Identity
There are five bloody meanings of the word identity in the scrappy edition of Webster's sitting on the bed at my side. Five. Not one of them is helpful. Webster didn't know jack shit about what an identity really is. Neither do I.
It all boils down to one little piece of paper that sits in the palm of your hand. One number that means you exist and can go your way in the world without care or concern that people will suspect you're anything but one of them. Seems strange to put so much value on such a little thing and to have to work so bloody hard to get one. At least this vampire had to work hard; boldly going where no demon had gone before.
I don't feel different. Same rundown studio apartment with water-stained walls and brown shag left over from the heyday of disco fever. Same beat up iron bed frame and box springs that don't spring anymore, covered with a charcoal Army surplus blanket of wool that itches enough to drive a man insane. Table and chair are wooden, scratched, and dented. There's crayon on the underside and sometimes I try to picture the family that owned them before I dug them out of dumpster two blocks down. What I see is a small, cherubic little rug rat holed up under the dining room table pretending he's painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Chubby fingers wrapped around rainbow Crayolas and wide, innocent eyes seeing a work of art in the blur of color and line that's more Jackson Pollack than Michelangelo. Some days I want to crawl under that table and join my imaginary toddler, forgetting everything but sticks of colored wax wrapped in pretty paper. Other days I feel like ripping him out from under the table and sinking my fangs into his soft little neck. You win some, you lose some.
Today's my birthday. How's that? Did I really keep track of one day in one hundred and thirty years of bloodshed and violence? Hell no. I can't even remember what day it was when Dru found me in that alley. Today's the first day of my unlife that I've felt real. There's something of mine. A name, a number. It all means that I'm real.
I tried to do it the old-fashioned way with red tape and stuffy clerks behind desks of paper and freshly sharpened pencils made obsolete by the fancy computers and fax machines. There were forms I couldn't fill out and there were more pieces of paper that I couldn't get until I had other forms that I couldn't fill out without the pieces of paper I was trying to get. I thought my head would explode after a few days of that merry-go-round and I'm still convinced that half those blank stares came from demons. Anything that sadistic and twisted had to come from something evil. Eventually I got frustrated. I got bored. And I was beginning to think I was completely cracked to even attempt fighting against American bureaucracy.
I went back to what I was good at. Fists and fangs proved to be effective motivational tools for certain members of the city's seedier community. Got me enough of the ruddy paperwork to go back to the old lady with the owlish eyes and gray cardigan that smelled of mothballs and chamomile. Picked up my piece of paper a few weeks later and legally joined the land of the living. Today's the day. My birthday. Maybe I should get a cake. Layer it up with icing, drizzle some blood on the top like all those fancy cakes on TV, and celebrate proper.
All for one piece of paper.
There will be more. More hoops to jump, more tape to cut, more lines to stand in and wonder if anyone there has the answers I'm looking for. I don't think they do. I think they're all just as lost as I am, searching for something they can't understand or identify. Glazed eyes stare into worlds beyond my sight; they're all trapped in their pretty little heads with their own thoughts. I'd never realized how separate, how disconnected, how alone humans are. As a demon, you're part of a larger evil. You belong to the night and to violence; you're connected. Humans have nothing to link them together or to something bigger. It's not for lack of trying. There are enough religions represented in New Orleans alone to fill half a phone book; a testament of the inner drive to feel like they're part of something, that they belong. But they're still lost and they're still alone.
Anyone who says change is hard hasn't changed. Change is easy. You don't even notice it until it's too late. Wake up one morning and there's a stranger staring out of the mirror. If you're one of the lucky blokes that have a reflection, that is. It's not changing that's hard on the soul.
I sigh as I put the all-important piece of paper back into a leather wallet. My first wallet. Hell of a lot of firsts around here lately. The wallet goes into the back pocket of black leather pants. It still rattles me sometimes, feel like I'm bloody Angelus in these things. Boots are the same old friends of scuffed black leather, they've seen me through more than any two shoes should witness. I'm wearing a white button up silk shirt that makes me feel vaguely queasy. White is for brides and angels, not vampires in a dubious state of morality regardless of their souled status. More black leather for a jacket. Not my duster, left that in good ol' Sunnyhell a year ago. Probably taking up space in a California landfill. Unless she burned it. I'm half hoping she did.
The window is my exit since I hate clomping down the hallways and stairs in my motorcycle boots that sound like cannons on the wood floors when people are trying to get to sleep. One of these days I'll do it just to prove I don't give a damn about the lot of them and this soul isn't turning me into a sodding poofter. Until then, the rusty, iron fire escape suits my purposes just fine as I make my way down to the alley five stories down. It clanks and rattles a little when I skip the last set of stairs, hopping over the railing and landing next to a dirty puddle gleaming with a layer of oil. The imaginary toddler would probably jump and splash and ruin the adorable little outfit his mum put him in that morning. For a moment I'm tempted.
Demons don't splash in puddles.
I head out into the night, following my nose. New Orleans has a smell, has a presence, maybe the city itself has its own soul. I'm still a little fuzzy on how everything works with souls and such. But if cities can have souls then New Orleans must have one. There's a festival coming and it'll get crazy for a few days. Excitement is already tainting the air with the anticipation of drunken reveling and another opportunity to leave the feeling of loneliness locked in a closet with the rest of the skeletons.
It's a bit of a walk to my place of gainful employment. That's a laugh. A vampire working for a living is generally considered a joke; although the few people who recognize me for what I am don't seem to find it humorous. I got the job through one of the girls at Blue Cats. Her uncle was looking for someone who knew how to mix a few drinks and how to handle himself if things got a little rough. He didn't even notice that I didn't have a reflection until halfway through the interview and I think he was too frightened to not give me the job after that. He's taken to wearing a cross around his neck on the nights I work.
Even without the festival, Bourbon Street is a weaving mass of humanity at night. Voices speaking every language and accent imaginable can be heard along the cobbled streets of the French Quarter, drinks in one hand and eye candy in the other. It's a place to meet and greet and maybe get lucky. 735 Bourbon is my stop. I sneak in through the back to avoid the crowd on the sidewalk outside the doors and hang my jacket in the room off from the supply pantry. Rolling my sleeves up to my elbows, I make my way out to the bar to take over for Jesse. I don't envy him the first half of the evening. Happy hour starts at four in the afternoon and I've heard tales.
"Hey, Spike." Jesse nods and tosses his towel into the bucket under the bar. "Pretty crazy tonight. Good luck." He pats me on the back as he passes. He doesn't know what I am because he still doesn't believe he can't see me in the mirror. It's just a trick of the light.
Things get blurry after that. Some dame with too much eye make-up wants an Energizer. Another wants a shot of this, a shot of that, a double. Shake, shake, add ice, and pour. It's repetitive now. Follow the recipe, give the nice gentleman his drink and watch him toddle back out to the dance floor. The music is loud and heavy with bass beats that keep a steady gallop through the night. It's not my type of music but I'm not sure that I have a type any more. It's electronic, driven by synthesizers and computers. I've heard it called half a dozen names. Doesn't really matter to me. I just like the noise.
I get a few curious glances every now and then. I smile and ask if I can help them. Mostly they're already half past drunk and just order another drink. It's amazing how unobservant people can be when they put their mind to it.
"Spike." Charlie smiles uneasily as he joins me behind the bar, helping out with the crush of people lined up at the perimeter. "Need a hand?"
"Won't say no." I keep my eyes on the bottles in my hands. Creme de Menthe. Vodka. Keep track of the shots. You have to have the perfect proportions for these drinks to come out right. Soon enough the demand slows to a few wanderers here and there in search of something to help them face the Karaoke machine on the second floor. Charlie stays, wiping the top of the bar thoughtfully, as if trying to polish it to the luster of the mirror behind us.
"I won't show up in that either," I comment, taking my towel to the other end of the bar and wiping up spilled alcohol.
He looks at me with surprise for a moment and then guilt takes over. "How did you know?"
I raise one eyebrow and point to the cross around his neck. "What else do you ward off with those things?"
"Do they work?"
I take the cross in one hand, wrapping my fingers tightly around it and listening to the sizzle of my own skin as it burns. After a few seconds I release the icon and show him the burn marks on my hand. "It'll be gone by tomorrow." I shrug and turn back to the bar. Someone wants a Long Island Iced Tea.
There isn't any conversation for a while. I'm mixing drinks and he's replacing bottles. I'm still not sure what he's hanging around for, especially now that I've admitted what I am.
"Why are you here?" I had almost forgotten he was still there; his dark eyes are burning holes into the bar because he's unable to look me in the eye.
"Trying to build a life, s'all." I shrug again, keeping my eyes on the crowd in front of us.
"Got tired of killing people?"
That deserved one long look and a smirk. "You could say that." I laugh a little and pull out a glass, mixing the strange blend of fruit juices and liquor that I know he likes. Sliding it down the bar, I flash a smile and glance around for listening ears. "Used to be as bad as they come. Evil. Killer. Whole nine yards."
"What happened?"
"Met a girl." I pause for a second, thinking back. "Got my soul back. End of my being a bad-ass vampire." There. I had said it. Vampire. I was a vampire. There was no going back now.
"Your soul? How does that make a difference?"
Another long look. People are pretty clueless actually. Take their souls for granted, they do. "Vampires aren't human. They're demons. No guilt, no conscience. Hell, they enjoy killing. Put a human soul back and you've got years of murder and death to feel bad about. And that's if you were a boring vampire who didn't get into rape or torture." I almost wince. Almost. I had never been a boring vampire.
"How long?"
"Have I been a vampire?" I shrug. "'Bout a hundred and thirty years now. Had the soul a year in May."
"And the girl?"
"Long gone, mate. Long gone." I think he senses that there's more to the story than that but he doesn't press the issue, just watches me and sips his drink slowly.
"Must have been some girl."
"She was. Is." Another shrug, I do that a lot. It's a statement of knowing I don't have the answers. A gesture that seems to vent the frustration I have in feeling so lost and alone here in a crowd of people who would run screaming if they saw my other face.
"What are you going to do now?"
"What everyone else in this world does. Try to get by." I've already fed but the pounding of the blood around me is intoxicating and gets the bloodlust going in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it's the music. Some nights it seems to bring out the primal instincts. Fight, kill, feed. I haven't had a good spot of violence since I left the caves in Africa, but I shake off the building desire to pummel something. "What do normal people do anyway?"
Charlie returns his own shrug. "I've got a nephew in college. Landscape architect. Wants to design golf courses. You know Leila. She's taking a few courses at the university. You could do that."
"College?" That's a bizarre suggestion; a century old vampire going back to school. I'd laugh at the ridiculousness of it but he has a point. What am I supposed to do? I'm going to live forever and I sure as hell don't want to be mixing drinks the whole time. It's still crazy. "Daytime isn't too good for my complexion."
"I'm sure you could find a way. If you wanted to." He looks back down at his drink. "They have night classes."
"Uh huh." He's trying to be helpful and I'm frowning because I'm not sure why. For a human who knows he's standing next to an evil creature of the night, he seems awfully concerned about my welfare.
"Charlie?"
"Yeah?"
"There aren't any other vampires like me." I leave Angel out because that's too complex and I don't think it changes my advice anyway. "You see one, you run like hell. They don't care who you are or what kind of person you are. You're food to them. Happy meals on legs. That's all."
He can tell I'm serious and he pales a little, trying to smile. "I got it."
"Good." Back to the bar, someone wants another drink. It makes me nervous to think that there are vampires out on the streets stalking innocent men like Charlie. With the festival coming, evil would crawl out of the woodwork to pick off the less noticeable members of the crowds. The people no one ever notices until their body turns up in the county morgue looking like they got stuck with a barbeque fork. Thinking about it makes me shudder even though part of me wonders if it's because I'd like to be the one culling the herd.
"You could try it though. Take a few classes. See if it works."
"Are you going to keep yapping at me until I say yes?"
"Probably. It was Leila's idea." He cleans his glass and starts working on a stinger. "She thinks you're a good looking guy."
That comment screws up my concentration and I end up with a slurry of liquid just short of the drink I was aiming for. Shooting a dark look down the bar, I start over again. "So this is the stay the hell away from my niece speech."
"Not really. I don't want to see bite marks on her any time soon but I don't think you'd hurt her." He sounds sincere.
"Not interested, mate. Sorry. She's a doll, really." I want to explain to him that I can't let anyone into my life. I don't have a life. I have nothing to give, nothing to show for all the years I've lived. "I just can't." I finish lamely, keeping my eyes anywhere but at his questioning face.
"I could tell her you're gay. She thinks you are anyway." My eyes must have bugged out because he laughed. "Come on. There isn't a woman in this joint who wouldn't pay for a tumble in the back room if you had the appetite for it. Good number of the men would probably jump at the chance too. What's Leila supposed to think if she knows you never take any of the dames up on it?"
"I don't take the men up on it either." I respond sourly, strangely offended that his niece thinks I swing that way.
"So you've got issues." He's shaking ice in one of the steel tumblers and watching me carefully. "You're uncomfortable with women because your heart got broken into little pieces. Maybe it's time to get back in the game."
Raising one eyebrow, I'm trying not to smile cynically at the friendly advice. "And the creature of the night issues? Crosses, holy water. How do I explain that to the next bird I want to shack up with? Sorry pet, I tend to go up in flames when I see Mr. Sunshine. And I can snap your neck in two or drain you dry before you can scream." I'm shaking my head now, feeling the hopelessness of the situation. Humans and vampires are not meant to fall in love.
"I'm not talking about till death do you part. Just a little roll in the hay. I'm talking about having fun."
"Fun." It's hard not to be bitter. Fun was drinking the blood of a Slayer. Fun was snapping her neck in a New York subway. It was the hundred years with Dru before Sunnydale snapped its jaws and castrated me. Goddamned Soldier boys and their bloody chips. Still had to get the bloody thing out one of these days.
That was the moment that I realized the chip had to go. That even with the soul, I wouldn't be free until all of my decisions were my own. The leash had to go.
"Spike? You okay, man?"
"Yeah." I was far away, lost in thought. I was real. Had a name and a social security number to prove it.
Now I needed to be free.