Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone

God, you don’t know how badly I wish I could lie in the sun for a few hours, bake in the heat, and get a decent tan. But that’s reserved for the living.

Where should I begin? All of my sentient life, I’ve had just one goal, one purpose that drove me forward: achieving the perfect tan. Maybe it all started with my name, Auburn Tanner. I won’t spend much time recounting my childhood. As a young girl, my first Barbie doll was Malibu Barbie, a perfectly tanned California blonde with a convertible. She was who I aspired to be. I don’t know exactly when my obsession with having a perfectly bronzed body started, and I realize my dream might have seemed superficial to most people; still, it was my dream for as long as I can remember.

I recall laughing as a teenager at Zonker, who was once a professional tanning competitor in the Doonesbury comic strip. I was amused by his obsession with achieving the perfect tan, but I was also surprised to find myself a little envious of a comic strip character. It's embarrassing to admit that I was jealous of the success of a stoned comic strip bronzer. Still, I wanted that perfect tan. More than that, I wanted people to admire it and be amazed by my gleaming, bronze skin. Eventually, I figured out what career I wanted.

When I was 18, I left home and finally got the chance to pursue my dreams instead of the ones my parents had envisioned for me. They wanted me to get a good education from a top school that would prepare me for a career. I wanted to create the perfect tan. Please don’t misunderstand me. I loved my parents. We had different ideas about what was important. They valued college degrees, while I cared about having darker, smoother skin.

You all know the adage, "Never judge a book by its cover.” Despite that admonition, writers spend thousands on graphic artists trying to create the perfect book cover. They do it for a reason. Covers sell books. I guess not many people pay attention to old sayings, and maybe they shouldn’t. Covers do matter, and, as far as I was concerned, my “cover” needed to be luxuriously tanned. My bronzed skin was my raison d’être.

Despite having what some might consider a shallow goal, no one who knew me underestimated my intelligence. Despite my tanning obsession, I finished fourth in my high school class of 200 students. Once I was on my own, I became even more single-minded, finally able to dedicate myself full-time to both the art and the science of tanning. Now, I could use my intellect to focus on what truly mattered to me. I read every magazine article and book on tanning I could find. I spent hours in the library slogging through medical chapters on dermatology. I experimented with different oils and lotions. I consulted with a wide range of physicians about optimal skin care routines. I had my favorite dermatologist on speed dial for emergencies.

During this period of learning and training, I had no time for anything or anyone else. I was a loner, constantly working or studying. Tanning was a lonely obsession. When guys would hit on me at the beach while I was tanning, I wouldn’t even acknowledge them. I was mainly concerned that they might block the sun, but that was the extent of my interactions.

My knowledge of dermatology grew over the years to the point that I could pass an MCAT section on the subject. If knowledge were power, I wanted to be the most powerful tanner the world had ever known. I could discuss melanogenesis, solar lentigines, photo-aging, keratosis, erythema, and the advantages and disadvantages of UV-induced pigmentation on a peer level with any dermatologist. Only by learning about my skin and the tanning process could I perfect the bronze hue and luster I was aiming for.

Finally, after three years of studying and testing, I started my daily regimen of sun exposure and chemistry in pursuit of the perfect tan. It wasn’t an easy journey, and there were times when I was discouraged by a patch of light skin or distraught over a blemish, but eventually I neared my goal.

I’m intentionally skipping over and minimizing the effort and time that went into reaching—if I may say so—perfection. The minutes, hours, days, months, and years invested in perfecting my tan weren’t particularly exciting, but the work paid off, and the results were amazing. Every inch of my body was a smooth, silky bronze that shined when wet. When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone I would have wanted to be in my youth… and now I was. With my tan at its best, it was time to seek validation. And if you’re wondering, yes, there is a peak season for tanning. It was time to step onto the stage and have the world take notice.

In the Doonesbury comic strip, Zonker joined the professional tanning circuit. I was disappointed to learn that there wasn’t actually a national organization running tanning competitions. I was disappointed to find out that the USTA was a different group, having nothing to do with tanning. Another teenage dream shattered.

There are, however, tanning contests held year-round, often in association with other events, for instance, a technology expo. I entered my first contest at a county fair in Iowa. I didn’t expect much competition, but to my surprise, the stage was crowded with girls (and guys as well, I might add) who looked professionally coifed and oiled. I was only entered in a tanning competition, not any of the bodybuilding categories.

Many of the women onstage were clearly using artificial tanning products. I tried not to show it, but I felt dismissive of them. Why should they be allowed to compete when they hadn’t worked for that privilege? The show only lasted about an hour. When I came onstage, there were audible gasps from the audience as the crowd erupted into wild applause. The reaction continued as I strutted across the stage and peaked as I slipped behind the curtain. Validation. The audience loved my tan. Equally important, the judges agreed and awarded me the $250 prize. I was now an official professional tanner. My dreams had come true. If only my story ended there.

Over the next year, I traveled around the country, competing in every tanning event I could find. I never lost. Unexpectedly, tanning product companies noticed and began to court me to be their spokeswoman for their tanning sprays, oils, and eco-friendly lotions. None of them cared about my actual skincare routine or what I used to get my tan. They just wanted to use my name to sell the junk I avoided. I turned them all down. What excited me was the fact that I had become so well-known in the tanning world in just one year. Everyone on the tanning circuit knew I was the best.

On the anniversary of my entry into competitive tanning, I competed in an invitational competition in Chicago. The Chicago competition was intense, but unsurprisingly, I was named the Bronze Queen of the El. On my way back to my hotel, I stopped at a neighborhood grocery store to buy a bottle of Icelandic Water, considered the best over-the-counter skin hydrator. As I left the store and passed an alleyway, someone’s hand closed over my mouth, and their other hand wrapped around my waist. Violently, I was forcibly dragged into the alley.

My assailant didn’t say a word as he pulled me behind a large trash bin, and before I knew it, I could feel his hot breath on my neck, and two razor-sharp teeth had sunk into my throat. I struggled to break free, but I could feel an incredible suction where he was biting, what I now know was my blood draining through the wound. Trying to scream but held silent by his painful grip, I did the only thing I could think of—I bit his hand. I could taste the blood flowing from the wound on his hand. I gnashed my teeth on his flesh until he relented and let go. As he did, I pushed hard, trying to dislodge him from my neck. When he finally released me, I turned to run, but when I glanced behind me, he was gone.

The rest of the night was a blur. I stumbled into the street and flagged down a cab. When I got to the nearest hospital, I was taken to the emergency room, where I received a blood transfusion and antibiotics for the bite. They patched me up before the police interviewed me. I couldn't tell them much because I never saw my attacker. After I was released from the hospital, they took me back to my hotel. I was in my room by 5:00 AM, just before sunrise. Despite the horror of the whole evening, my mind kept returning to one question: “Will the bite leave a mark?” Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up later that morning with a burning sensation in my right arm. I looked at it and was shocked to see my skin was red. Not bronze but red, and it was turning redder by the second. I noticed my arm was in a sliver of sunlight snaking through the curtains. Pulling my arm out of the sunlight, it immediately started to heal, with the pain fading and the skin returning to its normal (for me) bronzed color.

I held out my hand and placed it in the sunlight. Quickly, it started to turn red, and almost immediately, I pulled it back into the dark. For some reason, my skin had become ultra-sensitive to the sun. Was that a possible sign of rabies? Carefully, I walked over to the curtains to make sure they were fully closed.

Was my skin now sensitive to light? I decided to test it by turning on the room lights. When I did, the artificial lights had no effect. I was only sensitive to sunlight. From years of tanning research, I knew that the properties of sunlight differed from those of most artificial light sources, so the different reactions of my skin to changes in light sources weren’t a surprise.

I was exhausted, too exhausted to understand what was happening. Before going back to sleep, I went to the bathroom to check the bite marks on my neck. I still worried I might end up with permanent scars. Judges look for even the smallest flaws when evaluating tans.

Staring into the mirror, I had a perfect view of the room through the bathroom door. I had that ideal view because there was nothing else in the mirror. There was no me. I moved closer… no reflection. I held my hand so close to the mirror that my fingertips touched it, yet there was still no reflection, no distortion of light, no shadow. I saw a clear image of the room behind me as if I didn’t exist. Insanely, my first thought was, how could I ever be sure my tan covered my entire body evenly if I couldn’t use a mirror? But vanity quickly surrendered to panic as I wondered, "What am I?"

I returned to the bedroom and slumped onto the bed. Can’t go into the sunlight. Have no reflection. It all sounded familiar, but I knew it wasn’t possible because it was all unreal. I had a silver necklace with a Coptic Cross attached to it. It was a sentimental item that my mother had given me when I was a child. I carried it in my purse, which was sitting by the bed. Leaning over, I reached into my bag, shuffling through all the items I had until I found the necklace. I shrieked when I touched it. While the sun made my arm hot and uncomfortable, the cross had the feeling of a thousand bee stings coursing through my body from my fingers. I dropped it instantly, fell back into bed, and cried.

I’d faced many challenges climbing to the top of the tanning world, but this was one I couldn’t even imagine existed. I was, and I hesitated even to think it, a vampire. I carefully emptied everything from my handbag to get my phone. I wasn’t taking any chances of touching my necklace or cross. I connected to the internet and began reading everything I could about vampires. Can’t be in the sun—check, no reflection in mirrors—check, hates garlic—tough one, I’ve always hated garlic, fear of crosses—check, needs to suck blood to survive-yuck—I hope that transfusion was enough for now—can only be killed with a stake through the heart, wishing I hadn’t read that one, and a member of the undead. The undead seemed okay. Then I read more about the undead, and it definitely wasn’t okay.

Jumping out of bed, I hurried back into the bathroom, opened my mouth, and exhaled onto the mirror. It refused to fog up. Holding my hand in front of my mouth, I blew again and found it was as cold as ice. I paused for a moment and listened, realizing I wasn’t breathing unless I deliberately exhaled. I wasn’t inhaling. Somehow, my lungs weren’t working. With two icy fingers, I checked my wrist, my neck, and several other spots on my body, confirming I had no pulse. I understood then that I was no longer alive, and yet, I wasn’t dead.

From that day on, life (or un-life) was never the same. I learned how to be an untanned creature of the night, something that wasn’t easy. It’s not like there’s a manual for the undead to consult when problems arise. Fortunately, there were no such things as vampire hunters in this century. Who hunts for something everyone knows doesn’t exist?

I won’t go into the logistical nightmares that arise from only being able to be active at night. You learn to cope. Your day begins at sundown. Long-distance travel is next to impossible, unless I want to be packed up like furniture and moved about. And I’m sure most of you know better than I did at that time what vampires need to do to survive. I knew nothing, so thank God for the internet. The idea of drinking human blood was new to me. If I’m undead for centuries, I’ll still never get used to drinking blood.

Worst of all, my tan quickly faded like wallpaper in a cheap honky-tonk. I became the palest version of myself I had ever been. I tried to develop a lotion that would let me go out in the sun or even tan again, but my efforts failed. I was sentenced to a life of ash-white skin.

I couldn’t see my entire body, but I assumed it was all the same shade. I didn’t need to look at my gray, mottled back to know that’s what it was. And before you ask, no, vampires can’t be photographed, not even with a mirrorless camera or a smartphone. There are parts of my once magnificent body I’ll never see again.

I achieved my dream of having the world’s best tan. Nothing will ever take that away from me. Now, that dream has been shattered because I am just a pale shadow floating through a sunless world. If you asked me what’s worse, being a vampire or losing my tan, I’d have a hard time answering. You can probably guess my answer.

It’s now been a year since my change. Tanning competitions continue without me, and occasionally, an article appears in one of the tanning magazines speculating about what might have happened to me. One writer even titled his piece, “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone.” It almost brought tears to my eyes, except I can’t cry, another unexpected part of being a vampire. What I appreciated was the confirmation that I was good enough in my prime to be remembered.

Writers of these articles often ask, Where did she go? Why did she leave the circuit? Was the pressure of competition too intense? Recently, a writer interviewed several women who compete nationally, and their comments about me were less than flattering. One woman claimed that I cheated by using banned substances in my body lotions. Another jealous woman said the judges overrated me. A girl who finished second to me in an Atlantic City competition said I must have wanted out before “my luck” ran out—my luck? One foolish girl speculated that I wasn’t even a woman!

Well, for the first time in a year, I am inspired. I have something to live for, metaphorically, of course. I’m going to attend the tanning competition in Los Angeles tonight, and I plan to make my mark there, but not metaphorically. I’ll go to the night session and stop backstage to visit with my former competitors. I’m going to make an exception for dinner tonight. I’ll skip the blood banks that have kept me going. Some of these ladies will find out why I’ve been away, though they won’t be able to tell anyone.

But, despite this planned display of vengeance I’ll wreak, I’m still a kind person at heart. I won’t leave them un-dead like me, just dead, so when I’m finished, they won’t have to exist in my living hell. They’ll go out with a tan, some of which is sprayed on.

And afterwards, I’ll drive down to the beach. I’m going to park by the ocean and find a hotel lounge chair. I’ll place it down by the water, but facing East. I’ll lie down naked until the sun comes up. My final tan won’t last long, but that’s okay. I’ll be making my exit knowing that I made it. I once had the best tan in the world.