Category: Fiction Factor

Tall, thin and nattily dressed in a deep purple sport coat and slacks, Count Dracula waved at the man from his small table in the back of the restaurant.

Robert Belmont had been running the Vampirical Evidence website ever since he dropped out of junior college, and after nearly 10 years of chasing leads – and shadows – he had finally scored an interview for the ages.

As Belmont reached the table, Dracula extended his hand and smiled broadly – revealing a pearly white (if fangless) set of teeth.

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Belmont,” he said. “I hope this restaurant suits you.”

It did, indeed.

While a damp, dark castle might’ve been a more traditional setting, those were hard to come by in Hays, Kansas. Plus, meeting a vampire in a public place was much safer for the interviewer.

“This is great, Count,” he said. “It’s such an honor to finally meet you.”

Belmont had spent countless hours studying vampire mythology, and had so many questions he worried that he wouldn’t have time to get even half of them answered.

“I hope you don’t mind if I jump right in,” he said, plopping a digital voice recorder and spiral notebook down on the table. “I’m gonna record the conversation, if that’s not a problem. Or maybe should I ask, is your voice even recordable? I’m hoping you can help explain which myths have an element of truth and which ones are false.”

Dracula drank deeply from his wine glass and leaned back in his chair.

“I’m afraid you might be disappointed when you find out how many myths are just that,” he said. “That said, I’m hoping I can clear some things up for you and your audience. Oh, and yes … my voice records just fine.”

Belmont turned on the device and started his questioning.

“OK,” he said. “First off, how many years have you been in your castle in Transylvania?”

Dracula gave Belmont a puzzled look.

“Uh, I’m from New Castle, Pennsylvania,” he said. “I grew up in a midcentury modern home there. I’ve never been to Transylvania … I couldn’t even find it on a map.”

Belmont was dumfounded.

“But your name is Count Dracula … I’ve confirmed it through some of my sources on Facebook.”

Dracula nodded.

“Ah, yes, Facebook. Isn’t there a group on there that has proof that four plus four equals five?” Dracula said, using air quotes to emphasize the word proof. “You can’t believe everything you read, Mr. Belmont.”

The interviewer began hastily thumbing through his notebook.

“So, are you denying that you’re Count Dracula?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Dracula answered. “My family name is Dracula. My first name is Count … my parents were rather eccentric and huge fans of Count Basie, which is how I got my name.”

Belmont reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone. On it were several photos and drawings of Dracula from various time periods, all bearing a striking resemblance to the Dracula sitting in front of him.

“Come on, Mr. Belmont, “ Dracula said. “Really? I don’t recognize any of those photos, which means I’m quite certain they’re photoshopped. As for the drawings, anyone could’ve done those. Nothing there proves I’m a vampire.”

Belmont sighed.

“You’re not a vampire, then?” he asked, earnestly.

Dracula’s eyes widened.

“Oh yes, I’m a Vampire,” he said. “The Vampire family hails from Romania. I did dome research on a genealogy website and learned that Augustus Vampire emigrated from there back in the 1600s. Eventually – because of the myths – they changed the name to Vampoor and settled in Malta.

“What you thought you knew, you don’t. Am I undead? Well, yes … if you’re alive, you’re undead. Do Vampires drink blood? The Vampoors drank a lot of blood orange juice because they had a citrus orchard. I’m sure you’ve had fun with your Vampirical Evidence website, but I’m your evidence – and I don’t think it was what you hoped to find.”

Belmont closed the notebook, slid his phone and recorder into his pants pocket and stood up from the table.

“Well,” he said. “I appreciate your time, anyway. I doubt my site is gonna generate much traffic after I run this story.

“Thanks again.”

Dracula watched Belmont leave the restaurant and followed him out moments later, getting into a car that had just pulled up.

“Well?” asked the driver.

“Good news and bad news,” Dracula said. “I’m pretty sure I fooled him … I masked my scent with cologne and he seemed genuinely dejected when he left. But there’s a full moon coming in three days, and we need to be vigilant.

“Belmont might not think I’m a vampire, but I know for a fact he’s a werewolf – I could smell that bastard the minute I saw him.”

The old man raised up, squinted, and tried to make out the person sitting in the chair across from his hospital bed. With carrot red hair and skin so pale it was almost transparent, the younger man had a distinct look.

And when the patient – Estus Marble – noticed his guest wearing a bright purple polo shirt and yellow slacks, he wondered if maybe he was being visited by a clown.

“Who are you?” Estus asked.

“Name’s Dearil Javaraya,” said the visitor. “I’m here to talk you through and walk you through your situation.”

It took only a second for Estus to figure out his “situation.” The last thing he remembered – before seeing Dearil – was his wife holding his hand and sobbing while his two daughters looked on with tears in their eyes.

“I guess you’re the Grim Reaper,” Estus said, matter-of-factly.

Dearil displayed an exaggerated frown.

“You hurt me, Estus,” he said. “That name sounds so … ominous. Look at me – have you ever seen the Grim Reaper look so pale yet dressed so colorfully?”

Estus shook his head.

“I don’t guess I’ve ever seen the Grim Reaper at all  … until now,” he said. “But you have to be him. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m dead.”

Dearil got up, scooted his chair closer to the bed, and sat down again.

“Really, Estus, I’m more of a counselor than anything else,” he said. “When it’s your time to go, you always get one. I’m yours.”

As Estus got a better look at Dearil, he realized his face was familiar, although he couldn’t quite place it.

“Are you somebody I know, or used to know?” Estus asked.

“Kinda,” Dearil said. “I guess I’m what they call in the movies a composite character. The guy with the red hair? That was the kid back in grammar school – 1959 I think it was –  that you gave the eraser to. And this fish-like skin?  It was that older woman you helped out in the pool when she passed out. That would’ve been around 1964. The purple and yellow clothes are in honor of that Minnesota Vikings fan you used to work with – the one you’d invite over to watch games because you thought he didn’t have many friends.”

Estus managed a slight smile.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “I barely remember any of those things. And that thing with the eraser … I don’t remember at all.”

Dearil pointed at Estus and wagged his index finger.

“See, that’s what I need to help you with,” he said. “You were a good guy, Estus. You did a lot of really nice things … things you didn’t think about, but things that meant a lot to other people. People always seem to overlook the little things in life. Ultimately, they make up the big picture.

“The world was a better place with you in it. But you spent way too much time thinking about your mistakes. It made you miserable, and I don’t want you to be miserable.”

Estus sighed.

“I did a lot of bad things, too,” he said. “I didn’t deserve to have the good life I had.”

Dearil rolled his eyes.

“OK, this is the point where I tell you that life is one big book,” Dearil said. “But it’s not a bunch of chapters with the same plot from start to finish. It’s more like a compilation of short stories – they’re all different, it’s just you happen to be a character in each one of them.

“Sometimes you’re the hero, sometimes you’re the villain, sometimes you just have an uncredited role. It’s true for everybody. But I’m telling you, if somebody read that book from cover to cover, they’d have a pretty high opinion of you at the end of it. Your good outweighed your bad.”

Estus felt a sense of relief; if this was what “crossing over’ was like, it wasn’t so bad at all.

“So,” Estus said, “when you come get people, you show them friendly faces and tell them about their best selves?”

Dearil scoffed.

“Oh, good grief, no,” he said. “I show them who they were … and what they did – usually with one or more familiar faces, but not always. Fred Rogers, for example, saw the faces of all the people he made a positive impact on, most whom he never met. As you might imagine, I put in a lot of overtime for that one because it took days to get through.

“But then you have somebody like Adolph Hitler. He was shown more than six million different faces – and I made sure he got to take a long look at each one of them.”

Estus raised his eyebrows.

“So, you’re more than the Angel of Death,” he said. “I guess you tell us where we go next … I mean, what direction we go.”

Dearil chuckled.

“Not at all,” he said. “I have no control where you go next. In fact, I have no idea what happens after I leave here – it might be nothing, it might be everything – not my circus, not my monkeys. All I know is I’ll wind up at a hospital or an accident scene or in a war zone. And I’ll have the first conversation with someone who just passed away.

“As I said, I’m mostly just a counselor. And in your case, I needed to help you realize how much you mattered.”

And then all of a sudden, Dearil was gone. So was the hospital bed, the chair and Estus himself – at least his old body.

Instead, he found himself perched on the edge of the bed at an assisted living facility where his wife was being cared for.

He was dressed in all blue – her favorite color – and wearing a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses she used to make fun of during the early years of their marriage.

He was happy that she would see a familiar face after she slipped away … and even happier that he could tell her the world was a better place with her in it.

Lefty Marshall quickly realized if he wanted to take full advantage of the Smithsonian Institution, he needed to block off an entire day. Between exhibits, artifacts and special programs, there was more than enough to see and do in the expansive exhibition halls.

But he was on a specific mission, so instead of taking time to marvel at American history, he quickly read the descriptions of displays such as the Greensboro Lunch Counter, Civil War Draft Wheel and the chip off of Plymouth Rock … and just kept moving along.

As he made his way up and down the museum’s three floors, he kept an eye on his watch; he was on a tight schedule and could only stay a limited time. After an hour of stopping, staring and starting, however, Lefty finally found what he was looking for – a small display called “Baseball Behind Barbed Wire.”

The centerpiece was a jersey worn by a man named Tetsuo Furukawa, and there was also a vintage photograph with several signatures occupying a waist-high, round table.

It was a shot of the Gila River All-Stars – donning caps, bats and gloves, and looking very much like a typical baseball team.

But this crew was anything but typical.

This contingent from Arizona was made up of men from internment camps – Japanese-Americans who had been rounded up, given 48 hours to sell their businesses and houses, and made detainees of the United States government during World War II.

The irony, of course, is that these American citizens used the National Pastime to try to gain a sense of normalcy after being herded up like cattle for no other reason than they “looked like” the enemy.

Lefty didn’t hear this version of the story back in what he now called “the old days.” In fact, it was never talked about much at all in his circles, other than the abstract explanation of, “Well, we’re at war, so ….” Yet he had learned the truth, and the truth was what sent him to this particular time and this particular place.

Lefty was reading each name in the photo when he heard a voice that broke him out of his trance and startled him ever so slightly.

“Excuse me … would you mind taking a picture of me standing next to this photo?”

He turned to see a somewhat familiar looking, thirtysomething Japanese-American man sporting short, jet-black hair with a jagged green streak that appeared to be splashed across his bangs. With a denim jacket, faded jeans, black converse sneakers, a Ramones tee shirt and backpack, he seemed out of place at a baseball display.

“The phone is already set up,” he said. “All you have to do is press the button.”

“Sure,” Lefty said. “I’ll be glad to.”

He lined up to the left of the photo, leaned in and smiled and Lefty took two quick shots before handing the phone back to him.

“This is a really sad part of history,” said Lefty. “I wish more people had learned the real story sooner. I’m a history buff, but like a lot of people, I can look back and see I buffed over a lot of history … believe me.”

Although the events had taken place in the 1940s, the man knew quite a bit about the photo, the jersey – and the story behind it all.

“I’m mostly familiar with the Heart Mountain team, the one that lost to Gila River,” he said. “I guess you could say it was like the World Series of the internment camps. When I learned there was an actual display here, I had to see it for myself. I’ve heard lots of stories about one of the Heart Mountain players, Hidenori Hatakeda.

“Oh, by the way, they call me Happy.”

Lefty swallowed hard, because he was quite familiar with the name Hidenori Hatakeda.

“Nice to meet you Happy. My name’s Lefty Marshall,” he said. “Are you a baseball fan?”

“Not as much as I used to be,” Happy said. “But I’m meeting someone here, so I thought I’d give the display a closer look.”

Turns out Hatakeda went on to play independent league ball after the war ended and he was finally released from the camp, but that was mostly for fun. A baker by trade, he restarted the business that was taken from him and ended up overseeing a chain (Sunshine Bakery) that thrived in the 1950s and 1960s on the West Coast.

“He was a baker – claimed to make the best Apple Feuillettes in the United States – his brother was a baker, and one member of the family owned a music store in El Segundo before he retired,” Happy said. “Hidenori and his family did all right for themselves.”

Comparatively speaking, Lefty lived a life of privilege; it pained him to imagine the hardships Hatakeda faced through no fault of his own.

“He was a great man and a great success,” Lefty said. “I would’ve been so bitter.”

Happy said he wasn’t.

“Hidenori … he was one of those people who always looked ahead and never looked back,” Happy said. “There’s this old wooden plaque that he had in his office, and on it is written a Japanese proverb that translates to, ‘Fall down seven times, stand up eight.’ I think in his case he was pushed down, but he got up. And he stood pretty tall.”

Lefty managed a weak smile.

“This is a subject that really interests me,” he said. “I’d love to sit down and talk about this more.”

Happy raised his eyebrows.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

Lefty sighed.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.

Happy nodded.

“I do … yes,” he said.

“There’s a reason why I want to bend your ear,” Lefty said. “I worked for the War Relocation Authority, and I’m the supervisor who made Hidenori Hatakeda and his family leave their home. Sometimes, the folks who run the afterlife send you back down here after you die … not really to set things right because you can’t, but to – I don’t know – try to make up for it somehow. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do … I just wish I could tell Mr. Hatakeda I’m sorry.

“I know you said you were meeting someone, but maybe you could make time for me after.”

Happy reached into his pocket and pulled out an old newspaper clipping – one with Hatakeda’s obituary. “As it turns out, you’re the person I was supposed to meet,” Happy said, showing him the yellowed piece of newspaper. “I know a good bakery about a mile from here … we can talk there and have an Apple Feuillette. I hear they make them almost as good as I did.”