================================
Paper Chase
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) June 1999 (print), 2000 (web)
=================================
Natalie slid open the heavy elevator door, entered the loft, and
stopped dead. "Good lord," she said conversationally. "Did a mailman
explode in here?"
Nick was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by mail, stacks and
stacks of the stuff-magazines, circulars, credit card offers,
catalogs, you name it. If it could be sent via Canada Post, it was
there. He looked up, a slightly desperate expression on his face.
"Junk mail," he said succinctly.
"You ain't kiddin', buster," Nat said. She scooped a stack of catalogs
off a chair and sat down. "I get it, too, but nothing like this! What
did you do, just randomly send out your address and ask to be
inundated?"
Nick tossed a circular promising "Hair Restored in Sixty Days or Your
Money Back! Guaranteed!" into the trash bag on the floor next to his
chair, sighed, and shook his head. "Absolutely not. I have no idea
what's going on. I mean, I don't even have that many magazine
subscriptions." He pointed to a modest stack of newly arrived
magazines on one corner of the table. "This all happened in the last
two weeks -- I've just been throwing the stuff on the table every day,
avoiding the issue. Now look at it," he said, riffling a stack of
credit card offers with stunningly low APRs. "And it's getting worse
every day. The mail carrier left a note in my mailbox suggesting I
open a post office box 'on account of the volume.' " He glowered at
the mess on the table and said grimly, "Someone is going to pay."
"What, you think someone is giving out your address?" Natalie asked
skeptically. "Someone you arrested or something? That's pretty weird."
Nick looked consideringly at the scorch mark on the elevator door,
all that remained of his late, unlamented sire, Lucien Lacroix. There
was something about this latest tribulation-call it aggravation by
papercut -- that almost made him long for the good old days when the
only thing he had to worry about was his master's relentless
persecution. He sighed and said, "I'm completely baffled."
Natalie giggled. "Nick, fictional English sleuths of the 1930s were
baffled. Miss Marple was baffled. This is the Nineties -- you're
puzzled, perplexed, stumped..."
"Flummoxed?"
"Nero Wolfe was flummoxed. You've got to get yourself into this end of
the century, Nick."
"Okay, I'm perplexed. Happy?"
"Delirious. Tell you what, I'll help you sort it out," she offered,
drawing a stack of colorful, oversized envelopes towards her lap. She
was bursting with curiosity to see what kind of mail Nick received.
All for the sake of her research, of course, she reminded herself. It
was important to understand the whole vampire, not just the medical
aspects. Nosiness had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Nick was pathetically grateful. "But how do I turn it off?" he asked
plaintively. "It used to be I'd get a few real letters a week -- you
know, from a friend, handwritten on nice stationery, telling me about
mutual acquaintances, discussing books, that sort of thing. Now all I
get are things like this..." He held up a sweepstake entry in a large
brown envelope that declared "You Might Already Be a Winner!" "...or
bills." He pointed the sweepstakes envelope at a stack of bills
decorating the seat of the chair next to him. "I used to look forward
to the post," he said sadly, a wistful, distant look on his face.
Natalie sighed. He was obviously caught up in another mental journey
to a far-away place and time -- presumably one with really interesting
mail. "You know, magazines and catalogs sell their mailing lists to
other businesses. That's how you get on new mailing lists," she said
helpfully. "You can tell them to take your name off their lists."
Nick returned from his reverie and looked at the pile on the table.
"It would take weeks to contact them all," he said.
"Sometimes immortality can be a big plus, then," Natalie replied
heartlessly. "It's not like you're going to run out of time, you
know."
He glared at her, then relented and grinned. "You have a point." He
picked up an envelope. "Let's start sorting, then. Bills here," he
said, indicating the chair. "Catalogs and magazines there." He pointed
to the floor between them. "Junk..." He glared at the envelope in his
hand and threw it in the trash bag. "...there, and real mail, if there
is any, over here." He patted the table in front of him.
The only sound for the next few minutes was the muted, papery thud of
mail being thrown into various piles. Natalie made mental notes as she
sorted. There was an astonishing assortment, with no unifying theme.
She herself got all sorts of cat-oriented stuff, as well as circulars
from pharmaceutical companies and medical equipment houses, but that
was only to be expected, considering she subscribed to cat and medical
journals.
But Nick's junk mail was all over the map, from pleas for help for
starving children in Asia to lawn care products to collectible
figurines of big-eyed children. There were catalogs from museums, for
health and beauty aids, novelty gifts, New Age knickknacks, model
ships and airplanes, build-it-yourself furniture kits, hobby
electronics, and several for "adult amusements" that made her blush.
There were pet-care products, catalogs for dairy farmers (she barely
stifled her laughter at that one) and... She made an appreciative
noise.
"What?" Nick asked, looking up.
Natalie held up a glossy catalog whose cover featured a stunningly
handsome man in a kilt holding up a sword in a fierce pose. "A
Highlander catalog? Nick, I didn't know you were a fan."
He said frostily, "I'm not. That show's absurd. Bad history, worse
costuming, and the most ridiculous sword fights this side of a 1950s
Viking movie."
She said slyly, "So you do watch it."
"No, I don't. Not on purpose, anyway. Sometimes there's just nothing
else on," he said defensively.
"Ha!"
"Besides, ever since they killed off Tessa it hasn't been the same,"
he mumbled. "It's not like that guy can act, anyway."
Natalie sighed. "Nick, we don't watch it for the great acting. We
watch it for this." She pointed at the man in the kilt. "He is
seriously gorgeous. So is the old guy -- and he plays a mean blues
guitar, too."
He snorted and pointedly continued with his mail sorting.
Natalie surreptitiously tucked the catalog under her chair. After all,
Nick didn't want it -- no reason why she shouldn't take it home with
her. More research on immortality, she told herself.
The magazines were a fascinating assortment, as befitting Nick's far-
flung interests. Archaeology journals, news magazines, art reviews,
even the French edition of GQ. And then there was one she had never
heard of.
" 'Osiris?' Nick, what's this about?" There was a subtitle under the
name -- "Night Life for Night Lovers." She started to flip through it.
Nick hastily reached across the table and tried to take it out of her
hands. "Oh, nothing. Just another one of those lifestyle magazines.
It's not very interesting, really."
She held on and managed to snatch it back out of his reach. "Hmmm,
sounds interesting to me, being on the night shift and all." She
turned away and opened it to the table of contents. "Let's see --
'Sample New York's Diversity'... 'Solutions to the Homeless Problem in
LA -- a Walk on the Wild Side'..." She looked at the pictures of
strangely pale revelers carousing in a dark club accompanying the
first article, then up at her suddenly silent companion. "Nick, is
this what I think it is? The vampire version of Vanity Fair?"
"Uh..."
She flipped further. "It is! My god, Nick, the Community has a
magazine?"
Nick sighed resignedly. "That's what happens when someone brings
across a yuppie publisher with big ideas and a wealthy sire with no
sense whatsoever. It started last year. The subscription's automatic.
Get brought over, you're on the mailing list."
Natalie goggled at the thought of someone having a mailing list of
every vampire in the world. "You're kidding, right? A free
subscription with your 'membership?' Sort of like joining the motor
club and getting that travel magazine?"
Nick nodded. "Unfortunately, yes." He managed to retrieve the magazine
from her reluctant hands, then stashed it safely out of her reach.
She pursued the bizarre notion with scientific thoroughness. "Who
maintains the list? Are you required to sign up your, uh, converts? Is
there a time limit? Do you have to send in change-of-address cards
when you move on?"
Nick shot her a sharp glance. "Nat, there are some questions you don't
need to ask."
She looked at the sequestered magazine with longing. "Still, Nick, if
you have any back issues you don't want..."
"No! Absolutely not!"
Natalie wondered if it was undignified to scrounge through Nick's
dumpster during the next day or two. Research, she repeated. It's
research.
Finally the mound of mail was dealt with, reduced to a small pile of
bills and exactly one "real" letter. "Unbelievable," Nick muttered,
jiggling the stack of missives into a neat pile. He looked morosely at
the unruly mess of catalogs on the floor. "I guess I know how I'll be
spending the next couple of days -- calling these, these..." He
paused, at a loss for a word that adequately described the catalog
publishers without lapsing into profanity.
"Jerks? Tree-slayers? Mass-marketing idiots?" Natalie suggested
sweetly.
"Not the words I was thinking of, but...something like that," Nick
agreed. "Shall I save the next Highlander catalog for you?"
Nat flushed. "Uh, sure. Thanks."
~~~~~~~
One week later...
Captain Stonetree poked his head out of his office and bellowed,
"Knight! Get in here!"
Nick looked quizzically at his partner, Don Schanke. Schanke shrugged.
"Don't look at me."
Nick got up and went into the captain's office. "Yeah, Cap?" he asked.
"Nick, what the hell is going on with you? Jennifer tells me you're
getting all sorts of weird mail delivered here." He looked at a memo
on his desk, apparently from Jennifer the mail clerk. "She says she's
too embarrassed to sort some of it, let alone put it in your in box."
Nick groaned. "Sorry, Cap, somehow I've been getting on all sorts of
mailing lists. You should see what's being delivered at home -- and
now it's coming here, too. I'm working on stopping it, really. I spend
a couple hours a day writing letters or calling the companies to get
taken off their lists."
Stonetree sat back, the chair squeaking alarmingly. "Make sure it
stops soon -- and in the meantime, pick up your mail in the mailroom
yourself. And don't leave it out on your desk, either. I've seen some
of that stuff, and if it isn't illegal, it should be."
"Sorry, Cap," Nick repeated. "I'll take care of it."
Stonetree humphed and waved him out of the office. "Make sure you do."
When Nick got back to his desk, Schanke was leafing through one of the
catalogs from Nick's in box and grinning. "Hey, Nick, I didn't know
you were interested in macramé."
Nick snatched the catalog from his hands and tore it in half with a
satisfying rrrrrrrripp. He felt no compulsion to edit his feelings on
the matter, since no ladies were in his immediate vicinity.
"Wow," Schanke said admiringly after a respectful pause. "I never even
thought someone could do that to themself."
~~~~~~~~~~
New York, one month later...
"Maxwell!"
"Yes, sir?" the young vampire said respectfully, materializing in the
bedroom doorway.
"Report." The figure lying in the spacious bed beckoned imperiously
with an almost-healed hand.
"He's stopped most of it, sir. He can be quite persuasive, it seems."
"Indeed. I think another trip to the bookstore is indicated."
"Certainly, sir. What sort of magazines should I buy this time?"
"Hmmm," the figure considered for a moment. "I think -- yes, that will
do. Let's make it professional wrestling and Star Trek this time,
shall we? And when you return, I shall have some more things for you
to mail."
Maxwell stifled his laughter. "Professional wrestling and Star Trek.
Yes, sir. I'll be back in an hour."
Lucien Lacroix, whose death had been greatly exaggerated, dismissed
the young man and picked up his gold-and-enamel Bucheron fountain pen.
He drew the lap desk into a more comfortable position and started
carefully filling out the small form that lay there.
"Yes, send me my complimentary copy of Cooking Lite!" the form read. A
slight smile teased the recently renewed full lips. "Nicholas B.
Knight,' he wrote. '101 Gateway Lane, Toronto, Ontario..."
It was small payback for being skewered and barbecued. But until he
was fully recovered, it would have to do.
Finis
Paper Chase
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) June 1999 (print), 2000 (web)
=================================
Natalie slid open the heavy elevator door, entered the loft, and
stopped dead. "Good lord," she said conversationally. "Did a mailman
explode in here?"
Nick was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by mail, stacks and
stacks of the stuff-magazines, circulars, credit card offers,
catalogs, you name it. If it could be sent via Canada Post, it was
there. He looked up, a slightly desperate expression on his face.
"Junk mail," he said succinctly.
"You ain't kiddin', buster," Nat said. She scooped a stack of catalogs
off a chair and sat down. "I get it, too, but nothing like this! What
did you do, just randomly send out your address and ask to be
inundated?"
Nick tossed a circular promising "Hair Restored in Sixty Days or Your
Money Back! Guaranteed!" into the trash bag on the floor next to his
chair, sighed, and shook his head. "Absolutely not. I have no idea
what's going on. I mean, I don't even have that many magazine
subscriptions." He pointed to a modest stack of newly arrived
magazines on one corner of the table. "This all happened in the last
two weeks -- I've just been throwing the stuff on the table every day,
avoiding the issue. Now look at it," he said, riffling a stack of
credit card offers with stunningly low APRs. "And it's getting worse
every day. The mail carrier left a note in my mailbox suggesting I
open a post office box 'on account of the volume.' " He glowered at
the mess on the table and said grimly, "Someone is going to pay."
"What, you think someone is giving out your address?" Natalie asked
skeptically. "Someone you arrested or something? That's pretty weird."
Nick looked consideringly at the scorch mark on the elevator door,
all that remained of his late, unlamented sire, Lucien Lacroix. There
was something about this latest tribulation-call it aggravation by
papercut -- that almost made him long for the good old days when the
only thing he had to worry about was his master's relentless
persecution. He sighed and said, "I'm completely baffled."
Natalie giggled. "Nick, fictional English sleuths of the 1930s were
baffled. Miss Marple was baffled. This is the Nineties -- you're
puzzled, perplexed, stumped..."
"Flummoxed?"
"Nero Wolfe was flummoxed. You've got to get yourself into this end of
the century, Nick."
"Okay, I'm perplexed. Happy?"
"Delirious. Tell you what, I'll help you sort it out," she offered,
drawing a stack of colorful, oversized envelopes towards her lap. She
was bursting with curiosity to see what kind of mail Nick received.
All for the sake of her research, of course, she reminded herself. It
was important to understand the whole vampire, not just the medical
aspects. Nosiness had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Nick was pathetically grateful. "But how do I turn it off?" he asked
plaintively. "It used to be I'd get a few real letters a week -- you
know, from a friend, handwritten on nice stationery, telling me about
mutual acquaintances, discussing books, that sort of thing. Now all I
get are things like this..." He held up a sweepstake entry in a large
brown envelope that declared "You Might Already Be a Winner!" "...or
bills." He pointed the sweepstakes envelope at a stack of bills
decorating the seat of the chair next to him. "I used to look forward
to the post," he said sadly, a wistful, distant look on his face.
Natalie sighed. He was obviously caught up in another mental journey
to a far-away place and time -- presumably one with really interesting
mail. "You know, magazines and catalogs sell their mailing lists to
other businesses. That's how you get on new mailing lists," she said
helpfully. "You can tell them to take your name off their lists."
Nick returned from his reverie and looked at the pile on the table.
"It would take weeks to contact them all," he said.
"Sometimes immortality can be a big plus, then," Natalie replied
heartlessly. "It's not like you're going to run out of time, you
know."
He glared at her, then relented and grinned. "You have a point." He
picked up an envelope. "Let's start sorting, then. Bills here," he
said, indicating the chair. "Catalogs and magazines there." He pointed
to the floor between them. "Junk..." He glared at the envelope in his
hand and threw it in the trash bag. "...there, and real mail, if there
is any, over here." He patted the table in front of him.
The only sound for the next few minutes was the muted, papery thud of
mail being thrown into various piles. Natalie made mental notes as she
sorted. There was an astonishing assortment, with no unifying theme.
She herself got all sorts of cat-oriented stuff, as well as circulars
from pharmaceutical companies and medical equipment houses, but that
was only to be expected, considering she subscribed to cat and medical
journals.
But Nick's junk mail was all over the map, from pleas for help for
starving children in Asia to lawn care products to collectible
figurines of big-eyed children. There were catalogs from museums, for
health and beauty aids, novelty gifts, New Age knickknacks, model
ships and airplanes, build-it-yourself furniture kits, hobby
electronics, and several for "adult amusements" that made her blush.
There were pet-care products, catalogs for dairy farmers (she barely
stifled her laughter at that one) and... She made an appreciative
noise.
"What?" Nick asked, looking up.
Natalie held up a glossy catalog whose cover featured a stunningly
handsome man in a kilt holding up a sword in a fierce pose. "A
Highlander catalog? Nick, I didn't know you were a fan."
He said frostily, "I'm not. That show's absurd. Bad history, worse
costuming, and the most ridiculous sword fights this side of a 1950s
Viking movie."
She said slyly, "So you do watch it."
"No, I don't. Not on purpose, anyway. Sometimes there's just nothing
else on," he said defensively.
"Ha!"
"Besides, ever since they killed off Tessa it hasn't been the same,"
he mumbled. "It's not like that guy can act, anyway."
Natalie sighed. "Nick, we don't watch it for the great acting. We
watch it for this." She pointed at the man in the kilt. "He is
seriously gorgeous. So is the old guy -- and he plays a mean blues
guitar, too."
He snorted and pointedly continued with his mail sorting.
Natalie surreptitiously tucked the catalog under her chair. After all,
Nick didn't want it -- no reason why she shouldn't take it home with
her. More research on immortality, she told herself.
The magazines were a fascinating assortment, as befitting Nick's far-
flung interests. Archaeology journals, news magazines, art reviews,
even the French edition of GQ. And then there was one she had never
heard of.
" 'Osiris?' Nick, what's this about?" There was a subtitle under the
name -- "Night Life for Night Lovers." She started to flip through it.
Nick hastily reached across the table and tried to take it out of her
hands. "Oh, nothing. Just another one of those lifestyle magazines.
It's not very interesting, really."
She held on and managed to snatch it back out of his reach. "Hmmm,
sounds interesting to me, being on the night shift and all." She
turned away and opened it to the table of contents. "Let's see --
'Sample New York's Diversity'... 'Solutions to the Homeless Problem in
LA -- a Walk on the Wild Side'..." She looked at the pictures of
strangely pale revelers carousing in a dark club accompanying the
first article, then up at her suddenly silent companion. "Nick, is
this what I think it is? The vampire version of Vanity Fair?"
"Uh..."
She flipped further. "It is! My god, Nick, the Community has a
magazine?"
Nick sighed resignedly. "That's what happens when someone brings
across a yuppie publisher with big ideas and a wealthy sire with no
sense whatsoever. It started last year. The subscription's automatic.
Get brought over, you're on the mailing list."
Natalie goggled at the thought of someone having a mailing list of
every vampire in the world. "You're kidding, right? A free
subscription with your 'membership?' Sort of like joining the motor
club and getting that travel magazine?"
Nick nodded. "Unfortunately, yes." He managed to retrieve the magazine
from her reluctant hands, then stashed it safely out of her reach.
She pursued the bizarre notion with scientific thoroughness. "Who
maintains the list? Are you required to sign up your, uh, converts? Is
there a time limit? Do you have to send in change-of-address cards
when you move on?"
Nick shot her a sharp glance. "Nat, there are some questions you don't
need to ask."
She looked at the sequestered magazine with longing. "Still, Nick, if
you have any back issues you don't want..."
"No! Absolutely not!"
Natalie wondered if it was undignified to scrounge through Nick's
dumpster during the next day or two. Research, she repeated. It's
research.
Finally the mound of mail was dealt with, reduced to a small pile of
bills and exactly one "real" letter. "Unbelievable," Nick muttered,
jiggling the stack of missives into a neat pile. He looked morosely at
the unruly mess of catalogs on the floor. "I guess I know how I'll be
spending the next couple of days -- calling these, these..." He
paused, at a loss for a word that adequately described the catalog
publishers without lapsing into profanity.
"Jerks? Tree-slayers? Mass-marketing idiots?" Natalie suggested
sweetly.
"Not the words I was thinking of, but...something like that," Nick
agreed. "Shall I save the next Highlander catalog for you?"
Nat flushed. "Uh, sure. Thanks."
~~~~~~~
One week later...
Captain Stonetree poked his head out of his office and bellowed,
"Knight! Get in here!"
Nick looked quizzically at his partner, Don Schanke. Schanke shrugged.
"Don't look at me."
Nick got up and went into the captain's office. "Yeah, Cap?" he asked.
"Nick, what the hell is going on with you? Jennifer tells me you're
getting all sorts of weird mail delivered here." He looked at a memo
on his desk, apparently from Jennifer the mail clerk. "She says she's
too embarrassed to sort some of it, let alone put it in your in box."
Nick groaned. "Sorry, Cap, somehow I've been getting on all sorts of
mailing lists. You should see what's being delivered at home -- and
now it's coming here, too. I'm working on stopping it, really. I spend
a couple hours a day writing letters or calling the companies to get
taken off their lists."
Stonetree sat back, the chair squeaking alarmingly. "Make sure it
stops soon -- and in the meantime, pick up your mail in the mailroom
yourself. And don't leave it out on your desk, either. I've seen some
of that stuff, and if it isn't illegal, it should be."
"Sorry, Cap," Nick repeated. "I'll take care of it."
Stonetree humphed and waved him out of the office. "Make sure you do."
When Nick got back to his desk, Schanke was leafing through one of the
catalogs from Nick's in box and grinning. "Hey, Nick, I didn't know
you were interested in macramé."
Nick snatched the catalog from his hands and tore it in half with a
satisfying rrrrrrrripp. He felt no compulsion to edit his feelings on
the matter, since no ladies were in his immediate vicinity.
"Wow," Schanke said admiringly after a respectful pause. "I never even
thought someone could do that to themself."
~~~~~~~~~~
New York, one month later...
"Maxwell!"
"Yes, sir?" the young vampire said respectfully, materializing in the
bedroom doorway.
"Report." The figure lying in the spacious bed beckoned imperiously
with an almost-healed hand.
"He's stopped most of it, sir. He can be quite persuasive, it seems."
"Indeed. I think another trip to the bookstore is indicated."
"Certainly, sir. What sort of magazines should I buy this time?"
"Hmmm," the figure considered for a moment. "I think -- yes, that will
do. Let's make it professional wrestling and Star Trek this time,
shall we? And when you return, I shall have some more things for you
to mail."
Maxwell stifled his laughter. "Professional wrestling and Star Trek.
Yes, sir. I'll be back in an hour."
Lucien Lacroix, whose death had been greatly exaggerated, dismissed
the young man and picked up his gold-and-enamel Bucheron fountain pen.
He drew the lap desk into a more comfortable position and started
carefully filling out the small form that lay there.
"Yes, send me my complimentary copy of Cooking Lite!" the form read. A
slight smile teased the recently renewed full lips. "Nicholas B.
Knight,' he wrote. '101 Gateway Lane, Toronto, Ontario..."
It was small payback for being skewered and barbecued. But until he
was fully recovered, it would have to do.
Finis