A Vampire Walks into a Gas Station

The words on the faded white sign still shone clear in my mind as I blew out a final puff of nicotine-laced smoke, grinding out the remains of my cigarette beneath the heel of my boot. I don’t remember when I started going to these meetings, but they had become my only form of socialization since the whole wedding fiasco.

The cool October air nipped at my cheek as sound of pathetic wailing could be heard from inside the abandoned gas station, and I rolled my eyes, wishing I had just decided to stay home and slept tonight. Marty was already rolling out the crocodile tears at the podium, and I really wasn’t in the mood for him sobbing all over my nice shirt again. Not that I had anything against the guy, he was probably one of the more decent people in the group, but he was also the most dramatic.

“People.” The word made me laugh a little, shifting my feet from side to side. “People” was most definitely not the word I’d use to describe the individuals inside that building. The sign really said it all, and it was very lucky no one had used these gas pumps since the 50’s or they’d get quite the surprise on any dark Thursday evening they decided to drop by. It’s not as if we could rent out a community hall or a school gym or anything. Only a few of us could even be seen out in the general public.

Whoever is reading this must be terribly confused right now, as I haven’t even introduced myself yet. My name is Arvin, I’m over two thousand years old, and I’m a vampire. Yes, a vampire, try not to faint; and to all those teenaged girls swooning out there, be aware that I hate every last one of you stinking humans. Your blood is not the most delicious thing I will ever taste; it tastes about the same to me as a rotten banana peel wrapped around a piece of rancid meat would taste to your delicate human palate.

Not only am I a vampire, but I am also an alcoholic and a drug addict. I’ve come to realize these things since the last Forgetting, when my friends and fellow freaks began their cycles of memories with a blank slate, and I’m no longer as bitter and suicidal as I was a hundred years ago. Because of a fluke of my genetics, my period of Remembering is much longer than that of my friends. They only tend to keep memories for around a century before their brains wipe themselves clean and start fresh.

Anyway, the guys inside were my support group, which sounds really odd coming from a vampire. “What do you need a support group for?” Well, when you’re the only one of your kind, you tend to get a bit depressing to hang out with. As soon as humans discovered those neat mind-altering drugs, I was all over them like a drunken girl at a party. LSD, opium, crystal meth, marijuana, whatever you could smoke, snort, eat or inject, I had to have.

My group does not consist of other bloodsuckers like myself, because, as I said before, I’m the only of my kind. There’s Marty, and if you’ve ever seen “Creature from the Black Lagoon,” you have a pretty good idea of what the guy looks like, only add some more tentacles and a lot of oozy tears. Bob is our resident Wolfman, but if you ever call him that, he’ll rip your throat out; Bob doesn’t believe in stereotypes of any kind. We also have Greg, who I’ve never really seen, mostly because he’s afraid to come out from under the bed, but we all call him “Boogeyman” for obvious reasons. Those guys were just the regulars, we had “people” coming from all over, and they rarely were ever in town at the right time.

The prospect of Marty’s tears still caused me to shudder, but I firmed my resolve and walked, hunched over, hoping no one would notice my lateness, into the dimly lit gas station. I quickly counted the members seated on their little rusty chairs, surprised to see a full house. It was rare that all of us gathered at once, and I smiled, glad for the company. Danny, the duct tape-covered mummy sitting at the front, looked like his arm was coming off again, and I sighed, hoping he had brought enough supplies to keep himself together. His pet, Sparky, the part crocodile, part lion, part hippo creature that we found eating some children in Venezuela, was drooling on his peeling toes, almost begging to be released. I shared his pain.

I tried to inconspicuously slip into a seat when I noticed that it had already been occupied by a blender. Not that odd of an occurrence at the meetings, I can assure you, but she had given me a start once when she was disguised as pastry knives. The shape-shifter, Adele, thought it terribly funny whenever I mistook her for some menial item, and had slipped into my apartment on many an occasion disguised as a letter from my mother. I don’t have a mother, which always gives it away, but she still finds it fun.

After promptly giving Addie the finger and taking a seat on her left, I let my gaze wander to the other members shifting and coughing in their seats. Across the aisle from me were Ginny, the schizophrenic doll (she calls herself a “mandrake” but I think that’s because she resents being called a puppet) and our tone-deaf Banshee, Fredrick. I once made the mistake of bringing up the topic of banshees being typically depicted as female, and ended up with a ringing in my ears for two weeks. I’ve since avoided the subject, which makes everyone a little happier.

Marty was still regaling to his tormented listeners about how he had been sober for three weeks, having fallen off the wagon last month and gone joyriding on some dead guy’s motorcycle. Marty was a coke addict, and it made him really jittery and paranoid, though I suppose he had been a bit like that long before cocaine ever became a factor in his life. We all have our messed up lives, but Marty was the drama queen of the group, so he had to make a big deal out of everything. Last week he cried for three hours after swatting a fly that had been circling around his head. Like I said, Drama Queen.

The best thing about this group was the belonging we felt whenever we went to a meeting; the less freakish we felt whenever we saw each other. That was the point. To gain support from others like us. I think that I was the one who had to spend the longest alone, being the oldest of us all, though that sort of title never gains you any respect, I can tell you that much. I can’t even remember how many times I’ve been called “gramps” or “grandpa” at a meeting.

Looking at the sign gives everything, us, away, but no one really ever expects to see us when they walk in the door. Once upon a time that sign had been a beautiful, fresh white, and the shade of pink we had painted the letters in had been the height of color-fashion. That time was long since past, and the now fading and peeling neon pink paint reads: “MONSTERS ANONYMOUS. WALK-INS WELCOME.”