The vampire who hated James Joyce and Walt Whitman

I yearn for blood. Every day of my life is spent searching for fresh sources of it. I prefer human blood, so you could say that much of my time is spent looking for humans who are easy to catch and detain.

Today, I am in Central Park. I sit on a bench and read 'Ulysses' by James Joyce. I hate James Joyce, almost as much as I hate the poetry of Walt Whitman. However, James Joyce keeps me awake. His indecipherable prose keeps my brain active, as I try to understand what each sentence means, and why Joyce would write such a sentence. I have concluded that he must have been a sadist. Perhaps he was a vampire.

Because I have unlimited time and money, I must admit that if I cannot catch a human and remain hungry, I purchase expensive tomes of Walt Whitman's poetry and burn them in my penthouse fireplace. As I watch them become ash, my anger subsides. However, my hunger returns.

Today, I watch the gamut of New Yorkers pass by--the recent mother pushing a baby in a stroller, runners in expensive athletic wear, and Wall Street bankers cursing tourists who are in their way. I am looking for someone vulnerable. Usually, a young woman. I am a young, male vampire, and an attractive one. I am tall, well-muscled and lightly tanned. My eyes are the color of root beer, and my hair is brown. I wear it in the current fashion. My nose is a Roman one. I remember my sister was always jealous of it.

That was another life. I see a young woman approach me. She looks about twenty-six years old. Her hair is blonde and her eyes are blue-green. I guess that she is a runner because her legs appear to be the strongest part of her body. My stomach rumbles.

"Hello," says the woman.

"Hello," I say, flashing my most devastating smile. I have had a long time to practice this grin.

"What are you reading?" she says. I guess that she weighs about 124 pounds. I weigh twice that but look thinner. The young lady should be easy to subdue.

"I am reading James Joyce," I say.

"Wow," she says, with what looks like genuine admiration in her eyes. "I love to read, but I'm scared to try Joyce. I've heard his books are not the easiest to read."

"Nonsense," I say, flashing her another smile. I read her the first sentence out loud: Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

"You see?" I say. "Easy. A man named 'Buck' has a mirror and a razor."

The young lady shakes her head in disbelief. "Why can't Joyce just write that?"

"Indeed," I say. I'm beginning to like you. This is not good. "May I know your name?" I ask.

"Jael," she says.

"What an unusual name," I respond. "Would you like to sit next to me?" I make room on my bench.

"Sure," Jael says. She sits far away, when I would like her to be close. If she would move closer, I could better appreciate her blood's scent.

"Where does your name come from?" I ask. "Does it come from a book, or a movie? Is it a family name?"

Jael smiles. "It comes from the Bible. Jael was a woman who drove a tent peg through a man's head."

I grimace. "That sounds painful. Why did she do that?"

"I don't know," said Jael. "I just remember that the man was an enemy of God."

"What a horrible way to die," I say.

Jael nods in agreement.

I decide to change the subject. "Do you have any favorite authors?"

My prey's face lights up. "Walt Whitman, Poe, Emily Dickinson."

Involuntarily, I shudder. Walt Whitman.

"Are you okay?" Jael says. She puts a hand on my shoulder.

I consider lightly biting her fingers and sucking the blood out of them.

"Yes, I'm fine," I answer. "I think I must be fighting off a cold. So, you like poetry?"

"Oh yes," says my brunch. "I also write poetry. I'm a student at NYU, and I'm hoping to publish my work. It seems like every day I get a polite rejection email. I'm going to keep going, though. I read that Stephen King tacked his rejection letters to the wall, and kept writing until he was published."

Oh no, I think. Even though you like Walt Whitman, I am truly beginning to like you.

I run a hand through my hair. "What kind of poetry do you write?" I query. "Modern or traditional?"

Jael sighs with pleasure. "Some of both. I prefer traditional, though. There's nothing like a good rhyme scheme."

"I agree," I say, thinking about ways I can get her back to my apartment. "Would you do me the honor of quoting a line of poetry you've written?"

Jael beamed. "Really? No one has ever asked me that before. Are you sure?"

I returned her smile. "Quite sure."

"Well," said Jael, "my poetry professor liked a line in my poetry that was: "I ran my hand over the cool wood."

"That is beautiful," I said, and meant it. "What was the poem about?"

Jael's face turned scarlet. As the blood rushed to her cheeks, I found she was becoming irresistible. I began to fantasize about attacking the flesh in the roundest parts of her face and savoring the blood, there. Perhaps, I could try drinking directly from her face with a straw.

"Are you okay?" asked Jael. "Your face looks pale."

I grinned from ear to ear. "I'm fine."

"Alright," said Jael, frowning. "Do you still want to hear what the poem was about? You look a little bit sick."

"Now you've really piqued my interest," I said, which was true. "I must know your poem's subject."

Jaels laughs. "It's about a woman who has sex with her husband on a wooden desk."

"Really?" I say. Now, my blood rushes to my groin. This is definitely not good.

I find myself saying, "I would really like to know more about your poem. Could we discuss it over coffee?"

Jael smirks. "Would you like to know more about the poem or more about me?"

"Both," I say. Arm in arm, we head to Mr. Willy's coffee, which I think is a ludicrous name for such an establishment. Doesn't everyone know that Willy is slang for penis? Knowing the city, maybe the name is ironic. I hope not.

"Hello," says my new friend, "what kind of coffee do you want? You looked like you were daydreaming."

"I'll take an espresso," I say, "but I wasn't daydreaming. I was thinking that Mr. Willy's is a ridiculous name for a cafe."

Jael through back her head and laughed. "Isn't it? I thought everyone knew that Willy meant penis. "Vanilla latte, please," she said to the barista.

The barista giggled. "We all know that Willy means penis, but the owner is actually named Mr. Willy."

"Oh," Jael and I said.

"I insist on paying," I stated. I opened my wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change, please," I said to the barista.

The corners of Jael's lips turned up in a slight smile. "Thank you."

"You are quite welcome," I replied.

We spent the afternoon discussing books and found we both adored Hemingway's fiction and the poetry of T.S. Eliot.

At 5 pm, there was a lull in our conversation.

"Jael," I began, "would you like to come to my apartment for a glass of wine?"

"I thought you would never ask," she said. "The answer is yes."

In my apartment, my normal procedure was to pounce, incapacitate, and drain all blood from my human. I found myself wanting to have sex with Jael. The last time I had done this was twenty-five years ago, after I had my fill of blood. I had walked the streets looking for a different kind of satisfaction. I remembered having sex with a drunk woman, up against a brick wall. I couldn't remember anything else about the experience.

"If you would like to have sex, the answer is 'yes'," said Jael. We both shed our clothes as quickly as possible. After we finished, I ordered a pizza for Jael and told her I was going out to buy more wine. By chance, I came upon a juicy looking target who was walking out of a 24-hour gym. Slowly, I crept up behind him. Then, I bludgeoned him to death with the wine bottle I'd purchased. After I dragged him into the bushes, draining his blood was easy and familiar.

Satiated, I walked back to my apartment. Jael was eating pizza and watching the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.

"Come and watch," she said, patting the space on the sofa next to her.

I smiled. "Just a moment." I jogged to the bathroom and wiped the blood from my face and hands. Then, I changed into new clothes. I threw my old clothing into a garbage bag. I would burn it in the fireplace, later.

As Jael and I watched Pride and Prejudice, discussing the dialogue, I wondered if a long-term relationship would work out with her. I mused that I would have to hide the fact that I was a vampire from her. Of course, in comic books, Superman was successful in hiding his secret identity from Lois Lane. Would this work in real life? I decided that it would.

While Jael attended classes at NYU, I hunted for vulnerable humans. Over many years as a vampire, I had become very good at identifying easy targets. I don't wish to mention these targets, as I want the reader to like me. I don't want you to know about the most horrible sins I have committed, or you would think me a monster. In a way, that makes me the same as you. Would you like people to know the very worst things you've done? It's my pleasure to tell you that every time you do something terrible, you are exactly the same as me.