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| ONE FINE EVENING IN HOLLYWOOD | |||||||||||||
| By Ronald C. Tobin | |||||||||||||
| Saturday, 10 February 2001: A night that I anticipate will be like most other Saturday nights during the Los Angeles winter : cool and damp, but with good crowds going to the clubs on Sunset to see the latest bands. There is a "death rock" show going on at the Whiskey tonight, so I know the hunting will be easy. Some of the guys think it is so cool when I drink a pint of their blood. They wonder how I do it. The answer is simple: they may play with vampirism, but I'm the genuine article. I know there are real vampires, because that is what I happen to be. | |||||||||||||
| My name is Sylvia. I was born on March 15, 1949, which means I'm pushing 52 years now. You would never know that, as I don't look a day over 20. That is because I became a vampire during the famous Summer of Love in San Francisco, way back in 1969. Gosh, have I really not seen the sun in over 30 years? It must be! Guess I don't miss it that much anymore. | |||||||||||||
| Anyway, yes, I was a 'flower child,' grooving to the psychedelic rock sounds, when late one evening I met this dashing fellow named Tom. Very charming, but then he was a 115-year-old vampire! He took me to his 'pad' on Haight St. (a basement apartment) and made me into a vampire that night. I did not enjoy the transformation, did not like Tom much, so he and I parted ways in 1972. I've been hunting in the streets and clubs of Hollywood ever since. I love Los Angeles -- millions of people, most of them faceless and interchangeable. I hear that is true of most large cities, but I grew up here, the familiarity is somehow reassuring. | |||||||||||||
| Since my return to Los Angeles, I have worked as an independent. I have as little to do with other vampires as is practicable. I'm rather anti-social since my 'transformation,' if you will. Becoming a vampire was not high on my agenda in 1969. I have COME to enjoy it. Yes, we do have reflections and no, we can't turn into bats. We use hypnosis and illusion. And no, unlike that stupid television show, we don't suddenly turn hideous when we want to feed. Crosses and holy water don't work on us either. | |||||||||||||
| Enough of this reminiscing. As I near the Whiskey, I sense a nearby presence that feels like a relative -- a member of my immediate mortal family! I have not seen any of them since 1969, so how did they find me? For that matter, have they found me? It could just be a coincidence, right? As if those actually exist. My preternatural curiosity insists that I figure this out, lest the whole night be ruined. I so detest wasting time, but I simply must know who it is and what their intentions are. | |||||||||||||
| Focusing my mind on that single telepathic signature, I determine this is a male relative, likely my older brother Vincent, and he is agitated and waiting for someone. Whether or not that someone is me, I cannot tell. He is parked in an alley near the club. Travelling quickly and quietly, I reach the car -- a 1998 Lincoln Towne Car, of all things -- open the front passenger door, sit down and see who is indeed my brother Vincent. He stares at me in complete astonishment. No wonder about that, as he has not seen me since 1969, and I don't look a day older. Vincent, on the other hand, looks every year the 55 that he is, and then some. Sparse gray hair, many worry lines on the forehead, sad gray blue eyes behind thick glasses. Poor, dear Vincent. And no, I'm not the person he was waiting for. He was waiting for a dealer who was busted recently, of all things. | |||||||||||||
| In a stammering, hesitant croak, Vincent asks, "My God! Is that really you, Sylvia? After all these years?" | |||||||||||||
| With a close-lipped smirk, I reply, "Yes, Vince, it;s me. Got to tell you, though -- your dealer, Marcus, was busted by the pigs last night. He won't be able to sell you any crack tonight." | |||||||||||||
| Now my eldest brother looks astonished and frightened. "Actually, Syl, I was hoping to score some blonde hash. Marc was a good guy. Stupid war on drugs!" Regaining some composure, he says "Never mind all that. Where have you been all these years? Your friends said you just up and vanished on them in Frisco with some guy in 1969. And, how is it that you don't look a day older than the last time I saw you?" | |||||||||||||
| Looking deeply into my dear brother's bloodshot and weary eyes, I could tell that he was genuinely interested in finding out the truth about my situation. So, I spent the next fifteen minutes telling him everything, including the fact that I am indeed a vampire. His expression went from concern to fear to basic outrage. By how agitated my brother's mental state had become, I soon realized that I had made a mistake. | |||||||||||||
| "You expect me to believe you're a vampire? A reanimated, bloodsucking corpse? Admit it: you've had extensive plastic surgery, right? I mean, if I actually believed you were a vampire, I'd have to..." | |||||||||||||
| "Try and destroy me to save my soul from damnation, brother dearest?" I said, finishing his thought for him. I opened my mouth and bared my fangs. "Well, go ahead and touch them. The fangs ARE real. And yes, I suppose by a certain definition I am dead, but damned? I don't think so. No one is blessed or damned, really. You live out your days, then take another spin on the wheel of karma. Becoming a vampire just delays that, for some. There is no heaven and there is no hell, brother. We've been lied to. Satan's not out there, and neither is God. We are on our own. Surely you can see this?" | |||||||||||||
| Sadly, he could not, or would not, see my point. Seething with rage, he pulled a rosary out of his shirt pocket (we were a rather devout Catholic family) and place the crucifix against my forehead. When nothing happened, he became angrier still. "You can't be an evil creature of the night! This crucifix is blessed! It would have burn a hole into your forehead!" | |||||||||||||
| I snatched the rosary from him, breaking the string and making the beads fly all over the car. "I am a creature of the night, brother, but I am not evil. I'm just me, transformed and somewhat better off for it. I will never know the ravages of aging, which you certainly cannot expect me to believe have been pleasant for you." | |||||||||||||
| His eyes went wild, his face contorted with rage. "At least I have lived a basically virtuous life, hellspawn! You must be a demon disguised as my sister! Satan be gone!" | |||||||||||||
| Somehow Vincent managed to grab a sharpened pencil and he plunged it into my stomach, as he managed to catch me off guard. This hurt, but it was far from incapacitating to me. Which of course did not work to Vincent's benefit. Reacting on impulse, I tore his throat out, severed his spine and watched as his head sailed out of the car and into a deserted parking lot. | |||||||||||||
| Now I was covered with Vincent's warm, sticky blood. My outfit was ruined. So was my evening. There would be no hunting for me at the Whiskey tonight, that was for sure. I was saddened by what had transpired, but I hope Vincent will be at peace for awhile now and understand the error of his belief system. I quickly left the car and headed to my place near Hollywood and Vine. After I cleaned up, I started to think about the rest of my family. Maybe I should go down to Orange County and see what became of them. | |||||||||||||
| As to the mess I left behind in Vincent's car? I'm not worried about it. The cops will just write it off to a gangland killing. After all, this IS Los Angeles, and this city is no stranger to grisly deaths. | |||||||||||||
| Yes indeed, my friends: it has indeed been one fine evening here in Hollywood! | |||||||||||||
| Ronald Tobin E-mail: [email protected] | |||||||||||||
| (A slightly different version of this story appeared in the January/February 2002 issue of THE THOUGHT) | |||||||||||||
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