Class Struggle

Make up. Check. Wig. Check. Gloves. Check. Dark hose free of snags and holes. Double check. Tiny cloisonné green and red ivy pin in honor of the season. Getting dressed for work was like getting suited for an outer space walk. Not an inch of the real me in sight. To the world, I was Christy Clarke, accountant, which made me as big a cipher as the strings of zeros that I worked with every day at Marchand Shipping.

I had more reason than usual to dread going to work that day. It was December 24, the corporate Christmas Party. Sure enough, my employer, Monsier Marchand was draped over the punch bowl, regaling the secretarial pool with his theory of why the French Revolution resorted to the guillotine.

"What most people don't know," he murmured. "Is that the aristocracy of Europe was riddled with vampirism." When he drank, his French accent got heavier, and his hands began to roam. Idly, he caressed the nape of one of the newly hired keyboardists. "Beheading was one of the few reliable ways to dispatch a Lord of the Undead."

Jenny Fowler, the object of his attention, gazed up at his pale face and slightly blood shot eyes with a rapt expression.

Monsier Marchand smiled at her, revealing unusually sharp canines. "Come back to my office, and I will tell you more."

I inserted myself between my employer and his Christmas eve snack. "Jenny," I said coldly, breaking the spell Monsier Marchand had woven. "The Peterson accounts need to be reconciled before the close of the day. Hop to it."

She jumped like a startled deer. "Yes, ma'am!"

Monsiuer Marchand snarled at me. "Bloody bourgeoisie!"

My face felt stiff behind all its makeup, as I forced myself to smile back. "Blood sucking predatory aristocratic leech!"

His eyes narrowed. With exaggerated care, he straightened the cuffs of his custom tailored suit "Have you given the factory workers their Christmas bonuses yet?"

I ground my teeth. I hated visiting the factory, and he knew it. "Let me get something to drink first."

"Don't make them wait too long. We wouldn't want to have a worker uprising on our hands."

Nasty man! I turned and found myself staring face to face with one of my colleagues in the accounts receivable department, Justin… what was his name? He was one of those oh so forgettable men. Except at times like these. Was it really a full moon again?

Justin's breath was quick and shallow. His normally smooth cheeks bristled with coarse fur. Tufts of hair even sprouted from his nostrils and ears. I didn't want to think about what was under his clothes. I had seen him naked once, swinging from the chandeliers. Usually, he stayed home when he was going through his werewolf transformation. However, Justin seldom got invited to parties, so I guess he could not resist the company Christmas bash.

His odor was sharp and musky. Under other circumstances, I might have found it pleasant, but not here, not at work, with the eyes of my colleagues fixed upon me. When Justin made a lunge for me, I whipped out a silver ball point pen that I kept especially for him and jabbed him in the back of the hand

He howled and nursed his hand.

"Bad boy!" I scolded. "Bad! Sit!"

Time to take care of the Christmas bonuses for the factory then get out of here. I found the push cart with the brightly colored packages beside the service elevator. After donning protective gear—-a leather butchers apron, latex gloves and a plexiglass mask—I boarded the elevator with the gifts and pushed the B button. The lurch as the elevator started its downward journey always made my stomach roll over.

On the bottom floor of the building the twenty four hour shipping operation was in disarray. Someone had either neglected to feed the staff or else they had turned their noses up at their usual slop of pig and cow offal, knowing that today was the company Christmas Party, and they were due a special treat.

"Brains!" the foreman groaned. He shuffled in my direction. A few of the fresher, brighter workers followed him. Their clothes were filthy. It went without saying that the workers never bathed. They never slept either. All they did was pack crates and load them onto trucks. Since their food costs were minimal, they kept company overhead low and corporate profits high. The main difficulty was procuring human brains four times a year, which was the minimum nutritional requirement to keep them—not alive. Animated.

"Here you go, Mr. Jenkins. There is one for everyone. No need to be greedy," I added as he tore into one of the brightly wrapped packages and began to devour the grisly pink contents. As the workers converged on their Christmas goodies, I fled back to the elevator. I was not sure which was more frightening. Pampered French aristo vampires who thought they could do whatever they liked to young girls, because they were rich and powerful, or mobs of mindless worker zombies demanding the food they needed to survive.

Thank God I was middle class! Plain old boring nothing to write home about middle class.

I abandoned the office Christmas nightmare and made my way home. There, I scrubbed off my make up and slipped out of my clothes. It felt great to curl up in front of the fire in a warm, fuzzy robe. Some eggnog would be perfect. Did I have time before the stores closed? I slipped on my wig and a long trench coat whose collar I turned up to hide my face and went out.

The streets were dark and deserted. I was only half way to the store when I heard footsteps following me. I hurried my pace. The footsteps accelerated to match mine. I began to run. A hand reached out to grab my shoulder. I saw the glint of a knife.

Thinking fast, I slipped out of my coat and tossed my wig into the gutter. My would be assailant stood there, looking like a fool, holding my coat. "Where did you go?" he demanded. He could not see me of course. Without my coat and wig, I was quite invisible. Carefully, I tiptoed away. It is so good to be middle class and unremarkable.

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