When the Last Vampire Dies

Cultural diversity may be taking on a whole new meaning

A few months ago I visited Ft. Lauderdale.

I went there for several reasons — a different environment, a little relaxation, and undistracted time to catch up on a couple writing projects.

At least, that’s what I told my friends. In truth, I’m pretty sure I went looking for a cathartic epiphany.

What I found was a liquor store.

It was one of those unremarkable storefronts tucked between a T-shirt shop and pizza joint.

Not exactly the kind of place I would normally frequent, but it was a block from my hotel and the desk clerk told me they carried a decent brand of Merlot.

Inside, I met a friendly clerk named Marvin, who greeted everyone as they entered and wished them a “good day” as they left. Turns out he was an ex-priest, moonlighting to make a few extra dollars because his day job — painting houses — was slow.

Marvin asked if he could help me find something.

At first, my thoughts went to the metaphysical — perhaps he could offer a little insight on the meaning of life, or at least confirm the Mayan’s predictions for the next decade were all wrong.

I figured it was only natural that a man who had spent most of his life imbibing a single brand of sacramental wine would know more about the abstract than the finer points of the grape.

As I looked through the wine rack, he asked what I did for a living. I told him I was a writer and offered him a bookmark.

“Got any vampires in your books?” His question was curious.

I smiled and explained most of my work was in the paranormal romance, suspense, and science fiction realms and, although the genre certainly included vampires, it wasn’t a prerequisite to make the cut.

“Seems like every new book I see people reading has a vampire in it,” Marvin said. “They’re becoming so commonplace, I wonder if authors aren’t just sticking a few in between the pages because of their popularity. You know, make the doorman at the hotel or a cab driver a closet vampire, and then have them suck a minor character dry before moving on with the rest of the story.”

I rarely talk about how my work compares to the current mainstream, but I could tell he wanted to chat.

After all, maybe an ex-priest turned liquor clerk had his own story to tell.

“Have you ever written a book?” I asked.

He nodded. “I did an alternative take on Saul of Tarsus, before his conversion. I tried to show his softer, more human side. But I couldn’t find a publisher.”

“Did the plot have any vampire characters?” I couldn’t resist.

Marvin grinned and shook his head. “I think if I was going to write another book, I’d do a murder mystery. They seem to sell pretty well. And I’d make vampires a regular part of the population — a minority group, but just as obvious and accounted for as any other race, creed, or color. That way, they’d have to take some responsibility, you know, get a job, pay taxes, join the PTA. Even take turns being a Blockwatch monitor.”

“And you think that would help sell your book?” I asked.

“Maybe, but only at first. In the long run, making vampires a commonly accepted element in society would eventually reduce their importance, and they’d fade into the shadows — no pun intended. Over time, we’d lose our fascination with pale skin, drinking blood, and sleeping in coffins all day. Boredom would run its natural course, and soon we’d be done with the vampire craze.”

“I suppose.” I paid for my bottle of Merlot and started to leave.

“Yep,” he said, “first we take out the vampires, then we go after the zombies.”

I thanked Marvin for the conversation and waved goodbye, wondering if there was a place for his unique and quirky character in one of my upcoming book projects.

Back in my room, after two glasses of wine, I began to think about the consequences of allowing vampires — or zombies — to become respected members of society, letting them tap into social security, become Scout leaders, and take over the night shift at Walmart.

It might not be so bad.

Maybe Marvin the ex-priest was right.

As our fascination with the undead waned in proportion to their commonality, their ability to seduce us with unexplainable consistency would become a predictable constant, eventually relegating them to a forgotten curiosity — much like lava lamps and pet rocks.

In the meantime, I’m staying with living, breathing protagonists — at least until they tell me otherwise.

© 2020 Jaye Frances. All Rights Reserved.

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Jaye Frances is the author of the suspense thriller series, World Without Love. Storyteller, truth-seeker, and optimist, Jaye explores relationships, philosophy, and the complexities of life — a day at a time.