I’m pretty sure I can be killed. I can certainly be hurt, and have on several occasions been very close to death due to one near-mortal wound or another. If I wanted to—I think—I could take my own life, although obviously this hasn’t been tested. Now maybe you’re not the type who ever considered suicide, but—and you’ll just have to trust me on this—when you live this long, it comes up. I was suicidal for two solid centuries once. That was during the early part of what they now call the Dark Ages, in medieval Europe. Suicidal tendencies were de rigueur at the time, and I’m nothing if not trendy.
I don’t know how old I am. My earliest memory is something along the lines of “fire good, ice bad,” so I think I predate written history, but I don’t know by how much. I like to brag that I’ve been there “from the beginning” and while this may very well be true, I generally just say it to pick up girls. But it has been a very long time, and considering I’m not invincible or super-strong, that’s nothing short of miraculous.
Oh, I do have one other thing going for me. I can’t get sick. Universal immunity. That’s a fairly big plus. Not as much of a big deal now as it was back when the average life span was in the low thirties and we measured the seasons by what plague was in vogue at the time but still, it’s the gift that keeps on giving.
I’m currently white-skinned, but I wasn’t always. I pretty much blend in with whatever culture I’m hanging out in, which is a very useful trait when you think about it. Of course I never fit in anywhere for the long haul, not after people around me all start getting old while I don’t. So I move around a lot. You know, before locals start getting out the pitchforks and torches and what have you.
I try to keep up with the rapid advancement of modern culture, something I liken to sprinting in wet sand. I owe a lot of what I understand about the world today to television and movies, which are a true godsend to a guy in my situation. Likewise, I keep up with language pretty well, that being a survival skill I took to heart just around the time language was first invented.
I’ve been rich a couple of times. I still am, I think. I just don’t live the life. That whole material wealth thing got old fast. I mean, creature comforts are nice, but immortality does funny things to the whole making-something-of-yourself imperative that people who expect to die someday go through. I hang onto enough money to get by because it’s the easiest way to acquire alcohol, which I’m much in favor of.
Speaking of which, if you want to know what I’ve learned in my extended time on Earth it is this: beer is good.
I’ve never been much of a deep thinker.
* * *
We finished tapping out the keg that evening, and I immediately earned my stay by providing funds for more alcohol. After that we got along fine.
Turned out Nate was a history major. You’d think with me being immortal I’d be able to help him with that.
“No, no, this isn’t right,” I said, skimming Nate’s copy of The French Revolution: a cartoon history. We were sitting at the table—a cheap folding card table—in their dining room. Books and papers were strewn across the surface, leaving precious little room for one to put one’s beer.
“C’mon, I got a test on it tomorrow,” Nate said, staring unappreciatively at me. “What’s wrong with it?”
I tossed the offending tome onto the floor. “The French Revolution was a street brawl that got a little out of hand. Everything that came after that was a massive rationalization.”
“Pretty sure I can’t say that tomorrow.”
“I can tell your professor myself. You want me to? I was there. He’d probably appreciate my input.”
“Cut that out, man,” he urged, picking up the textbook.
“Sorry. Maybe you should drink some more. I find it helps.”
“No, I gotta study. Seriously.” Nate wasn’t much fun sober.
Gary was the more laid-back of the two. He didn’t know what his major was, but he’d shown a great talent for keg-tapping with a minor in drooling. From the kitchen he said, “That’s so cool,” as regards my immortality. He said this every twenty minutes or so, usually unprompted. In the kitchen, he was fighting a losing battle with a team of roaches that reportedly held a box of Cocoa Crispies hostage this morning and were unwilling to end the siege twelve hours later.
“It’s not cool if it gets me an F on this,” Nate barked.
“So, you’d rather just regurgitate what these books tell you than know what really happened?”
“Exactly.”
“No quest for truth? Where’s your spirit of exploration?”
“You never went to college, did you?” Nate asked.
He had me there. So, I let him be and joined Gary, which was just as well. When you’re immortal you find there are only so many faces in the world, and to me Nate looked exactly like a Bantu tribal prince I used to hang out with. I kept having to remind myself not to speak to him in Xhosa.
In the kitchen, Gary was standing on the counter with a can of Raid and firing indiscriminately into the cupboard, undoubtedly rendering everything in there inedible, including the compromised Cocoa Krispies.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“It’s only a matter of time, my friend. They can’t hide behind the macaroni forever.”
My money was on the roaches, and I was about to say something to that effect when something under the kitchen sink made a loud bump.
“The hell was that?” Gary asked.
I shrugged. “Really big roach?”
Granting the bugs a temporary reprieve, Gary hopped off the counter and pulled open the door leading to the sink.
“Aahhh!” he shouted. He scampered back like he’d just seen a human head.
“That’s who you remind me of!” I exclaimed.
He looked at me like I was insane. (Not an unreasonable assumption. I was insane for about eighty years in Macedonia. Long story.) “What??”
“Roman soldier named Cassius. He was afraid of anything with hair.”
Gary pointed to the sink cabinet mutely, bringing me back to the present. Nate popped his head in. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Tell me you see that too,” Gary said.
I leaned down and pushed the door open. He was hiding behind the garbage disposal.
“Oh, hey, Jerry,” I said. “What are you doing down there?”
Chapter 2
Had a particularly unpleasant day today. Kopalev called it a “general physical.” I think it was just an excuse to shove his hand up my ass. But I’ve never had a physical before, so how would I know? Maybe that’s standard procedure. And if so, no wonder men avoid doctors whenever they can. Felt like he was looking for car keys in there or something.
He’s a pretty cheery guy, Doc Kopalev, or Viktor, as he keeps telling me to call him. Sometimes it seems as if he’s unaware I’m not precisely a volunteer. And I get the impression he hates his boss—or partner, depending on whom you ask—about as much as I do, which makes me wonder why he’s doing this. Pretty sure he’s here of his own free will.
I’m eager to probe him for details but that might have to wait, just because the whole hand-up-ass thing is going to take some time to get past. Haven’t had anything like that done to me since Athens. Didn’t enjoy it then either.
* * *
I first met Jerry about two years ago, in Pittsburgh. Nice guy, but one of those types you can only stand in short bursts. First time we met we were inseparable for about three months, during which time he managed to nearly get me arrested five times. Which may very well be why I left Pittsburgh for Cleveland—I can’t remember. Jerry never got arrested either, of course, and if he had they wouldn’t have been able to hold him for long, given he’s only about ten inches tall.