The guy was just standing there on the street corner, at a sort of parade rest, his hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder-width. He was looking up and down the street, gazing out on the squalid, torrid mess that was Sixth Street: junkies wandering here and there, down-on-their-luck drug dealers prepared at any moment to duck down an alley and sell someone a sketchy dose of something that might almost have been what they wanted, drunks just sitting on the curb dozing as things happened over the top of them.
A cadre of really spectacularly unattractive women in very skimpy clothes wandered here and there, theoretically for rent but in practice mostly just gossiping about whatever drama was going on this hot night.
The guy was notable for his stance, for the sense that he was just standing there, too alert to be one of the drunks, too still to be a junkie or a dealer.
He was also notable because he was wearing a cape.
Not just a cape, but a whole-body morph suit, bright red with yellow piping all over it. The morph suit had an open face, and the guy was wearing a mask, one of those just-the-eyes deals that you wouldn’t think did anything to disguise you but actually make it really hard to recognize someone.
I walked up to him, slightly unsteady. I was taking a break in the middle of my shift, and I will admit that I had been sampling the wares. Hard to get through a night otherwise.
“Hey,” I said, “Hey, buddy.” He turned, not moving his feet or his... his station, I guess, but turning his body to take me in.
“Yes,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
“What’s with the...” I gestured at him, a sort of wave encompassing the gestalt of his posture, costume, position. Cape.
“The getup?” He smiled, sympathetically. I liked him immediately, despite the fact that he was obviously a lunatic. “Well, I’m a superhero, it seems to be... you know, what’s expected.”
“Oh.” I stepped up beside him, taking in his view. It was a well-situated spot, he could see into two of the alleys from here and had a view up and down both sides of the street; his back was to an upscale brunch place that time-shared the sketchy neighborhood with the night people, open when they were asleep and closed when they were out.
“I was exposed to...” He glanced sideways at me, obviously making a judgement about the level of technical detail to go into. “Well, radiation, a particular kind of radiation, at work, last month.” He sighed. “I’m on medical leave until they can figure out what it did to me, exactly. But... well, it gave me superpowers.”
“No shit,” I said. “Like, for real?”
The guy nodded. “Yeah.” He reached up and scratched his forehead under the edge of the body-suit. “Super strength, invulnerability.”
“How super?” I was... well, I want to say I was going along with him, but really he was... normal, likable, believable; I was swept along with him. I believed him.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” he said. “It’s... well, it’s really hard to find something that’s really heavy that you can lift without breaking something. I can lift all the weights I could get onto a barbell at the gym,” he said. “Then the barbell bent and all the weights fell off and I got thrown out.”
“Oh.” I thought about it for a minute. “And I guess you’re not quite sure how invulnerable you are, because...”
“Because the only way to test it is to do progressively more stupid things to myself until something finally works. Yeah.”
We stood there for a while. I remembered that I was out there to have a cigarette, lit one up.
“So now you’re a superhero,” I said. I waved at the street. “You going to clean this up?”
He sighed. “That’s the idea, yeah,” he said. He paused, and then the pause dragged on.
“Where you gonna start?” I looked around. I could see about six minor street crimes happening from where I was standing.
“Well,” he said, “I was going to start with them.” He gestured at the roving gaggle of prostitutes. “You know, they’re obviously being... oppressed...”
I looked at them, looked doubtfully at Bennie, who was their pimp. He was about sixty and hadn’t been looking so good lately.
The costumed guy sighed again. “I talked to then, you know,” he said. “I... well. Let me just say, they weren’t appreciative of the idea of being rescued. Of going back to the shelter, getting clean. I... think it’s the wrong choice, but...” He shook his head.
“Same with those guys,” he said, pointing to the drunks. “And those guys.” Gesturing at a little knot of junkies, arguing over something across the street.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I always figured that if superheroes were real, all this crap’d be solved right away, you know?” He pointed at Sam, the squirrelly little meth dealer pacing up and down at the mouth of an alley. “I stopped him from pissing on the sidewalk, made him go down the alley a ways. I though about confiscating his drugs, but... I don’t know, it didn’t seem like it would make anything better, exactly... not for him, not for his... customers...”
The costumed superhero sighed again. “I don’t think there are any problems here that can be solved by punching someone,” he said.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen punching someone be the start of solutions.” A bartender’s take on the world. “Usually the trick is to get them to stop punching each other.”
The costumed guy nodded. “You know what,” he said, “I think I’m going to go over and see if the guys building the new bridge could use a hand. I bet I could do some good on a construction site.”
“Probably true,” I said. “Hey listen, can I stand you a beer? It’s probably too late to get started on a construction gig tonight.”
He had been coming unwound, gradually sagging out of his superhero stance. “Yeah,” he said, “That’d be great, thanks.” I put my arm over his shoulder and steered him into the bar.
It’s almost always easier if you get them before they start punching people.
A cadre of really spectacularly unattractive women in very skimpy clothes wandered here and there, theoretically for rent but in practice mostly just gossiping about whatever drama was going on this hot night.
The guy was notable for his stance, for the sense that he was just standing there, too alert to be one of the drunks, too still to be a junkie or a dealer.
He was also notable because he was wearing a cape.
Not just a cape, but a whole-body morph suit, bright red with yellow piping all over it. The morph suit had an open face, and the guy was wearing a mask, one of those just-the-eyes deals that you wouldn’t think did anything to disguise you but actually make it really hard to recognize someone.
I walked up to him, slightly unsteady. I was taking a break in the middle of my shift, and I will admit that I had been sampling the wares. Hard to get through a night otherwise.
“Hey,” I said, “Hey, buddy.” He turned, not moving his feet or his... his station, I guess, but turning his body to take me in.
“Yes,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
“What’s with the...” I gestured at him, a sort of wave encompassing the gestalt of his posture, costume, position. Cape.
“The getup?” He smiled, sympathetically. I liked him immediately, despite the fact that he was obviously a lunatic. “Well, I’m a superhero, it seems to be... you know, what’s expected.”
“Oh.” I stepped up beside him, taking in his view. It was a well-situated spot, he could see into two of the alleys from here and had a view up and down both sides of the street; his back was to an upscale brunch place that time-shared the sketchy neighborhood with the night people, open when they were asleep and closed when they were out.
“I was exposed to...” He glanced sideways at me, obviously making a judgement about the level of technical detail to go into. “Well, radiation, a particular kind of radiation, at work, last month.” He sighed. “I’m on medical leave until they can figure out what it did to me, exactly. But... well, it gave me superpowers.”
“No shit,” I said. “Like, for real?”
The guy nodded. “Yeah.” He reached up and scratched his forehead under the edge of the body-suit. “Super strength, invulnerability.”
“How super?” I was... well, I want to say I was going along with him, but really he was... normal, likable, believable; I was swept along with him. I believed him.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” he said. “It’s... well, it’s really hard to find something that’s really heavy that you can lift without breaking something. I can lift all the weights I could get onto a barbell at the gym,” he said. “Then the barbell bent and all the weights fell off and I got thrown out.”
“Oh.” I thought about it for a minute. “And I guess you’re not quite sure how invulnerable you are, because...”
“Because the only way to test it is to do progressively more stupid things to myself until something finally works. Yeah.”
We stood there for a while. I remembered that I was out there to have a cigarette, lit one up.
“So now you’re a superhero,” I said. I waved at the street. “You going to clean this up?”
He sighed. “That’s the idea, yeah,” he said. He paused, and then the pause dragged on.
“Where you gonna start?” I looked around. I could see about six minor street crimes happening from where I was standing.
“Well,” he said, “I was going to start with them.” He gestured at the roving gaggle of prostitutes. “You know, they’re obviously being... oppressed...”
I looked at them, looked doubtfully at Bennie, who was their pimp. He was about sixty and hadn’t been looking so good lately.
The costumed guy sighed again. “I talked to then, you know,” he said. “I... well. Let me just say, they weren’t appreciative of the idea of being rescued. Of going back to the shelter, getting clean. I... think it’s the wrong choice, but...” He shook his head.
“Same with those guys,” he said, pointing to the drunks. “And those guys.” Gesturing at a little knot of junkies, arguing over something across the street.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I always figured that if superheroes were real, all this crap’d be solved right away, you know?” He pointed at Sam, the squirrelly little meth dealer pacing up and down at the mouth of an alley. “I stopped him from pissing on the sidewalk, made him go down the alley a ways. I though about confiscating his drugs, but... I don’t know, it didn’t seem like it would make anything better, exactly... not for him, not for his... customers...”
The costumed superhero sighed again. “I don’t think there are any problems here that can be solved by punching someone,” he said.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen punching someone be the start of solutions.” A bartender’s take on the world. “Usually the trick is to get them to stop punching each other.”
The costumed guy nodded. “You know what,” he said, “I think I’m going to go over and see if the guys building the new bridge could use a hand. I bet I could do some good on a construction site.”
“Probably true,” I said. “Hey listen, can I stand you a beer? It’s probably too late to get started on a construction gig tonight.”
He had been coming unwound, gradually sagging out of his superhero stance. “Yeah,” he said, “That’d be great, thanks.” I put my arm over his shoulder and steered him into the bar.
It’s almost always easier if you get them before they start punching people.
Nice! :-)
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