Fit To love - Part 4

I was in the best shape of my life and I had already had coffee with a beautiful girl. Not bad for three weeks of hard work. And, yet…  I ached with love.

Does that sound desperate? Okay. But I had waited this long and, if it took a little longer, so what? 

I worked hard for the next few days. The sweat flew! I strained with the incredible weight of the world, and of my dreams. 

I began to think I was taking this a little too seriously, if not a bit too dramatically. Was I wrong? No. Just delirious.

My iPod was full of inspirational messages and affirmations. I’m da one! Here I’m is. You can’t always get what you want. But if you… 

I kept my eyeballs peeled for an opportunity. The right time. The right girl. The right song. Do you love me? Now, that I can … 

Watch me now. Uhh! There’s a lot to be said for exercise. No matter what. Right now, my endorphins were swimming with the whales.

It began to seem like I had been at this gym forever. And, yet, it had only been a month. $25! Okay, $26.75. Now, that’s a deal. 

Silent TVs hung from the ceiling. Lots of them. I got the news. I learned how to sauté. I was getting caught up on the 80s! The 90s! 

Politics became just a bunch of guys moving their mouths, saying nothing. It seemed like everyone else was a cop or dissecting a body.

On one screen, to keep us in line, I suppose, were two very hot babes and a hunky guy, exercising near a beach in Mexico. Or, Hawaii. Or…

Love was burning a hole in my pocket. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. But it was overpowering. It was as if…

As if, Little Richard had just appeared on top of the piano. As if, Caesar had just split Gaul into four pieces.  As if, General Sherman had just set fire to the Dairy Queen on the other side of town. As if, 6 were 9. As if, grits were groceries. 

This love was a love with no object. A love with no subject. A burning hunk of love. A groovy kind of love. No present and no past.

There was a love inside of me, desperate to get out. Desperate to get out and have some fun. Desperate, but not in a weird way. 

I’m an optimist. I took stock. Young, handsome, and hopeful. It would take more than this to discourage me. Loyal, brave, clean, kind… 

Cheerful, courteous, friendly, helpful, obedient, reverent, and trustworthy. Does that sound too good to be true? Okay, forget obedient.

You might think that in a context like this, love was happening to everyone, all the time. You’d be wrong. That only happens in fiction. 

For the rest of us, love is usually going down one street, while we’re going up the other. It’s going home, when we just got here. 

Hope abounds, but reality is like dirt. Easy to come by, but hard to wash off. With that in mind, I headed for the showers.

Fit To Love - Part 3

 

This posting is a continuation of a novel, Fit To Love, that I am writing on Twitter.  It’s here, in case you are not a Twitterer.  Many are not.  On Twitter, each entry can be only 140 characters in length, including spaces.  This is a structure that requires a different kind of writing than any other.  Hmmm… 

As our last installment ended, our hero had been working out, developing himself into a man whose muscles called out to the softer parts of a woman and drew her to him like a magnet.  Or, so he thought.   So far, he has struck out at each encounter, but he is hopeful and determined.

The first three entries are in the Twitter format to give you a feel for this unique medium.

Heck, I didn’t want to be like that. I saw myself as debonair, suave, sophisticated, and a prince among men. Oh, who was I kidding? 7:36 AM Aug 15th, 2009 via twhirl

I WAS debonair, suave, sophisticated, and some kind of royalty. And, yet, just a guy. A guy who longed for a girl. I mean, woman. 7:59 AM Aug 16th, 2009 via twhirl

Exercise, for whatever purpose, is a noble thing. No matter your intentions, your heart will always benefit. Mine was pounding. 8:08 AM Aug 17th, 2009 via twhirl

It seemed everywhere I looked, each possibility was working out. At the treadmill. At the rowing machine. With the dumbbells.  

This was encouraging. Grandpa, a dumbbell himself, had always said, keeping everlastingly at it brought success.  He might not have had this in mind.

He would have thought I was crazy – he always did – but so what? This was wisdom in action.

I refined my search for love. I developed a set of principles. I decided I would not stand for failure. Love would conquer all. 

The next few times, at the club, I worked on myself, so to speak. In particular, my abs, which were more keg, than six-pack. 

Sure, I saw there were gorgeous women everywhere. But I was doing everything I could to prevent the kind of rejection I had gotten so far. 

I tried to keep my head down and my mind focused. One, two, three. One, two, three. That’s how elementary, it’s gonna be.

Simplicity was the key. Keep breathing. Don’t stop. Till you get enough. Ok, I wasn’t swearing, but these tunes were making me crazy. 

As I gazed at the mirror, I could see the progress I was making. I could also see a blond, with long legs, on the bike behind me.  

She was pedaling, but getting nowhere. Perhaps the time was right. I felt good. I would go over there and end her loneliness.

I walked nearer and gave a small wave. She looked at me and pedaled faster. Was I scary or something? What could I do? I smiled.

She skidded to a stop, leaned forward, and asked, ‘Was I going too fast?‘ Who was the flirt here? “No, but don’t let it happen again.” 

She tried not to smile. Wow, I was good! “Maybe we could ride together sometime? Or, get a cup of coffee?” Smooth devil. 

Our plan was to meet at Vic’s the next morning, before our workouts. I couldn’t sleep the night before. I had been practicing coffee.

I splashed on, “Eau de Love”, and pulled up my collar. I brushed my teeth and turned my eyebrows on extra cool. I headed out. 

The sun! Morning! I felt like a million bucks. Coffee was now as important to me as it was to normal people. Wow! Let the love begin. 

She was beautiful. She was a treat for sore eyes. No, a feast. Her complexion was creamy. Her hair was like frosting. I was hungry. 

Hungry for love. She smelled like coffee. No, that must have been what we ordered. That, and a couple of muffins.

The first thing she said was, Hi. It was like music. She kept talking and I was floating, like Pepe Le Pew, upon the sound of her voice.

I tried to tell her of my feelings. Of my endless, so far, search for love. She talked on, as if I wasn’t even there. She took a breath. 

I jumped in, but she blinked her eyes and asked for another muffin. I got it. She smiled and began again. I gazed at her, silent and sad.

I guess that, back at the gym, she had been exercising too hard to talk and now had returned to her regular M.O. OMG! Was she 4 real? 

After about 45 minutes, she looked at me, a little startled. Like I was someone she hadn’t yet been introduced to. Well, we did just meet.

 

House MD - Vampire Killer

 

 

“What’s House going to think of this?”

“His process is always going to be a mystery to me.  And, I really don’t care.”

Foreman went back to his reading.  It looked suspiciously like a comic book.

People had been dropping like flies all week, not that that was unusual.  To quote House, “There’re always more where they came from.”   

He was expected back any minute.  Dr. House had been on a forced vacation.  Orders from Cuddy.  No one knew where he was or how to get in touch with him, they only knew he wasn’t at the beach.  It was February and House hated the water.  “It’s wet,” he once famously explained.

“Did someone die in here?  I don’t recognize any signs of life.”  House stood in the door, leaning on his cane.  He had three additional days of beard and a scowl on his face. 

Foreman actually sat up – not a sign of respect, he was just reaching for a soda - and said facetiously, “Welcome back.”  He started to fill House in on the latest run of disease. 

“Just give me the good ones.”

Foreman looked over at Chase and began to relate how there had been four patients with unusual symptoms.  “Heavy loss of blood, puncture marks, and enlarged lymph nodes.”

House didn’t move.  “How enlarged?”

“Out of the ordinary.  Two of them died.”

“From node fat?  You guys are getting careless.”

Foreman took a deep breath, trying to control his temper.  He was already exasperated and House had just gotten back. 

Just then, Cuddy came up behind House, said “My office.” She turned and walked away.  House rolled his eyes and swung around, leaving the two doctors shaking their heads.

House closed the door to her office and said, ”I missed you, Sweetie.”

Cuddy ignored this and slapped a file down onto the desk for House to inspect.   He winked at her and leaned toward the file.  After a second, he sat down hard, in the chair.  He absently rubbed his bad leg.  He reached into his pocket, took out a small plastic pill bottle and emptied it into his mouth.

“Stop that!”

“Cuddy, this is serious.”

“Dead usually is.”

House shrugged.  “Maybe.” 

He turned and went to his office to think.

He closed the door and pulled the curtains.  He stared into the darkness.  He had hoped to never see a case like this.   But the file had said it all.  His mind traveled back to the scene of his accident.  The accident that was the cause of everything – his limp, his addiction, his attitude.  Well, maybe not his attitude, he had always been bent out of shape.

He had always said it was a motorcycle accident that had injured his leg, but there, in the darkness, he relived that moment the way it had really happened.  He was hiking in the Poconos, alone, the way he liked it.  It was getting dark and he was on his way back to his motorcycle (that part was true), when he heard a noise just off the trail.  He stopped and called out.  After a moment, he began walking again, and then two shadows appeared a few yards in front of him. 

One was man, he knew enough anatomy for that identification, and the other was a small dog.  The man was in black and the dog was a small mutt of some kind, also black.  He came closer and saw to his horror that both man and dog had eyes that were red and almost glowing and that they were breathing heavily.  On closer inspection, he saw that their mouths were stained with blood.

For a second, House considered the symptoms, but before he could reach any conclusion, the dog leapt for him and sunk his long incisors into House’s right leg.  Everything sped up then and all of them were screaming.

With a kick, House sent the dog flying and ran past the man toward his bike.  Luckily, it was pointed in the right direction and the engine started immediately.  House raced away, the blood gushing from his leg and covering the motorcycle. 

He rushed to the hospital, was treated, but never told anyone the real story.  He never had.  He tried to forget it and had almost convinced himself that he had actually been in an accident. 

Years passed, but now, faced with medical evidence that only he was crazy enough to recognize, he realized he had to do something to put an end to it.  He knew the truth and knew he couldn’t deny it any longer.  He had to stop this, before it grew into a deadly pandemic.  He was no longer just House MD, he must now become, House – Vampire Killer.

John Wayne - Demon Hunter

 

“I’ll tell you this, but don’t make too much of it.”

He cocked his head my way and, for a moment, squinted imposingly at me.  He turned then and looked away from the campfire, out into the darkness.  I had admired this man my entire life.  He was an icon.  A cowboy.  A soldier.  A hard-bitten, hard drinking, survivor of many battles and betrayals.  He always got his man and he always got even.

We had finished the interview that afternoon and I was going back to New York the next morning. 

 I assumed it was just a story.

“Well, kid, it sounds like one, but … “ He began coughing.  This went on for a while and I thought about the distance to the nearest town. 

He stopped at last and took a slug from the bottle we were passing back and forth.

He nodded his thanks. 

“We were in Europe filming The Longest Day.   It was wet as hell and wasn’t getting any better.  We couldn’t shoot and were just hanging around waiting.  At this point, we had been drunk for a couple of days.  This scrawny little kid came up and started pulling on my sleeve.  His English was terrible, but we got the idea that he needed our help. 

“He took me and Bob Mitchum to a little house.  A shack, really, and a woman, good looking, too, who spoke a little better than he did, told us a wild tale about some guy who lived in their village, a big shot.  Had a big house and all.

“The kid said his dad had gone to see this guy and never returned.  Bob and I rolled our eyes and told him he’d probably be back soon.  The kid and the woman were really worked up and convinced us to go see this guy.  What the hell, we thought.  We weren’t doing anything anyway.  Maybe we could help?

“By the time we got to the big house, it was dark and the weather had gotten worse, if that was possible.  We knocked at this huge door that looked as if it had been there forever.”

He started coughing again and I wondered if he was really sick or doing this for effect.  He took another swig.  He was quiet, immobile, as if he were looking into the past.

“And… “ I prompted.

“Well, we were kept waiting there, while the butler, or whatever he was, went to get the guy.  He finally appeared and looked like Halloween, only scarier.   Cape, black hair, the whole thing.  Bob started laughing and said, ‘Count, we’re very glad to meet you.’  He was a tall guy and bowed toward us and smiled.  His teeth looked huge and sharp.   His gums were blood red.  The boy and his mother hid behind us.

“Well, as I said, I was pretty looped, but this guy scared me plenty and I wanted to get the hell out of there.   I blurted out, ‘What about his dad?’

“The count, or whatever he was, drew himself up and his smile turned nasty.  He raised his arms and was holding the cape out at his sides, like he was going to take off or something.

“Bob, in that smooth manner and deep voice he had, slowly buttered him up and we made our apologies and left.  I felt like a little girl, but we almost ran back to the village.   That’s the way the whole thing started.”

“Jesus!”

“Jesus is right.  Scared the hell out of me.  We talked about it all night and went back the next day, but the whole placed was closed up.  It was as if no one had ever been there. 

“Before we went back to the States, I promised both of them I’d try to find out what had happened.  That was the beginning of something that has been as important to me as my career and has been a part of my life ever since.  I’m not going to tell you anymore than that.  So, don’t even bother asking.”

“Are you kidding?  What a story!”

He looked at me, nailing me with his good eye. 

“Kid, it isn’t a story.  And, if anyone asks me about it, I’ll deny it.”

That’s the way we left it.  I thought about it all the way back to New York.   It was unbelievable and, maybe he was just putting me on, but it’s something I’ve never forgotten.  It’s haunted me ever since.

The Case of the Mysterious Kegger

The Hardy Boys - Teenage Demon Hunters

“Do you think that man looks a little strange?” whispered Joe Hardy, as he peeked from behind the curtain of the upstairs bedroom window.  “He looks disturbed.”

The man in question was walking away from their house and appeared hunched over, with the collar of his coat pulled high, near his face.

His brother suggested they go down and ask Aunt Gertrude, “She just talked with him.”

Joe took off and jumped down the stairs, two at a time.  He was blonde, seventeen, and impatient.  His brother, Frank, was a year older, dark-haired and much more mature, though Joe sometimes wanted to debate this point.  For the moment, they were both clueless. 

“Aunt Gertrude, what did that man want?”  Joe blurted out.

“That was no man, Joe.  That was your friend, Chet Morton, and I don’t mind saying he looked terrible.”

“Chet!?” the brothers asked in unison.

“From upstairs, I couldn’t even tell it was him.  He.  Him.  Whatever.”

“He did look strange.” Frank confirmed.

“Well, I didn’t let him in.  He was scaring me.  He was raving about something.  Something about blood and a lot of other disgusting stuff.”  Gertrude, a dark-haired woman, was the sister of Fenton Hardy, the boy’s father.  She lived with them and kept the house.  No one was sure what had happened to the boy’s mother and Fenton would never talk about it.

“Chet?  That doesn’t sound like him.”  Frank wore an expression of concern on his brow.

“I’m not sure it was.” said Aunt Gertrude.

“Gee, G, what do you mean?” Joe asked.

Gertrude just kept shaking her head and stared out the screen door.

The fellows packed a couple of sandwiches and headed out to Chet’s home, on the other side of town.  Bayport had been a quiet place, until the Hardy family moved in.   Had things just started happening or was it the fact that their father was a private detective and the boys had begun helping him, as amateur sleuths?

Chet’s parents were away for the weekend that had just started.  Chet must have been on the lookout for them and met them at the door.  The inside of the house was dark, with all the curtains pulled tight.  Chet didn’t open the screen door and was kind of hidden in the shadows.

Both Frank and Joe thought this was odd, but Chet had always been a little different.

“Hey, guys, come back after dark and let’s have a kegger.” He shut the door  quickly, without giving either of them a chance to speak.  The boys stared at each other.

Frank said, “What an odd thing for Chet to say.”

“Yeah, and he was acting really weird.  I wonder what’s gotten into him.  Aunt Gertrude was right.  He looks terrible.”

“Don’t tell Dad.  We’ll come back tonight and find out what’s wrong.”

The night was a blustery one.  Leaves were blowing by and Joe pulled his jacket closed.  There was barely a moon out and this put both the boys a bit on edge.  When they got to Chet’s, it looked deserted.  The whole house was dark. 

“This is creepy,” whined Joe.

“I guess he’s not home,” said Frank, with a note of relief in his voice.

Just then, the door opened a crack and they heard a voice like Chet’s say, “Come on in.”

They came closer to the darkened house.   They were going up the steps of the porch toward the open door, when they heard a moaning coming from the lilac bushes on the right.  Frank turned and rustled about, but couldn’t see anything.

Joe called, “Hey, Chet!”

It was silent for a moment and then they both heard a shout.  It sounded like Chet.  They rushed in and the door closed behind them, with a slam.  At the same time, in the darkness, a large shadow rushed at them and tackled Joe.  This wasn’t a practical joke on Chet’s part.  Something was really wrong.

Both boys struggled with the shadow and it seemed it was everywhere and possessed superhuman strength.  It was growling and breathing heavily, with breath that could have stopped a clock and them, except, at the moment, time was the least of their worries. 

They caught flashes of what looked like a monster, not Chet.  Whatever it was, it was stronger than both of them together and Frank made the sensible decision to leave.  He managed to trip the beast, grab Joe, and fled through the door.  They didn’t stop running until they got to Willow River road.

Trying to catch his breath, Joe gasped, “That was awful!  I hate Chet.  I’m never going back there.”

Frank, composed, even after the incident, said, “We have to go back.  Chet’s in trouble.”

“He tried to kill us!”

Frank looked Joe straight in the eyes, “He didn’t want to kill us.  He wanted to convert us.  He wanted to bite our necks. “

“You mean…”

Frank nodded somberly, “Yes, Chet is a vampire.  A demon.  A zombie.”

“Hey, I know you never liked him as much as I did, but …”

Without speaking, Frank continued to confront his brother.

Joe turned away and said, “Oh, no.  Not another one?”

Frank nodded again.  “We better get Aunt Gertrude to give us some garlic.”