I did not mean to hire him. It was his smile, a little crooked on the right. The slant of his left shoulder, as if all of him were leaning into the world at a slight angle. These are the things I told him. "I have over 30,000 books to move. Some of them are very valuable. All you have to do is pack." This is what I didn't tell him. That I am four times older than your grandfather. That you remind me of my son Avner when he was little, Avner who died an old man in 1904, a hundred years ago.  Or that Jewish vampires struggle over strange desires far more than the other kind. But that, since we are all vegetarians, neither your body nor your blood are in danger. Why tell? Why not be just that old man moving? "Très sweet for a prize," he said when I offered him a first edition of Byron's first book of poems, Hours of Idleness, originally published in 1807 and worth  $5000. Wished for the first time that I were one of those other vampires, the guilt-free gentile kind. To take him in my arms, goofy boy, an American word I like. Goofy, the goy next door. To bury my face in the left side of his neck. Inhale. Boy more forbidden than shrimp or pork or meat and milk eaten together.