5.04 / April 2010

VAMPIRE, A

A volume of something stupid sweats in the sweat of his fingers, reading “a novel” on its cover. If you breathe garlic breath at this vampire’s pores, nothing happens. Buy him a Silver Bullet, and he’ll gag. Remember, this man said “vampire,” not “werewolf,” and that only frat boys like Coors Light. This is the truth that dangles from every crucifix. This man says that Jesus is quite beautiful. He sweats holy water. The bar splinter, driven into his chest by leaning for the Jameson, does nothing. He says, “If I bite you, will you become me?” You should think, “Hopefully.”

VERY FAT

He weighed in at 1,264 pounds, and even the scale—which was digital, and set into the floor beneath the steel bedframe—read “Holy shit!” He had not always been so large. He hardly breathed, for all the eating. If food itself contained oxygen, that was his air. Remember your mother telling you not to eat watermelon seeds for what would eventually grow inside you? He never left his bed. In order to be fed and cleaned, he had a girlfriend who’d shed tears when they met. She was the kind of woman who would clean up after men who slapped her behind and called her “shugah,” and she’d never stopped smiling. She wanted him to lose weight. But the bacon he sucked up satisfied her, also the grease he dabbed at with his bread crust. They are still together, though the prognosis is bleak.

VITAMIN D DEFICIENCY

This condition results from leaving for work in darkness and returning home after sundown. Work is as an accountant. All members in this firm firmly believe in eventually being in the black. Sufferers dream dreams of a dairy farm, of becoming a cheesemaker. They and their boyfriends have begun making cheese in their tiny Seattle apartment on weekends. This, they say, is a very involved process, so they cannot get outside. Even if they did, the sky is covered by clouds that drizzle mist. In the world there are novelists who tell these accountants that they are cheesemaking vampires, them and their boyfriends—all men such novelists have never met—and that they’ll make novels about them and collect billions of dollars. The accountant-cheesemakers say their goat cheese is pretty good but not the right texture, though they’re working on that. None of the boyfriends have the name of Patrick.