Almost every day I worked as a therapist in Northern California I would, like a horse going to water, lunch at the same small cafe on the Avenue.

     There is a value to this kind of mindless lunching. The waitress knows you, the chef knows you, and your lunch is always prepared in the same way, one less choice in the day to make. The iced tea comes without being asked for. Nothing really odd ever happened at the cafe until I met Gliddia.

     One afternoon while sitting and having my lunch at Lakeshore Cafe, I paused and looked up from my paper. There sitting at the end of the lunch counter was a thin black haired lady about 30. She was dressed in black on black. She caught my eye and said “Hello.” I nodded and said “Hello,” and went back to reading my paper. Moments later, the dark eyed stranger is sitting next to me. “Hello, I'm Gliddia,” she said right through the backside of my newspaper. A little puzzled I slowly put the paper down. Staring into my eyes are the most intense set of eyes I have had ever seen. “You, no doubt are a Sag, I can tell,” she said to me in a husky voice. “Good guess,” I snap back. Now I am a bit ill at ease. Who is this person? I have a little internal laugh, a moment's fantasy that she's an out-of-work astrologer escapee from Berkeley. Her stare is intense and not at all comforting. Gliddia is sitting there looking at me. “I knew you before,” she says fondling her crystal necklace. “I don't think we have ever met,” I say. “Another time, Oh yes, I remember you well now. Your name was Tim,” she said slowly. This gets to me because my mother who died years before I met Gliddia wanted to name me Timothy, my dad won out with Don. 

     Gliddia continues to talk, or rather what I considered babble. She's telling me she is an artist, “artist of female sexuality,” she says most sternly. “Female sexuality?” I respond. “Well, female auto- eroticism to be exact.” I feel that this very odd individual is pulling me upon the edge of sanity. “I only paint women masturbating. Taking control of our orgasms,” she continues. Joan the waitress overhearing every word is giving me the look of death, rolling her eyes in her head, half smile. “More ice tea honey?” She says with every word punctuated with sarcasm. “Good meeting you Gliddia, I've got to go,” I said in a rushed business manner. I get up and leave. Gliddia is left sitting there looking down at the counter. She is motionless.

     I walked up the hill towards the Howard Institute of Human Sciences, looking forward to work. I feel as though I am being followed, I turn, there is Gliddia waving at me. “Stop, Don, stop!” I hear from a block away. “Oh my God now what?” She's running towards me. “I have a question for you, Please answer, Please help!” She says puffing her way ever closer. Now face to face, “Do you believe in Vampires?” She says to me with tears in her eyes. I pause. This is a real question, and I understand the question. “Yes,” I say softly. Gliddia starts crying, almost wailing. “You are the first person to understand, the first person!”

     “You know!” She says through her tears. “How do you get rid of Vampires, I need to know, I need to know?” She tearfully pleads. I look into her eyes; a scared child is present, nightmares of people and pain.

     “You say 'No' and mean it. You just say 'No' and mean it.” She stops crying. “All Vampires are invited in. So all you have to do is say 'No' and mean it,” I repeat. A wave of relief crossed her face. “Thanks for understanding, I'll do it, I'll do it!” She turned and left walking slowing down the street, she glanced back at me, and said “thanks!”

     Gliddia became a minor Berkeley artist of some note doing what was called “Political art.” There was mention in the local avant-garde newspaper about Gliddia's suicide. "The walls were covered in her blood…she cut her arms and smeared blood…" Gliddia killed all the Vampires except the one that dwelt within, the one that took her life.

“Listen to them, Children of the night.

What music they make!”

Bela Lugosi

Dracula - 1931