The Shake

old enough to drink. The only female patron looked to be about forty, but she might have been younger. It was hard to tell. Alcohol is as unkind to the body as a desert wind.
The room was dark, the smell of booze and tobacco riding on a base-odor of moldy carpet. A jukebox along the back wall was emitting something country-like, though at a mercifully low volume. Competing with the jukebox, a TV behind the bar aired the news. It was hard to tell if anyone was paying attention to either.
Even when I was human, I wasn’t much of a drinker. I’d have a glass of beer occasionally, or wine with dinner, but I never understood the appeal of alcohol. It was probably just a matter of body chemistry. Some people like it, some don’t. My updated vampire metabolism left me completely indifferent to it. I wasn’t sure if I could actually get drunk, even if I were to try, which I never had.
An aversion to alcohol might make spending time in a bar somewhat awkward, if alcohol was the issue. But, like most everything else, the real issue was money. Alcohol was just a way to move it out of one person’s pocket and into someone else’s. As long as I was parting with some of mine, no one was likely to object to my distaste for the liquid. I chose a stool at the unpopulated end of the bar. The woman came over immediately and asked me what I wanted. I ordered a Scotch. When she came back with the drink, I gave her a ten and told her to keep the change.
She looked surprised. “That drink’s only five bucks,” she said, making sure I really wanted to tip her the other five.
“No doubt worth every penny,” I said.
She shrugged, went to the cash register, put the ten in, took out a five, folded it neatly and slipped it into her jeans pocket. I took my drink and moved to an empty booth. I didn’t have any particular plan in mind. I thought I would just sit for a while and observe. Not that there was much to see. After a few minutes, one guy got up and fed some change into the jukebox. The guy on the bar stool provided occasional commentary on the TV news, consisting of either “Shit!” or “More shit!” I had to admit, I was in complete agreement, especially with the “More shit!” The lone female customer held up her empty glass indicating the need for a refill. When the drink arrived, I heard her say, “Thanks, Karla,” and thereby learned the barkeep’s name.
After about half an hour, Karla approached my booth. She saw I hadn’t touched my drink. “Something wrong with the Scotch, honey?” she asked.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I said. “I’m just waiting for the mood to strike.”
She looked at her watch. “We close in about two and half hours.”
“Sardonic wit,” I said. Then added, curious to see how she would react, “And a pierced nipple.”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “What the fuck do you know about my nipples?” she demanded, her fists on her hips.
“I saw you the other night at the motel across the street. In the parking lot, remember? With the charming gentleman leaking blood.”
The wheels were turning. She wasn’t happy with my nose in her private affairs. But at the same time, she was curious.
“You’re not the guy with the car alarm, are you?”
“No, I just happened to be passing by.”
“And thought you’d stop and watch the show?”
“Something like that,” I admitted.
Her annoyance seemed to pass. “So, what’s it to you, anyway?” she asked.
“What’d you hit him with?”
“An ashtray. The stupid fucker backhanded me.”
There was a cut on her lower lip which was still slightly swollen. I touched my own lip, indicating her injury. She responded by bringing her hand up and lightly touching the swollen area. “You want anything else?” she asked, apparently finished with the conversation.
“As a matter of fact, there is something else. I’d like to talk to you when you have a few minutes.”
“I’ll bet you would,” she said, as if she now had me figured out. “That little show last night turn you on?”
She was a straightforward girl. There was no reason not to be straightforward in return. “It is a business matter,” I said, “but not that kind of business. Something you might find to your liking. Just chat with me for a few minutes when you have a break. If you’re not interested, no problem.”
She stared into my eyes for a second or two. “You want to chat with me?”
“I promise to be civilized. If you’re nervous, you can bring an ashtray with you.”
“All right,” she said, having given it whatever thought she felt it required. “I have a break in about fifteen minutes.” She started to walk away, then added over her shoulder, “Try not to get drunk.”
•
I went back to watching the customers, five distinct individuals homogenized by alcohol, then separated again by the same poison into a resigned solitude. They had the look of regulars, but ignored each other, content to mind their drinks. Anything they might have had to say to one another had long ago been drained of interest. Their lives now consisted of the paced administration of a general anesthetic.
Even without the booze in their blood, they were not an appetizing bunch. Not to my taste at all. There are vampires who will drink anyone’s blood. Others who prefer the blood of one sex over the other. Some prefer children. Some fancy specific human types, like intellectuals or athletes. Others dine on specific ethnic groups, believing their blood to possess some desirable quality. For me, it was strictly a matter of practicality. All those subtle distinctions had a serious drawback. The pickier a vampire is, the harder it is to find a suitable meal. And in the final analysis, the connoisseur’s subtleties are mostly pretense. It’s just a way of trying to