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cc&d v174

The Favor

Edward C. Burton

    Your name is Kate, Katherine if you want to be formal, but your closest friends call you Kat. You aren’t doing so bad six years in the Big Apple and you are still a file clerk albeit in one of the megapublishing houses on fortyfifth street. You could be doing worse.
    There is one thing missing, though. You’ve had a few opportunities in your young life, but something has always happened to screw it up. Charles was nice and wealthy. Gray hair on a man’s temples really did give him character. His designer power suits and high dollar expense accounts manifested his affluence. He would fly up at least once a month, and the two of you would spend ecstatic weekends together. He even offered to move you to a nicer apartment. Then you found out that he was married.
    Michael had been nice too. At least he had started out that way. He was the epitome of youth, as impulsive and capricious as an hyperactive kid. Then the relationship began to take root. The more deeply seeded it became, the more aloof Michael became. Hanging out with his friends began taking first place over hang-ing out with you. When he was around, he lost his impulsiveness, and he became as spontaneous as a street corner mailbox. He began bragging so much about being a man that you knew he never could truly be one. You left him.
    And now here you are. Some girl just fumbled her cocaine vial into the sink next to you as you are trying to ruffle your perm after the wind has had its way with it. You watch the girl scramble for the coke with terrified eyes. The water wasn’t running; she didn’t lose any save for the minuscule grains that mingled with the standing drips in the bottom of the basin encircling the drain. The still water dissolved them up with its own greed. You hear the girl swear, and you wonder why this place doesn’t have a restroom security person, it is a fancy enough place. Supposed to be anyway.
    You take your eyes off of yourself in the mirror and look past your own shoulder. The restroom is filled with confused girls void of a sense of direction. Girls like yourself? You certainly hope not. That is why there is not restroom security. None would fit in this place.
    You elbow your way through the cigarette smoke and the crowd of women who are far too tarnished and defiled to be considered debutantes. These are the girls who killed the word. It takes a whole minute to move twenty feet to the door. You hope you won’t have to come back for a pee later on.
    Through the door you step into a world of blackness pierced with colored strobe lights and tiny pastel beams aimed at multisided geometric orbs suspended from the ceiling over the not big enough dance floor. Some new wave techno sounding song is blaring over the club’s stereo system piloted by two guys in a tiny booth built into the wall and positioned slightly above the level of the dance floor. The dance floor hosts an array of people. Handsome couples move in bizarre and unsynchronized movements as they try to animate themselves to the music beat. A single beam of light occasionally hovers above a good looking man or a girl with a face much prettier than yours. You move around to the side of the dance floor and hope that you aren’t asked to dance. You hate this song. The crowd here is not half as bad as the one in the small restroom, but it still takes time to make your way to the bar.
    The bar is more civilized, slightly. At least there is a steady supply of light, soft and almost warm. Though his baggy white shirt and black vest would look better on a circus clown, one of the bartenders catches your eye. His light face framed by a close cut red beard and a clean haircut give off the impression of a man who is reserved. He is a flurry of action, mixing drinks and setting them atop serving trays. You imagine a rainy night and your car breaking down. This man would stop to offer you a ride, and you wouldn’t hesitate to climb into his car. You snap back into reality, it could never happen. This is New York City; you don’t have a car.
    You order a sloe gin fizz from a different bartender, one who happens to be closer to the seat you chose. The bartender looks too young. He has a high school face, and he takes your order and fills it with a mechanical, almost shaky, unsure way. He takes your money without looking at you, and it appears that he said thank you to the countertop. You can’t keep your eyes from his tip jar which would be empty except for three quarters. You grin to yourself. You can see bills crumpled into the other bartender’s jar from your seat.
    You take the skinny plastic straw supplied with your drink and stab at the red syrupy liquid a few times before taking a sip of it. It is sweet and cold. It reminds you of the KoolAid that you used to drink as a kid. You feel like swiveling around your barstool and checking out the dance floor from the safety of the bar, but it is not a stool you are sitting on. It is a fancy tall wooden chair with a slight back to it. So you turn sideways so you can observe the dance floor.
    You see a trio of guys sitting together at a table on the side. They have short hair, military you suppose. On the outskirts of the dance floor you see a few girls enviously watching the floor. Some of them are smoking and tapping the top of the small counter that winds its way around the perimeter of the dance area. You wonder why the three guys don’t approach these women and ask them to dance.
    You move to the front of your seat again to get a sip of your mixed drink. As you turn to face the front you see that someone has taken the chair next to you. A man, tall, not handsome, but something striking about his English chin and grave face. He is staring into a freshly drawn draft beer before him. You take a chance and observe more closely in hopes that he won’t catch you looking. No ring.
    The peculiar thing about him is the way he carries himself. He has a faraway look. You find it easy to discern that he is in the club in body, but his mind is miles away. You decide to be a little crazy, leaning toward him and cupping your hand to the side of your mouth so your words will cut through the dance music. “That music really helps a person’s thinking doesn’t it?”
    The man doesn’t seem to notice the question, not at first. He slowly turns his face to meet yours and a deep passing shadow obscures parts of his face momentarily giving him the appearance of a fleshed out skull with no eyes. You feel a cold chill and wish you had never got his attention. He leans toward you, “I beg your pardon?” he asks.
    “Um. . . I said that the loud music is conducive to thinking, huh? But I meant the opposite, see, actually I think this would be the worst place in the world to think.” A chagrining smile is stuck on your face like a Halloween mask.
    The man offers a closedlipped smile, and you see his head move as if he chuckled to where you couldn’t hear it. “I can think of worse places,” he says before proffering a big, clean white hand. “I’m William.”
    You reach out and accept his big hand. You can tell by the feel of it that it contains great strength. You give the man your name, and you go on to tell him that this is your first time in this place. He slides his chair over to where it is much closer to yours, then he tells you the same, that he just happened to be walking by and stepped inside to see what the place was about.
     He runs his index finger around the top of his beer glass and asks you, “So, Katherine, what is it that you do for a livelihood?” With that question you notice his British accent.
    You pick up your drink then set it down again. You tell him what publishing house you work for, not explaining that your exact job title is file clerk. He doesn’t seem impressed. You ascribe it to his being a foreigner and possibly not being in the know to such American things. You ask him what he does.
    He chuckles. “I’m not employed. No need. I’m financially independent.”
    You hope he doesn’t see your jaw drop. “Really?” Your eyes widen. “Must be truly nice,” you say as you nod your head.
    He smiles and says nothing. Then a girl comes up from behind and hollers in your ear, “Is he with you?” You glare at her wondering where she got such nerve. All you can do is shrug your shoulders, look at the man quickly, and shake your head. The girl, wearing a short sheen green dress darts over to the man and casually places her arm around his neck. You don’t know what she asks him, but he looks at you embarrassingly and question-ingly at the same time. Then he turns to the girl and loudly says, “But I don’t dance.”
    The girl refuses to take that for an answer. She starts tugging on the man’s shirt sleeve like a puppy dog. “Okay, okay,” the man laughs. He looks your way in one of those “let-me-succumb-toherfornowbutI’llberightback” looks. He gets up from his chair and follows the girl to the dance floor.
    As you see him walk, you notice that he is taller than you thought. Well over six feet. His dark slacks and white dress shirt aren’t exactly designer material, but they become the man nicely. And as for the man himself, his collar length, gelfree hair, and his white untanned skin give you the impression that he isn’t into fashions. Perhaps that is just what adds to his mystique. You watch him dance, he seems to be able to hold his own. His partner in her green dress calls a lot of attention to herself, throwing her long hair around and rotating her feminine curves entrapped in the tightfitting dress that encases them. The man slightly turns away from the girl and stares down toward the floor. You can see that he has detached himself from the girl, and she is too much into herself to notice. You are glad.
    Mercifully, the current song ends, and the man walks briskly off of the dance floor. He turns to blow a quick kiss to his dance partner. She ignores him, looking at the disc jockey booth as if to coerce them into starting the next song by her mere presence.
    “I’m sorry about that,” the man tells you.
    “Oh, don’t be. There’s nothing to be sorry about,” you return, touching his wrist to reiterate your sincerity. “You better drink your beer; it’s going to get warm,” you say after having noticed while he was dancing that he hadn’t touched it.
    “That’s okay, I’m not much of a beer man anyway,” he answers. He picks up his coat and moves closer to you almost touching your ears with his lips. “I’d like to suggest that we go elsewhere where we can talk and not be distracted.”
    You love his British accent. Woman in green, eat your heart out! You nod your head and scoop up your own jacket. He pulls your seat away from the bar in a genteel manner. You bow your head in gratitude. And even though you conduct yourself like a real lady as you walk around the side of the dance floor making your way to the exit, you can’t help scouting around with your eyes for the girl in the green dress. You get to the door without seeing her, too bad.
    The man opens the door for you, and the night air is biting. The man wraps one of his slender long arms around you. Under any other circumstances you would consider this being a bit too forward. Considering this particular man, however, and the cold night, you silently acquise.
    The two of you step off of the main street and go under the archway of a small park. The man leads you along the way through a gentle twisting ancient sidewalk. A faint mist rolls under-foot. An appearance by Lon Chaney’s Wolfman would make the scene complete. You snuggle just a bit closer to the man. A jogger runs by. Her loudly colored outfit seems to shout out in the night. For the second or two it takes her to run by you can hear music blasting minutely from her radio headphones. You think she is crazy for running through the park this late at night by herself. You look back to watch her disappear into the mist. You hear a distant dog bellow, and the hair on your neck stiffens.
    Without a word the man directs the two of you through the park and onto an adjoining street filled with older houses. He stops at one of the two storey houses, a dingy gray one with rotted wood siding and a look like it has been vacated for at least the last two hundred years or so. He opens the creaking front door and a dim hallway light illuminates a stairway leading directly up a flight of stairs. The faded red wine carpet that dons its steps stinks of age. You follow the man’s lead up the steps. You feel compelled to tiptoe though you don’t know why. The stairs still creak in protest to your soft steps.
    At the top of the stairs the man produces a key and uses it to access a badly tarnished door. He opens it and steps to the side to allow you to enter first. You step inside with a bit of reservation. You can see by the scant light of the hallway that the man is smiling reassuringly. Perhaps you are a fool, but you trust him.
    He steps in behind you and turns on a light. You are taken aback by the fact that the upstairs apartment has no furniture. You wheel around to find the man still smiling. He nods and closes his eyes. “You think I’m strange, right? I have no need for furniture.” He directs you to the kitchen where he says he will get you something to drink. You walk behind him to the kitchen, ignoring the little voice inside you telling you that you must leave.
    The kitchen is as bare as the rest of the apartment save for an old Frigidaire refrigerator that looks like a prop from some fifties movie. He makes his way to a cupboard and pulls out an expensive looking wine. He pours you a glass, and you feel something comforting in the sound of the pouring liquid. You aren’t a wine connoisseur, but it doesn’t take an expert to know that the wine wasn’t purchased at a corner liquour store.
    You question the man as to why he doesn’t pour himself a glass, and he tells you that he isn’t thirsty. You smile regardless whether or not he meant it as a joke. He offers you a seat on a huge exquisite rug on the floor of what would be considered the living room. You take a seat, and the man descends to sit a space away from you. Then he begins to talk about himself.
    “I first arrived in your country in 1865.” He looks at you to assess your disbelief.
    You merely stare at him and savor your wine. Your simple stare reveals your disbelief.
    “Do you have a compact mirror in your purse?” he asks you.
    You nod and reach slowly for your purse as you wonder what in the world he wants with your compact mirror. Then you know, you’ve seen too many movies.
    He takes the compact and first holds it open on you. Your own eyes stare back at you from your reflection. “You are quite attractive,” the man says. “Now look, and don’t be frightened.” He extends the mirror out and points it downward to where the whole of his presence should saturate its glass surface. The mirror does not pick him up at all. He holds it against his face and moves it to where you can plainly see. The man’s reflection simply does not exist.
    A silent scream tries to tear from your mouth. You topple your glass of wine, and you start to make a dash for the door.
    “Wait!” the man commands.
    You freeze in your tracks. You have no choice. Your mind plays out your obituary already. You envision the shock on your parents’ faces when they get the news.
    “I told you not to be frightened. You will not be harmed,” he says. You don’t know where it stems from, but there is something strangely consoling in the man’s voice. “Please, sit. I wasn’t finished. I have more to tell you.”
    You sit.
    The man looks at you in an attempt to patronize your show of concern. He hands your compact mirror back to you. “I came to this country a very young man. Wanderlust, I suppose you could call it. See, I loved a girl once. She contracted pneumonia and died, and I thought I could never love anybody again. But working in London, I eventually met someone else I thought I could love as much. As time went on, I saw someone else. I began to realize that a man could have more than one real love in a single lifetime.
    “I wanted more than my seventy years. There were so many women to be loved. So many women. . . and so few years.”
    You continue to listen with a mix of sympathy and horror.
    “I began studying the black arts. Anything to gain power, to perpetuate my own life. I wanted anything to be able to madly love beautiful women for centuries on end. I was eventually able to come into being one of the undead.” He pauses, and you lean forward almost abetting the words from his mouth. “I became one of the undead to find that I no longer had the capacity to love. You see, vampires cannot love. It is impossible.” The man looks down at the wooden floor then up again into your eyes. “I have lived with this curse long enough.” He rises from his seat and goes to a closet. He returns with a wooden mallet and what looks like a freshly made wooden stake.
    Just like in the movies, your little voice says.
    “I brought you here so you could destroy me,” the man says as he sticks the mallet out toward you.
    “Destroy you?” you echo. Shaking your head, you slowly rise from your own seat on the floor.
    The man’s face bears a look of seriousness. “You must. I’m not joking. I sought you out specially for this.”
    “No,” you dissent. On the verge of panic, adrenaline is pumping itself into your brain; you are sharp. “I just happened to be the first person you saw in that club.”
    The man shakes his head. “It has taken me whole lifetimes to perfect, but I’ve developed a rather keen judge of character. I knew what I was doing when I set eyes on you.”
    “Why don’t you just pull the curtains when the sun comes up?” you ask the man.
    A mock smile creases his thin lips. “Now, there is nothing romantic about dispatching one’s life in such a manner as that, now is there?”
    “Why don’t you get someone else?” You are surprised at the mounting hysteria in your voice. You thought you had more control over your emotions.
    Now the man chuckles, “No, only you, Katherine.”
    You bolt like a cornered wild animal. You run to the door and weep tears of joy when you find it unlocked. You subconsciously pat your purse which you’ve managed to scoop up in your fleeting. You hear the man giving chase. You unconsciously lean forward as you fly down the old staircase causing your upper body to be ahead of your legs. You have to clutch the stair rail to keep from falling down. You don’t want to look back because you know the man will be upon you.
    “Katherine!”
    His voice wants to rupture your eardrums. You can feel his icy presence on the back of your neck. You grab the tarnished door handle that separates you from the outside. You twist it knowing that if it doesn’t give, your heart is going to beat itself out of the top of your head. It gives. You throw the door open and dart out of the decrepit house. “I won’t forget this; you know my secret!” he says bold and strong.
    The sunlight is blinding. You scream out like a regal horn trumpeting in the new morning as you run as fast as your legs will carry you. When you are far enough away you look back at the old house along with the other older houses next to and across the street from it. You notice that the door on the old house was closed behind you.
    You face the front and continue onward until your own tears blur the way. You have to slow to a walk to wipe your eyes and get your breath which has betrayed you and departed like a once trusted friend.
    As you step onboard an early morning subway you wonder what time the bus station opens. You will run. You will get as far away as you possibly can. And you will pray that he never finds you.



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