Debut

"It was a dark and stormy night..." he began. He paused as he heard various couples begin muttering about "cliché's in a low, but very distinguishable, murmur. "Hey, don't give me that attitude," he said, "I can't help that it sounds like a cliché. Such things happen you know. It was dark. It was stormy. It was night. The three things happen together, especially in the winter, and yes, this takes place in the winter."

Looking out at the patrons of the comedy club, he wished heartily that there was an easier way to make a buck. Who knew that vampires still would need to maintain the trappings of modern society; mortgage on the house to keep his coffin -- you really couldn't rent since most landlords came around in daylight to do maintenance, and yes, vampires really did need to avoid the daylight? He still needed a car, which meant a drivers license and insurance -- one couldn't kill traffic cops these days, not like you used to, or so he had heard; they tended to find and execute vampires who did that; it was easy to dust them with sunlight, and no paperwork trail for internal affairs to follow -- just a trail of oily mop water. Yes, food expenses were down -- if you didn't count as expensive the need to wine and dine his dinners as a food expense. He guessed he could try and write it off as entertaining for business, but man, he'd been warned about the blood-sucking IRS.

"It was a dark and stormy night..." he resumed his story somewhat defensively.

"I don't see how a dark and stormy night can be funny..." a patron heckled loudly from the table diagonal left of the stage. "Talk about broads! Now, those broads are funny."

Tom, with his terrific vampire hearing, hearing that could hear a pin drop in the apartment across from his house, really didn't need the loud. He was nervous enough at this career debut, so he tried to continue with his opening joke.

"It was a dark, stormy night" he began again, "when the Polish man met the beautiful lady ..."

"What's with the lady?" the heckler jibbed. "No Polish man's gonna meet a beautiful lady...unless he pays for her," he delivered his punch line.

He realized sadly that the heckler was getting more laughs than he was, and he could see the man in charge of the open microphone checking his watch. He just couldn't mess this up. He needed to get chosen for a permanent spot in the line-up: one of the paid spots.

"If you've let me continue ... " he pleaded, hearing the note of pleading in his voice and hating it. Vampires, Creatures of the Night, are not supposed to plead. Or at least that was what all the movies had told him. He wished vainly that he could sue someone for false advertising as he continued ..."sitting at the bar..."

"So, why the 'dark stormy night' if the broads in a bar?" the hateful voice asked. There ain't no..."

"Be quiet and let the poor man finish his piece," a sweet but slightly inebriated voice from a table in the back corner shouted at the heckler, further demoralizing him. He had always hated being defended by broads. Only weaklings needed to be defended by broads.

Taking a closer look, yes, vampires do have super-vision in the dark, he saw that the voice belonged to some dumpy woman in a house-dress, dressed up with fancy dime-store jewelery in an attempt to make it more appropriate for evening-ware. Her legs were under the table, but he would have laid odds that she would have tan support-hose and mail-order sensible shoes on; they always did. Of the three broads at the table, she was actually the looker.

He paused to regroup as the woman gestured to the waiter, held a quick conversation, and soon another drink appeared next to the seven already waiting on his table next to the stage. At eight bucks a pop -- the bar was making up in drink prices what it didn't charge in cover -- the bar was making money even if he was personally bombing.

"So, the Polish man met this woman in a bar, and it was raining cats and dogs outside ..." Cats and Dogs?... oh my god, another cliché he realized too late.

Another drink appeared on his table, sent by another older woman sitting at a table of older women. If only he could wash all memory of this fiasco away, he thought; yes, aware of yet another cliché. Do I only think in clichés, he wondered?

He tried ignoring and speaking over the heckler; "And the Polish man asked the woman if he could buy her..."

"You got that right!" shouted the heckler. "Told you that was the only way a Polish man's gonna get a broad." And again, the crowd laughed... at him.

He watched the time-keeper check his watch, and gesture to the next man to get ready.

"No! It's not fair!" he thought, quickly resuming the story, "a drink? And the lady answered, 'I don't drink, but I'll have a virgin Mary."

"If there's one around, I'll have her too," shouted the heckler.

"I'm sorry, we are out of time," the time-keeper said, coming to stand next to Tom. "Please put your hands together for Tom...." And, under cover of the lack-luster pity applause, he muttered, "see me before you leave."

As Tom walked off-stage he realized that the man coming onstage after him was the heckler.

All he wanted to do, he realized, was put his tail between his legs and flee. He so didn't want to wait around talking to the time-keeper. He knew he'd blown it, his one opportunity to make something of himself. It would be back to pumping gas, getting an occasional bite from the customers. But then, what did one do with the leftovers, the bodies, the car? Chop-shops didn't mind taking the cars, but finding ways to dispose of the bodies in this CSI world, now, that took organization.

He looked up as the time-keeper slid into the chair across from him. "I'm Mike," he said, reaching his hand across the table to Tom. "So, not so good with the humor tonight..." he continued, "but real good at selling drinks. Haven't seen such a good sell from one person in awhile."

Tom didn't know what to say; he wanted to defend himself, blame the heckler, first-time jitters... someone, but before he could, Mike continued, "I can't offer you a spot on the paid bill. But we would be happy to give you a percentage of your drink sales if you want to come on the open mic nights. I figure 25% is about fair, don't you?"

In a daze, he agreed that that seemed fair, and Mike got up went back to his corner to time the heckler. Tom realized that no one was sending drinks to the heckler, although several people were laughing at his jokes.

He lifted one of the drinks on his table, pretending to drink out of it, and really examined the people sitting around the bar. While there was a percentage of the la-de-da types, there to impress their mistresses with their ability to be seen in public with them, and obvious college types there for a quick drink and break from the books, the bar was mostly filled with women like the ones in corner. A bit sad. A bit desperate. Tom smiled to himself as he again lifted his drink to his lips. He thought, "I don't drink.. wine."

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