Previously in the story, New Orleans librarian Alphine thinks she will find excitement in life by entering the world of role-playing vampires in the French Quarter. She’s bought the proper clothes and she’s on her way to sin.
Alphine got into her car, started the engine and drove down the street toward the infamous French Quarter. As the last rays of the sun disappeared, the garish neon lights in the distance flickered. They seemed to be beckoning her to join the evil celebrations of jazz, vampires and illicit sex. Even the thought of illicit vampire sex set to the rhythms of jazz made her tingle.
She wondered if the tall, pale young men dressed in black satin shirts would stand close to her at a bar and look down into her exposed bosom. Would she feel their body heat? Would she smell the essence of their bodies? Would she hear their long languid sighs as they assessed her fine black gown fresh from the racks of Madame De Baucherie’s Vamporium?
Slowly driving down Rampart Street, Alphine noticed one particular night club, Club V-Vampire, and its name intrigued her. Club V-Vampire. Why did it have an extra “V”? She concentrated on what exotic words began with a “V” that would be related to the word vampire. Alphine began to become exasperated with herself. She was a professional in the world of books and words, and she could not even think of a good adjective for vampire that began with a “V.”
Have patience, she told herself. She would soon find out once she entered its sinister doors. First she must find a parking space. Less than a block away from Club V-Vampire she found a parking lot under a lamppost. Her parents always told her that if she had to go out at night at least park under a streetlight. Alphine rolled down her window to pay the attendant the fee when a young man with a wan face staggered toward her car. His pale features were not painted on so he would look like a vampire. His bilious cheeks showed he was about to retch.
Leaning into her car window, the young man’s blood-shot eyes widened. He motioned to the parking attendant to come over. “Hey, man, this girl’s dress is so low you can see her bellybutton!”
His chest heaved, and she quickly rolled up her window just before the young man opened his mouth and vomited on her car. His eyes glazed over. He staggered into the darkness. Cracking her window, she informed the parking lot attendant, “I’ve changed my mind.”
“That’s all right,” the attendant replied. “It’s two-for-one beer in all the joints. This ain’t the only car that’s gonna get puked on tonight.”
When Alphine reached her apartment complex in the garden district, she took off her wig and her high heels and deposited them in her shopping bag before she went inside. After she carefully hung her new dress in the closet and placed the wig and shoes in a drawer of her dresser, she changed into her cotton pajamas, poured herself a small glass of milk, put five saltine crackers on a saucer and went to bed where she re-assessed her situation.
No one ever vomited in a Victorian vampire novel. Alphine was not expecting that turn of events. Perhaps dissipation was like any other mission—it needed intensive research and planning. She was good at that. That was what properly trained librarians did. They researched. She decided to recuse herself the rest of the weekend to recover her senses. On Monday, fully refreshed, she would launch a well-organized attack on the world of gothic decadence. Alphine was optimistic. After all, she had already learned one vital lesson—don’t go vamping on two-for-one beer night.