The Cerebral Catalyst

The old man stood outside the doorway to the blood bank. His eyes were dark and hazy. The day was clear and there was just a moment of hesitation before I made my way past his unmoving figure. Before I could enter, he raised his pale, wrinkled hand and whispered, "Give me a moment of your time, young man."

I stopped and simply nodded my head, because I had always been taught to respect my elders and in general agreed with that notion.

"Are you going to donate your blood in there?" his raspy voice, a touch louder, inquired.

"Yes, I usually stop in before they have their drive," I explained, "It's less crowded."

"Ghouls!" The old man coughed through clenched teeth.

"Excuse me?"

"Son, you shouldn't give away a part of yourself. Not while you're still alive," his words were picking up speed like a politician on the verge of making an emphatic point, "anyhow, it all goes to the vampires."

The expression on my face must have clued him in to my thoughts at that moment.

"I can tell you are a nonbeliever. Probably even enjoy going to the picture show and watching them suck their victims dry."

"I just — look, I should really just get this over with. I have this—"

"Nonsense. You listen and you listen good. These places are everywhere. Every country has them. Look it up, there are hundreds of blood bank associations. They have blood drives even without any possible reason. Sure some of it goes to the poor fool whose wife stabbed him in just the wrong place, but I will tell you where the blood goes. It goes to the dark underground empire of the lamia. There are so many now that they are dependent on these blood banks." He paused as if he was satisfied that the point he wanted to convey had been translated well into my understanding.

I touched my forehead lightly and looked away for a second. I had a mixture of curiosity and contempt within my thoughts. It was difficult to choose the right words. Finally, I responded, "Thank you for that information."

"Are you mocking me? Young man, I am risking my own life by giving you what you so casually call information."

"No, sir. It's just all so stunning."

"Stunning? That's nothing. The stories I could tell you!" He raised his arms and seemed about to walk away but then turned back and urged me: "Just go on with your senseless life and stay away from these fraudulent ghouls."

Seeing the intensity of his resolve, I decided to at least pretend to agree with his insanity and walk over to some shop or restaurant until he had cleared himself from the entrance.

Just then, as fate would have it, an employee of the blood bank walked out onto the pavement. She took one look at me and quickly leered at the poor old man with deluded thoughts and wrinkled hands. Her gaze seemed to thunder through him and I saw that his complexion turned pallid. Then, he hurried away with steps too fast for a man his age. I started to concern myself with the worry that he might trip and stumble.

"Was he bothering you?" The woman with barroom-green eyes asked with a voice as soft as new flowers.

"No. No. Actually, he was just telling me—" My heart skipped a beat as if imploring me to lie upon the impossible chance that there was something to the old wretch's words. "He was trying to convince me that he was not a drunk and that he just needed some money for a meal."

"Well, I've seen him around here sometimes and I think we could help him but he always runs away as if someone were chasing him." She turned her head in the direction that the elderly man had fled and shrugged her sweater-clad shoulders. "Why don't you come in, now?"

"Oh, no, in all this commotion I realized that I really should have eaten better before coming in to donate. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon." In reality, I could have fed myself better on that particular day.

"Well, we'll be happy to serve you and you will be doing your fellow citizen a fine favor." She smiled and I thanked her before heading down the street.

I kept thinking, "How did she know I was about to go in?" Beyond that, I pondered over all that the old man had said.

I was almost twenty-seven and had never needed donated blood. I didn't even know a single soul who had asked for or needed donated blood. There was a vague memory of some distant relative that had had a transfusion... Years ago... Of course, that was at a hospital. Did not hospitals have their own blood? My frenzied mind, due to a lack of personal experience, tried to recollect the wisdom of TV shows or movies dealing with hospitals... I could not think of any character saying, "Nurse, call the blood bank, we're going to need extra sauce on this recipe!"

It shocked me to consider that the old man might have been... No, I was allowing myself to get carried away with fear, with fantasy...

I was simply in a position of ignorance. I did not know. In different circumstances, I might have easily known for a fact that there was indeed an urgent need for donated blood. I had, in a sense, just been lucky or sheltered from such desperate dealings. Yes, I argued myself into a more sensible reasoning.

I will admit that it was much easier to think that blood banks were a necessity for modern society than to think that an underground empire of vampires had concocted the elaborate scheme of donation centers and drives.

The night was well settled by the time I got home and the city hummed the usual bright neon jazz. I tried to distract myself with other thoughts and concerns, with television... Somehow, the strange dealings of that late afternoon continued to stroll through the avenues of my contemplation.

I had an urge to telephone someone and try to dissect the corpse of my confusion, but the urge was tempered with the nearly certain knowledge that telling this story would provoke questions about my own sanity.

My stomach petitioned for at least the portion of meal, but I settled on a beer and went to bed well before the ten o'clock news could inform me of the five-day forecast.

I drifted off into sleep, having convinced myself that I had no reason to concern myself with matters of blood banks or vampires. Indeed, even if it was true, what could I — a simple sentry at the Computer Museum — do?

Inside the invisible walls of a dream, I felt the grip of desperation. I dreamt I was still in front of the TV, but wondering where I was. Those barroom-green eyes staring at me from the flat screen. Fear made me tremble and I felt the shivering shake me like settled dust suddenly disturbed by an unexpected windstorm.

I awoke hungrier than I had been before the beer. It was still before midnight and I stayed awake, looking out the window. All I could see were her green eyes. Larger than life itself.

I had some cereal and fruit, decided that it was just an episode brought on by beer on an almost empty stomach, and went back to bed.

The morning found me running late with no time to stop at the coffee shop for my breakfast bagel; there were just enough minutes to get to another six-hour workday, to stand here and there dressed in the dull, dark gray uniform while watching the pretty skirts drift by the electronic displays (that is if it was a good day).

As I rushed out of the apartment, there was hardly a thought about vampires or anything unpleasant at all. As I did up the locks, all I could think about was how to get an early break before lunch in order to get a quick breakfast.

As I started for the stairs, I noticed the old man. He was hunched over. Beaten, apparently. I thought to flee past him, but I could not leave a wounded soul — even a deluded one — to possibly die there just moments from my door.

As I neared, I noticed that he had indeed been beaten. There was also a slow trickle of blood flowing from his hand and making tiny polka dot patterns upon the top rungs of the steps.

"Sir, can you hear me?" I asked in a hurried voice, "I am going to call an ambulance."

He tried to lift his bleeding hand, but instead turned his bruised head up and looked at me with those dark, hazy eyes that now seemed to glow with hopelessness and uttered abrasively, "No. They've already gotten to me. If you call, they will feed me to their cannibal sect or worse — they will make me one of the walking dead."

The certainty with which he conveyed his pained thoughts gave me pause. I did not want him in my house, but what other option was there? To carry him to my workplace? I invited, "You can stay in my place for a while."

"No, son, I am not going to make it much longer. I followed you yesterday and then went into the corner coffee shop. I sat around there for a long while, hoping you might drop by." His breathing seemed to fail him, but he pressed on: "I wanted to explain things better. When I got on the bus, she was there. The one with those green eyes. You saw her yesterday. She was with two other ghouls and they attacked and tortured me almost as soon as I got to my stop."

I had lost track of the worry over being late or how to get a break before lunch. He continued, "They suspect you know. I didn't tell them about our conversation, but I am sure they suspect you of knowing. You must go back to the blood bank and give them your donation as if nothing was wrong."

My haunted evening, the sound of his words... Something about it all made me believe in this dying old man that seemed only to want to let me in on his wisdom and now wanted to protect me from harm.

"I'll call in to work sick and give them a visit after breakfast, but you need to get help."

He bowed his head as slow as a sunset. Chin to chest, he whispered, "I am going to die here, young man, just move me to another floor and they'll think we never saw each other again."

I thought of my own father and how the cancer ate away at his spirit until there seemed to be only bone with the flesh just barely hanging on. Tears started to cloud my eyes as I noticed his slouch dropped further... The final rug pulled from under his elderly shoes.

I carried the body down two flights and rang the doorbell of a Spanish housewife who would call the authorities and have no connection to me.

I cleared the thin pool of blood near the top of the stairs on my floor with Windexed newspaper and flung the crunched up, blood-tinted rag out my living room window before calling in sick to work.

At the coffee shop, I had a more than a decent breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes. Some pancakes to boot. The confusion and sorrow seemed to drift away into the restaurant chatter and mix with the everyday happenings of an overcast city morning.

Walking to the blood bank, I was prepared to forget it all and pretend nothing unusual had happened. I was much relieved to find that the woman whose eyes frequented my vision was not there. I went through with my donation.

As I sauntered back home, I thought I saw the old man on this corner or that. It started to rain a few blocks before I found myself all the way back. I ran from the descending water, I ran from everything that had occurred, I ran from my own returning confusion and sorrow...

I rushed inside, groping frantically for the key, and locked myself away from the world for the evening. The usual bright neon jazz of the city was humming. I wondered if I could ever dance to it again.

______________________________________
Julio Peralta-Paulino is a former contributor to The Cerebral Catalyst and he is currently at work on several projects. Some of his publication credits include Write Between The Lines, Jack Magazine, Segue, Chronogram, Stylus Poetry Journal, Skive Magazine, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), Eclectica, Words Dance, Chick Flicks, Locust, Interpoetry, Erosha, and The Green Silk Journal. Upcoming publications include The Southern Ocean Review, Subtle Tea, The Rose & Thorn, and Smokebox. His official site is http://inkrealm.blogspot.com.

posted 10.30.06.

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