I’m a pretty sad example of what one should do with eternal life. I’ve never reached any higher level of consciousness, I don’t have access to any great truths, and I’ve never borne witness to the divine or transcendent. Some of this is just bad luck. Like working in the fishing industry in Galilee and never once running into Jesus. But in my defense, there were an awful lot of people back then claiming to be the son of God. I probably wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of the crowd. And since I don’t believe there is a God, I doubt we would have gotten along all that well anyway.
I probably wasn’t always quite so atheistic. I don’t recall much of my early hunter-gatherer days, but I’m sure that back then I believed in lots of gods. And that the stars were pinholes in an enclosed firmament. There might even have been a giant turtle involved. And I distinctly recall a crude religious ceremony involving a mammoth skin and lots of face paint. But after centuries on the mortal coil I’ve come to realize that religion is for people who expect to die someday and want to go to a better place when that happens. It doesn’t apply to me.
Anyway, I sat around for days and mused over these and other subjects, mainly pertaining to my mysterious red-haired bugaboo. Gary and Nate were decidedly nonplussed about it, especially since I almost never moved from the futon except to get more beer—which I was still paying for, by the way.
“Man, can you at least shower or something?” Gary asked one evening.
“Later,” I muttered.
“How ’bout now? I wanna watch the game.” It did me no good to ask which game. There was always a game, sometime, somewhere, that absolutely had to be watched. ESPN may eventually be the end of Western civilization as we know it. And I should know, having witnessed the end of Western civilization at least four times.
We stared at each other for a while, and then I reluctantly ceded the futon.
“You should get out or something,” he recommended as I got to my feet and stretched out the muscle kinks.
Nate, from the kitchen, agreed. “Clear the cobwebs, dude. Get some night air.”
Obviously they had decided among themselves that having an immortal as a house guest wasn’t nearly as fun as it sounded. I should have seen this coming when they kicked Jerry out. (Literally. Nate drop-kicked him). But Jerry had left about two dozen stains on the walls, copped a feel on three girls who will probably never speak to Nate or Gary again, and clogged the toilet twice. He had been asking for it. Me, I just bought more alcohol and stunk up the futon. Was that so bad?
“What’s it like outside?” I asked, taking the hint and running with it.
“It’s nice,” Nate said quickly.
“Very refreshing,” Gary added.
“Sleep on a bench refreshing or head for the bus station refreshing?”
“It’s… brisk,” Gary amended.
“Kinda chilly,” Nate agreed.
“I got an old coat if you need one,” Gary offered.
* * *
It was indeed brisk, and the old coat Gary gave me smelled vaguely of vomit. To help cut the chill, I took with me a half-empty bottle of vodka that I might have also paid for. I started walking in the general direction of Chinatown, on the other side of which was South Station.
I had decided being poor in Boston in November really sucks. And the damnable thing is I couldn’t even remember how I’d ended up in Boston in the first place. Last time I’d spent any time there was in 1912, and there was nothing that compelled me to stick around then. Possibly I just hopped aboard a train at some point, not much caring where it went so long as it had a bar car, and rode it until it came to a stop. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d done that.
I was thinking it was time to consider accessing a larger quantity of funds. As I said, I do have some. I’m just not exactly sure how much. I kept walk-around money in my bag, which was in a locker in South Station, which I hoped was always open because that was also where I planned to sleep. The rest of my money was in a Swiss bank account, so I was going to have to make a few calls. I don’t think the Swiss issue ATM cards, but I never really checked.
Sobriety was also something to consider, although it should be noted I was considering it while gulping vodka. The idea that the red-haired woman was still alive was something worth sobering up for. Maybe it was time to start looking again. It would end in frustration as always, but it was still something to do.
About two blocks from my destination, I saw something curious—a hooker. At least I assumed she was a hooker, because if she wasn’t, her fashion sense was abhorrent. She was dressed in knee-high leather boots, a denim miniskirt (which she’d manually torn along the side to expose half of her left buttock,) and a faded black sleeveless half-shirt that read “Appetite for Destruction” on the front. Her hair was black and very large—length and height—and she’d gone overboard completely in the make-up department. Her skin was a pale white.
What made the view so curious was that it was about ten degrees with the wind chill, and she didn’t look cold at all.
“Lookin’ for fun, baby?” she asked as I approached. I sized her up once again, up close. No trembling in the wind at all, and she didn’t appear to be strung out on anything. Her nipples weren’t even erect. And it was just as cold next to her as it was everywhere else.
“Do I look like I have any money?” I took another swig of the vodka, now almost gone.
“Who said anything about money?” she asked coyly. “I’m just looking for a good time.”
I smiled. “Sure you are. What’s your name?”
“Brenda,” she grinned, her lips tight over her teeth.
“Brenda. You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s okay. I’m not on a crusade or anything.” I held up my open palms. “No wooden stakes. See?” (It should be noted that wooden stakes don’t work, so don’t try it. You’ll just piss off the vampire.)
“Go away,” she ordered, spinning on a spiked heel and pretending I wasn’t there.
“You must be a young one,” I pressed.
“You’re crazy,” she shouted over her shoulder. “I should call a cop.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “That’ll be fun.”
A car slowed for her. She gave the driver a little show, leaning over and shaking her fairly impressive pale breasts. He decided after some consideration to shop elsewhere.
“When was it, twenty years ago?” I asked. “Couldn’t have been much more than that.”
She turned and looked at me long and hard. Not threatening, just curious. “Twenty-seven,” she admitted.
“Thought so.”
“You’re not one, are you?”
“Nope.”
She circled me. I think she was trying to be intimidating, and if I found vampires frightening, she might have succeeded. But the truth is the percentage of vampires that are also evil killers is about the same as the percentage of normal people who are also evil killers. Brenda didn’t look like a killer; she looked like a mall rat.
“You smell like vomit,” she said, her nose crinkling.
“It’s the coat. It’s a loaner.”
“How did you know I was a vamp?”
“Maybe you noticed how everyone else is dressed in layers? The Guns ‘N Roses concert shirt doesn’t help either.”
“I like it,” she insisted.