The City of Brotherly Love

If you want to disappear, you can find a cabin out in the woods, rough it for a few hundred years and no one would bother you. Sure. And you could also go nutty as a fruitcake. If you just want simple anonymity, go live in a big city. There's the advantages of nightlife, culture, art, the whole nine-and yet you can just fold yourself into a city, like sliding yourself into a big old trench coat. I can tool around town for weeks and not run into the same face twice-and feel sure that no one notices mine. You can keep your small towns-the notion of a place where everyone knows your name makes me shudder. Here-I can fade into the background and still hear the pulse of life around me-in Philadelphia, it doesn't matter, you see. Change your name, it's easy enough to find someone who'll set you up with fairly credible paperwork. Find yourself an apartment-plenty of people with accept cash for a room without giving you the hairy eyeball. Ditch your car-just abandon it, and pick yourself up another-simple. All within the city limits. You could just up and change your life-forget about nonsense like jury duty, taxes, vehicle registration, having a license, insurance…

Of course, I'm pondering all of this while going 85 m.p.h. down I-95 with my eyes out for some of those happy, lawless fellow Philadelphians I'm talking about. Me-I am insured, and I don't want some jerk broadsiding my car. But appreciate this-I'm flying down the highway with two swords in my trunk, a set of fake ID, a change of clothes, and I'm feeling no stress. Get pulled over? Where am I speeding to?

Maybe to take somebody's head. That's life as I know it. But I don't worry about getting stopped, because the cops have more important things to look for. I don't fit the profile of a killer.

I can guess what you might be thinking-sure, but isn't a city a little densely populated for what Immortals do? Or maybe you're not thinking that. If you've been around, you might know. In a big city, there are more people, but there are fewer witnesses. I don't know why that is, it just is. People mind their own business-maybe I do know why. You don't mind your own business, one day you might not have a business to mind. People look out for themselves-those are the rules. The more I learn about the Rules of my lifestyle, the more I appreciate rules like that. Rules that keep me from getting put away for just doing what I have to do.

As the truth would have it, I am speeding to a meet with an Immortal. I don't know what the man's hang-up is-doesn't like my bad breathing habit, I guess. But I'm stupid, don't let it get around-I'm no Game hag, but I take most challenges, because I'm not about to run. What, and give up all of this? Pat's Steaks and ragging on the Phillies. South Street on Friday night. Soft pretzels sold on the Boulevard with the taste of salt and exhaust. The Daily News "Letters to the Editor" page to get my blood boiling. I know this is stupid, but I have a soft spot for my hometown-I don't want to leave. Better, I sometimes think, to die here, than try to do it all over somewhere else. Maybe I'll feel different in fifty years, if I live that long. If I live that long, maybe I won't.

But I told the guy I'd meet him down on Delaware Ave at Maui, and if I tell someone I'm going to be somewhere, I'm there on time. It's a show of respect.

****

I grudgingly hand over my ID to the guy at the door, who inspects with a serious look. Getting carded-that's the reason I hate the clubs. I have a premature paranoia when it comes to having my age questioned, even if the birth date on my driver's license is still legit. I look twenty, and that means I'm always going to be doing this, I guess. But I get waved through, and my hand is stamped.

The club was the jerk's idea-he isn't from around here, so he doesn't know any better. But the best places for combat are right around Delaware Ave-if you look at it right, so I agreed to it. Not like I'm going around saying, "Yeah, there-abandoned warehouse, great…good…keeping it in mind," but that's how your mind gets to working after a while. You start thinking about being ready any time, any place. You don't know when it will next go down, so you keep your eyes peeled. I play out fights in my head, sometimes. I order a cheap beer, knowing full well that the watered-down suds won't even begin to get me buzzed, and wait. The sound of the dance music is loud, pounding, but I can feel the signature of the other Immortal cut through it. It cuts through-there's a good term for it. It just about explains the feeling in my guts. I don't need to look around to know that it's him, but I do all the same. Stupid, because how many of us are there, anyway? What are the odds? But it's a good habit, so I look.

He's been here awhile. I can tell that much, and he has a girl drink in hand, an Alabama slammer, or some other thing I wouldn't touch. He says something to a girl he must have been making time with, and then starts heading my way, and I do what I usually do-start wondering where the advantage is. Did he have more than one drink? How old is he? What's his experience?

(And these are all stupid things to think about-you just never know. Age-there's something we're usually too polite to ask, but I'm glad about that. I don't want to advertise how wet behind the ears I am. But I think I've had some experience for my age-what the heck do I know?)

It spares me the trouble of dwelling on how I'm eye-level with his shoulder when he's right next to me, or wondering if it's fifty or more like sixty pounds he has on me. My grandfather showed me how the odds work out for boxing matches, and I'm well aware here of how the tale of the tape reads like a bedtime story for yours truly. But I can't think about that. Here's how it works-don't think about losing, don't think about winning. Just think about how, and what next. And that's what I tell myself every time. And still go back over how bad it looks.

No one would ever know that from how I act though. I can't afford to show uncertainty. Or at least, not yet.

"You got here early," I comment. No greeting, just a comment. "I appreciate that."

"I'm surprised you came at all."

I raise an eyebrow at the bald bluntness of it, but I've gotten used to it. I know what I look like. A bimbo. I let it roll off. One thing about where I'm from-I've grown a tough skin. I've learned not to take anything too personally. I've been insulted worse by construction workers, passing motorists. My mother, but that's another story.

"Eight blocks from here, there's an auto yard. Been closed two weeks because the proprietor's on vacation, so it's quiet. I know there's no security, it's locked tight, but I can get in. No eyes. No troubles. Don't make any guesses about me, okay?"

He whistles. "You're prepared. I like a girl who's prepared."

Guys will do that. Try and rattle me with sexist comments. Which never rattle me. Women-I haven't fought many-but they just get hateful. Me, too. I can get good and hateful. But I stay cool.

"It's a challenge, not a date. You asked, I accepted. Follow my car-but not too closely. I hate that."

Take nothing personally, but take no crap. The city taught me that.

****

The streetlights are bright enough that you can see what you're doing, I can say that much. That's one thing I appreciate, because it's better to do this at night. I think we're getting to where it's hard to find any good time of day to do it. Maybe the Game will get called on account of progress-I like that thought. We'll run out of places to fight in secret. We'll get found out. They'll stamp us all on the hands just like we're in a club. If the Gathering comes, they'll round us up and we'll all be shot up with sedatives so we feel way too groovy to fight. We'll all join hands and sing "Kumbaya", instead.

And then, I'll wake up.

I have dreams, but I'm well aware of how big a part violence plays in our lives and the lengths to which we'll go to keep it up. I don't even believe in the Game, but I'll take challenges, meet opponents, pick locks and climb fences to do the deed-why? Because, I guess. Just because. Oh sure-I don't want to die. But you know what? We all have our reasons, and mine might just be-it's the principle of the thing. That's sick, isn't it? But there isn't a person who ever challenged me who deserved to win. So, I did. I don't like it.

Of course I don't like it. I scramble up nine feet of cyclone fence topped with barbed wire, shred a perfectly good pair of leather gloves, and drop over the other side, with a 42" claymore strapped to my back and a mind full of bad intent, because I don't like it. And my buddy climbs the same fence, bitching over his fingers and torn pants, because killing me will bring him one step closer to a Prize which may or may not exist. This guy winning the Prize, the Eagles winning the Super Bowl. Anything can happen, I guess.

"You know-you never did tell me your name," he comments, getting his sword up.

"It doesn't matter."

"It's tradition."

"I'm Genevieve Fowler."

"Michael Hunt."

"No kidding?" He shrugs. I resist the urge to add, "My apologies." He's had to have taken a ribbing once or twice. But what's in a name? (Except for having contributed that one to a few attendance lists passed around by hapless substitute teachers.) Exactly. Part of the drill is that you give your name-I guess so you know who you're going to kill. Or who will kill you. But the names never mean anything to me. And mine never means anything to them. It's a throwback, I think, to some long ago day when duels had something to do with honor.

This had nothing to do with honor.

I should never win. I know that. When I do, it always strikes me as being a trick or an accident. Since I'm still alive, I suppose I'm just the luckiest person I've ever met. The son of a gun went to the Errol Flynn School of Creative Jumping off Stuff. He made the tactical error of jumping on a precariously positioned '88 Chevette propped up on a jack after I made a swipe for his legs (having gone to the Lawncrest Recreational Center Workshop on Low Blows). The jack went. He went. My sword went.

Fireworks. Lightning. You'd think this would call more attention than it does. I stare as the Quickening blows out a streetlight and the garage catches fire. I usually don't like to just book after I…you know. I usually like to do my own tidying up, since cops tend to leave things rather untidy. But with the fire and all, and the fact that I know just why the proprietor of the junkyard's on vacation, and just what they sent him on vacation for, I figured they'd be able to tidy this up on their own. They'll round up the usual suspects, find out none of them did it…and in the meanwhile, I was saved the trouble of carting that guy's headless behind over to one of the more secluded piers by Penn's Landing and …misplacing it. The Delaware does give up its dead…but usually several miles away.

****

I leave in a hurry, carefully zipping the claymore into a bag intended for a lacrosse stick. It's not a bad fit. I decide I don't want to go back up 95-so I tool up the side streets. I'm usually hungry after a fight-I don't know why, it just happens that way for me. But part of me doesn't want stop driving. I don't know how many times I've done this-I get too keyed up to go right home. I find myself in Northeast Philly, and since I'm on Frankford Ave., I stop at the Dining Car. I love diners-the idea of a place that's open all night and serves breakfast whenever I want it appeals to my need for instant gratification. I sag into a booth, and bask in the comfort of the harsh florescent lights. Someone thoughtfully left a City News on the table, so I page through, but my mind wanders too much to really read, so I just watch the people.

Sure, there's the usual college kids, eating some fried foods to soak up the night's alcohol intake, but what I always notice about diners in the wee hours is the number of old people. If being old means not really sleeping a whole lot, I'm in training to live a long, long time, because I know how it'll be the next few days. I'll walk the floor at night. I'll jump when the phone rings during the day. But the truth is…I won't sleep, because when I close my eyes, I'll be remembering what I just did. After a few days of that, I'll just take to drinking myself to sleep. I know-because I've been here before. But the phone will never be the police, and I will get over the killing.

I just have to.

I order a western omelette and some scrapple on the side. I don't know what's in scrapple. I know I don't want to know what's in scrapple, but I'm craving grease. I also get coffee, and I relish the nice, smoky, burnt, bitter taste of real diner coffee. It isn't Starbucks. It's just heaven. I begin to write my story-what I'm going to tell Steve when I finally get home.

I met an old friend from high school. I've used it before, but it sounds plausible. We talked all night. We hung out in a diner. Whatever. I know he never believes me, but what am I going to tell him? He isn't ready for the facts of life-"Honey, when two people love each other very much, and one of them is mortal like you, and the other isn't, sometimes the one who isn't does bad things like take other people's heads, and by the way, stop talking about why don't we adopt or I'll go ballistic…"

No. Won't happen. Can't happen. I chew some scrapple, order more coffee, pretend to read the paper, and then pretend to ignore the fact that the sun's coming up. And when I'm good and ready, I pay the check, get in my car-and drive.

Sometimes I can fold myself into the city, appreciate it when I'm where I don't know anyone, and no one knows me, and I like the indifference, and I crave the anonymity. I can walk the street, and not know anyone I see. And they don't know me-I'm just like anyone else. Just another person with a story, that's all. And sometimes, just watching people, going about their business, doing whatever they do-I disappear.

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