A Quick Note on the Vampires

I live in a small town about 20 miles southwest of anywhere you've probably ever heard of. It's a place full of cutesy little charms, shops and neighbors and church festivals and gossip. Mine is a ramshackle, aged farmhouse, perched on what was once the end of town proper but sitting now a stones throw from the McMansions that stand in for progress in a place like this.

Friends who visit never fail to be charmed by the "aw-shucks" aura of our surroundings. It's like the spirit of old Norm Rockwell hisself oozes up and out of the cobblestone pedestrian walkways, infecting everyone with dewy nostalgia simply because there isn't a Starbucks or a Pottery Barn within eyeshot. Here, folks look you in the eye and greet you with a kindly "hello." Here, folks remember your first name.

Which would all be pretty bucolic if it weren't for the goddamned vampires.

Oh, we've got nothing against diversity, though truth be told, there's not a whole lot of it to be found out here. Among our 6,000 or so residents are about 5,800 direct descendants of Norway. I'm a brunette, which on an average day makes me stand out like a gangsta rapper among the flaxen headed denizens of Main Street.

Still, it makes us all a little nervous when, just after sundown, those ashen faced ghouls slink out into town. I tried being friendly at first, tried greeting 'em with a smile and a sincere "how's it goin'?" I mean, hell, they're neighbors, and just because they feast on the blood of the innocent doesn't give me some high and mighty right to judge.

But I'm surely not a glutton for punishment, and after three or four times of just getting a cold, glassy eyed stare in return for my kindness, I have to admit, I turned the cold shoulder right back on them. Hell, I could walk right over one of those God forsaken creatures as they scramble after a cat or a squirrel for a snack now, and I wouldn't give 'em the time of day. No sir.

Now I suppose I should stop here and tell you a thing or two relative to what these people are really like. Again, I hate to judge, and I don't mean to burst anyone's bubble, but these are not the pretty, teenaged vampires that are all the rage nowadays in your popular culture. No. These are what I guess you would call your traditional vampires--that is, tuxedo and cape clad, widows-peaked and speaking with a damned lisp in some sort of thick eastern European accent. In other words, the last guy you want to get behind in the checkout line over to the Kwik Trip when he's lilting his way through the numbers he wants on his Megabucks play and the 17-year old kid behind the counter has absolutely not a clue what he's saying.

Oh, and needless to say, good luck finding garlic anywhere within three counties these days. My kids won't even eat my spaghetti since these children of the night appeared on the scene. Too bland, they say. Too bland. Like it's my fault.

That aside, though, it's a right friendly little place to live. We can step out and see the stars at night, and in a few weeks, we'll all gather in the middle of town for the lighting of the village Christmas tree. The community band will play, we'll drink hot cider and talk about how, well, we might have vampires but at least we don't have the blacks.