You think you have seen some strange shit? Honey, please–I\u2019ve written this paranormal blog since before blogs were a thing. I\u2019ve reported on exorcisms, poltergeists, vampires, stigmata, and every other clich\u00e9d piece of the supernatural that you can name. You can\u2019t shake me. In every case, I found the strings that made the puppets dance and cut them with my pen. I get more letters from frauds before breakfast than the IRS does in the entire month of April. I am a well-dressed, skeptical, devastatingly handsome man, and I see 20\/20 with these Oliver Peoples glasses, so don\u2019t try to blind me with your bullshit. That is who I am, and that image defined my existence until midnight.<\/p>\n
I sat in my usual corner booth at the Prism Lounge, nursing a Cosmopolitan and reading Breakfast at Tiffany\u2019s<\/em> for the millionth time. Fred Phelps be damned, if anything I do is a sin, it\u2019s the worship of Truman Capote\u2019s writing. While the right-wing whack jobs worried about what went on in my bedroom, I destroyed several copies of In Cold Blood<\/em>. Read them to death. Brutalized them with my affection.\u00a0 I tried to drown out the ridiculous music that pumped through speakers that were as tall as me. The thud-thud-thud of the bass felt like tomorrow\u2019s hangover. Some things were timeless. Martinis and Capote would never go out of style. Prism used to be an escape for sophisticated gay gentlemen. These days, the only thing separating it from every other club in New York is that they let the men through the velvet rope first. In my heyday, the late nineties, with the new-swing movement in full gear, the place was amazing, like someone stole the roaring twenties from Fitzgerald and dropped it right in to my neighborhood. Now, I felt like an outsider in my own safe space. My eyes seemed to blur with every beat of the generic electronic house music. I pushed on, comforted by the fact that I knew every word of Holly Golightly\u2019s adventure by heart.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you Boogeyman Beau?\u201d<\/p>\n I departed the world of Truman Capote with a reluctant sigh, placed my bookmark, and looked up at a man who had no business in Prism. The man was nothing but leather and scars and not in a Judas Priest sort of way. Everyone watched us. I was the only one who hadn\u2019t seen him enter. I could practically smell the gasoline from the Harley Davidson that the man had no doubt double-parked out front.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Hell\u2019s Angels bar is two blocks down.\u201d I smiled. He looked confused. Just another dunderhead with a push-up max higher than his IQ. \u201cNo offense, but you are just a little bit too young and a little bit too butch for me.\u201d I picked back up my book.<\/p>\n The biker sat down, reached across the table, and grabbed my hand. I tried to pull away, but his leathery grip held me as tight as a bear trap. \u201cI need your help. You have to help me.\u201d<\/p>\n Everything about the man said rough, but his eyes said something different. His eyes stopped me. They were clear blue, like worn denim, watery and desperate. I calmed down, and he released me from his grip. I checked over my beaten-up copy of Breakfast at Tiffany\u2019s<\/em> as if this man was capable of damaging it by his mere presence. Confident that all the wear was the product of my love, I tucked the book back in to the pocket of my Brunello Cucinelli sports jacket.<\/p>\n \u201cBoogeyman Beau was supposed to be a joke.\u201d I took off my glasses and\u00a0rubbed the fingerprints off of the lenses with the cuff of my Thom Brown shirt. \u201cAn on-air name for my college radio days. When I started the blog, I didn\u2019t think it would take off like it did. Bit of an oops on my part. Just call me Beau.\u201d<\/p>\n The biker rested his massive head in his meaty hands. \u201cCall me Midnight.\u201d<\/p>\n I laughed, leaned back in the booth and crossed my legs. \u201cOh honey, I thought we were past the bad pickup lines.\u201d His face looked even more devastated. \u201cYou are kidding, right?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMight as well be my name.\u201d His voice had a tentative shake that betrayed its\u00a0tough gravelly texture. \u201cIt is as fitting as anything. I need you to write about me.\u201d<\/p>\n Figures, right? I made a mental note to have Johnny the doorman screen the crazies. \u201cI do interviews eight to five. Well, more like eleven to seven. Send me an email. That\u2019s how it usually works.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t understand. I don\u2019t know where I will be tomorrow. I don\u2019t know who I will be. I can\u2019t do this by appointment. Do you have any idea how long I waited to get this close to Manhattan?\u201d<\/p>\n Something grabbed me, a journalist\u2019s instinct. I retrieved a leather-bound notebook and a rosewood pen from my jacket pocket. I carried them everywhere. They were as necessary a part of my wardrobe as my grandfather\u2019s vintage pocket watch. \u201cOkay, shoot.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAt midnight, every day, I become someone else.\u201d<\/p>\n I tucked the pen behind my ear, and laid the closed notebook down on the table. \u201cIf this is another werewolf confessional, I\u2019m not interested. I\u2019ve had it up to here with the lunacy.\u201d\u00a0 I laughed.<\/p>\n He didn\u2019t seem to get the joke. \u201cI mean I will be in another body.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis is a night club. Lots of people will be in another body at midnight. You don\u2019t see them begging me to write about it.\u201d<\/p>\n The guy\u2019s face knotted in frustration. \u201cThis body will still be here. I\u2019ll be somewhere else, I don\u2019t know where, in another body.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou are no Scott Bakula. I\u2019ve seen the show.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not like that. I am in a body for twenty-four hours. After the time is up, I end up in another body.\u201d<\/p>\n I picked up my Cosmopolitan, which had warmed to room temperature while I listened to that crap. \u201cTo put the wrong things right, hoping the next leap will be the leap home. Yada, yada, please.\u201d I rolled my eyes and drank.<\/p>\n Midnight slammed his fist down on the table. \u201cThat\u2019s not how it is! Dammit!\u201d<\/p>\n The jolt sloshed liquor on my jacket. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket. Embarrassment and anger made my face burn. I saw Johnny start heading my way from the door, but waved him off. I retrieved my pen from behind my ear and pointed it at Midnight. \u201cThere are three things in this world that give me real pleasure. Fashion, good books, and good liquor. You\u2019ve ruined all three for me tonight. I may seem like a weak little man to you, but if you do anything like that again, I will shove this designer rosewood pen in to your left eyeball.\u201d<\/p>\n Midnight slouched back in the booth, deflated. \u201cI just don\u2019t know who else can help.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s say this is true. What makes you think I can help you?\u201d I opened my notebook.<\/p>\n \u201cI thought maybe you had heard something like this before. At the\u00a0least, I thought you could write about it, and maybe someone who reads your blog would have some ideas.\u201d<\/p>\n I had heard all sorts of crazy things, but I decided not to go there. \u201cAt the risk of beating the dead horse, have you tried to make the wrong things right?\u201d<\/p>\n Midnight picked up my Cosmopolitan and chugged it down. He belched. I didn\u2019t object.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve tried prayer, charms, spells, sheer willpower–I\u2019ve tried everything I could think of except one.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d I scribbled down notes as he talked.<\/p>\n \u201cDeath.\u201d<\/p>\n I stopped and looked up at him. He scratched the stubble on his cheeks.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you think it would be murder?\u201d he asked. \u201cWhat if I wake up in another body anyway, and the poor bastard that I killed just stays\u2014wherever? I don\u2019t know if I could handle that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou mean these are someone else\u2019s bodies?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes. I\u2019ve seen them walking around before and after my jump to a new one.\u201d Midnight leaned forward, whispering over the table. \u201cI can still feel them in my head. I can feel how much this guy hates this place. I can feel his anxiousness. Not his consciousness, just his deep-seated prejudice.\u201d<\/p>\n The bartender, Raul, a rather effeminate young Hispanic man in a pink silk shirt, brought me another Cosmopolitan and sat it down on the table in front of me. He looked at Midnight and then to me. I registered a momentary look of disgust on Midnight\u2019s face as Raul returned to the bar.<\/p>\n \u201cYou need to reign that in. There are men in here who would love to kick your ass for the look you just gave that kid.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know. Sorry. It\u2019s hard to control sometimes.\u201d Midnight rubbed his hands together over the top of the table, like a junkie itching for another shot. \u201cI woke up in prison a few times. Once, I had to be a psychopath. I thought about how I could kill every single person I saw. I didn\u2019t do it, but the thoughts were there. I couldn\u2019t stop them.\u201d<\/p>\n I tapped my pen on the table top, looking over the notes I had made. \u201cSo who are you really? I mean, really?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI have no idea anymore. I\u2019ve bounced around so much that I don\u2019t even know my own name. I don\u2019t know how long it has been going on. It\u2019s hard to keep track because I never know where I am going to be next.\u201d He picked up the Cosmopolitan. \u201cSorry, do you mind?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGo ahead.\u201d I motioned to Raul for another. \u201cI doubt many people here have seen a Hell\u2019s Angel drinking a cocktail, but by all means.\u201d Raul brought my fresh drink. Midnight gave him a momentary smile and thanked him. \u201cGood,\u201d I said. \u201cProgress already.\u201d<\/p>\n Midnight took a sip. \u201cThis is good. Sometimes I get flashes that I think might be my original life. I recognize a person on the street, a certain song, or a taste–\u201d He wiped his lips with the sleeve of his leather jacket.<\/p>\n I decided against a lecture on manners and checked my grandfather\u2019s pocket watch. \u00a0\u201cSo\u2014in less than five minutes you are gone again.\u201d<\/p>\n He blew out a long breath of air. \u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat is quite the story.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou have no idea how long I\u2019ve waited to tell it to somebody.\u201d His eyes broke and tears flowed from the eyes of this tough-looking biker. He laid his head down on the table, hiding his face in his arms. \u201cWhy can\u2019t it stop?\u201d<\/p>\n Looking across the table at a man imprisoned in the body of another, I thought of Truman and his interviews with Perry, gazing through iron bars at an imprisoned killer who was desperate for understanding. Compassion and sympathy had become foreign concepts to this man. His spirit found its body so unlikeable that it fled from person to person each night. I walked around the table, slid in next to Midnight, and put my arm around him. He buried his head in my chest. I checked my grandfather\u2019s watch.\u00a0 The second hand counted down like some sort of perverse ball drop. The journalist in me couldn\u2019t wait to see what the New Year would bring. Five. Four. Three. Two.\u00a0I kissed the sobbing man on the forehead\u00a0like a parent putting a child to bed. One.<\/p>\n The biker flung me\u00a0off of him. I landed with a grunt on the dance floor. My glasses flew off my face, and I scrambled to retrieve them. The left temple snapped as a careless dancer stepped on them. I grabbed the remains and held them up to my face.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d The biker scrubbed any remnants of my kiss from his forehead. Everyone in the place stopped to watch. The thudding bass ceased. \u201cWhat the fuck do you fags think you are looking at?\u201d<\/p>\n He lunged towards me with large, thudding boot steps. \u201cI ought to fucking kill you, queer.\u201d<\/p>\n I jumped up, grabbed my pen from the table, and held it between us like a sword. \u201cThe definition of queer is strange or odd. Look around you. Who is the odd man out in here?\u201d Spittle flew from my mouth like snake venom as I raged. \u201cWho do you think you are? This is our<\/i>\u00a0place.\u201d The crowd gathered around, at least a hundred young men willing to tear this hate-filled man limb-from-limb.<\/p>\n I imagined the strangeness he must have felt, waking up at midnight in the arms of a diminutive little man whom someone had\u00a0taught him to hate beyond reason. I felt a surge of sympathy. He seemed\u00a0weak and scared, hardly a threat. I returned my pen to my pocket and picked up my drink.<\/p>\n \u201cThe door is back there.\u201d I ran my fingers through my hair to straighten it up. \u201cThe Hell\u2019s Angels bar is two blocks down.\u201d<\/p>\n As I drank, the crowd closed around the biker, who turned and fled. Moments later, I heard the unmistakable rumble of a Harley Davidson pulling away.<\/p>\n There are moments when\u00a0I wonder if the biker was just playing me, teasing a writer of paranormal smut with a strange story, only for his joke to become unraveled by a small kiss. But there are other moments, too. Each midnight, sitting in my little corner booth at Prism, nursing my drink, I dare to believe. I wonder if he will contact me again, and I hope that one of you, my readers, might be able to help him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" You think you have seen some strange shit? Honey, please–I\u2019ve written this paranormal blog since before blogs were a thing. I\u2019ve reported on exorcisms, poltergeists, vampires, stigmata, and every other clich\u00e9d piece of the supernatural that you can name. You can\u2019t shake me. In every case, I found the strings that made the puppets dance […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":8,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[687,1204],"class_list":["post-9073","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","tag-midnight","tag-unlikeable"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.confabulatorcafe.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9073","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.confabulatorcafe.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.confabulatorcafe.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.confabulatorcafe.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/8"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.confabulatorcafe.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=9073"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.confabulatorcafe.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9073\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.confabulatorcafe.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=9073"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.confabulatorcafe.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=9073"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.confabulatorcafe.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=9073"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}