It's my last night at Spooky World and I'm hugging everyone, getting emails and phone numbers. We are talking and on a small TV in the corner, the Red Sox win the World Series. All the ghouls cheer.
Sam calls because Stacy has broken up with him. After I leave Spooky World, I drive to his place, where he has been denting a bottle of Johnny Walker by himself. I am still in my vampire makeup and am wearing my Red Sox hat for solidarity with the city. We sit and talk about entropy, about the unfairness of the goddamn godless anthopomorphically ordered universe.
We walk to buy cigarettes. The most comforting thing I can think to say is "Look at it this way, Sam. In 100 years, you'll be dead." We laugh.
Sam lives in one room with nothing but books. He has no cups and you have to go through some other guy's room to get to the kitchen, so I take the only container I can find, a Maker's Mark bottle, and fill it up with water from the bathtub faucet.
"Drink this. All of it, and take these," I say, handing him the bottle and two pills.
"What are they?"
"Ibuprofen. Please. You think I'd give you something illicit?"
I leave him and walk down the cold, nearly November street in my vampire makeup, Red Sox hat, and Sam's jacket. Everyone is out and drunk and toasting to the universe for letting their beloved baseball team win. I think of everyone I've ever loved in any way.
When I get home I go to the bathroom to wash off my makeup. I see myself in the mirror and see the red blood tears Tess always paints down my face, bequeathed to me from her own days in the vampire house. I scrub and scrub until they're gone.
I'm sure there's a poem or something in there somewhere.