Fashion Sense Succubus

     “I think there are vampires on this campus.”
     Jane Jamison looked over her cup of tea at her coworker, Professor “Ted” Reinhart. Where did he come of with these things? Semi-bald, like a monk or friar, and bespectacled, Reinhart pressed his considerable weight against the back of his chair where his tweed jacket lay draped. His arms, in white, long-sleeves, crossed his chest as he cradled a coffee mug that rested securely on the tummy of his robin-hood-green, vest sweater.         Looking back he smiled and raised his cup to his lips. Jane, he knew, was not going to let this pass, and like a man securing himself on deck for a sea blast, he made himself as comfortable as possible. A quick glance at her watch assured Jane that she had some time before she had to pick up her children and begin her night schedule. Okay, she thought, I’ll bite.
     “Vampires? Like `I vunt to suck your blood!’ Vampires? Bluh Bluh?" Jane raised her slender arms in an imitation of bat wings.” Her blue eyes twinkled behind glasses, framed by short, brownish, blond hair. She flashed a toothsome smile. Jane Jamison sat in stark contrast to Dr. Reinhart’s massive academic “grundge,” wearing a pressed, dark brown skirt, a cream blouse topped by a golden locket. She looked sharp, professional and sharp, maybe even slightly dangerous and sharp. 
     They sat across from one another at a table for two in the student café of the campus where they both worked. Behind Ted was the counter from which neon lights illuminated the short order kitchen, the glow of which was only partly obscured by a line of shuffling students. The only other light in the eating area came from a sliding glass door through which a smoky fog turned an already dark October afternoon even darker. At that moment the room was filled with activity, but Ted knew it would quiet down and begin to empty as the hour for the next class came, certainly before his meeting with the deans. Then they could talk quietly. He especially appreciated Jane's ensembles on Wednesdays when she attended her graduate classes.
     There were, of course, other days, when Jane appeared on campus in “comfortable” peasant dresses reminiscent of the sixties through which both Reinhart and she had lived. And still other days when she, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, swooped in to pick up mail and papers after dropping off or picking up her children and doing two piles of laundry. Always willowy, always nice, Reinhart thought, but today—definitely sharp. An ironic point, considering where he was taking her.
     “No not `bluh bluh’ Vampires; I mean Fashion Vampires.”
     ”What?”
     “Fashion Vampires, certainly you’ve noticed how anemic a fashion sense there is around here.”
     “Fashion Who?”
     “Have you ever noticed that on university and college campuses most professors are clueless about how to dress?”
     “Oh please, and you’ve come up with a supernatural explanation? 
     “I think there’s evidence for this.”
     “Don’t you think you’re generalizing from your own flaws? ‘I may be a mess but, hey, so is everyone else and all because of some unknown monster.’ Pretty weak Ted.”
     “No, not at all. I’ll admit I've always been a pretty hopeless case, but you were the one the other day who nudged me into noticing poor Mike in his polo shirt and clip on tie.”
     “Yes I did, but he’s got a reason; Coaches never wear ties. He only wears that clip-on because our beloved high, administrative “pue-ba” sent that memo, mandating we all look ‘professional. Ironically he’s forcing Mike to look utterly unprofessional.” 
     “Only in a general sense, remember fashion is not a strong point in that school. They all dress for sports, not “PR”; there’s no advice, no donor of fashion sense plasma to give a transfusion.”
     “That’s a weird metaphor.”  Reinhart waved to several students who were on their way to another class. The room was emptying and quieting down.
     “Let it pass, and I’ll get back to old “pue-ba” in a moment,” he said. “Let’s stay on the point that Mike doesn’t need to look the way he does. I don’t think he’s even aware of the problem, and he’s not alone. Most professors I know seem to be devoid of fashion sense. Look at Ernie. I wince every time I see him arriving at faculty meetings wearing that wide 1970s tie with vertical lines” 
     “. . .which inevitably collide with his usual shirt of horizontal stripes. Yes, I've seen it. But in Ernie’s case I think he just hasn’t moved on from the seventies. Those shirts are also vintage seventies—which is why they are also so tight.”
     “Also, in Biology there is no one to help since they are all wearing those lab coats. Maybe he thinks the tie hides his tummy, that’s certainly why I wear the tummy warmers you’re always making fun of.”
     “Tummy what?”
     “`Tummy Warmers.’ You know, my sweaters like this one that have no sleeves and form a “V” at the chest. Geez, am I the only person on this planet that calls them ‘Tummy warmers?’”
     “Apparently. Besides, your tummy warmers are not your problem. It’s the fact that you wear purple ones with blue jackets or somehow think that no one will notice yesterday’s lunch stain on them even though the “V” neck point straight at them.”
     “Purple is bad?”
     “With Navy Blue, yes.”
     “You can see these stains?”
     “From across a crowded room.”
     “You see? This proves my point. Why is Ernie clueless that time has moved on and that he should dress more to where he is at today, why didn’t I see that purple didn’t work with this jacket or that these stains are a problem?” 
     “Because you’re both men.”
     “Oh no, you’re not going to fall into that sexist argument. There are plenty of female professors who prove my point as well. Furthermore, Ernie, Mike and I do occasionally appear stylish—well maybe not Ernie, but unless you were fibbing, I have occasionally pleased your sense of appearance and I know Mike does.”
     “I wasn’t fibbing, but confidentially Mike would look better without a shirt let alone a tie.” 
     “Ah, really? And so when he trots around campus wearing those sleeveless, muscle shirts he is, in fact, on the mark fashion-wise?”
     “Theoretically, but don’t you quote me on any of that!”
     “I won’t, but it helps support my claim. The reason these men turn up in completely inadequate apparel is that they lack something. Or more precisely they have been drained of something.” 
By this time the late lunch was nearly over. Nearly all of the students and even some of the staff had moved on. With counter door now closed, the room had become quiet and even still. Jane, however, hadn’t noticed.
     “Oh, come on! Just because someone lacks a quality does not suggest that they were 'drained” of it.'”
     “That would be true if they were consistently without it, but--as we’ve already covered--they are not. For example, if I were bald today. . ." 
     "You are bald."
     "Okay since I am bald today what would you think if I walked into a faculty meeting tomorrow with hair and then walked in the office the next day without it again?”
     “You’d been wearing a wig.” Rinehart snorted into his coffee and quickly placed his cup on the table between them. Getting up for a moment he dabbed his face with a napkin and got a final refill from pot in the corner. Just as he put it back and flipped off the heating unit, one of the café workers in a crisp, pressed white uniform came in to collect it. They nodded to one another. Before he returned to his chair. 
     “Alright, point taken. My mistake in the example was the lack of time. Let’s say I grew hair, and you saw it grow. And then suddenly I did not have it. What would you assume then?”
“Well, I suppose it had been shaved.”
“Exactly, it had been re-moved. Why do we see people so off the fashion-mark one day when they can be on the mark on others? Because someone or something is taking it from them.”
“Ted--and I mean this in the most nurturing manner--but you’ve gone crackers! Let’s just take this blood metaphor a little farther. What’s your explanation for people having their fashion red blood count periodically restored?"
“Well, of course, some never do, just like some people go through their entire lives anemic. But most victims--don't role your eyes--get the fashion color back into their cheeks by a simple transfusion.”
“Transfusion?”
“Right, transfusion. Look at me: who occasionally stops me from wearing a brown shoe with a black one? Who tells me when my sweaters look too tight or are too stained to wear?”
“You don’t figure this out on your own?”
“No, and you know it; my wife tells me these things.”
“Aaaaah, I though we were going to avoid sexism in this conversation.”
"It's not sexism. What's your son's, Chris' comment when you wear those peasant dresses?" Jane laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
"Earth Mother," they both laughed as Jane continued "or if I am not as spectacular as his standards might demand he'll say 'Mom, did you bother to turn on the light when you got dressed this morning?'"
"Uh huh." Ted raised his mug and arched his eyebrow "that would certainly get my fashion sense pumping."
"Well, you may have a point. But I still think Cassie's harder on me. Sometimes she actually winces and groans before I even get to the bottom of the stairs." 
"Well maybe women, daughters in particular, do organically have more of a fashion sense. It certainly wouldn't be the only metabolic difference between the genders. I bet she didn't groan today; you look fantastic today."
Blushing Jane looked at her watch again. The afternoon had slipped away and it was nearly time for her to go. "Ted if what you say is true it strikes me then that there must be some schools which are especially infected."
"Really?"
"Well, the school of business, home economics, and of course those in the high administration. Individuals in all of those emphasize a look of success."
"You're probably correct. Although it seems to me that they would mostly be feeding grounds rather than breeding grounds for the vampire. The constancy of appearance required would seem to also call for a lot of feeding. On the other hand, our pue-ba, as you called him, seems to me especially open for such a charge. I've seen pictures of him, you know, back when he was just a regular professor on this campus. His look was very different then compared to the immaculate pressed individual he seems to be now." Jane laughed.
"Are you going to tell me that this is all about your ongoing war with Dean Smitty? I thought you two were getting along with him these days!"
"Oh we are. . .pretty well." 
"Pretty well eh? I need to go, but I am interested. If constantly looking good isn't a sign of this fashion vampire what would be one?" She pushed away from the table.
"Well I suppose it might be if there were a sudden shift. If someone suddenly becomes a sharp dresser when they seemed to have no concept of how to present themselves before--that might be a clue."
"Good afternoon professors." It was the starched, white dressed staff member. I'll be locking up now, just close the door when you've finished Dr. Rienhart. . .oh and you to Prof. Jamison. His smile seemed especially wide. The last interior lights went out, leaving only the pale red, gold, smoky dusk glowing through the window.
“Who’s that?”
     “Oh That’s just Jack; you know Jack. I’ve sort of become his “Pue-bah” these last few weeks.
     "Oh." Jane remembered Jack: tall, dark, wearer of nameless t-shirts, and sandals with white socks. Certainly different from the polished shoes he was wearing now along with the pressed soda jerk uniform he sported now. And then Jane realized that Ted had, at least in the last few months, been also consistently well dressed. In fact, today was the first time in a while she had seen him appear less than sharp. "Of course," she said while packing up her things into her purse, "you know Ted, with a little logic, this whole fashion succubus theory falls apart just like any vampire myth does."
     "Indeed, and how does that fall apart?"
     "Vampires, who turn their food into their own kind, will eventually run out of food." Reinhart looked at her over his coffee, twisting his face into a smirk.
     "That's a misunderstanding Jane. Even in Stoker's novel, that's now how the vampire works. There must be a choice made."
"Oh yes, the vampire can choose who his or her victim-convert will be."
     "That's how the Victorians looked upon it, but they were clouded by misperceptions based on idealized pure womanhood. What woman, they thought, would actually choose to become a succubus? They feared a devouring female so they just denied its existence only to have it appear in their fictions. That fact is Jane, a man or woman becomes a vampire because he or she wants to become one." They were both standing. He had been holding his hand on the back of his chair, but now he moved a step towards her. Something was making Jane's heart beat rapidly, but she still raised a smile.
     "Ted, why would anyone become a fashion vampire?" She had meant for the question to be bold but it had come out, instead, as a whisper. His response was low and soft.
     "The same reason anyone becomes a vampire--power. Have you ever considered how much power is awarded not to those who have skills or intelligence but merely appearance? Look at the lists of faculty who have rocketed to full professorship while others sludge their way, level by level, being overlooked or temporarily held back? Oh a "legitimate" sounding reason is given, but if truth be known, it was more about a grease stain on a tie than blemish on a record." By this time Jane had backed away, casually reaching for her coat. Following, Rienhart continued: "Pue-ba finally made this clear to me, a few months ago. And at that time he gave me a choice. And do you know what? He was absolutely right."
     "Ted, I really need to go."
     "Yes, I know and I do too--there's an interview for new deans. Guess who's being considered for full professor and a deanship after all these years? Me! Just because my tie has been straight recently. Pue-ba, my friend, will be waiting," Ted smiled, but for the first time since she had known him, Jane did not like that smile.      "As you know "Pue-ba" is nothing more than slang for 'Master.' I wouldn't want to keep Master waiting." At that moment the sun set, darkness fell, and Jane felt hands clasp her shoulders.
     Dr. Reinhart strode, under the glow of automatic illuminated yellow lights, across campus towards his dean interview. Behind him, his raincoat billowed. His tie was straight, shirt pressed, and if someone had actually gotten close, he or she would have discerned no stains on his robin-green vest. "What a powerful, attractive man, thought Betty, the registrar, as she locked up. "Some men just seem to be able to carry even extra weight firmly."
     Chris Jamison was already in a foul mood when he spotted his mother finally pulling up. He had been waiting for more than twenty minutes when it had started to rain, and the October evening had turned chilly. Sliding in beside on the passenger's car he looked over at his mother. Jane's hair was disheveled, her buttons in the wrong holes and there seemed to be even a tea stain near her tarnished golden locket: "'Mom, did you bother to turn on the light when you got dressed this morning?"