Home » Archives » June 2004 » David Parker’s Journal: 19

06/04/2004: "David Parker’s Journal: 19"

Desperately needing blood, I drove the rental car across the Intercoastal Waterway and into Palm Beach.

My ex-father-in-law used to have a house on the waterway side. He would fly down the first week of December and stay until after New Year’s, playing tennis and golfing at the Everglades Club. The first year I was married, we spent Christmas in Palm Beach. It was the worst Christmas I can remember. The holidays are a time to be home, not in Florida, surrounded by palm trees and rich old women with skin tanned dark as leather and voices turned baritone from years of cigarettes.

On either side of Ocean Boulevard were the familiar faux Mediterranean houses in carefully manicured compounds. An army of gardeners was the only thing keeping nature from running riot on the island. Left to its own devices, South Florida would quickly revert to jungle and mangrove swamp.

I drove past streets where I’d attended parties where the women all wore sundresses and sandals, and the men were decked out in millionaire casual: blue blazers, white linen trousers, loafers without socks.

Via Bellaria…

Banyan Road…

Via la Selva…

I could get what I needed on any of these streets, and yet I kept going, the Atlantic now out the right window, beyond a narrow strip off private beach where anybody foolish enough to trespass would find themselves in handcuffs within minutes.

I turned onto Worth Avenue, home of some of the most expensive shopping in the United States. My late wife took her credit card to Worth Avenue after an argument that Christmas and set me back the better part of what a successful young attorney in a top Chicago law firm earned in a year. All the famous luxury brands have stores on Worth Avenue – Chanel, Christian Dior, Gucci, Pucci, Georgio Armani, Hermes, Louis Vuitton, Ralph Lauren, Tiffany, Tourneau. If you’re in the market for a $10,000 purse or a $50,000 watch, Worth Avenue is the place to go.

The sidewalks were busy with women, many of whom could have been models or Hollywood actresses. And doubt some of them were, in addition to being the wives, girlfriends, and mistresses of the richest men in America.

A wave of yearning pulsed through me, making the blood teeth throb in my upper jaw. It had been two long weeks without blood. I could not deny the Hunger much longer.

Three women sitting in a sidewalk café turned and looked straight at me. Vampires!

I hadn’t bothered to try to conceal my presence. I’d been too distracted with unhappy memories and the Hunger to be careful. I should have known better. Palm Beach was exactly the kind of place that attracts vampires – both good and evil.

The women in the wide-brimmed red hat (she was French, I sensed, catching a glimpse of her thoughts before she shut me out) picked up her cell phone and began stabbing numbers.

She knew who I was. And she was calling whoever it was who was looking for me and the other vampires whose names are not on the “Napoleon List,” whatever the hell that is.

I ran the stoplight and headed for the causeway, weaving in and out of traffic on Royal Palm Way. I got onto I-95, driving 85 miles an hour behind a black Porsche roadster, the Hunger roaring in my ears even louder than the wind through the open windows.

It was several moments before I realized the mistake I’d made. I was driving south, toward Miami and the Keys. It wouldn’t take me long to run out of land. I’d picked the wrong direction to flee.