In her third beautifully written entry into our Defying Moments contest, Rachel Walker somehow manages, in just four paragraphs, to combine children’s clothing, vampires, violins, a very young woman and a very old man with obscure motives into a story about the hazy borderline between flattering attention and outright creepiness.  Should we feel sorry for the old man, curious about his past, and hope that the girl will be kind to him?  Or should we feel repulsed by the man, protective toward the girl, and relieved when she makes her getaway?  Perhaps we can simply appreciate that Rachel’s piece, like many good stories, makes us feel many things at once.

*********************************

Topic: I Had to Quit the Job

The Russian Violinist

When he first entered the store I made the unfortunate mistake of smiling when I said hello.  Unused to seeing an older gentleman in a children’s resale shop, I assumed he was purchasing an item for a child and was surprised when he held up a pair of slacks and asked for my opinion.  Small in stature, his head came nearly to my shoulder and he moved with small, quick gestures, furtively snatching items off the rack and holding them to his wiry frame before tossing them in a pile on the floor. His Russian accent was thick and when he suddenly turned and told me I looked like a famous violinist from his homeland, I had to ask him to repeat himself. At sixteen I was flattered by the high compliment, and eagerly repeated it to all who bothered to listen.

The following Monday he entered the store with a magazine and a three page article detailing the Russian violinist. I did not recognize myself in the raven haired beauty, but thanked him for his trouble. The day after that he brought me a plastic bag full of unidentifiable leaves and told me to steam them; they would make my skin beautiful, soft and fair like hers. He tried to hold my hand and I jerked away, alarmed by the tiny, ancient stranger. I threw the bag in the dumpster on my way home, a vague uneasiness gnawing at the corners of my consciousness.

The following day he stopped by twice and I hid behind the cribs and changing tables. The second time, he paced anxiously around the store and the confused cashier gave me away with her wide-eyed stare. His face broke into a grin of relief as he hurried toward me, a book clutched in his eager, outstretched hand. To placate him I quickly thumbed through it, dropping it like a snake when I realized it was composed of hand drawn pictures of nude vampires, each one playing an intricately detailed violin. He told me he loved me, and that he wanted to buy me a violin. I asked him to leave. Grin fading, he walked away from me slowly, his narrow shoulders hunched protectively around the rebuked gift.

The following week he was waiting on a bench outside the store when I unlocked in the morning. The expression on his face was one of pure agony, the weight of which settled over me like a ton of cement. He waited there all week, never speaking or entering the store again, just watching me with eyes that were sometimes misty, sometimes hazy and far away. That Friday I arrived at the store, steeling myself for another guilt-ridden encounter, but he was not there. In his place there was a red rose and a magazine article, old and carefully folded back to a picture of a dark haired, fair skinned violinist. Dropping my keys through the mail slot, I turned and walked away.

*********************************

I want more naked vampires.