Aside from casual mentions, Stanley didn’t talk about feeding. He’d talk at length about his travels ("Rome was my favorite. No orgies, but lovely artwork"), how he made his money ("I made some great investments over the years and didn’t lose my ass in the Depression. I also sell stuff on eBay"), and about his family ("One time, my uncle tried to plant a vodka bottle so he could grow a vodka tree. No, he was sober at the time").

It was a chilly, rainy day in January when he finally went into detail about feeding. We were sitting in lawn chairs, huddled under umbrellas, sharing a six-pack, and watching LA residents unaccustomed to the concept of weather try to drive on the freeway.

"The thing about hunting, about feeding," he said after a long silence, "is that it’s hard. I don’t mean running someone down and drinking their blood. Okay, I guess that can be hard sometimes. But I mean being conscious of what you’re doing. You don’t lose your mind. You don’t go into some sort of blood-crazed trance. You know exactly what you’re doing the entire time you’re doing it. I’m killing someone so I can live. I’m picking my life over theirs. There’s a lot of guilt involved there. I like people. Some of my best friends have been people and I never killed them.

I prefer to go after bad people, justify my actions by saying I’m doing humanity a favor. But there have been innocent victims. Never children, though. I’ve never been that desperate. But some days, when I look in the mirror, I see the monster from the movies."

Stanley stared out at the traffic. I wasn’t sure how to comfort him. It’s hard to pat someone on the back and say, "There, there", over serial homicide and blood drinking.

"You eat food, though. Isn’t that good enough?" I asked.

"If it was, I wouldn’t be having angst," Stanley said. "But, I cope as best I can."

I watched some jackass fishtail as he sped around slower moving traffic.

"How?"

Stanley smiled.

"I’ve got a deal with a blood bank," he said and reached for another can of beer.

"Oh, come on!"

"It’s true! Blood’s got an expiration date you know. The guy there gives it to me instead of throwing it out. For a small fee, of course. I don’t mind if it’s a little past due."

"And that works?"

"For now."

I should have been afraid; I was sitting next to a ticking time bomb of sorts. He hadn’t killed any of his friends, but there was always a first time. But, I felt bad for him instead. His sunny life came with a dark shadow.