other behemoths and ask them to hit each other as hard as they can, why tell them they can only hit one another a certain way? Too many rules, that’s the problem.
The Romans did it right. Plus, back then the combatants were slaves and didn’t command massive signing bonuses. So, that’s two points in favor of the Romans.
My bleary-eyed cohabitants shuttled between active interest and practical catatonia. Once in a while one of them would muster up a “good play” or “run, dude,” but that was pretty much it. We did work out basic introductions. The one on the left—blond, gap-toothed, wearing nothing but shorts and sneakers with no socks— was named Gary. On the right—jeans and T-shirt, barefoot, black hair, black skin—was Nate. A more detailed review of their character and standing would have to wait.
By the time the game ended I was on my fourth beer and had probably overstayed my welcome, but I’ve never been one to much care about that sort of thing, so I sat where I was.
“So, you live around here?” Nate asked.
“I guess,” I said. “Is this still Boston?”
He looked at Gary. Gary looked like the kind of person who enjoyed holding people’s heads under water.
“Yeah, still Boston,” Gary said. “You know, you don’t look much like a student, Adam.” I’d given them my current American name, chosen more or less at random. Lately, I’ve taken to picking appellations alphabetically, the same way the weather bureau picks hurricane names. Zigmund was my last name but I dropped that after only a couple of months. Hard to travel around the U.S. with a name like Zigmund, I have to say. I’ve gone by hundreds of different names, including, of course, the one I was born with, which was really more of a grunt.
“Grad student?” Nate inquired. They were both sobering up enough to feel a little uncomfortable about me. And I was a bit too tipsy to lie.
“Nope. I just saw there was a party and dropped in,” I admitted. This might not have been true. I might have come with somebody. I couldn’t remember.
“But you do have a place of your own, right?”
“Not so much, no.”
“You’re a homeless guy?” Gary asked, mustering up some incredulity.
“Well, in the sense that I don’t currently have a place to live, yes. But I have had a lot of homes.”
“Geez,” he said profoundly.
“C’mon,” Nate said, “you can’t be more than, what, thirty?” The reasoning being, aren’t homeless people all a lot older?
I took a sip of my beer and decided, what the hell. “I don’t really know how old I am.”
“What, you were adopted or something?” Gary offered.
“No,” I said, “I just lost count. I’m immortal.”
You have to be a little careful about dropping that bit of information in the wrong place. I’ve been called a witch, a blasphemer, a devil, and a few other unpleasant things depending on the where and the when. But college students—and bar drunks for some reason—tend to be okay with it. Which may explain why I spend so much time with college students and bar drunks.
“Cool,” Gary said after an adequate pause. “You wanna crash here for a while?”
A couple of things about being immortal:
First of all, I’m not a vampire. I get that a lot, even during the day when I should be in a coffin or a crypt or something. (Very few vampires bother to sleep in a coffin, if you must know. Lugging one around everywhere you go is inconvenient, and it almost always attracts the wrong kind of attention. I did know a vampire who had one, but it was mostly a kinky sex thing for her.)
I’m not invincible. Also, no super-strength, X-ray vision, power of flight or any of that. I eat, drink, sleep, and shit just like everyone else. I just stopped getting any older at around age thirty-two. Why thirty-two? No idea. I have all my hair in all the proper places, and a relatively slight build that doesn’t seem to get any larger whether I lift weights or binge. To put it in a way a twenty-first century person might understand, it’s like someone hit pause on my existence.
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
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
“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.
