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“Hey, I just need to get to the Plaza. Thanks.”
Louis shook off some of the rain onto the carpeted floor of the taxi and sat back with a sigh. He had been meeting with a client, still in the business of making profit off trading art back and forth. He had worried in the months following his split with Armand that the business, that functioned more like a pastime, would be too tainted with every fucked up thing that relationship represented to him now. But it was soothing, like a way of holding on to how he at least somewhat managed to remain himself those years in spite of the manipulation. So, he was now being himself in New York, in the back of a taxi cab with the driver turning around and asking him if he cared about the radio station.
“Nah, anything’s fine.”
Louis didn’t listen much to the radio. Partly because he was still partial to the music of what he considered his time, partial to the sounds of Billie Holiday or Edith Piaf. And that’s not to say he was a music snob. But he had his limits.
And well, the other reason he didn’t listen much to the radio was because of one day a little over a year ago. Almost a year and a half after he had met Lestat in that crumbling shack in New Orleans, and five months after the release of Daniel's (questionable) memoir Interview With The Vampire .
He had never wanted it published in the first place. Ultimately, the interview should have been a 10 million dollar therapy session. But with Daniel Molloy…vulnerability was like blood in the water. Poor old man still didn’t know how to deal with emotions. He did seem somewhat apologetic when he told Louis about it, as it seemed it wasn’t entirely in his control. Though, that softened the blow only marginally, fractionally, not at all.
And, again, though he did not read it, Louis did find out that the book was not entirely faithful to the contents of his interview. Of the details he had seen in brief excerpts or heard through Daniel’s ramblings, three important changes had been made.
- Louis did not ask for the dark gift. It was forced upon him on a stormy night in New Orleans.
- Lestat had been planning to kill Louis the night of the Mardi Gras ball, content to replace him with Antoinette and keep Claudia as a subservient child for the rest of her life.
- Louis played no part in Claudia’s turning. He was instead intercepted on his way out of the townhouse on Rue Royale, just as he was getting ready to leave forever, with Lestat carrying a burnt up girl and forcing her into Louis’ arms.
There were other changes, minor ones that tweaked Louis, Lestat, Claudia, Armand, even Daniel. But those three were perhaps the reason why the tenuous friendship, acquaintanceship, acknowledgement Louis and Lestat had in the months after New Orleans and the hurricane crumbled.
Louis didn’t care much to rekindle it, anyways, far more determined to understand himself apart from any of the complications of his past life. He allowed himself his grief, now finding a place to acknowledge the tragedies of Paul, of Claudia, of Grace, of New Orleans, of Paris, of San Francisco. But as for keeping any of the living remnants of those lives with him in the present? It was altogether unnecessary. So he let Lestat be angry, let the relationship crumble even though a part of himself gnawed at his insides, telling him to reach out, to fix things, to grieve together .
But this was the context for October 16th, 2023. When Louis had made a visit to Chicago to visit a client and passed by a music store. And he was struck with Lestat’s face, his features highlighted by streaks of glitter. It was a poster, he realized, after his heart stopped for at least eight seconds. And underneath, vinyls, CDs, merch . For The Vampire Lestat .
He didn’t even know what kind of music he made, and while he could hazard a guess based solely on the aesthetic of the items staring back at him through the shop window, he decided to abandon the thought completely. Instead, after another cursory glance at the poster, the poster of Lestat in leather and chains, Louis cleared his throat and continued to walk.
And he didn’t think of it much, didn’t think of him much. Except in regards to the radio. Because he was determined to not hear a single song. He rationalized the thought as being a warranted fear of whatever Lestat would try to pass off as music. And that’s all it was. He had a particular music taste. Edith Piaf and Billie Holiday. Whatever the fuck The Vampire Lestat was definitely didn’t fit into that paradigm.
And any time he was around a radio, he remembered to specifically ask for it to be changed to a classical station, an oldies station, hell, maybe NPR.
But today, in the back of a carpeted taxi in New York that smelled vaguely of the Thai place on 76th and Amsterdam, he forgot. And he told the driver anything was fine.
So the driver made a noncommittal grunt before increasing the volume slightly.
The song playing was an inoffensive pop hit he had probably heard in a bookstore before. Something from a breakout artist who was only starting to hit the headlines a few months ago. And it’s okay, so Louis relaxes, knowing he has about fifteen minutes until he can get back to his hotel room and sleep the day away.
Another pop song comes and goes, and Louis thinks he might just let himself lay back and close his eyes for the rest of the short trip back to his hotel.
And then a sensual guitar riff starts the next song, a long instrumental opening to a song he hasn’t heard before.
The taxi driver laughs to himself before saying, “Oh my god, this guy.” And it seems like it was an involuntary slip of the tongue, a comment reserved for the driver’s side of the taxi’s glass divider, but Louis chases the thought.
“Who is he?”
The driver rolls one of his shoulders, “Uh, he’s this guy, got pretty famous about a year ago. Into rock and roll. He’s pretty out there, man.” The driver laughs again. The song is still in its long instrumental opening, somehow. “Pretty sure he’s gay, all of his songs are about some guy. Oh but the real kicker is that he claims to be a vampire, it’s a weird persona he’s got.”
He adds, “I would usually change the station, but a lot of the people I drive around seem to really like him. So, up to you. Want to listen to this?”
Louis knows. This is Lestat. He hasn’t started singing yet, but he knows. A few seconds will pass and he’ll hear Lestat’s voice, singing about some guy .
He has a choice. It is up to him. Sure, it was out of his control that the song would come on in the taxi, but here was the driver asking him to switch it off, even saying he wasn’t a fan. There was no reason for Louis to have to listen to this.
“Uh, you can keep it on. I’m curious, I guess.”
“Suit yourself.”
I knew a man named Louis.
I guess you could say I was a sex fiend.
I met him in a whorehouse backroom
Masturbating with a dark eyed gleam
I said, “How’d you like to waste some time?”
And he could not resist when he saw me start to grind.
“That’s not–” He cuts himself off.
The driver looks back at him with a smile, “Crazy, isn’t it? Don’t know why they play this shit on the radio.”
I took him to my castle.
And he just couldn’t believe his eyes.
I had so many devices.
Everything that money could buy.
I said “Sign your name on the dotted line”
The lights went out
And baby, we started to grind
“What the fuck?”
Louis!
The scream of his name over the radio struck him, and he was immediately grateful taxis never required an exchange of names because this would have been humiliating. Furthered only by the fact that Louis was blushing profusely in the back seat. And weirdly enough it was this yell, this scream, this moan , of his name that sent him spinning. Because yes, that was Lestat’s voice singing those lyrics, but this scream was Lestat in his entirety.
The castle started spinning.
Or maybe it was my brain.
I can’t tell you what he did to me.
But my body will never be the same.
His loving will kick your behind.
Oh, he showed me no mercy
But he sure enough, sure enough
Showed me he was mine
Darling, Louis, oh!
“This is ridiculous.”
The driver laughed, “And somehow he’s selling out shows like it’s easy. Would think music like this would reach maybe some kind of niche audience, but no, he’s on the radio with different songs almost every day.”
Another verse passes as Louis asks, “Are they all like this?”
“Well the guy seems determined to bring back sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. But no, he’s got some slower songs too. More romantic . But still not to my taste.”
Oh, Louis, oh
Come back, Louis, come back
Your dirty little prince
Wants to grind, grind,
Grind, grind, grind, grind,
Grind, grind, grind
Louis’ eyes go wide, covering his mouth with his hands. Because, fuck, he’s smiling. A completely unwanted reaction, just the second hand embarrassment of knowing this song exists. That Lestat walked into the studio and recorded this.
A long instrumental break starts, giving Louis the false hope that this was it. He made it through, barely, and the song was over.
But then a barely intelligible string of noises, noises he knows are Lestat’s, come on before the song abruptly changes to some indie song he’s also sure he’s heard before. Curious, he pulls out his phone and searches up the lyrics to the song, and finds that it was a backwards message.
Hello, how are you? I’m
fine ‘cause I know
That my Saint is coming
soon, coming, coming,
soon
Louis looks down at his phone in shock.
“Jesus, glad that’s over.” The driver shakes his head and continues driving.
“Yeah.”
It’s only a few minutes before Louis gets dropped off. He smiles and hands the driver the fare and then some, waving goodbye. Turning around, he stares at the doors of his hotel and he finds himself hesitant to walk in. He’s just listened to Lestat on the radio, he’s just heard his voice again, and he’s just heard his name being moaned out on the fucking radio. Like a sick, twisted version of Come to Me all these years later.
He finds himself walking away from his hotel, towards 5th avenue, desperate to see other people. He feels crazy. And for some reason, though he won’t admit it to himself, he finds himself hoping to hear another song, or the same one, just something .
But there’s nothing. People are walking, normally, and Louis finds himself wondering if any of them have heard the song. What did they think about this French guy claiming to be a vampire singing about fucking some guy named Louis? And how could they just continue to walk around normally afterwards? This wasn’t normal.
He heaves a breath and walks into a store, though the songs are all generic pop hits from a few years ago, meant to be an unassuming backing track to people’s luxury shopping. And yes, Louis could maybe understand why they wouldn’t be playing the ramblings of The Vampire Lestat in here.
He walks out in frustration and runs into someone.
Staring at him with a fucked up grin is Daniel Molloy.
“Louis! Why didn’t you tell me you were in town?”
Louis glanced briefly to the side, managing a weak smile, “Only here for a job, to sleep, and leaving right after.”
Daniel looks at him oddly, taking off his, honestly ridiculous, sunglasses. He’s got a leather jacket on too with combat boots, and Louis sighs. And for some inane reason, the clothes make him think of Lestat. Is this how Lestat was dressed while he sang about Louis?
He’s made the mistake already, letting himself get lost in the thought, even if only briefly, because when he focuses back on Daniel, the man’s smiling like an idiot.
“You heard ‘Darling Louis.’”
“What?”
“The song you’re thinking about.”
“I’m not thinking about a song, Daniel.” Though he knows the statement means nothing.
“You are. It’s okay, no hiding from me. I know all of your deep, dark secrets already, pal.”
Louis rolls his eyes.
“It’s pretty weird, right? I was a little shocked when I first heard it. Thought he would at least not call you out directly by name, just have you be the nameless man that gets referenced in a couple songs. But no, he was just grinding on that microphone singing about–”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
Daniel shrugs, and he puts his sunglasses back on.
“You should just call him. Enough with the will they won’t they . Fucker talks my ear off about you enough.”
“What? Do you…talk to him?”
Daniel sucks in a breath, “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually. We’re working on a documentary. Like, about his life, and kind of his response to the book.”
“The book that you published without my approval, the one that should be considered a fictional memoir with the amount of made-up stories in there.”
The comment rolls off Daniel's back though, “Oh, you know that wasn’t all me.”
But Daniel’s admission lingers in the air. The two of them talk. And apparently about Louis.
“Anyways, I’m not going to call him. I’m focusing on myself, remember?”
“Focusing on yourself? Okay. And when you figure out another excuse?”
“Alright, Daniel, I’m leaving. Good seeing you and, uh, good luck with the documentary.”
Daniel laughs, pulling out a box of cigarettes, “See ya, buddy. And do call more, dear.”
Louis scoffs, and walks back to the hotel.
When he’s back in Dubai, he carries on with life as normal.
He’s in loungewear, ready to relax maybe, with a good book and some music. He bends over to turn on his record player, Ornette Coleman’s Free Jazz ready. But he hesitates, stops, and leans back.
He sets the book he had been considering down on a chair, and walks to his bedroom.
He takes off his slippers, and slides into bed.
He pulls the covers over himself, enveloping himself in darkness.
And then he turns on his phone.
He opens up his music library, navigates to the search bar.
And types “The Vampire Lestat.”