closed an hour ago!”

I waved to the man in the pickup, gathered Margaret from the ground and put my arm over her shoulder and led her to the car. It was a late model Cadillac, parked near our Camry.

She seemed as fragile as a newborn. There was very little if any spark in her eyes. She was in no condition to drive.

I had no choice but to drive her home and told Benny to come with me. I had expected her to say she lived in Long Island, which would have meant she was going to be chauffeured to the nearest Mickey D’s. She said she lived just a few miles away.

Benny got in the back seat and fixed his gaze out the window. I was furious that he had us take him to the cemetery that night, so he could “talk with a spirit.” I was certain it was really Robert, whom he had brought us to see.

A minute or two after we pulled out of the cemetery, Margaret seemed to be doing a little better. Her head and shoulders shook only a little. It could have been a sign of age. She broke the silence with an impassioned tone, “I just want Robert to stop. Is there anyone who can make him stop?”

Benny glanced my way, only to divert his gaze when our eyes met.

Between mucous filled breaths, Margaret repeated her words.

“We will help you,” Benny said with an air of believability. “In any way we can, we will help you.”

I glared at him. He smiled.

We pulled up out front of Margaret’s house, and she asked how she could reach us. Benny began to rattle off my LF’s cell number. I cut him off mid-number and gave Margaret my work number. My boss at the demolition company usually picks it up, and he’s a lunatic. I imagined him giving her a quote of five grand over the phone to “demo” her son, who’s a vampire. And I can hear him telling me, “I don’t know what da’ f—-k a vamp’pyre is. Just knock it da’ f— down and throw it in the f—-ing truck.”

-

When we got to my LF’s sister’s house in Greenpoint for dinner, I threw the car in park and said I needed to speak to Benny alone. I didn’t meet my LF’s glance as she got out of the car, but knew she looked at Benny as if to say, “don’t worry.”

I hate the way my LF views Benny as a sweet, old homeless man. The fact is that he has innocent eyes and a schoolboy smile, and knows how to use them on her.

“You took us there on purpose,” I said, my arm hanging over the back of the seat. “Don’t try and tell me otherwise.”

“I didn’t know we would find a vampire.”

“Alleged vampire.”

“Yes, you’re right, we need to find—”

“F— you!” I said and repeated it before he could speak. His face reddened. “You live to torture me. Don’t you get it that I don’t want me or my friends involved in your little adventures. How many times do I need to say it before it gets through to you?”

“You’ve seen Robert before,” Benny said, evenly. “Right.”

My gaze grew steely and detached. I wasn’t going to answer. I wanted to forget Robert. I wanted to forget that the night ever happened.

“On South Street, you’ve seen him,” Benny said confidently.

I blinked.

Benny said nothing for close to a minute as he seemed to let the silence quell my emotions. A car slowly came up the street that was lined with streetlights, and lit doorways of handsome brownstones and walk-ups. I wondered if it was a pizza delivery car in search of an address. He parked out of sight.

I gazed about for something else to capture my interest.

“Though he has no need to be, Robert can be deadly if provoked,” Benny said, and then his voice slowly faded to a whisper. “What you need to understand, like it or not, is that there is a price that comes with knowing. It doesn’t have to be death.”

I tensed for a moment, then was taken by how the dark was so clear and crisp. I wished for all dark to be that way.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Eight - April/May 2010 – “Something to do with Vampires”

The Hunger

The Price Of Knowing

To Kill A Vampire

Death of a Vampire (or A Door Opens To A Dark Room)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

It was late last Saturday afternoon, and we were headed for a Polish Easter Eve celebration in Greenpoint. It was to be a night of great food, good beer, and soulful Eastern European celebrants.

My lady friend(LF) and I along with the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) headed out of our apartment building in Upper Manhattan. We sauntered to our car that was parked a half block away. On my iPod was The Cure song, “Sinking.” I thumbed along with the music on an imaginary Music Man bass guitar that hung just above my knees. “Sinking” is a song that helps me to drown out extraneous noise in my life. It has a way of pulling me into “a moment”. Plus the bass line is fantissimo.

,(The Cure – “Sinking” Live in Orange)

“I’m starvin’ like Marvin!” I said as I jumped behind the wheel of our Camry and threw it into drive. I checked for traffic in the rear view mirror and raised my brows in surprise. Planted in the back seat between num and nuts was Benny, “the cigar store Indian.” I had been the last one out of the apartment, maybe twenty feet behind my three roommates, and didn’t see him get in. Though by habit I had avoided sight of num and nuts, who both had their hair slicked back and wore flare-leg slacks and open-necked silk shirts. To their credit, they exuded style and cool. It’s something they practice in front of a full length mirror in their room.

For a few blocks, I said nothing to my LF, who was in the passenger seat typing messages on her phone. She had her hair up and wore a choker necklace with a diamond cross. She looked virginal, almost beyond reproach.

In the rear view mirror, I saw Benny’s eyes gleam as he diverted his gaze from mine. The old homeless man knew with my LF in the car, I was virtually emasculated.

It occurred to me that he might have the key to our car as he holds such sway over my LF’s better judgment.

Alas, I leaned aside to my LF and puckered like I had sucked on a lemon. “In case you haven’t notice,” I said tenderly, and gave a reverse nod to Benny, “we have a flaming pink elephant in the back seat.”

“We’re going to stop at Calvary on the way,” she said in a tone that suggested it was a supermarket and not a cemetery.

I bit my lower lip. “Anyone have any dead relatives buried in Calvary?” I asked, scanning the faces of the three bananas in the rear view mirror. I got wacky stares from num and nuts. They seemed to consider it. I turned to my LF. “Are you sure you’re not mistaken, there is absoooo-loooot-ely no reason we need to go to a cemetery, especially on the day before Easter when our presence might be considered a slight on J.C.”

“Joe, it’s on the way,” my LF said sweetly, while she reached over and scratched my dome. She does that to get her way. I’m worse than a dog.

I pointed at Benny in the rear view mirror, my face flush and jaw locked so I wouldn’t smile. “You’re lucky she’s here,” I said, mad that it was the third time I had to drive Benny to Calvary, so he could talk to the odd ghost. “Next time, drive you straight into the river.”

Benny gave a casual, gap-toothed smile. A joyous light was in his eyes. I grinded my teeth.

-

(Calvary Front Gates – Photos by Joe)

I did a U-turn out front of Calvary’s wrought iron fencing and steered to a stop at the curb.

“Could you drive in?” Benny asked.

I stared at the steering wheel for a full moment before I put the Camry back in drive.

The cemetery road was covered in the early evening shadows from clusters of tall monuments. The place sort of looked like a miniature city, replete with solid granite and marble skyscrapers, topped with innumerable crosses, angels, cherubs, Virgins, and Christs.

Benny leaned forward and told me to stop.

Dressed in an old but clean suit of clothes, Benny looked more like an elderly gent from the 1920’s than a homeless man with clairvoyant powers. The light in his eyes showed an inquisitive and excited nature. In the past, his face has never conveyed the burden of age, which, for someone who says he’s lived more than one life, is good, I guess.

There was a jump in the old homeless man’s step as he went off on his little excursion to find his “friend.” He waltzed up a cement sidewalk between the graves, abruptly turned to his right and strode on the grass between the rows. He raised a hand and grinned. It looked like he was about to greet someone who stood in his empty path.

(Calvary Cemetery)

The four of us leaned against the car and waited. Num and nuts hovered close to my LF. They had a lively chat, or so it seemed by all the noise they made. I didn’t listen to a single word. My stomach emitted what seemed like a symphony of hunger pangs and groans.

Benny’s slight frame was partially hidden by a succession of graves. By the way his mouth moved, he seemed deep in conversation. If he spoke with a ghost, I didn’t see it. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t even a vague shadow–that could be attributed to spirit matter–over the entire cemetery. The place looked spiritually bereft. And it was the gloaming, too.

I pulled my camera from the sleeve and checked to see where the mourners were located. I didn’t want anyone to see me taking photos. It was bad enough that I had brought Benny to violate their space. Except for a woman who was nearby, the cemetery looked closed.

Ten minutes later the old homeless man strolled back to us with a smile. Such a sacrilege in itself. Worse. He stopped to say a few words to the lone mourner. It was an elderly woman who didn’t acknowledge him with either a motion or gesture. Her head and shoulders hung in such a manner that she gave off an air of deep depression. I couldn’t blame Benny, that is, if he was trying to comfort her.

She made the sign of the cross and kissed her thumbnail. She hung rosary beads over a small wicker cross in front of the grave. Benny stepped closer and she turned her face in what could have been fear or anger.

When Benny didn’t pull away, I made a beeline to him. My feet thudded on the grass. I eyed the old homeless man’s neck and clenched my fist.

Just as I arrived the woman draped her open hand down to the grave. There was a large granite slab that ran perpendicular to the headstone’s base. Benny knelt down and dug at the side of the slab with his cupped hand. He pulled away the earth like he was about to plant flowers. I was apoplectic.

(Calvary Cemetery)

Benny looked up with half-moon brows and a touch of sorrow in his eyes. I took a step back. The inscription on the tombstone read:

Wxxxxm (surname)

John 1939-1999, Father    Margaret 1940—-, Wife

Robert 1964-1984, Son

“Robert does it out of hunger,” the woman said, whom I guessed must have been Margaret. She had unkempt gray hair and wrinkled white skin that was freckled and liver-spotted. She looked approximately 70-years-old, as she would be given the date etched on the stone.

I put my hand on Benny’s elbow and helped him up. “Time to go, old man,” I whispered.

Back on his feet, Benny held his ground.

“My son is a–” Margaret said, and cupped her mouth. Her eyes were tragic.

“Benny,” I said, and tugged on his elbow. “It’s getting late.”

Margaret raised both her hands and held them about her cheeks. “My son is a vampire!” she said breathlessly.

I rolled my eyes, too pained with hunger to put up with any more nonsense. I also might have cursed, but that was under my breath. (I believe in loads of crap, but not vampires.)

All of a sudden, it got much darker and the three of us turned away from the grave. Over the top of the small buildings that sit across the street from the cemetery, I caught the last rays of the dying sun. Like a last breath . . .

The light of day quickly withdrew as if it was sucked up into the night. I can’t say why, but I immediately turned back to the grave. It was just in time to see what looked like a mouse push out of the loose dirt next to the slab. But it wasn’t a mouse.

It was blackened fingers and they stretched through the earth.

“We really, really, have to go,” I cried and pulled Benny hard enough so that he stumbled along side me. A few steps later he tried to look back at the grave. I jerked his arm, so he wouldn’t see the hand that had now risen up beyond the wrist.

In our path were num and nuts. Both were aghast with their mouths fixed open. Their eyes looked like someone was *tickling their privates. One began to groan, and then so did the other. My eyes darted to the nearest marble Jesus, and I prayed they wouldn’t scream . . .

(Calvary Cemetery)

—

*I’m sorry for that description, but as readers of my blog know, those two guys are totally whacked.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Eight - April/May 2010 – “Something to do with Vampires”

The Hunger

The Price Of Knowing

To Kill A Vampire

Death of a Vampire (or A Door Opens To A Dark Room)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Photos by Bald Punk)

I bet if you search the Internet this post right here is the only one devoted to photos of Northern Boulevard. I wish I would have taken more, but I didn’t know the boulevard would be a subject.

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

Udalls Cove is a 90-acre wildlife sanctuary. It’s an inlet of Little Neck Bay, in between the Douglaston and Great Neck peninsulas. In photo #10 — beyond the goose and soccer goal post is the Long Island Sound and on the horizon is Connecticut .

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

I’ve must have had a thousand slices of pizza in my life(probably a lot more), and sampled from all five boroughs of NYC. I like a thin slice that’s crispy, but not burnt. It must have real cheese, but it doesn’t have to be ”fresh” mozzarella. I’m an aficionado of plain red sauce, and always give it a mental grade. And it must have a fresh basil leaf or two.

My biggest dislike is fake cheese made from oil.

Usually, when I go into a pizzeria I will eye up the pies on the counter. My decision on whether to order a slice or not  depends on the look of it, plus how hungry I am–along with how many other food choices there are in the neighborhood.

I have my favorite pizzeria’s like Lombardi’s, Grimaldi’s, and Nunzio’s. But I have never been to Di Fara’s. I would pay the five bucks out of curiosity, but by the looks of the pie, I would be a repeat offender.

(Photo of Di Fara Pizza by the blogger know as The Ubereater)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS