The Twilight Saga: New Moon

In commemoration of the second of Stephenie Meyer’s novels making their way to the silver screen, I shared the first part of my own vampire love story yesterday.

In the comments, Rich craved more:

I must sadly inform you that I find this tale unsatisfying and lacking in closure, like many from real life.

Although you were undoubtedly a cad for not calling the lady in question back, I do wonder what happened the next time your rival marching bands met in competition. Did you take a crucifix just in case? Did she shy away from the sunlight reflecting off the brass instruments?

Or did you perhaps hear a tap-tap-tapping at your bedroom window one night only to realise that your bedroom was on the second floor and the tapper had to be floating?

Inquiring minds want to know.

I would be much obliged if you could put some effort into tracking down said lady to find out if she does indeed practice vampirism today, whether it be due to a biological need, mental instability, or a yearning for the cold, dark embrace of undying love which sharing her habits would surely bring.

The answers to a lot of Rich’s questions are boring. Believing, as I did, that VG was not a real vampire and just a crazy girl with a bit too much Lestat (this is the 90s) on the brain, I did not stow any additional anti-Dracula gear in my tenor sax case. The instrument itself is silver-plated, though, and I still use it for werewolf-fighting. Also, by necessity, a lot of the shows we competed at were at night, so sunlight was not an isssue.

In reality, I avoided VG. In part because she’d creeped me out and in part because I knew that I’d handled the situation badly (I probably should have said something like, “Haha, you’re funny,” or “I’m going to have to break up with you because of that,” or, least likely of all possible options, “Wow, that’s hot”). Sensing correctly that I’d not taken it well, VG didn’t really press the issue. There were no improbable window entries (this may have something to do with the fact that the one time she called me to attempt to clarify/explain/make amends, I shouted “I revoke your invitation, thrice-damned devil-wife!” and slammed the phone down. She never came over again, either, so I assume that worked.

As far as tracking her down today, Rich, I tried to find VG on Facebook, but succeeded in finding someone with an incredibly similar name (one letter off) who looks nothing like what I’d imagine VG, age 30, to look like.

But, gentle reader, that is not the end of the tale. There is a shocking and terrifying sequel to the strange events of Jefferson Stolarship and the Case of the Vampire Girl or whatever they’d call this story if it had happened to the Hardy Boys instead.

1996

I’m a freshman in college. My high school has decided to, as a first, host a band competition, and they drummed up lots of volunteer alumni support. I was there, doing my civic duty and hauling stuff around, working concession stands, and other random tasks. I hung out a bit with some fellow former band members and some of the current upperclassmen that I socialized with back in those halcyon days, mere months ago, when I was just ‘some high school kid’ and not the serious academic that I was now that I was in college.

Anyway, one of the trumpet players tells me casually that VG has been looking for me, had heard I would be there. That she’s here. This isn’t weird; she was a year younger than I am, so she was a senior.

A chill came over me, as though a goose or a dracula had just walked over my grave. I had, as so many Star Wars characters are wont to say, a bad feeling about this. So I did the only rational thing.

I fled. I only had about 15 minutes left to go before the end of my volunteer shift so I straight-up bolted for my car. Halfway across the parking lot, I hear, “Jeff? Is that you? Wait!” Perhaps counterintuitively to this plea, I began to run.

I was nearly at my car when I felt the weight descend on me.

You see, she’d run after me and jumped on me.

My hand instinctively went to my neck, covering the arteries and veins, out of sight but ever-present, tantalizingly just under the skin. Just in case.

We talked for a few minutes. VG apologized for being weird two years prior and assured me that she was “better now.” That she still thought about me. That maybe we could talk a bit or maybe even hang out. Part of me wants to point out here that only crazy girls like me, but the part of me that doesn’t want to get glared at mercilessly is keeping that other part in check right now. I am noncommittal. She gives me her number. I am determined to not call it, but aware that she’s gotten cuter in the two years I’ve not seen her. I put the number in my glove compartment; you know, in case of emergency.

A week later, my friend Josh convinces me to double with his girlfriend and a friend of his girlfriend’s. He promises that this will not end up like the last time he did this (I won’t even go into details) and I believe him. I date Abby’s friend for several months until we break up in an explosion of infidelity (hers) and heartbreak (mine). Leaving work that night, emotionally wanton and despondent, I remember that I have VG’s phone number and I resolve to call her when I get home (this is before I had a cell phone that was not expressly for emergency use only). I got into a car accident on the drive home, causing my car to be totaled. The damage from the collision left the glove compartment unopenable, thwarting me. I would then be strapped to a backboard and rendered completely immobile for the next several hours while a squat and rotund doctor informed me that I might have been killed if I weren’t so fat. This is also the first time my mother hears me say the word ‘fuck,’ as far as I’m aware. The two events are related.

The moral of the story is clearly that God or Fate or whoever, doesn’t want me messing around with any dracula girls and will stop me from doing so by any means necessary.

Tagged as: Existential Angst, Horror