Two Stories by M.A.C. Farrant
Illustration by Jerry Silverberg
Sixty Degrees
The first thing our friend talked about was vampires. He was staying overnight at our house and, while we were having tea, he said there was a woman vampire who lived in his building; she was a regular user of the building’s swimming pool. This was in Toronto. He knew she was a vampire because she’d told him so. He believed her. Something about her eyes, the way she stared at him while he swam. Apparently she’s from Transylvania, he said, which was a dead giveaway. Ha, ha, he said, dead giveaway. Further, this woman was ugly looking, with dried, yellowed skin like parchment, and stiff, black hair. Not necessarily vampire qualities, he admitted, and said he only mentioned her looks because they contributed to the menace she exuded. She was about 45 years old. He, on the other hand, was several years older, a celebrated poet and an artist, a man we admired because he lived, we believed, in a permanent state of wonder. He told us that the vampire followed him into the building’s sauna, sat close to him and pinched his knee. He said he’d never been accosted by a vampire before, and that the incident had scared him. Freaked him, was the word he used. He ran from the sauna. This happened during the day and we asked why a vampire was on the loose during the day; we thought they did their evil work at night. Special powers, he said, maybe it’s different for the women, maybe they have different rules. A few days later, while he swam lengths—again in the daytime, he told us—the vampire swam across the pool and slammed into the side of his body. On purpose, leaving a bruise. This vampire assault was the reason, he believed, that his left eye had later gone funny and filled up with blood. Soon after, the vampire disappeared. Gone on a trip, he supposed, back to Transylvania. The doctor said his eye problem was curious and ordered tests. Meanwhile, he’d formed a swimming pool committee. This had to do with the temperature of the swimming pool water and was not exclusively about the vampire, although she had been involved. There were some residents who liked the water warm, he told us, and some who liked the water cold. The cold-water lovers, he said, were dominating the pool temperature. A quiet battle had ensued, which included the bribery of the building manager for access to the pool’s thermostat. The cold-water lovers, he said, were more affluent than the warm-water lovers; they could afford the bribery fees. Because of this they were winning the war. The warm-water lovers were mainly a group of frail pensioners, students and people handicapped in some way, like him, with the vampire bruise and the bloody eye. As usual, this group was being marginalized and trod upon by those with money. Sixty degrees. That was the temperature they were battling over. The cold-water lovers preferred 60 degrees; the warm-water lovers, 70 to 80. Naturally, he said, the woman vampire, when she was in residence, had been among the cold-water lovers, no doubt campaigning for temperature even colder than 60 degrees. Somewhere around freezing, he imagined. Meanwhile, he was waiting for the test results about his injured eye. It was no longer filled with blood but it was sore, and his vision had become impaired. When he left for the West Coast there had been no resolution about the water temperature, nor had he received the test results. But he was glad to leave the vampire behind. At least he thought he’d left the vampire behind. Did we think he had? Yes, we did. Did we think she might find out where he was now living and follow him to the coast? No, we didn’t think she would. That’s good, he said, she’s probably on a vampire vacation; it’s spring in Transylvania; she’s sure to stay there for the summer. Or maybe she’s attending a vampire convention, or a vampire reunion. Or, ha, ha, he said, a vampire festival where hundreds of vampires gather for workshops and panels and to suck each other’s blood and talk with agents about selling the film rights to their books. He then mentioned the movies about vampires that he loved, the old black and white ones made in the ’40s and ’50s, especially Son of Dracula. He liked the Bram Stoker versions, too and the new movie just out, Van Helsing, which, he said, was doing well at the box office. He checked the movie grosses on his computer every night, he said, the daily takes for all the movies playing in theatres across North America and the rest of the world. He didn’t ask to use our computer that night, though; he only asked for something to eat because he’d missed dinner on the ferry ride over. We gave him a late meal of chickpea soup left over from our dinner, and toast and cheese, and a plate of sweet mixed pickles. He’d missed dinner, he explained, because on the ferry he’d been sitting beside an old woman who had a walker parked in front of her, and they’d struck up a conversation. The old woman was worried about how she was going to get off the ferry when it docked. Where was the exit for foot passengers? He said he’d find out for her because he too was a foot passenger and this was important information. The ferry employee told him: See that wall? The one close to where you’re sitting? Well, when the ferry docks, a door opens in that wall, and then you walk through it. He reported back to the old woman: When the ferry docks, you walk through that wall; the wall becomes a door. The old woman became agitated. I’m not walking through any wall, she told him. I’ll help you, he offered. No thank you, she said, I’ll wait here until my family comes and gets me. When the ferry docked, he said, it was like magic. Suddenly a door appeared in the wall and everyone walked through it. The old woman stayed seated and refused to move. When he left her, two ferry employees were trying to convince her to walk through the wall but she wouldn’t budge. He, on the other hand, was not afraid. He walked through the wall with the other passengers, down the steel mesh ramp that showed seawater sparkling far below, and reached the waiting room at the terminal. It was wonderful, he said, walking along with the disembarking passengers. Like being safe in the middle of a herd of humans where no marauding predator could pick you off. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, he asked, to be all the time moving through your life like that? It made him think of National Geographic specials on TV, the shows about herds of running gazelles and stalking lions. Only the straying young or the infirm were slaughtered. It made him think, once again, about the woman vampire. You don’t think she’s singled me out for some reason, do you? You don’t think she’ll bother me again? I’m not very gazelle-like. No, we said, it’s likely she’s someone who thinks she’s a vampire but is actually a disturbed person with many problems of her own. Oh, he said, that’s a relief. Are you sure? Yes, we said, absolutely. We didn’t know if he believed us, though we were certain that an excellent poem or painting would result from his experience.
Because of Russell Edson
They are clearing out old theories, their no-longer-fruitful theories: the theory of possible, the theory of want; the theory of restlessness, the theory of wandering, the theory of lizards, the theory of coffee mugs, the theory of figure-skating lessons, the theory of clocks.
They’ve shoved the old theories into garbage bags and set the bags at the end of the driveway. A propped sign says: Free.
Behind the living room curtain they watch whoever stops by.
A boy on a bike takes the theory of lizards.
Predictable, says the son.
A woman with a dog drags off the theory of clocks.
She’s old, says the mother.
A woman pushing a stroller grabs the theory of want.
Makes sense, says the father.
The daughter lets out a scream. You threw out the theory of want? While I was still using it?
We thought, says the father.
How could you? It goes with the theory of desire!
We got rid of desire last summer, says the father.
You what? screams the daughter.
Oh dear, says the mother.
We’ve still got the theory of open, says the son.
Open? shouts the daughter. That old thing? I wouldn’t be caught dead.
Dead? says the father. We threw out dead when you were born.
Oh dear, says the mother.
Now I’ll never, cries the daughter.
Never? says the father.
Shut up! screams the daughter.
Didn’t we give never to your cousin Shirley, says the mother.
Shut up! Shut up!
