Nothing Gained

West Dormitory, Union College

The taxi driver wrestled Howie’s steamer trunk out of the van, dragged it to the sidewalk. Howie gave him the fare and a handsome tip, expecting some help getting the trunk to his room. Instead, the driver thanked him and climbed back into the van.
“Uh…sir, can you help me carry my trunk…”
“Curb delivery only—insurance doesn’t cover it.”
The van pulled away, its exhaust enveloping Howie in a gray-black cloud of diesel fumes. Behind him, someone called, “Whaddaya got in there, a dead body?” Turning, Howie looked up and saw a guy crouched on the top step of the landing. The guy uncoiled to a standing position. He said, “That cabbie’s a real bloodsucker,” then “need a hand? Ground floor—five bucks, second—ten, third’ll run you fifteen.”
 The badge plastered onto his raggedy black tee shirt said “PROCTOR.” His name was in smaller type, too small to make out from where Howie stood. He was lanky, but not gangling, like Howie. His face was narrow, his eyes an intense green, his long nose chiseled; shiny black hair pulled back into a ponytail, a wolfish twist to his mouth.
Reminded Howie of the guy in the old Dracula movies on cable.
“Is 301 on the third floor?” Howie asked. “What do you think?” the guy said. Howie turned back to the trunk. Behind him the guy said, “Twenty bucks.”
“You said fifteen!”
“I just remembered. I got no insurance coverage either. C’mon man, pay before you play.”
Howie fished a twenty from his wallet.
They tugged and pushed the trunk up the eight metal-edged concrete steps to the landing, then into the building. Howie was breathing hard, sweat pouring down his pallid face, stinging his eyes and steaming his wire rim glasses.
“Hold on a second. Let me take off my jacket.”
Howie doffed his jacket and tie and placed them atop the steamer trunk. Half way down the hall on the right, he spotted an elevator.
“Hey—you said…”
“If we take the stairs it’s twenty more.”
“But…”
“Relax, I was just messing with you,” the guy said, with a crooked grin.
“Wait—you mean…we’re roommates?”
The guy hiked a flip-flopped foot onto the steamer trunk, rested his crossed forearms on his knee and gazed at Howie.
“301—right? Printout says ‘Renfield III, Howard—Room 301’. Trust me. We got the best freakin room in the building. Call me Luke.”
The name on his badge said, “Lucius Deville.”
“What about that twenty I gave you?”
“Tell you what: you can have the bed with the million-dollar view. Right into some of the Women’s Dorm rooms when the shades are up. Sound good?”
 After they managed to shoehorn the trunk into the elevator, Howie asked, “What year you in?”
“Sophomore. Space is tight so I gotta have a roommate…but bein’ a Residence Proctor, my housing’s free.” he continued, unasked.
“What do you have to do?”
“It’s kinda like being a minimum security prison guard. Make sure there’s no booze, no weed, no co-habitating…”
“And what if students break the rules? You report them?”
The guy chuckled. “Not if they make it worth my while not to. It’s a freakin college dorm, not a prison, right?” Fox in the henhouse, Howie thought.
“I thought my roommate was supposed to be Billy Lugo.”
“Oh, he’s not coming. He was waitlisted at Tranny State—got accepted last week.
When they entered the tiny room, a faint odor of rotten eggs invaded Howie’s nose. “Whew, it’s warm in here. What’s that smell?” Howie said.
“Waddaya mean? Smells okay to me. Weather’s fine in here. Wait till it gets cold. You’ll be grateful you’re not freezin’ your ass off. Hell, I wanted to be put next to the furnace room in the basement. Oh, you got the upper bunk.”
The upper and lower bunk beds were pushed width-wise flush against the single window in the room; the upper bunk’s view of the outside was restricted to a narrow sliver of window pane. “I can’t see squat up there,” Howie groused.
“You wanna be disturbed when I have to get up in the middle of the night to let somebody in who forgot his key? Listen, later on, how ‘bout we check out some hottie waitress friends a’ mine at the Rathskeller?”
***
That night, Howie clambered down from his bunk and made his way to the steamer trunk. He opened the trunk and withdrew the implements from its secret compartment. He crept to where Luke lay supine…and drove a sharpened wooden stake through his left nipple. An unholy, skull-shattering howl that only Howie could hear issued from Luke’s deformed “O” of a mouth.
Howie dropped his mallet, clasping his hands to his ears to block out the knifing pain. Luke’s eyes bulged open, piercing Howie’s eyes, transfixing him.

“Hell…low! I’m a Satan Second Class, not a freak’n Vampire,” he messaged telepathically to Howie.
“Huh,” Howie muttered, “we’ve been tracking Billy Lugo for a while now. When he didn’t show up I was hoping you came as his replacement. That ‘Billy Lugo’ alias was–it was short for Bela Lugosi. Very funny. And you told me he transferred to Transylvania U. I put two and two together. Then there was you, of course, acting like a total jerk.” And came up with five, Howie thought.
“Damnation to hell, I just flunked my devilment 101 course, thanks to you,” Luke sighed. “I’m gonna have to re-take it. There goes next summer. Renfield…I shouldda picked up on your name. Your great-great grandpap musta been Carlyle F. Renfield, Dracula’s freakin flycatcher.”
“You got that right. Speaking of names, your name did give me second thoughts about whether you were a Vampire, though. Lucius Deville? I get it now. You’re named after Lucifer the Devil! But even if you weren’t a Vampire I figured I’d try to nail you anyway. You devils hang with them, don’t you? Oh well…like they say, nothing ventured. Looks like we’re both going back to the minors.”
Len Z