Gravity

Gary Golden(vtmb)x Reader

There was no way that you liked him. If there was anything he had learned since his embrace it was that his kind weren't welcome. It was bad enough that he was turned into a vampire, cursed to wonder the earth in a state of undeath as he fed off the blood of those that were lucky enough to keep their mortality, but he also seemed to be even more cursed than many of the other vampires(kindred as the old, and lofty elders called them, as well as other practically archaic terms) as he was turned by a Nosferatu.

"Gorgeous Gary Golden," they used to call him back in the 50's; one of the most handsome actors of his time. Now, he was a misshapen, horrid thing living in a filthy sewer. His sire used to tease him by keeping his old nickname as, according to the vampire that turned him, he was, "still prettier then most other Nosferatu."; not that it was much of a consolation.

He never expected you to wonder down to the dark, damp warrens that day, and just assumed that once you had finished you business you'd head on your way and never be back here. The next thing Gary knew you were here all the time. It started out as you doing or picking up things for his childer, and sometimes even him if he could con you into it, but then you started to hang around even of the others weren't there. At first Gary thought you were just bored and looking for something to do, and his want of being an entertainer was still ever-present so he'd jump at any chance he could to be... well, entertaining. This included talking to you about his old movies, maybe show you around the warrens a bit if he had time, and sometimes he would do his favorite thing of hiding and sneaking around and talking to you as you tried to find him the whole while.

As much as Gary didn't like to admit it, he definitely had a soft spot for you now, which didn't jive well with the persona of, "big, bad, sewer monster," that he had spent years building. What really got him was when you found him a bottle of his favorite cologne that stopped being sold in about 1956. How you got it, he would never know. Hell, he was an expert at finding things(it's been his job for more than a few decades) and even he couldn't find the stuff. This took hard work and who knows what else to dig up; not something you'd give without thinking about it. Or, maybe it was? If Gary was being honest with himself, between the facts of him not totally being in the loop of modern etiquette and being a Nosferatu that lived in the sewers for the past couple decades, he wasn't too sure what constitutes as just friendly or when it meant more.

Almost as if you read his mind, you came wondering down the hall to his room. He could hear you a mile away, and hid himself before you got to his room. A knock came at his door, and he gave a little chuckle, and called, "What's with the formalities, boss? Come on in." You walked in and glanced around the large room, obviously not seeing him. He was using his obfuscate discipline, so even if you were looking right at him, you wouldn't be able to see him. "What you doing down here, boss? Keep hanging around and we might have to make you your own room." His gravelly voice came from your right, and you turned to face it. "Ha,ha, you're so funny. Aren't the warrens just for the Nosses?" Another chuckle came from your left. "I'm sure we can make an exception for you. You're with us more than those of your own clan most of the time anyway."

You quickly turned your head, but of course Gary wasn't there anymore. It was silent a few moments before you spoke. "Gary, we need to talk." "Really," he practically purred through his rasp because of the mischief he was up to, "I was under the impression that we already were talking." You gave a huff and turned the direction you heard him from. "Gary, I'm being serious." Another chuckle from the other side of the room. "Are you now, boss?" You didn't say anything, and just stood where you were with a slight pout on your face. He took this moment to sneak up on you, not making a single sound as he approached you from behind. He was about to startle you, when you turned around and looked right at him, turning the tables and startling him instead, something that not many people could do.

"I know you're there, Gary." You try to look serious, but are obviously trying to hold in a laugh as you try, and surprisingly succeed at putting your hand on his shoulder. "Well, look at how perceptive you are. How'd you know, boss?" He says with a purr as he makes himself visible again. You shake your head and remove your hand from Gary's shoulder, and he looked visibly upset at the loss of contact. Any form of physical contact and people he trusted were few and far between, so he was happy to have both when he could. "Maybe don't wear that cologne when you're trying sneak around, boss." You teased him, and hearing his typical nickname for you used on him flustered the Nosferatu to no end.

"You know, it's quite convenient that you came here when you did. I was actually wanting to talk to you as well." Gary mused as he stepped ever so slightly closer. He figured if you didn't want him right by you, then you would have backed away a long time ago. What's the harm in pushing his luck? "You go first though, boss. You need me for something?" You thought for a moment until the faintest signs of a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. "Actually, I'll quote one of your flims if I could be so bold." Gary was more than willing to take the bate. "Alright, boss. Shoot." You took a step closer to him, as you softly said, "I don't just need you here. I need you close." right before you closed the distance between the two of you.

Gary was stiff during the kiss at first, but practically melted when he finally wrapped his head around what was happening. A grin stretched across his face as he almost growled, "You took the words right out of my mouth."

The Art of Becoming More.

This past weekend I travelled to the 9th Westerwald Pow wow in Lahnstein, Germany. As I walked from the parking lot to the entrance of the Stadthalle, I was met by a guy, an older gentlemen. 

This guy says "Hi, are you a really Indianer?"

I nod, smile and say "Ya."

This guy then points to the Stadthalle, and asks me "You go to this sheisse?"

I nod and say "Ya, gonna go check this out. You coming in?" 

He makes a finger slicing across his throat motion. 

"These people," he continues, "know nossing."

"No?"

"No. The real situation of the really Indians ist nossing they know of."

"You saw the real situation?"

"Yeah, I didn't just travel there and visit like these people here. I lived there."

"Where?"

"In Oklahoma."

"Ah, I have some friends there."

"Yes beautiful land. My wife and I lost our first house in a tornado there."

He smiles, then a moment later:

"20 years ago I lived there first. I travelled all over the States, Texas, California, Wisonsin. And I saw the real Pow wows too."

"What did you think of the real Pow wows?"

"Nice," he only says. 

He wants to get to the really situation. I look around, hoping to see someone.

"But the Pow wows is not the really situation of the Indians, I was there, I saw how zey lived."

I nod and wait for the clincher.

"They are poor, they live with 10-15 people in one house. The house is dirty, with holes in the walls and they're always drunk."

I think, okay, I wanna go inside now.

He's not done.

"And at the front of their reserve is a casino." He shakes his head.

Yup, I wanna go inside. I pretend to see someone I know. I wave, turn to say "There's the organizer."

The guy nods, looks to see who I pointed at. I hear him say "See you later."

He is out there later. He spits into his cell-phone, maybe to his wife in Oklahoma. He's angry, he deliberately speaks up.

"These hobbyists they embarrass me, Germany and themselves. Pretenders!"

Someone on the other end of the line is patient, listens and has likely heard this rap before.

I think this guy should have come inside to the Lahnstein Stadthalle to see the Pow wow. Inside, he would have heard David Redbird Baker (Ojibway), folk singer/songwriter sing Geronimo's Cadillac. He would've had the chance to browse various flyers in support of various Native causes, like Free Peltier and Big Mountain. He could've browsed a small library of Native books and Pow wow cds; also Native Jewellery and T-shirts by Ryan Burr (Mandan/Hidatsa) and Christian Bailor (Lakota). He would've had a chance to buy my DVD's Pow wow and Indianer.

If he would've made it inside, he would've heard the first ever European Pow wow Princess, Carolina Meyerova from Czech Republic, speak about what it meant for her earn this title.

"It means to be open to other people, regardless of their roots, and who they are. Even if you don't agree, you can still honour their spirits by listening to them."

Considering what she said, I thought about this guy outside. This guy who spoke to me about the Indians, how they lived. He spoke as though what he would say to me would make me a better person. To him I was still an Indian, from over there, who lived like he said.

Then he was suddenly one of those guys discovering America, the New World, for the first time. He crossed the Big Water, travelled west and circled his wagons. Had he instead travelled with the wind in his hair, he might've met people like my Aunt and Uncle who recently celebrated 50 years together. He might've also met someone like my cousin, who said after 20 years with the love of his life, "love becomes more."

This hobbyist sheisse, as he liked to repeat, is taken seriously. Serious enough to warrant a Pow wow princess; serious enough to have a 500 euro top prize to the top men's traditional dancer.

I overheard a grass dancer, wishing that he was in North America, so he could dance every weekend.

Pow wow is relatively young in Europe, 20 years approximately. Its interest wanes in some places, like the UK. In the spirit of Pow wow, we Indians sometimes travel 15 hours for a weekend. The Centerland Singers from London, UK, travelled this distance to sing and dance, and all in the spirit of becoming more.

The 12 Step Kitty

By bionic bird song Picture this:  A cat saves a woman’s life as she lay in her own filth on the carpet in the living room drunk off her ass in a black-out. She passed the black-out stage a long time ago.  Good ol’ kitty pushes three buttons on the telephone after knocking it off the receiver; 911.  The ambulance takes Ms. Jacobson to the nearest hospital.  She recovers and ends up in a treatment center with her kitty allowed to be with her.  Her hero.  She ends up taking kitty with her to all her AA meetings and sponsor visits.  Here is the story as it unfolded. Ms. Sally Jacobson stood in the kitchen watching the neighbors get into their cars respectively to drive to their work places.  She had a coffee cup in her hand and she raised it as if making a toast and took a drink. Not a careful sip to ensure she doesn’t burn her lips from the heat of coffee, no, it was a gulp because the liquid in her drink was room temperature.  This liquid went down smoothly and soothed Sally’s throat and made her feel warm all over.  Sally’s cat stood next to her by her legs looking up pleadingly to stop whatever she was drinking.  Ms. Sally Jacobson swayed as she turned to look down at her kitty.  It dawned on her that she needed to get her some food.   Sally, unbalanced, walked across the kitchen, bent to pick up the cat food. As she straightened up to walk to the cat bowls she dropped the cat food and it spilled everywhere.  Sally cursed, took a long swig of her drink and walked off to the living room allowing the cat to eat off the floor.   Ms. Sally Jacobson was an alcoholic, drinking her days away, letting her life slip by, unnoticed by anyone les herself.  Sally was happy to see her mailman, the only person she talks to as her isolation keeps her from being in society.   “Hi, gggohn! How are you tiiday?” She stumbled on her words and fought like hell to keep from sounding slurry.   ‘Gggohn’ was empathetic with Sally and knew of her condition.  Most of the neighborhood did. She cannot fool anyone.  “I’m very blessed today, Ms. Jacobson.” He said. “Why don’t you sit down and I will bring your mail to you”.  He did not want her to slip and fall which as a good possibility as she was drunk enough to be swaying at the front door.   “Oh, you’re too kind!”   Slurred Sally and she stepped back and let John come in and escort her to her couch.  She plopped down and John laid her mail in her lap.   Sally was saying something to which John could not understand as Sally was incoherent.  “-And then I said, ‘Well? Whaddya want me to do? And he thaid ‘nossing’ and I thaid-“   He stopped her.  “Ms. Jacobson.”   “Yeah?” She looked up at him with unfocused eyes.   “I do need to go now so I can finish my route but I do hope you have a good day and try to stay off your feet, ok?”   She looked as if she was slapped in the face.  Ms. Jacobson, drunk as she was, was sure she didn’t want John to leave.  Ms. Jacobson was a very lonely woman longing to talk to others but scared to be seen in the community.  Alcoholics can be like that.  Isolators but lonely.  They are their worse enemies.  “Oh, you sdon’t have to leave yet, do you? I was jest getting to sthe good part.”   Feeling sorry for her, John bowed and said his goodbye.  “I will pray for you, Ms. Jacobson.”  He said softly more to himself since he knew she wouldn’t remember anything later.   And with that, Sally was alone once more.  Disappointed, Sally talked to herself as if he was still there.  Better to pretend than to live in reality, thought Sally.   John the mailman turned and looked towards the house.  “But for the grace of God, there go I” he recited.  John knew what Sally was going through because he was a recovering Alcoholic himself!  He knew all too well though, that one cannot force help upon another.  All he can do is pray for her.   Inside, Sally suddenly had an inkling to take a walk.  With no thought in mind, she got up from the couch, er, struggled off the couch, and- Sally awoke to a very bad headache.  Lights were bright under her eye lids and she didn’t want to open them, however, she was baffled by all the lights because she keeps her home dark with the drapes drawn shut during the day-another isolation technique-and lights down low at night.  She wanted to know what was going on and where she was so she tried opening her eyes.  Squinting, she inquired, “Wha-? What’s happened?”   She tried to sit up but couldn’t.   “Ssssshhh!” Someone was soothing her and holding her hand.   Who is with me? Questioned Sally but not out loud.  She dared to open her eyes a little wider.  She saw a woman in a white uniform.  A nurse? Why was there a nurse with me, touching me?  “Where am I?”  Sally finally spoke out loud. “You are in the hospital, my dear.”  Answered the RN. “Why?!” Sally did not understand nor could she remember anything past the kitchen watching.   “Why don’t you lay back down, relax and the Doctor will be in in a moment, ok?”  The RN was not willing to tell Sally anything.  Wonder why that was, asked Sally in her aching head. A moment later, as promised, a Doctor came in to see Sally and the RN stepped back to allow him to examine her.  Sally raised her head towards him and asked “What’s going on? Why am I here?”  Sally wanted badly to be in her own home, drinking her vodka, alone in the comfort of her own dark loneliness.   The Doctor explained what had happened to Sally but she had trouble believing it.  This never happened to her before!  She had been found on the floor in the living room by paramedics.  Her head, wounded, was bleeding.  This was from banging her head on the coffee table explained the Doctor.  She had passed out.  She must have been there a long while because she was laying in urine but the Doctor left that part out of the story.  He’ll let the Drug and Alcohol Counselors tell her that part to emphasize Sally’s problem.   Puzzled, Sally asked, “But how did the paramedics even know to come?”  This, the Doctor had no idea and shrugged his shoulders.  “Someone must have called 911”.  He concluded.   John the mailman! Thought Sally.  Maybe he came back to deliver some more mail he had forgotten about and since I didn’t respond when he knocked, he used his cell phone and called 911.   This was Sally’s conclusion.  Or some other neighbor could have come by.  That was the only explanation she and the Doctor could think of for an explanation. “Did you ask the paramedics who spoke to them?”   Sally was now being an investigator.  She wanted to know who saved her to thank them.  The Doctor informed Sally that no one spoke.  Now Sally was curious.  Who would make a 911 call and then not speak on the phone?  Sally was on a quest to find out who saved her.   “What we do know, Ms. Jacobson,” the RN now spoke, “is that the paramedics heard a peculiar sound like ‘meow’.  “Hmf!” Sally finally lay down in the hospital room and contemplated over the wonders of how cats can save lives.