Happy Hour in Casa Dracula.

By Marta Acosta.

Chapter One

The intolerable lightness of being silly

If I had been a rational human being, I would have had a normal job and I never would have gotten involved with any of them.

But I was not a rational human being. I was and remain a square peg in a round world.

You would think that a girl with a degree from a Fancy University would have been hired muy rapido by some big corporation anxious to ladle on numerous perks and a generous salary. Sadly, my F.U. education did not lead me directly into wealth and fame. All my attempts to become a worthwhile cog in the capitalist machine were met with rejection, the type that has driven many other creative souls to despair and Great Art. Here are the results of my attempts. No response at all from the many newspapers that should have been interested in a columnist who focused on bargain gardens. A soul-killing stint at an ad agency that concluded when the art director read my sardonic copy for fortified wine. A happy stretch writing a newsletter for a nutritional supplements company that ended abruptly when the FDA raided our warehouse. Miscellaneous temporary jobs, each more wretchedly depressing than its predecessor. Also two entry-level marketing jobs terminated after "improprieties,"

which were not my fault.

Okay, my mother Regina would have said that they were my fault. My mother Regina thought that anyone with breasts as vulgar as my own induced otherwise upstanding citizens to behave badly. My mother Regina had neat, tasteful chichis. When she bothered to look at me, an expression of dismay almost came over her immaculately made-up face. "Almost," because medical procedures rendered her incapable of normal facial expressions.

My mother Regina believed my father had wasted his hard-earned cash sending me to F.U. because I was not a serious person. My mother Regina thought thusly because I always referred to her as "my mother Regina" and because I had not dedicated myself wholeheartedly to the reformation and improvement of my garish carcass. "You have wasted your father's money," she said, ignoring the fact that I had worked, taken out loans, and earned scholarships in order to attend F.U.

I now lived in a windowless basement flat of a nice house in a nice neighborhood of the City. My rent was low because I maintained the garden and my landlord found my bosom enchanting. While he never exactly said, "I am captivated by your enchanting bosom," he did stare a lot and that's practically the same thing. The dark flat had a cement floor, a dinky bathroom, and a gloomy kitchenette. At night, I heard scrabbling in the walls, which, I suspected, was caused by fearsome Norway rats.

My income was earned by toiling as a reading consultant to executives and society dames who were book club averse. I garnered extra cash by filling in at a local nursery. My jobs were irregular, sometimes taking only ten hours of my week and other times taking fifty, but I didn't mind. It was better than sitting in an office trying to keep my eyes from bleeding while copyediting training manuals.

I worked diligently on my novel every single possible second that was available after going out, thrift store shopping, spending quality time with my friends, and finding gyms that offered the first month free. In addition to this exhausting work/art/life regime, I tried to improve the world by writing letters to political leaders about Important Issues. I wasn't picky about the issues. The world was full of pain and injustice, and writing the letters helped me keep proper perspective.

My friend Nancy had come up with the reading consultant idea because she knew how much I liked recommending books to friends. She had given me business cards on lovely ecru stock with "Bennett" hyphenated to my last name. Underneath was "Reading Consultant," with my phone number.

"Why the Bennett hyphenate?" I had asked.

"Like Eliza Bennett, you have a fine posterior," she had said. Nancy had been my F.U. roommate freshman year.

Despite her unfortunate WASPier-than-thou perkiness, we had become friends.

"Eliza had fine eyes, not a fine fanny, you cultural barbarian. You never even finished Pride and Prejudice. I wrote that paper for you."

"And now I am showing my tremendous appreciation for your scholarship. Also this gives you credibility with Anglophile aspirants, my little brown amiga." This is how we talked to each other. We thought being silly was the height of delightfulness.

Speaking of which, my name was outlandish enough without the Bennett hyphenate, but I took the cards and thanked her.

I filled my days, but there were times when I awoke in the middle of the night, listened to the scratching in the walls, and felt afraid and lonely. I missed rooming with Nancy and hearing her gentle snoring at night. Nancy did not miss me; she had moved into her boyfriend Todd's condo and was a happy camper.

People can be divided into two distinct groups: those who desire constant companionship and those who prefer calm solitude.

The unnecessary crowding in The Brady Bunch repelled me, but I longed for an Eliza Bennettish existence: a house filled with family and friends, the agreeable conversation of a kind and compassionate sister, and the promise of dances and engagements.

Instead I had my mother Regina, rats in the walls, and boyfriends who were like beach reads, momentary fun but nothing you'd ever bother to buy in hardcover. I worried that perhaps I, as a nonserious person, was only a beach read as well. I had just reread Middlemarch, and I had a deep and sincere desire to be a deep and sincere character.

Nancy had connected me with most of my reading clients, but one of my former beach reads, a Russian artist named Vladimir, introduced me to Kathleen Baker. Kathleen was one of the Bakers, known for their famous sourdough bread: "Did a Real Baker Make Your Sour Round?"

Kathleen was fiftyish and very chic. Like my other clients, Kathleen wanted me more for company than guidance. Sometimes she patted my head as if I was a pet and I half expected her to toss biscuits to me and say, "Good girl, catch!" I had to constantly steer the conversation back to her reading and remind her that we had a scholarly purpose.

In her enthusiasm for literature, Kathleen decided to host a reception for hot new writer Sebastian Beckett-Witherspoon. She was absolutely thrilled when he accepted. I know because she said, "I am absolutely thrilled that Sebastian Beckett- Witherspoon has accepted my invitation to hold a reception for him. Are you familiar with his work?"

In a word, yes. In three words, all too familiar. In a few more words, why wouldn't Sebastian B-W die, die, die a grisly and humiliating death? I pulled my lips into a simian grimace that I hoped Kathleen would interpret as a smile. I told her that we had met at F.U. "Marvelous!" she said. "Of course, you will be at my reception. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you again."

"Perhaps you overestimate my delightfulness," I demurred. I had taken up demurring like mad. I thought demurring was the last word in refinement, right behind murmuring, deferring, and suggesting.

"Don't be a silly goose," Kathleen said. "This will be a good opportunity for you to meet other literary people."

So here I was at Kathleen's soiree for Sebastian Beckett-Witherspoon, the highlight of a lackluster season of morose poets, grimy novelists, and patronizing essayists. Kathleen had a magpie's fascination with all things shiny, so the room gleamed with polished floors, glittering mirrors, and lustrous furniture. I was afraid that if I moved too quickly, I'd skitter and crash down on my sincere and serious colita.

I wore a simple linen shirt-dress that I'd bought at a thrift store, cream sandals, and fake pearls. My straight black hair was pulled back into a low, Grace Kellyish ponytail, and I'd used a light hand with my makeup because I wanted to look good without looking like a good time.

I did what I always do at gatherings: an initial scan of the room for people of hue. One Asian man in a pinstripe suit, an African- American couple in earth-toned natural fibers, and a mixed-race woman. No obvious Latinos except for me and one waiter. I sent him the silent message: "Right on, mi hermano. Power to the people."

At a real party or in a club, I knew what to do or say, but here I felt as awkward as I had my first day at F.U., hauling cardboard boxes to my dorm while almost Nordic-looking people strode confidently forward with matching luggage. The other guests seemed to know each other, but their eyes slid over me and moved on to others more important.

I was all too aware of the ecru business cards in my small pocketbook. Sometimes you seek guidance in nineteenth-century heroines and other times you find inspiration in nineteenth-century hucksters, such as P. T. Barnum and his Feejee Mermaid. If Barnum could shamelessly peddle a monkey head sewn on a fish body as a sea nymph, then surely I could try to promote my novel to an agent or publisher.

Then I saw Sebastian B-W, scion of one of the most powerful families in the country. He stood by a window, and most people would have thought it was merely a lucky accident that a shaft of light from the setting sun glowed on his golden hair. He smiled and nodded as he talked to an older man. Sebastian's skin was evenly tanned with a slight, marvelous blush of pink on his cheeks. His teeth were as pearly as ever, and he seemed to have aged very little over the last several years. He was just over six foot, slim and graceful in a navy jacket and a soft blue shirt that brought out the sea-color of his eyes.

I had thought, la, la, la, that I would come here and Sebastian would see that I had moved beyond the past, that I had matured into an urban and urbane woman, a fellow scribe, and that we could have a civil, even friendly association. But just looking at him made me panic like a hemophiliac in a pin factory.

"Yummy," said a voice nearby.

"What?" I was startled and turned to see a small, wiry redheaded waiter with a tray of petite pastries.

"Would you like something yummy?" The waiter held the tray toward me and winked. He was as gay and pleasing as a posy of Johnny-jump-ups. He had a wide smile and big green eyes to go with his shock of red hair.

"I always enjoy something yummy," I replied suggestively, unable to stop my chronic flirting mechanism. Nancy said that my need to flirt was directly linked to the lack of a strong paternal figure in my life and the dominating presence of an unloving mother. I thought it was because boys were so dang pretty.

"I certainly didn't mean him," the waiter said, tilting his head toward Sebastian. "That novel was offensive."

Of course I had read Sebastian's novel, looking for secret clues to his character in every word. "I thought I was the only one who didn't like it."

"Please, girlfriend, it was pretentious as hell," said the waiter. "His school churns them out like that." He saw my expression and said, "What's the matter?"

When I admitted that I had gone to F.U., he grinned and said, "Well, present company excepted. You aren't involved with him, are you?"

"Me, involved with him? Ha-ha, you make the funny," I said flippantly. "Does he turn your engine?"

"Not my type. I like them less evil incarnate," he said. "And also hairier."

Before we could continue our fascinating conversation, the headwaiter angrily gestured for my new friend to circulate. It was time for me to circulate, too, and the first person I had to talk to was the guest of horror. My heart was pounding faster than a flamenco dancer's feet. I grabbed a flute of champagne off a tray, downed it quickly, and grabbed another.

Moving through the crowd, I noticed that everyone was surreptitiously peeking at Sebastian, all awaiting their chance to have a clever or insightful exchange so they could relate the story at their next dinner party. He caught sight of me and his smile froze. I tried to calm myself as I walked to his side.

He continued his conversation with the older man.

"Naturally," he said, "I only write about perversions to expose them to the condemnation they deserve. I am not a voyeur, not one who is titillated by the steamy, I mean, seamy underbelly."

Seamy underbelly? I guess that was my cue. "Hello, Sebastian."

He turned his head fractionally toward me. "Hullo," he said tersely without meeting my eyes.

"Hullo? Are we suddenly British? Lord love a duck." I didn't know what that expression meant, but I'd always wanted to use it. "In America, we say 'hello' with the accent on 'hell.'"

The older fellow said to Sebastian, "I enjoyed talking with you," then edged just far enough away to eavesdrop.

Sebastian held out his hand and actually said, "I'm Sebastian Beckett-Witherspoon. And you are... ?"

He won tonight's P. T. Barnum award for even trying this. I wanted to stab him repeatedly with a tiny cocktail fork until he leaked all over like a sieve. "If you don't cut it out, Sebastian, I swear I'll make your evening here one of undiluted misery." He blanched and spoke in a low whisper. "Undiluted misery! You have no idea how much you've caused me. What are you doing here?"

"I'm a very close and special friend of Kathleen's. In fact, I'm her literary consultant," I said, trying to sound important.

Sebastian was confused. "You mean you suggested that she have this reception?"

"Oh, be real," I snapped. "Did I like your incest-fest novel? I did not." It occurred to me that this was not the most politic thing to say if I wished to resuscitate our association.

"You are criticizing me? You, who write political horrors!" He snorted. "Blood and gore and monsters and tedious left-wing diatribes. Utter swill."

Why were my feelings hurt when I had no respect for him? "You said you liked my stories," I said before I could stop myself. I pushed away a memory of the early weeks of our acquaintance and how I felt seeing him strolling across campus toward me, smiling as the wind blew back his hair.

"I may have said it, but I didn't mean it."

"Did you ever mean anything you told me, Sebastian?" It was as if no time had passed since our last encounter: I was flooded by unnameable emotion, wanting to cry and shout and say all the things I'd never had a chance to tell him. I hadn't done anything wrong, yet he had cast me out of his world. What was worse, he'd done it when I was taking a course in Milton, so I'd become obsessed with finding the answer to my misery in Paradise Lost. I'd received an A on my term paper, but my time would have been better spent getting advice from Cosmopolitan, "Why are you here, Milagro?"

The whole history of our relationship was in the knowing way he said my name. It felt too intimate, as if he knew too many of my secrets. "I'm here to make contacts. Introduce me to your agent or your publisher."

"You are still out of your tiny little mind."

Before I could retort, wheedle, or threaten, Kathleen began speaking on the other side of the room. Sebastian moved away so fast, it was like he had been teleported.

"Your feminine wiles leave something to be desired," said a deep voice so close to me I felt warm breath on my neck. I stepped away reflexively. Beside me was a somewhat fabulous man in a strange suit. Now, Nancy would tell you that I often see fabulous men, that I think more men are fabulous than not, and that I am overly generous in bestowing the description of "fabulous" on a man. Her comments have caused me to doubt my ability to judge fabulousness, and I was feeling particularly insecure right now.

I focused on this man just to center myself. Rich brown hair brushed straight back, gray eyes, a strong nose, pale, perfect skin, nice cheekbones, and a lovely, rosy curved mouth. He was medium height, lean and muscled. He smiled crookedly, which either added or detracted from his charm, depending upon your point of view. "Aren't you going to say anything?" he asked.

"As you have noted, my feminine wiles have eluded me this evening." I was still trying to figure out what was wrong with his suit. It was well made, but the cut was about fifty years out of style, give or take a century. And the smell... under the light, clean scent of a good aftershave was cedar. My guess was that his suit had been hanging in a closet for ages.

His smoke-colored eyes took a leisurely journey up and down my body, causing my trampy internal gears to shift of their own volition. "Perhaps I misjudged," he said. His voice was as sexy as a funky bass line on the dance floor.

My recent encounter with Sebastian had made my nerves buzz, and I had no idea if this man was flirting with me or insulting me. "So kind of you to offer your criticism gratis to strangers," was my utterly pathetic retort. Who said "gratis"? Pretty soon I'd be uncontrollably uttering "pro forma," "ipso facto," and "carpe diem" in conversation ad nauseam. As a tactical maneuver, I moved through the rapt audience to the other side of the room before I said anything else idiotic.

Sebastian was now addressing the guests, droning the usual glad to be here, happy so many devoted fans, et cetera, and opening a copy of his novel so that he could read a chapter aloud. Had I ever enjoyed his writing or had I been so flattered by his attention that I convinced myself I liked this drivel?

The other guests seemed enthralled by Sebastian's stream of blather. He used words like "luminescent," "tumescent,"

"iridescent," and "transcendent." Perhaps they handed out New Yorker vocabulary lists at every graduate writing program in the country. I wouldn't know. My mother Regina had convinced my father that liposuction on her "problem spots" was more critical than helping me through grad school. Listening to Sebastian now, I began to think that maybe she'd had a point.

The carrot-topped waiter returned and whispered, "Warm chevre with tapenade," as he offered his tray.

"No thanks," I said.

The waiter gracelessly deposited his tray on a side table. "You seem to be attracting the attention of some of the gentlemen here," he said chattily. I wasn't surprised at his unprofessional interest in me. I have always had a symbiotic relationship with the waiter species.

"If by that you mean I imposed my company upon the guest of honor, then I guess, yes."

"No offense, but these guys aren't your type. I know what I'm talking about." Coming from someone else, his statement would have sounded like a West Side Story stick-to-your-own-kind, but I assumed he was offering his assessment of sexual orientation.

I wasn't going to insult his obviously flawed gaydar, so I said, "Thanks. I'll take that into consideration."

The waiter winked at me, then slipped away. I wondered why he left the tray of hors d'oeuvres. He was a nice guy, but a very bad waiter.

Sebastian finally concluded his yammering. There was hearty applause, and then I saw the fabulous man smiling in my direction.

Sauntering to me, he said, "This joint is a bust. Let's scram."

Though I had come to the party to hawk my wares, this was not what I had in mind. But the room seemed too close and too crowded. I was still fantasizing about stabbing Sebastian, and I thought it was a good idea to get away before I did something legally prosecutable in front of numerous witnesses. "I don't suppose you're connected to the publishing world?"

"Why else would I be here? You're a writer?" His lopsided smile inspired parts of my body to attempt mutiny and throw themselves at him. "We'll go somewhere quieter where we can talk about your writing. I can tell you are an interesting writer, unique."

"Excuse me, but exactly how dumb do you think I am?" Men seemed to think there was an inverse relationship between bouncy bazooms and brainpower.

His laugh carried to his eyes and he said, "That did sound like a bad line, didn't it? But I'm right, aren't I?"

"Every writer wants to think that she's unique and interesting. That doesn't mean it's true." I hated the idea that Sebastian had out-P. T. Barnumed me tonight. Would Barnum have rejected a potential investor? "You haven't introduced yourself," I murmured, as if I was a proper young lady.

The fabulous man took my elbow and led me through the crowd. He escorted me down the marbled hallway, through the wood-paneled foyer, and when we were away from the chatter of the party, he said, "I am Oswaldo Krakatoa." His name was patently absurd. I was strongly tempted to question its veracity. "I'm Milagro De Los Santos." Judging from his expression, I had just won the ridiculous-name contest.

"Miracle of the saints?"

"It's a sad little story. I'll tell you sometime when I'm feeling particularly full of self-pity. You can call me Mil."

"All right, Mil." We stepped outside. The fog had rolled in and the damp Pacific air was refreshing after the packed, over- perfumed room.

My bus stop was far down the street. My options were: talk to this handsome fellow, track down my pals for a whine-and- wine session, or go home and cry a million tears because my business cards were still in my handbag and Sebastian had frazzled me to the utmost.