Thursday, December 18, 2014
Bing Crosby- Count Your Blessings Instead Of Sheep...Jonathon Worries About His Future ... 12/18/14
Jonathon sits in the little room we call the 'chapel.' He chooses a record from his collection... an old 33 and a 1/3 rpm. I suppose all this vintage vinyl is worth something, but he'd never sell. Each disc is stored flat in the jacket and every jacket is separated from its neighbor by a thin styro-foam square. He's very careful about that. Some he's had for decades. Others come from small, independent record shops. There're still a few. He browses them in the evening before closing, mostly in the winter. It's too light other times of the year. Vampires know how to work the clock. Some make a point of being out and about around their way from approximately five to six in the morning... maybe six fifteen, or six twenty. The sky is still dark then, at least during winter. They're seen in local markets. They buy coffee in coffee bars. People nod... say hello. And the thing is, it registers as 'daytime,' because everybody's doing pre-work morning chores. When those same vampires run into people after work, in the evening, it's assumed they've been out and about all day. Mortals are stupid... supremely self-limiting and stupid.
Our Philadelphia contingent isn't faced with that. They don't have to fit in, since their little street is fairly cloistered. Plus, Edith runs interference. The 'familiars' do a lot too. But before he goes back... before he re-assumes 'the burden' and becomes vampire again, he makes a point of being seen out in the daylight. He has hot tea and a couple donuts that he mostly plays with and crumbles. You can cover a lot with a napkin. He buys magazines and store brand aspirin in a nearby sundry store and two packs of tightie-whities from the store that sells tightie-whities. Sometimes he sits in one of the squares or little pocket parks they have around town and talks to people. Girls like him. His new body looks a bit more mature... twenty eight or there about instead of eighteen... Just right for a prosperous young man about town. They ask where he lives and what he does. He makes up stories. They believe him. Jonathon is very intelligent. But there are times he has to run away and laugh like a maniac on a shadowy side street or behind a bush, or a car. How's he supposed to talk to some lawyer girl ... nice girl and all that... who knows only her job and is exactly like every other semi-well off 'twenty something?' That's when he's glad to be a vampire, or at least going back to being a vampire. Mole people, down in never used subway tunnels are different. They see things with mole-folk eyes and he sees things with night-folk eyes. Sometimes you got to have special eyes. Viewpoint and experience is everything. How are you supposed to have a conversation with bastards who only want to talk about 'did you see the game?' or 'Ewww she got sooo fat.'.... Lone vampires in out of the way places and remote areas have been known to sublimate into mental hospitals just to find somebody to talk to.
So now he's up in that little room listening to his music and thinking about what he likes about mortal life... the mindless freedom... the sunlight... the french fires ( the good HOT french fries) ... afternoon trips to the movies... And he hasn't been mortal long. Guess he's a fast worker... Likes seeing nice, little kids in daylight too. Nighttime doesn't do them justice.
You see, it goes both ways. Being crazy is OK. You just got to do it right. When it comes to that, night-folk get a pass. Maybe it's the prions in all that blood they drink? Maybe it's the magic?... Maybe it's just being unique, or at least sorta kinda on the whatever passes for 'unique' spectrum. They tell you reasons for everything else, but nobody ever tells you that... about being the good kind of crazy, I mean...
Jonathon puts on a record, some Christmas album. Bought it for one song... Counting Your Blessings.... Bing Crosby sings it. What the hell kind of name is 'Bing?'....
See, that's not crazy. That's just weird. Guess he's making up his mind what kind of vampire he wants to be.... this time, I mean.
This is Zebulon talking. I'm one of the disembodied spirit narrators. You know me. I'm crazy too.
Getting stoned to death two thousand years ago for consorting with witches, when you're just thirteen years old does that.
Now lemme go... I want to glide through dark department stores.
<more next time>
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