Your Next-Door Neighbor Is a Dragon (13 page)

I considered chugging acne medication and climbing inside a jumbo trash bag to asphyxiate myself. I finally settled on a fantasy in which I bought diabetic syringes and took them back to my hotel room so that I could inject air directly into my carotid artery.

Yeah, I thought. That should do the trick.

“A dragon is elemental.”

“Huh?” I lifted my head and felt the blood rush back into my face.

“I said”—Christian snorted with irritation—“that a dragon is elemental. It is like fire, but it’s in everything.”

It sounded like the Force. More pop-culture nonsense. I told Christian that it resembled the Force and he scowled, too angry for one of his snorts.

“Yeah, if you don’t know your butt from your elbow, maybe,” he said. “The Force is in everything. Like an aura or something. Only certain things are draconic.”

“Reptiles,” I suggested.

“Some, but it’s not just animals, man. Inanimate objects have a nature. They either are draconic or they aren’t. If you know what you’re looking for you can see the associations. Some different Otherkin have associations, too. Everything in the universe is like that.”

“How did you learn about this?”

I had read nothing about a system like this on any of the Otherkin websites I researched. There was plenty of New Age mysticism blended in with the Otherkin spirituality and philosophy, but nothing that explicitly tied all matter in the universe to dragons.

“Experiments, man,” Christian replied. “I had to just watch stuff. Observe a shitload. It’s like, you know, if some girl has a pretty face. If you think her face is pretty that’s something you know, right? You’ve learned how to see prettiness. But you can’t, like, put it down as an equation.”

“So you’ve learned how to see which objects are dragons,” I suggested.

“Yeah, yeah,” Christian agreed as he became animated on the subject. “It’s not like they’re a dragon, though. It’s just the nature of the dragon. They’re draconic. Some of them come from dragons. Like if a dragon blacksmith makes a sword it could be draconic. Or sometimes it’s just because, like, the object is something a dragon would like.”

“It appeals to dragons.”

“Exactly!”

Christian was on his feet. He seemed excited that I understood his theory.

“I tried to explain it on the forums and nobody understood,” he said. “Some of them tried to, but I don’t think they really got it.”

Christian was referring to a popular Otherkin Web-based community forum. It was his current haunt, and one I thought I had thoroughly sifted through before coming to meet him.

“So I could hold up any object and you would be able to tell me whether or not it is draconic?” I asked, and used his term.

“Right, unless it’s a psychic blank or a powerful dragon is shielding its nature,” he said with extreme seriousness. “I can’t penetrate their obfuscations.”

I walked over to the shelf holding Christian’s dusty Gundam robots and I picked up one of the fragile models. Christian’s eyes bugged out a little at the thought of me handling his precious droids.

“What about this one?” I asked.

“Draconic, but that’s easy. All of my stuff will be draconic. It’s been around me too much.”

“That sort of ruins the demonstration,” I said.

I was already thinking of a possibility. My suicidal fantasies earlier had reminded me of the nearby drugstore. It was within easy walking distance and Christian seemed excited about the prospect of demonstrating his ability.

I suggested we take a stroll to the store to do some field experiments.

“Let’s rock and roll!” Christian declared, and jammed his bare feet into a pair of well-worn running shoes.

A short walk through the muggy St. Louis evening and we arrived beneath the fluorescent lights of Walgreens. It was the beginning of the summer and the aisles were overflowing with the sort of cheap beach equipment and foam coolers that you buy at a drugstore on the way to the beach because you forgot to buy them at a regular store.

“What about that?” I pointed to one of the end cap displays of Pepsi.

“Dragons,” he answered immediately.

“And those?” I pointed to the adjacent shelves of Coke.

“Dragons,” he replied. “There was no cola war as far as dragons are concerned. Pretty much anything with caffeine is related to dragons.”

“Mountain Dew?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Dr Pepper, Jolt, energy drinks, coffee, and even chocolate. All dragons.”

“Okay, well what isn’t related to dragons?”

Christian scratched at the peach fuzz on his chin and looked down the food aisle.

“Ah.” He grabbed a bag of puffed rice cereal. “Bagged cereal is elves. I know that from an elf who told me about cereals. If it’s in a bag it’s elf, if it’s in a box it’s dwarven.”

I reached over and slid a disposable camera off the rack.

“What about one of these?” I asked.

“Not dragon,” Christian replied. “Hard to say for sure. I’ve heard vampire for digital cameras and fairy for the sorts of cameras with film.”

“Fairies make cameras?”

“No.” He scoffed at the thought. “Of course not. I mean, you can’t be a hundred percent sure, but there’s no reason to think that. Just because an object is attuned or infused with the essence of a certain kind of Otherkin doesn’t mean that Otherkin made whatever it is.”

I was a little confused by the answer, but I was at least beginning to grasp the concept.

“All right,” I said. “What about these?”

I held up two Mexican-style glass candles covered in religious artwork.

“Angelkin, no doubt, bro,” Christian said, barely giving the candles a second look.

Angel Otherkin were among the most common Otherkin on the Internet, and among the least popular. Questions about the authenticity of their awakenings were much harsher and more persistent. Christian seemed to extend that disdain to objects he decided were related to angelkin.

I walked down the aisle full of paper products and picked up a stack of paper plates.

“These!” I called.

“Dryads,” Christian replied. “And the plastic ones are dinokin, dinosaurs and prehistoric sauroids, which are cousins of Dragonkin but they lack our royal heritage.”

I was definitely beginning to understand his methodology. He was using an advanced technique of aura reading similar to Karelian photography known as “total bullshit.”

“This is total bullshit,” I pronounced, and tossed the paper plates back onto the shelf.

“How dare you?” Christian spluttered. “I let you into my home and you repay my hospitality with this sort of insolence?”

I’m no expert on ancient dragon spirit debate techniques, but referring to someone’s “insolence” is probably not a winning approach.

“My insolence?” I recalled Anders and zee chamber. “My apologies, my liege.”

I shoved past Christian on my way out of the Walgreens.

I had another Otherkin to interview in Missouri. Maybe he wouldn’t be such a massive chode.

Go not to the elves for counsel, for they will say both yes and no.

 

—J. R. R. Tolkien

 

R
oger Wayne Malthus was sweating profusely from his encounter with a video game at Dave & Buster’s in St. Louis. His balding hair was plastered to his forehead and his cheeks were flushed red. He stood next to me at the bar, his bulky upper body leaning forward and his pudgy fingers clasping a hot wing with surprising daintiness.

Roger was a big man, the sort of big man who preferred heavy metal T-shirts and black jean shorts worn with unlaced combat boots. The Roger sort of man.

Like Christian, Roger was reluctant to come out of his shell. He was forthcoming in our e-mails, but setting up a meeting ended up requiring a bribe. My book budget was quickly being drained by the trip to Dave & Buster’s for hot wings, beers, and video games.

Despite using me like a cash machine, Roger was growing on me. The thirty-something big man was gregarious compared to Christian. His Cannibal Corpse T-shirt was an amusing choice for a place overrun with kids on a Saturday afternoon.

“It’s called ‘awakening,’” Roger said. “It’s the process where you remember your past life or learn about the truth. Your past, your power, et cetera.”

Roger waved a half-eaten hot wing in the air. Red sauce matted his unruly beard. He wiped his mouth clean and took a long pull from his beer before continuing.

“The awakening is as different as your Otherkin identity. It’s unique. Some people are awakening their whole lives. I knew a mummy—”

“A mummy?”

“Yeah,” his eyebrows lifted. “Real son of a bitch. Liked to shit all over the new guys. He said he was thousands of years old and he would just lord that over everybody. The dragons are like that, too. I posted on the same forums as him. I was going to make a T. rex Otherkin account to totally one-up him, but he went into one of his ‘century-long slumbers’ right after that. Caught him posting on a car forum for Hondas like a week later.”

Roger laughed at his own story and took another swig of beer.

“Anyway, that guy was a true believer in the idea that real Otherkin could spend centuries unlocking all of their knowledge and power. And he hardly believed anyone was a real Otherkin.”

“What about you?” I asked.

It was the one subject Roger was reluctant to expound on.

“What’s there to tell?” he asked. “It was all in the e-mails.”

Roger rolled up the sleeve of his Eaten Back to Life T-shirt and showed me a tattoo on his bicep of a seven-pointed star. I recognized the symbol from my research into Otherkin.

“The Elven Star,” I said.

“Bingo,” Roger replied, and let his sleeve fall back into place. “My name is Glade Shadow. I am an elf.”

Unlike Christian, Roger did not view himself as possessed or sharing his body with a supernatural spirit.

“I’m just an elf,” he said, holding out his hand as though I might see elf particles clinging to his fingers. “I figured out my mother was an elf and both of her parents are elves.”

“Wouldn’t that make you a half-elf?” I asked.

“Ah.” Roger grinned. “A half-elf is possible, but the elf trait is dominant.”

I never stopped to consider the Punnett square for elves.

“You mentioned the awakening,” I noted. “Tell me about yours. How did you know?”

“I think I always knew in some sense,” Roger replied, echoing Christian’s sentiment. “For a lot of us it’s about personality. The werewolves and vampires have these predatory urges or they get a little crazy during a full moon. For me it was a mix, because I’m physically an elf.”

He held up his hand again.

“See,” he said. “Almost no hair.”

It was true, there were just tiny golden hairs on his fingers.

“I don’t have a ton of hair on my fingers, either,” I said, and held up my hand.

He took my hand and lifted it up to the light.

“Yeah, see, you have more,” he said. “Way more, and they’re darker.”

I didn’t argue and Roger continued to enumerate his elven characteristics. Good eyesight, quick reflexes, and pointed ears.

“Wait,” I interjected. “You have pointed ears?”

“As a baby,” he said. “You should see my baby pictures. It’s like Spock. But being around people you have to fit in, so my ears rounded out.”

I was skeptical, but I kept it to myself. Roger continued on to his personality traits. He had a good sense of humor, he was very logic oriented, he was introverted, and he enjoyed nature.

“I’m also very nocturnal. I’m on the computer all night.”

“Is that something elves are known for?” I asked.

“Some elves are nocturnal, some aren’t. It all depends on the type of elf.”

When I asked him how many different types of elves there were he just shrugged. The hot wings were running out and I could sense that he was eager to test his elven reflexes on some fighting games.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, knowing before I continued that he would take it the wrong way. “My concept of an elf does not really match up with you. What you just listed to me sounded like pretty normal personality traits, and not the sort of thing that would convince me I was an elf. How did you know for certain?”

Roger laughed it off. I felt guilty for taking the issue seriously.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You picture Santa’s elves or Legolas. Elves are as widely varied as humans. You just know inside what you are. Like that internal gyroscope.”

“So you can’t actually prove to somebody that you’re an elf?” I pressed him.

“Most Otherkin usually can’t,” he said. “Who cares? This isn’t about other people, this is about my own identity.”

Roger gave me a sly grin.

“But I can prove it. I have powers.”

I was intrigued, but Roger wadded up a napkin with his orange fingertips and disappeared back into the din of the arcade. My proof would have to wait.

Power Revealed

Roger’s ride was a rust-speckled 1989 Chevy Cavalier with a crumpled driver’s side door. He climbed in on the passenger side and awkwardly crawled across to the driver’s seat. The shocks creaked ominously beneath his bulk.

“You can ride with me,” he invited.

I took one look at the swamp of Burger King and Taco Bell wrappers in the passenger side foot well and I declined. The trash was just the topper. The vague and slightly creepy nature of Roger’s offer put me off riding in the same car as him.

He had offered to take me out to his house and prove his “elven heritage” to me. I had a suspicion Roger’s proof was something that if he exposed in public would force him to register on a special list with the Missouri Department of Corrections.

I was beginning to regret not buying that rape whistle.

Roger seemed to accept that I wasn’t going to be riding with him. He turned the key in the ignition and the Cavalier protested for several seconds before sputtering to life. Danzig suddenly blared out of the cassette deck.

“Irty black summer!”
The diminutive muscleman cried before Roger turned the stereo down to a reasonable level.

“You can follow behind me,” he said. “It ain’t far.”

Every part of my animal brain told me to flee as far away from Roger and his Danzig tapes as mechanical science would allow. My rational brain told me that I couldn’t leave this story without witnessing whatever terrible “proof” Roger was willing to reveal.

My damned smarty-pantsed elitist rational brain won out and successfully suppressed my flight instinct.

Following behind Roger in my car was easy enough. His Cavalier had a tendency to pull left and seemed to top out at around fifty miles per hour. He was constantly wrestling with his car’s alignment just to stay in the right lane and the elven gods of Tir na nog alone know why Roger insisted on taking the interstate.

Cars blazed past us with their horns blaring. Roger calmly extended his left arm out the window and maintained a constant middle finger from St. Louis to our exit forty-five minutes later.

The suburb of St. Louis Roger called home was a mostly white blue-collar suburb. Autozones and Applebees. Taco Bells and trailers. It was the sort of featureless corrosion of a city that turns the infill of America into a depressing nationwide franchise of hogslop and car parts for the working class. The Pizza Hut proletariat.

While I was waxing Marxist about the wasteland of capitalism, I nearly missed Roger turning off down a side street. My tires squealed to take the turn and a baby in a car’s backseat gave me a very hateful look. Almost immediately, Roger turned again, down a dusty asphalt road with an unofficial fifteen mph speed limit posted. The shipping container–like structures on either side of my car could mean only one thing: trailer park.

A trailer seemed the perfect fit for Roger. To my surprise, he navigated through the entire length of the trailer park and pulled up outside the park’s lone permanent structure. It was a gray-green condo with neatly manicured flowers outside. One half of the structure was the trailer park’s front office. The other was Roger’s family residence.

“Take your shoes off,” he advised, holding the screen door open as we both kicked our shoes off onto a long porch covered with Astroturf.

We were greeted almost immediately by Roger’s mother, a short and stout woman with a bad bleach job and a missing front tooth that whistled when she spoke. Each “s” added a whistling “p” and each “w” joined to a resonant hoot that sounded like blowing across the top of a bottle.

“Who-
sp
this-
sp?”
she asked with apparent irritation.

“A friend,” Roger explained. “He’s doing a book.”

I introduced myself and explained that I was writing a chapter in my book about Roger. She shook her head.

“I don’t know why you’d write about him,” she tooted. “He ain’t done nothing this year.”

She glared at him and then back at me.

“All year,” she added.

“I’ll be back,” Roger announced, and disappeared into the bowels of the house.

“Uh”—I struggled for a topic—“what do you do?”

“I run the front office,” Roger’s mother said, and then settled onto a kitchen chair with a groan. “Ankles all swole up.”

I asked her about her ankles, but Roger’s mother wasn’t interested. She wanted to talk about being in my book.

“Can you put my picture in it? Like in the paper?”

“Not really,” I lied.

“I had mine on the front for Fireman’s Festival and they messed it all up.” She sighed. “There was me and then a yellow me, only the other me was green.”

“They printed it wrong,” I suggested.

“Then I called them and they said it was on the Internet. I told Roger and he went on there and it looked fine. He printed it out for me. Don’t know why they couldn’t do nothin’ right.”

She reached across the table and rested her hand on mine.

“Roger is real good with computers,” she said. “He could do anything he wants with that. But he just plays his games and his music. And Lord knows what else. Pornos I bet.”

Roger’s mom was the sort of woman who likes to talk “at” people. Like a storyteller, only without much of a story. She rambled on about getting a bridesmaid’s dress “taken up” for “Syl’s thing at the Legion.” She blew smoke in my face as she described how she had a wart frozen off her foot.

“Then they scraped it out,” she said. “I tried putting a button up in there when I got another one. You know, the pin on the back of the button. You know what I mean. That hurt too bad, so I had to get it taken off again.”

After about fifteen minutes of this, I felt certain Roger had abandoned me with his mother as some sort of punishment. I was contemplating my exit strategy when he emerged from the darkened hallway at the back of the house. A smell not too different from an open sewer followed in his wake.

“Christ Our Lord,” his mother exclaimed. “Did you leave the fan on!?”

Roger reddened and shouted, “Yes!”

Roger’s mother heaved herself up from her chair and swept into the bathroom at the rear of the house to strike matches and deploy air-freshening sprays. Roger’s embarrassment was palpable. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye.

“Did you see it? See my mom?” Roger said, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. “She’s an elf. My dad was part Indian, too. Cherokee. Indians are more magical than most humans.”

“Do you think I could see your power?” I asked.

Roger fidgeted. It seemed strange for him to proudly bring me out to his house and then shrink from the idea of doing what he had promised. What Roger did not know, but might have suspected, was that I had extensively researched his claims of supernatural powers prior to our meeting. These claims included, but were by no means limited to, the powers of healing, darkness manipulation, nocturnal vision, and limited mind reading.

Those were just the powers I saw repeated more than once. In his conversations across various forums and websites, he made numerous other casual claims of powers, including shape changing, mind domination, and something he called “dream sending.”

“I’m trying to think what would be best,” he explained, staring down at the table and fidgeting.