I got my gear together in a shoulder bag after forcing the bronze wires through my ears and giving my hair a quick tease'n'spritz--my hair is naturally extremely thick and wavy, and in the summer humidity, my only option is to go with it. I looked a sight--but that was the idea. With the right attitude, I can project bigger and badder than I really am, and I need every bit of attitude I can muster, most days. And then I thought of Methos--horribly missing him, and terribly concerned that he might be seeing action. I reached for the phone. And couldn't get him.
More and more, the phone seems like an enemy to me. I've gotten crank calls, bad news, and hard times on phones--this was no exception. I want to reach and and touch someone--and can't? It's holding out hope, in a way, that you can affect something at a distance, and when you can't, it's frustration past tolerance. With a strange grudge towards Alexander Graham Bell, I practically threw the cordless down on the table and ran through the usual list--it's the other side of the world, practically. He's asleep and can't hear the phone because he took the ringer off (he *wouldn't* do that, I quickly thought--he's too much like me, always on edge). He can't hear the ringer over his snoring (only when he's on his back--if you were curious). He's out walking--and getting killed by some snot-nosed punk who's all of two hundred with a grudge against the very old--
And I let out a scream of frustration. The idea of anyone so much as laying a finger on him drove me nuts. I twisted the knob of the lock, pulled the door behind me, and streaked down the stairs, trying to find my keys in my purse. They weren't there. And when I exited the apartment building, I saw Cassandra in the driver's seat.
"You lifted my freaking keys!" I said, in disbelief.
"I want you to understand something--we are Immortal...but an accident would be very inconvenient, just now." The look on her face was absolutely cryptic.
"I do not drive that badly. I simply drive very..."
"Above the speed limit. I've noticed. We have a flight in...roughly two hours. I have a friend with a private jet," she explained.
"Sweeeet," I commented, highly impressed. Slightly relaxed, but by no means completely relaxed, I took the passenger's seat. I cursed, silently. First Methos, then Cassandra. Of course, my husband and my father both said the same thing--I have a certain--*way*--behind the wheel. I was resigned to it, however. Although lifting my keys was a bit much. "You know..." I began, but she was already speakig.
"What is--"
And then we paused, each wondering what the other was about to ask, and I guess hoping it wasn't a reprisal of the blow-up from earlier.
"No, you," I said, being prepared to give way to whatever she had to say. After all, I was only going to harp on the key thing.
"Why are you--in costume? We don't...give overt signs as to our age--in fact, it's the last thing we would want to do. But you seem to be trying to stand out."
I thought about that. It's virtually true in Methos' case--I've noticed that he seems more current than I do, or at least, tries to, although there is this pair of red pants in his closet-sh*t oh dear, let me tell you! But then again, he's worn togas, bell-bottoms, and waistcoats in his time, so fashion is something of a changeable critter. But I had noticed the heavy-metal sparkler she was wearing, so I only answered, "Nice necklace, Cassandra. I'm guessing you didn't get that at Macy's."
Her face clouded. I only noticed that it was *ongepotchket*--as my grandmother would say, big, kind of brassy, and clearly not hammered out in the last twenty...centuries. I waited, because I could almost hear the wheels turning.
"Fine. It's ancient. But it has sentimental value."
"These came from my Pops..they have sentimental value," I said, wiggling my fingers. "For all anyone should know, I was a wealthy---matron or something. I married good, back in the day. Besides, after eight thousand years, I could be a nutcase, for all anyone should know. Why not stick out?" I argued.
"And another thing," she commented, after a pause. "You...have a way with words. How's your Sumerian?"
I gave that a minute. She had me there--I'd be seriously working my high school Latin if I were trying to pass for so much as as old as my jewelry. But then I shrugged.
"How good is theirs? How good is anyone's? Not everybody is, like, boning up on Woolley and Budge, and your ancient Near East experts. I can b.s. my way, I think..." I said, hoping she'd let it pass.
She looked at me. "You're a...what was it Duncan said? A prodigy. Don't tell me you've also studied history." She looked a bit disgusted. I couldn't blame her. My irregular education has left me with the equivalent of a masters' in biochem, at least an associates' in business, and a good, rounded study of dozens of other things.
"U. of Penn, my alma mater--I mean, one of them," I answered, smiling. "One of the best schools for antiquities going--they have a museum that would knock your socks off. I'm proud...and I used to stop by that museum, just thinking..."
Thinking of Kronos, actually. How he was older than half the things...more than half the things, there, and yet I'd held him in my arms. And how I might live that long, and see Rubik's cubes and whatnot in museums. And freaking out, just freaking out, at what it could all mean. Being that old. Living that long. Seeing your life through the glass of a museum exhibit. And when I'd stand there...looking at some bronze bull from Ur...I'd wonder...where would he have been when this was made? And I would realize--somewhere. Alive.
And don't get me started on mummies, okay?
Posted on Aug 16, 2000, 7:49 PM from IP address 172.165.143.164