Chapter Text
The hotel alarm clock let out its angry beep far too soon. Lillian forced her eyes open to check the time. The obnoxious machine insisted it was midnight. She silenced it and began scuttling between the closet and the bathroom. Tonight promised to be a long night, and the necessary nap had cut into her prep time. She slipped into the violet dress she had set aside and swept on some makeup, smudging a smoky black around her eyes. She hoped it would not melt in the southern heat and make her look ridiculous. On second thought, given her destination, it might be more authentically 'goth'. The idea made her snort out loud.
Lillian was most certainly not trying to appear like an angsty, black-clad, fake-id carrying teen - and this was decidedly not her usual lifestyle. In fact, she struggled to remember the last time she had dressed to go to a dance club. As a grad student? No. Too poor and married to her books. Besides, she had always been more of a pitcher of beer with good friends type. Now as a young professor, she was overworked and still had no social life, despite the decent salary. She had bid farewell to her twenties only last year. Her latest research project was a good excuse to pretend life still had a bit of excitement left in store. Glancing at the clock again, she wiggled her feet into some impressively high mules and checked the mirror once more. "Oh for god's sake," she muttered aloud, realizing that she had absentmindedly grabbed her briefcase. She dumped the contents onto her floor and dug around in her suitcase until she found a black leather hobo with long tassels. It was a little worse for the wear, but that counted as vintage, right? She quickly stuffed it with a pile of pens, notebooks, and a voice recorder.
From the hotel, it was a short drive into Shreveport. She ignored her nerves and instead focused on the lush nighttime scenery. Live oaks swathed in Spanish moss caricatured the humid air, making life slower and heavier. Weathered clapboard buildings were tucked in strips among the trees. Some appeared to be eeking by as businesses in the daytime, while others had succumbed to hurricanes or the economic crash and were boarded up in plywood. Southern decay had a certain kind of under-appreciated decadence to it. It was brazen and unapologetic. Elsewhere in America, people obsessively tidied up the natural decline of things. In the New England college town where she worked, new paint and shiny glass and perfect concrete were routinely plastered over every surface, denying the passage of time. Even the historic plaques marking important places and events were polished to a tasteful gleam. To Lillian, Louisiana felt like a well-loved chair. It embraced her with its familiar imperfections.
Not that she knew the place. She had only arrived a few days ago. But exploring unfamiliar worlds was her specialty. As an anthropologist, she was well traveled and used to adapting quickly. During her doctoral work, she had lived on a small Pacific island studying cloth exchanges. She'd had to learn another language. How hard could researching a vampire-themed club in Louisiana be? Her colleagues had their doubts. In fact, they had seriously balked at her latest project. She was only here by the skin of her teeth.
The Dean of Humanities and Social Sciences had choked on his lunch martini when she approached him for permission. "You want to do what?!" he had replied.
“I want to study people who do costume role playing, like live action role players and Trekkies and whatnot.”
“Professor Choate, do you honestly expect me to approve your sabbatical? You can’t be serious.”
“This is a worthwhile endeavor. It’s an aspect of social life that hasn’t been adequately examined.”
“But Lillian,” her department chair interjected, “you really need to consider how this will reflect in your tenure dossier. If the work isn’t solid, it won't just effect the outcome of your hearing. We might not be able to justify renewing your contract at all.”
The threat was clear enough. She was floundering. “Everyone studies problems!" she told them. "I want to learn about pleasure. Why do people love dressing up in costumes as fantastical characters? What is so much fun about inhabiting imaginary worlds? Are they really so different from our own?”
They stared at her animated defense unblinkingly. She was positively drowning. Looking at the floor, she took a breath. She tossed a last ditch effort at them. “We need to take seriously the business of pleasure.” The two leaned in together and whispered in low tones. She prayed they would accept the proposal and not start a motion to dismiss her outright.
The Dean crossed his arms. “Listen Lillian, I think it’s clear that we all share some reservations about this…”
“Yes!” her department chair added. “Let us not have another 'Nelson debacle'."
Nelson was an ill-fated colleague who had tried to study online chat rooms and ended up being busted on a nightly news show for soliciting sex from a minor. “Of course not," Lillian said. For starters, she wasn't a god damn sexual predator. “I’m looking at real communities in real space and time, not in the virtual world. That is why this project will succeed. There is concrete observational work to be done - actual documentation.”
“Alright,” the Dean sighed. “Just do this well, okay? Your work reflects on us, you know.”
“Keep it rigorous,” the department chair insisted. “No pop science.”
“Absolutely. I look forward to sharing the findings with you. And thank you for your generosity and consideration. I really appreciate your support.”
Gack. Kissing her bosses’ asses that hard had really left her feeling bitter. It was a good thing she was a thousand miles away from her ivory tower. Lillian turned left into a commercial strip mall and pulled into a parking space. From the car, she could already feel the music pumping out of the club. A large neon sign hung above the building. "Fangtasy" it read, in a loopy red script. A tall blond woman in knee-high stiletto boots stood at the door checking IDs. Lillian joined the long line of people waiting to be let in. The clientele were eclectic. There were vamp kids with dyed black hair and faux-leather clothes waiting impatiently alongside overweight tourists in polos and sagging tennis shoes. Welcome to the weird. The place must be a goldmine.
During her preliminary research, Lillian learned that Fangtasy had opened up a year and a half ago. Inspired by the famous Charlaine Harris novels and the successful HBO television spinoff, True Blood, everybody and their mother (literally) seemed to visit. The owners had only narrowly skirted a major copyright lawsuit by changing the club name from "Fangtasia" to "Fangtasy".
Lillian reached the front door after a considerable wait. She handed her ID to the pale blonde. "Evening." The woman did not respond. Her attitude, like the rest of her costume, was clearly styled after the "Pam" character.
The woman tilted the ID in the light and passed it back. “You may enter at your own risk,” she said curtly. Lillian's inner child wanted to jump up and down and clap her hands. It was all so wonderfully campy - like freaky Disneyland. Her nerves began to give way to curiosity.
Inside the club, dance music throbbed and colorful beams of light spun over the patrons, pulsing in rhythm to the music. Leather and spike bedecked young people crowded the dance floor and mingled around high top tables. Busty blonde waitresses in white shirts and swinging ponytails served trays of drinks. The ridiculous fake Sookies were a fantastic touch. Many of the patrons were ordering the "bloody dacquarie" special - a crimson concoction garnished with a bone-shaped plastic toothpick through a lime. Lillian made her way to the bar.
“Hi, can I see the manager?” she called out over the music to the nearest bartender.
The guy snorted and rolled his eyes. “The manager doesn’t deal with guests, ma’am. What do you need?”
“I want to get permission to interview some of the patrons. I am writing about vampire fan culture in America.”
The young guy snorted. “You a reporter?”
“No, I’m a professor of anthropology. Could you please give the manager a call?”
“Boss doesn’t see guests without an appointment.” He leaned across the bar in a loud confidential whisper. “Too many idiots think they’re gonna meet an actual vampire. I mean, hello! It’s t.v.!”
Her heart sunk. Without the appropriate permissions, she couldn't start working. “Yeah, I’m sure that's a common problem. Let me give you my card.” She passed a business card over the black lacquered bar and into the barman's red syrup-stained fingers. “How soon can I expect to hear back?”
“I dunno. Guess you’ll just have to see.”
“Alright, well at least give me a gin and tonic while I’m waiting.”
She took the drink and found a booth near the corner with a clear view of the club. She couldn't even take notes without approval. Contrary to popular belief, social science was extremely serious business. Working with human subjects was highly regulated. For now, she could at least enjoy her drink and soak up her first impressions of the atmosphere. The “vampy” club-goers and other young folks stood around island tables talking closely over half-filled bottles and glasses. Many of the younger clubgoers were out on the dance floor grinding and shaking away. The more touristy types kept mainly to the booths where they could sip their sugary alcohol and plow through plates of greasy bar food. Some hung over a large souvenir case, where no less than three employees were busy swiping credit cards and passing back bags stuffed with Fangtasy and official True Blood merchandise. At the center of the back wall, a large carved chair with a brass-tacked leather seat sat on a raised platform surrounded by velvet roping. A single spotlight illuminated it rather dramatically. People snapped photos of the empty chair. It was an odd but brilliant mix of camp and realism. The decor and staff were so over the top it threatened to break the suspension of disbelief. On the other hand, the throne made it seem like maybe, just maybe, a real vampire might walk in and sit down. Whoever had conceived of the club was one hell of a keen businessperson.
The night was uneventful. Lillian was not inclined to dance, certainly not with the several young men who had come to her table to ask. They were young enough to be her students. Towards 4am, after her third drink, Lillian decided to call it quits. As she was passing by the bar, the bartender gestured at her.
“Hey lady, uh, I’m sorry, I got caught up with work. Lemme take you back, boss said he’d see you.”
"What?" Lillian stared at him. “I’ve been waiting here for four hours!”
“Yah, well, um. Sorry.” He shrugged.
He took her down a hallway, past the bathrooms. She scowled at the bartender's back the entire way. The hall was lit with a blacklight, which made the vampire movie posters lining the black wall pop out trippily. She was left in front of a door where another bouncer waited.
“I’m here to see the manager?”
The large man pointed at a camera above the door with a meaty finger. She looked up and waved. The door buzzed and the guard punched a code into a keypad, releasing the lock. “Go on in,” he said. “First door on the right.” She found the heavy security alarming. The club must get some majorly obsessed folks to need such measures. She made a mental note to examine that angle in her interviews. How did the owners and staff perceive their clients?
The inner hallway stood in sharp contrast to the rest of the club. The floor was clad in light wood and the walls were a pleasant creme color. She rapped on the door twice with her knuckles. “Come in, Miss Choate” a voice called out. Inside, she was met by a short man in a navy pin stripe suit. “Hi, hi, hi!” he called out, offering his hand. “Nathan Riley. So sorry to keep you waiting.” The man had a funny air about him. He was dressed up and slick, but not in a sleezy club manager type way. He struck her as very lawyerly.
“Pleasure to meet you. It is Dr. Choate, by the way, but feel free to call me Lillian. Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”
“Gladly, gladly. Well, tell me about what it is that brings you here. Some kind of report, is it?”
“Well, no, not exactly.” Lillian launched into her pitch. She kept it simple, avoided jargon, and made sure to explain that her work was not at all meant to be an exposé on the business. Her research would not effect the operation of the club, and would simply be a study of the clients and why they chose to pursue costumed play and fantasy recreation. “I should add that I will be more than happy to share any and all resulting publications with you. I expect that the data might be of some interest from a business perspective. It might help you better understand your clientele.”
“Hrm, yes. Good point. Well, I’m gonna have to check with the owners, of course.” He spoke with a thick Louisiana drawl. “But I’ll give you a ring as soon as possible.”
“Alright, Mr. Riley. Who are the owners?” She hadn't been able to find any information on them.
“Oh, well honey,” he said. She gritted her teeth at the "quaint” Southernism. “It’s a consortium of investors. But I wouldn’t worry. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right? I’ll let you know what they say.”
“Sure thing. Thanks for your time.”
“My pleasure. You have a good night now, ya’hear?”
She headed out of the bar and crossed the tungsten-dappled parking lot towards her car. Only a few patrons lingered outside to drunkenly grope each other. She suddenly had the strangest feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she was being stalked. Perhaps it was the desolate strip mall, with its inky black patches of woods. Or simply that her car was at the far edge of the abandoned lot and it was a lonely hour of the night. She glanced around to see if she was being watched and felt the instinctual impulse to sprint. She didn't, but her struck a brisk pace. It would be just her luck to get mugged. Once in her car, she quickly locked the doors, turned the engine over, and adjusted the rear-view mirror. For a fleeting second - less than a blink, really - Lillian swore she saw someone standing by the dumpsters beside the building, staring in her direction. She blinked again, but there was no one there. It was probably just a busboy taking out the trash. She dismissed the unsettling feeling and started back towards the hotel.