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It is the first night of autmn, in the year known as 2019 and I stroll the old streets of Philadelphia, as I have done for the last three hundred and thirty seven years. You know my name. At least some of you do. I am Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea. I love this place. I love the old, narrow, cobbled streets. I love the endless museums, each more intricately starange than the rest. I am like that. Most night-folk are. The nights are longer than the days now. Welcome to Vampire Time. Darkness is good. It hides all the warts and blemishes and corruption. Cooler temperatures hide things too, but we haven't had any yet. It's still hot and I do so love the cold. Winter is sublime. Steam rises from the old small vents in the pavement. The pipes are still underground, remnants of a network that once powered early industry. A tiny few still use it. Its like that here. Amidst the second largest urban core after Manhattan the past abides... and I have seen it all. Sometimes it makes me cry. Other times I laugh like a mad man.
Please forgive me this sudden appearance after a long absence, but time means nothing to me. There are nights when I stand in some shadowy doorway staring at a street light, hour after hour, as if looking at the blessed face of God. Such things calm me. At times I hear angels sing. How do I know that's what it is?... I know. Let's leave it at that.
I was on my way to study with the great Rashi at his academy in the Ocitane, a region in the fragrant south of France when the night time found me... meant to become a minister of the faith, a rabbi... but life taught me other things....
Will I end a life tonight? Its the first night of autumn. What do you think? But to be truthful, none can end a life. We can end a body, but the life goes on upon another plain.... How do I know? I told you. I know.... for vampires like me are dead. The thing is... we never reach that other plain... our souls still wed to bodies perfectly preserved and animated by some miraculous force... I can chew my hand off, yet bind it back with duct tape and a few hours hence peel off the tape revealing an arm and wrist and hand as pure and whole as on Creation's morn.... Have I ever tried?... Do you even have to ask?
Look for me by night. I must leave you now. But look for me. We'll sit on a bench, in some city square, among the autumn leaves and talk... in low soft tones so none might overhear.
With that, the 'eighteen year old' being walks away. Black leather bootkins... slim black jeans... white tee shirt... long dark wavy hair... When it gets cooler, he'll add a trim black leather jacket... but not tonight...
Then he rounds the corner and goes on toward his meal.
Oh, one more thing... of course you know we must pretend that all of this is fiction?... As it was on our first night nine years ago, so it remains today.
Good night.
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