Are You Kosher? (8 page)

Chapter 16

Vampires Are Immortal

Being immortal is a very relative term, especially when referring to my kind. I’ve mentioned that there are times that vampires have to be particularly careful. You know by now that the myth of our dying in the sun is not true, but I also said that the sun does leave us in a somewhat weakened state.

There are certain things that we can’t control. For example, if some crazy shmuck comes at me with a stake and pierces my heart, I’m done for. There is nothing that can be done, no matter what time of day it is. If, by some extreme set of circumstances, I should be beheaded, let’s just say that when the sun goes down, my head is not going to magically grow back.

Drinking the blood of mortals makes us immortal only in the sense that it perpetuates our lives, and as I’ve stated earlier, gives us a little of what the mortals are. After the initial attributes of the feasting subject wear off, we are left with the strength of that individual, which is why we almost exclusively feast on the young, healthy, and vibrant. Sometimes, however, drinking blood presents its own problems.

There was a time when we could feast without a care in the world, but times change and unfortunately for us, our eating habits had to adapt as well. For centuries, we could feast whenever we wanted and wherever we wanted, as long as we were discreet about it. But as the population of mankind increased, so, too, did deadly disease.

The Black Plague significantly changed things for all of us. People literally were dropping like flies, and even vampires were not immune. Many of my kind who enjoyed daylight feastings were unwittingly drinking from those who had become infected, thus making them infected. Now, many things that hurt us in daylight miraculously heal once the sun sets, but when it comes to blood-borne illnesses, that is a completely different story. The plague may not have been blood-borne, but when you drink the blood of a mortal with a disease, for you it’s blood-borne.

Feasting times needed to become restricted to the evening, and during the time of the Plague, that was difficult since most people stayed within the confines of their homes as night fell. Hence the term the “Great Famine.” Say that to any vampire and he will know exactly what you are talking about. If you did not indulge in human food, you were not going to last very long and the truth is, many of my kind did not. Another problem was that with the lack of mortal blood comes a weakness of the body that for a vampire can be deadly. Only the truly strong vampires survived that time.

The Spanish Flu was no picnic either, both literally and physically. People would leave their homes in the morning and be dead by afternoon. Once again, we vampires had to be careful. If you were lucky enough to find someone out in the evening after sunset, you took full advantage of the opportunity. In the evening, if you did so happen upon someone who was infected, the worst thing that would happen would be a really bad case of gas or perhaps the “runs.” AIDS has also been a little bit of a reality check for all parties concerned and much more difficult to spot among potential feasting victims. For some reason, however, this does not seem to affect vampires like other epidemics have in the past. We still get sick from it, but it is more like a really bad stomach flu that goes away in a couple of days. I can’t explain it. I’m sure that liberal scientists will tell you that it is because AIDS was a manufactured disease created by Ronald Reagan. If that is true, thank G-d his people were incompetent.

I have lost many friends over the centuries to careless feasting and it has, in a very sobering way, made me appreciate my mortality. That’s right, I said mortality. The thing about being a vampire is that we are immortal but not invincible. If I were, I would parade through a white supremacist neighborhood in black face, wearing a yarmulke and a pink tutu, during broad daylight. But as I said, we need to be careful in the daylight, and yes, we have to control our behavior. That is why most of the vampires inhabiting the earth today do not pose any real threat to you.

I can respect the fact that my immortality is a very rare and special gift and sometimes a royal pain in the tuchas. I also know that eventually my time on this earth will end. Either I will get careless in my feasting or perhaps some lunatic will finally drive the stake through my heart that I sometimes pray for when I get into an argument with Bubbe.

Like I said, we are immortal, not invincible. I still don’t understand the “undead” phrase to describe my kind, but to each his own. Immortality is not all that it is cracked up to be. Believe it or not, it can get quite lonely. Thankfully, I have my mother and Bubbe. We look out for each other. We may drive each other crazy, but what family doesn’t? Vampires really are not that much different from mortals. Granted, you will never be as sexy as I am, or immortal for that matter, but I can guarantee that at the end of the day, you know what’s important. It’s not your own sense of mortality, but your sense of family. If you can look back on your life and know for a fact that there are at least two people who truly love you, then immortality is just a bonus.

Aitz chaim he
, my friends.

Chapter 17

Yankel

I would be remiss if I did not take the time to tell you about the best friend I have ever had. As you can imagine, over the centuries there have been many whom I considered friends while some were nothing more than acquaintances, but when I reflect on my life, I can single out the absolutely most loyal, loving, and reliable friend of my life.

About six years ago, I was coming home from a late-night feasting of an absolutely beautiful Jewish girl whose parents were vacationing in the Catskills. Jackie Mason was performing, if I’m not mistaken. A light snow was starting to fall, and in the glow of the street lights the neighborhood took on an almost romantic feel. I love it when snow falls in the city. Everything seems quiet and relaxed, the white of the snow makes the world look clean and new. On nights like this, I tend to go out of my way to spend more time outside. I am convinced that the snow fell this night for a reason.

Instead of taking my usual route home, I crisscrossed the blocks of my neighborhood, occasionally looking up to the sky to watch the delicate flakes make their way to the ground. That’s when I heard the crying.

It was the sound of fear and discomfort, it was heartbreaking, and more importantly, it was not the sound of human crying. I looked around to see where it was coming from. The sound of desperation was tugging at my heart; there was no possible way that I could ignore it. I stood still for what seemed like an eternity, hoping to get a lock on where it was coming from when, to my disgust, I pinpointed the sound coming from a garbage can across the street. Can you believe that? A fucking garbage can! What the hell is wrong with humanity?

I reached the can and lifted its lid; inside was a Siamese kitten stuffed in a shoebox and covered in trash. He could not have been more than six weeks old. He was just a baby. My heart melted and at the same time was full of rage. How can anyone be so cruel? I picked him up and held him close to me; the poor thing was trembling. He was cold, and he smelled of urine and trash. I tore open the lining of my coat and gently tucked him in to try and get him warm, when I heard the troglodyte yelling at me from his porch.

“Hey, jerk off! What the fuck are you doin’ over there?” this low-brow yelled.

“Someone stuffed a kitten in your trash can,” I replied

“Put him back, he’s not yours!” he shouted.

“He’s cold and scared,” I reasoned. “I’m going to take him home and get him some food.”

“I said ‘put him back!’” he yelled in a more menacing tone. “He’s being punished.”

He’s being punished?
I thought to myself.
What the hell did that mean?
“Do you mean you put him here?” I asked.

“He was scratching the furniture, so put him back! He’s my cat!”

G-d must love stupid people, that’s why he made so many of them. “If you want him, come and get him, tough guy.” I replied.

I took off my coat and gently placed it on the ground to keep this poor baby warm. The poster boy for the humane society, in an unanticipated burst of energy, ran down the porch steps with a baseball bat and swung it so hard across my back that it split in two. Happy Chanukah to me. Sometimes it is really good to be a vampire.

This shmuck’s jaw dropped as I slowly stood and smiled at him; remember, it was after dark, you have to try a lot harder than that to hurt me. The beating that ensued was what he deserved. In retrospect, I probably could have done a lot worse, but self control got the better of me. Aside from being very strong, vampires are also incredibly quick when the need arises. He never knew what hit him. By the time his beating was over, he was left with a broken jaw, and both arms, legs, and hands were shattered to a point where he will be in therapy for years to come. I stripped him down to his underwear and stuffed him in the same garbage can and told him that he was being punished, next time stick to scratching the furniture. The following morning, he was released from the can by the good people of the New York City Sanitation Department.

I put my coat back on and whispered soft, soothing words to the kitten all the way home. It seemed to be working, because I could hear him purr. This almost made me want to go back for seconds on the beating, but this little one was in desperate need of some milk and some of Bubbe’s leftovers.

On the way home, I even started calling him Yankel; don’t ask me why, I just like that name. I kept one hand stuffed in my coat rubbing him to try and sooth him and continued to tell him how much he was going to like his new family.

Bubbe was awake and was eyeballing me when I got home. I carefully took off my coat and pulled Yankel out, cradling him like a baby. He was grabbing my fingers with his tiny paws and giving me what any cat lover would know as “love bites.”

The old lady’s eyes immediately went wide and she asked, “What is that? A cat?”

“No Bubbe, it’s a knish.” I responded.

“Don’t even think about bringing him in my home,” she said.

“Too late, Bubbe, he’s already in and he’s staying,” I stated matter of factly. A very bold move I might add. “Don’t worry, you won’t even know he’s here.”

There is one very important thing that I have learned about cats over the years. You can try to control them to the best of your ability, but ultimately, you work for them. Another thing that I have learned, is that you can choose the cat, but when it is all said and done, they are the ones that choose you. Don’t get me wrong, I know for a fact that Yankel loves me, but in spite of her protests about him coming into the house, that little man adores Bubbe. She will never acknowledge this to anyone, but the old gal loves him too. I’ve caught her on many occasions feeding cooked chicken livers and whenever I come into the room she always yells about how he is underfoot. Right Bubbe, I suppose he cooked them himself.

I hear her talking to him in Yiddish. She is convinced that he is bilingual; that is why, I guess, that she calls him shmuck, or sometimes, “The Bob.” According to my mother, Bob was a former acquaintance of Bubbe’s with whom she was quite taken. You see, Bubbe truly believes that she is insulting him and that he understands her. Like I’ve said before, the old lady is finally losing it.

In spite of her insults and complaints, I know that she is crazy about him. I remember how hysterical she was when he had an eye infection and threatened the vet with dismemberment if he was not healed. One time, he got out of the house and she walked around the neighborhood shaking a bag of cat food while calling out his name. When he showed up at home later that evening, it might have been one of the few times I ever saw her cry. That night, he got latkes. I have come home on many occasions and caught her napping in her favorite chair with Yankel curled up comfortably on her lap, her hand resting gently on his little thigh. I’ve seen her sneak a little piece of brisket or some roast chicken when she doesn’t think anyone is watching. He watches
Wheel of Fortune
with her. He stares at her fish tank for hours on end and even starts to lick the glass and she calls him her ‘little man’ and shayna punim and tells him what a good boy he is for helping his Bubbe clean. When she goes into her room, he stands on his hind legs and tries to turn the doorknob. He is a very special cat.

It’s not all about his relationship with Bubbe though. He sleeps with me every night. He knows when I am in a bad mood and could really use one of those famous feline head-butts. He looks at me with those sparkling blue eyes that convey not only love, but the expression of saying “Thank you for saving my life. Thanks for the great food and all of the comfortable places to sleep. Thank you for the crazy Jewish lady with the wooden spoon and the soft lap. And thanks a lot for beating the shit out of that troglodyte.”

He is loyal, loving, and reliable. He is the best friend I have ever known. I love him as if he were my own son; you cat lovers will know what I am talking about. I want to do everything in my power to keep him happy and ensure that he lives as long as he possibly can. I can’t walk by a pet store without buying him a toy or a bag of treats. No matter what I give him, he is always grateful, or maybe just really polite. I feel like I need to do something really great for him and every other animal that has had a rough start to its life.

Maybe I’ll pay a little visit to Michael Vick.