The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

There is a small coffee shop on the way to work that I stopped at every day last week. It is not a part of my normal routine, but last week did not fit my norm. Entering the shop Monday morning, I walked across the tile floor towards the counter. Crossing my path was a small black beetle. Without much thought of the action I dropped my boot onto it. An instant before the bug was no longer, the faintest possible thought was heard in the back of my mind, "Why?"



Having seen that beetle I watched for others while ordering and receiving my coffee. I looked for others while turning and leave. There were no others, just that one.



On Tuesday I arrived at the shop and encountered another black beetle, he was at almost the same spot as his brother before him. Down came my boot, out went his life. Much clearer this time came the question in my head, "Why did you kill it?" It was a habit built over years of conditioning; kill bugs. I placed my order and left. I saw no other beetles that day, just the one.



On Wednesday I arrived and found the solitary beetle again, in the same spot as before. It seemed odd, so strange that I hesitated and did not lower my boot on him. The excuse I provided myself for letting a bug live was curiosity.



Thursday came, and there was the lone beetle, walking across the tile. This day I was still amazed that only one beetle is there and always in the same place, always at the same time. The thought of squashing him failed to the thought of letting him be. Why kill this thing? I got my coffee and left.



Friday the beetle and I crossed paths again. It was just him and me. I smiled when I saw him, no longer thinking of killing him and wondering why I had done it the first time.

It has been a year now since you opened that boiler door and died, my friend. You did not expire right away, water with super heat is not that fast. It cooked your body and pealed and your skin, but left you conscious and breathing.



Laying in your hospital bed, wife and children crying, the doctor reported the number of hours left for you. You could not see them, your eyes no longer functioned, but you could hear them sob and tell them it was okay ... that you felt no pain.



What did you think about for those final few hours? What do you say to the ones you love, your beautiful wife and young children? Does some inspired message fill your mind at the last, or are you left with the simple words, "I love you"?

The kid was about 19 years old, tall, sloppy hair brown hair, and a bit thick around the middle. He walked into the conference room giving me a casual greeting, but not the slightest hint of a formal address. It was a simple, "hi". There was no, "Good morning sir", or "Nice to meet you Mr. So-and-so".



His clothes were acceptable to interview for a job of this type, khaki pants, a button down shirt, brown shoes. At least his parents had taught him this much.



His parents were the ones that had called me the prior week, asking me to interview their son. They were desperate for help and wanted me to lay out a very clear picture for their boy. It is most certainly the responsibility of the parent, but they said they "could not bring themselves to do it."



So here he is, slouched in a chair across the table from me. I scan his application. The printing is poor, but the spelling and grammar are not bad.



"I see you have had two summer jobs. You worked fast food before your junior year, and again before your senior year in high school. Why did you only work for a month prior to your senior year?"



"Yeah, my boss was a jerk. He had me workin' three weekends in a row. I don't need that shit. Ooh, sorry. I mean ..."



"That's fine. Don't worry about it. So you quit because of the scheduling, and took the rest of the summer off. It says here that you graduated high school last year."



"That's right, class of 2006."



"What have you been doing since? You don't have any work or school cited here since graduation." With this question I had hopped he was going to become uncomfortable. It was a great disappointment for me that he did not sit up or shift in the chair, he did not fidget or change facial expressions. He did not care.



"I ain't been doing much, you know, chillin' mostly."



"Do you play video games?" This question got a reaction. He came to life and sat up.



"Hell yeah! Madden 2007, I'm the appartment champ. Undefeated for the last two weeks. Do you play?"



"No."



"Man, you should. I can't wait to get '08."



Prior to the interview the kid did not have much of a chance of getting a job at the factory. The interview having proceeded this far has removed any small chances he did have. But his parents wanted him here for a talk, not necessarily to get a job; they would have been shocked if he got hired.



It had already been a long week, and now I am tired of talking to this young man. It is now time for the dirty work. I interrupt his excited talk of video games with the blunt question, "do you smoke pot?"



He was startled, taken off guard not only by the question but by the expressionless and pointed delivery.



He hesitated for only a second, then claimed that he was clean. That he used no drugs of any kind.



I was unfairly armed with information provided by his parents and his girlfriend. "So you are living in an apartment with a couple of buddies and your girlfriend. She has a regular job and pays your share of the rent for you. Your parents paid for that truck. You have not tried to work. You have not gone to school. You have done nothing but play video games since graduation, and do not even have drug abuse to use as an excuse. You have become a worthless human being. There is no use for you here. Thank you for applying."



He stammered for a moment, while I stood and presented him the door.



That was three weeks ago. He is doing much better now. I will not perform that type of favor again, it left a me with too rotten of a feeling.

As we pass through life we cut a path, leaving a mark that others can see and feel. Your path is yours and it is unique. Some may follow the path of another, but only for a short time. Two may walk together for a while, but inevitably they were separate prior to their meeting, and will be parted again.



Is it possible that a portion of a person's path was laid for them? Can it be that fate has mapped sections of travel even before you get there? Freewill is cherished and life would seem pointless without it, but does it exist?



If some of our path is not laid for us, then some events become difficult to explain.



I am an average person with no special destiny to live. There are not thousands of people flocking to touch my coat, nor will there be any books written of my life. I am the same as every one else ... average.



There have been five people in my life that impacted my path from first contact. It was obvious when it happened. The significance of the meeting was powerful enough to make me stop, creating a landmark on my course. These were not particularly important people, not to the rest of the world anyway. They were not people that I was seeking out. Through the dozens of chance meetings each day, thousands each year, this small handful is what is remembered.



Why is this significant to fate? The force expressed upon first meeting was that of relevance and importance. Upon each meeting came the immediate, clear and overwhelming realization that this was supposed to happen. That I have just arrived at a point along my path that crosses someone else's; that this crossing is large, and that it was mapped long before.



This is a curious time in my life. I do not know exactly what brought me to VR, or why I did not simply surf on by. Even more curious is: of the five meeings the last one occured here on January 25, 2007. The only person of the five that I have met without ever actually seeing.

The gym was hot and two of the fans were not working. This improved the conditions for those that truly enjoy the sport. Six or eight of the usual lifters were there pounding out reps. Most of the regulars are decent guys that put in a good effort, then clean up and disappear. There is the occasional goon that believes in his heart that he is much more of a man than the rest; he poses his way through the gym, tearing his throat with grunts at every lift, and generally makes a fool of himself. Most of the goons are in good shape, and the one on this day was not an exception. Much of the fabric was missing from his shirt, exposing the tanned and shaved torso. Strapped to an upper arm was a little music box, a toy that he spent too much time playing with.



A handful of “drop-ins” were also taking up space; guys that are not normally in the gym or are new. Two of these drop-ins were a couple of kids, probably still in high school. They were visibly intimidated by the present group of lifters, and so kept to themselves. They meekly moved from station to station, every action they made was carefully designed to not draw attention. This necessarily resulted in all regulars knowing that these two quiet boys were not used to the gym atmosphere.



The boys were left alone to do their thing. After several other exercises, they found their way over to the decline bench. They studied the apparatus for a few moments, then began to strip the weight from the bar. It was their own misfortune that the idiot with the music box had been the previous user of the bench.



The idiot was playing with dumbbells on the far side of the gym. He had taken disdainful notice of the boys some time before, and was making every effort to make them feel inadequate. Here chance had presented him with the opportunity for enhancing his ego on multiple fronts, and he acted. First, he slammed the weights to the floor. Next he mechanically rose from the bench he occupied, turned and shouted to the boys. Using an artificially deep voice he staked his claim to that bench and ordered them to leave it be.



This succeeded in confusing the boys. It also succeeded in getting the attention of every lifter in the gym. However, it did not prevent the boys from continuing their activity with the decline bench, and so mister personality began to stride towards them.



I had watched these developments in the mirror, while pulling a heavy set of deads. The heat had put me in the mood to lift, and up until this point I was solely focused on the bar and the plates. Now, glancing over to see the kids nearly shaking a few feet away, I had had enough of numb-nuts’ little game. Pulling the bar for one final rep, I let the weight fall to the old wooden plank floor. As the iron struck the firm surface, I slowly turned around to face the gym. Casually glancing up my eyes met those of the goon, who was stopped in place by the crash of the weight.



For me there was no tension in the moment, no aggression, only the calm unspoken statement that things had progressed far enough. Speaking softly the goon gave his permission for the boys to use the bench, then walked back across the gym. I stepped outside for a drink of water. The boys went about their business, unaware of most of the happenings.