by Peter David
“It’s pretty old wave, actually,” she said.
“Dad, it’s The Importance of Being Earnest.”
“Of course!” said Jonah. “By what’s his name. Thornton Wilder.”
“Oscar Wilde,” she corrected.
Jonah looked at her suspiciously. “He was the fruit, right? Ah, well.” He shrugged. “British. What else do you expect, right?”
“You said it, Jonah.” Mary Jane smiled, deriving endless amusement from watching John put his face in his hands and moan as quietly as he could manage.
Jonah glanced at him. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t think he liked the jumbo prawn appetizers.”
“Yeah, that tasted a little off to me, too,” agreed Jonah.
They’d made it all the way to dessert before Mary Jane finally decided to step deep into the fire and see just how burned she came away. “Jonah,” she said, leaning forward with her fingers interlaced, “there’s something I’m curious about.”
John looked at her with a trace of concern, sensing something was up. Jonah stopped sipping his coffee and leaned back, looking to be in an expansive mood. “What would that be, my dear?”
“Spider-Man.”
“Arrhhhh!” Jameson moaned, and put the coffee down. “While I was eating, you brought him up?”
“Spider-Man’s kind of a sore subject as far as my dad is concerned,” John said, obviously hoping Mary Jane would drop it.
But she had no intention of doing so. “Well, I was just curious, that’s all. I’ve seen all the articles, the editorials. And I was just wondering, y’know, what he ever did to you.”
“What makes you think he ever did anything to me?”
“Well, you write about him so much…”
“He sells newspapers, Mary Jane,” Jameson told her. “That’s the single and sole reason he’s occupied as many column inches as he has.”
“But… the slant… your editorials…”
“I call them as I see them.”
“I just… I guess I wonder why you see it that way.” Mary Jane saw that John was making throat-cutting gestures, mutely pleading with her to end the discussion. “But if you don’t want to talk about it, I understan—”
“Mary Jane,” said Jameson, “you can search high and low for the rest of your days, and you will never, ever find a topic I don’t want to talk about. You see that son of mine?” and he pointed at John, “he’s a hero. A real hero.”
“Dad, I’m just a guy doing a job.”
“You’re a hero,” Jonah said firmly. “Policemen, firemen, they’re heroes. Men who follow the president around day after day, ready to take a bullet for him, they’re heroes. And you know why, Mary Jane? Because they lay it… on… the… line… ” He thumped his forefinger on the table with each word for emphasis. “And my reporters? They lay it on the line. So do I. Every time we go after crooks or double-dealers or power-mad politicians in the Daily Bugle, the name of the person or persons who wrote the piece is right there, in black and white. You know what that’s called?”
“The byline?”
“No. Well, yes, but no, what I meant was, it’s called ‘personal responsibility.’ Taking responsibility for your actions and standing up for what you do. Spider-Man doesn’t do that.”
“He doesn’t?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“No. He’s no different than these idiots who creep around on the Internet, writing vicious attacks and then hiding behind fake names.”
“Well, I think he’s a little different,” Mary Jane pointed out. “I doubt a lot of those Internet guys go swinging around Manhattan on webs.”
“The principle’s the same. The fact is that he goes around doing whatever he wants, wherever and whenever he wants—getting himself involved in situations best left to trained professionals such as policemen or firemen—and hides from any mistakes he might make in doing so behind a red mask! The way society manages to survive is through checks and balances. Policemen, for instance, are answerable to boards of review, internal affairs, systems set up to make sure they don’t abuse their power. You know why? Because as Chairman Mao said, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
“Actually, it was Lord Acton,” Mary Jane delicately corrected him, “and what he said was that power tends to corrupt. It doesn’t always. I mean, look at all the power you have, Jonah. A newspaper, millions of readers who are influenced by every word you write. You shape opinion for the majority of people in this city. Are you saying that you’ve become corrupted by that power?”
“There are checks and balances on my power, as well,” Jonah pointed out. “Laws against libel, for instance.”
“Which Spider-Man could never make use of, since he’s a public figure and you’re just stating opinion. Plus he’d have to reveal his identity in order to sue you, which you know he won’t do. Really, there’s no check or balance on you at all. So I’m asking again, do you think you might be corrupted by the power you wield as publisher of the Bugle?”
“I have forty-seven years as a journalist, young lady,” Jameson said slowly, “going back to when I was a paperboy. That’s a lot of years learning how to be fair and balanced. So no, I don’t believe power has corrupted me.”
“Then isn’t it possible that the same goes for Spider-Man?” she asked.
There was a long silence at the table, and then John said softly, “Still think she’s a treasure, Dad?”
“Maybe he’s thinking about burying me,” said Mary Jane.
“No, no,” Jonah assured her. “Actually, I like a challenge. Keeps me on my toes. I’ve been answering a lot of questions for you, young lady. Now you answer one for me: What’s your personal interest in Spider-Man?”
“What makes you think I have any?”
“Because you’ve got a fire in your belly sadly lacking in much of today’s youth, and I’m thinking it’s there for a reason. As I said, forty-seven years of journalism. You seem to think you’ve got a better handle than I do on Spider-Man. Why?”
“Maybe because he saved my life.”
John turned and gaped at her. “You never told me that.”
She shrugged. “You never asked.”
“Who asks something like that?”
“Of course!” Jameson said abruptly. “If you were with young Osborn when the Green Goblin attacked, Spider-Man showed up for that.”
“And stopped me from falling to my death when the balcony collapsed, yes. And…”
Some instinct stopped her then, preventing her from talking about the other times Spider-Man had saved her. That time when she’d almost been mugged, or from the dizzying heights of the 59th Street Bridge. Somehow he’d always been there when she needed him… and she was wary enough not to want a journalist curious as to exactly why that was the case. She was concerned that it might lead to questions she couldn’t answer, and answers she might not appreciate. Hell, she could just see the headline: “Masked Menace Stalks Actress!”
“And what?” prompted Jonah.
“And I was grateful,” she said.
“Tell me this, then, Mary Jane,” said Jonah. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, Spider-Man might have been working with the Green Goblin?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Why? Oldest con game in the world. Mr. Smith threatens the mark, Mr. Jones steps in and stops Mr. Smith and collects the monetary gratitude of the grateful mark… and then turns around and splits it with his partner, Mr. Smith.”
“Spider-Man doesn’t take money.”
“How do you know that? Check his bank records? His tax returns? Furthermore, at the very least, he’s a material witness to the Goblin’s crimes. Did he cooperate with police investigations as any good citizen would? No. He hid. He hides because he has something to hide, Mary Jane.”
“Maybe he’s just worried about recriminations against family and friends.”
“A risk taken by every district attorney who ever prosecuted a p
owerful felon. And yet they don’t feel the need to operate outside the law. Spider-Man does. And as long as he feels that need, the Daily Bugle will point it out.” He paused and then, to her surprise, rested a hand atop hers in a manner that actually seemed conciliatory.
“Understand something: You obviously make my boy happy. And because you make him happy, that goes a long way toward making me happy. And I’m willing to accept the notion that Spider-Man is responsible for your surviving to make my son happy. In that respect, I fully understand your point of view regarding him. But that’s not going to change the fact that when it comes to making people aware of Spider-Man’s potential for nefarious designs, I have a job to do, and nothing can stop me from doing it.”
“I understand that, Jonah,” she said amicably. “Then again, maybe you have more in common with Spider-Man than you think.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, maybe he likewise feels he has a job he has to do… and nothing can stop him from doing it.”
III
Spider-Man hated his job, and wished for the hundredth time that day that he didn’t have to do it.
It had been two weeks since he’d rescued Otto Octavius from his airborne kidnapping, and his life had settled back into its standard abnormal pace. Actually, it wasn’t Spider-Man having the job-related frustrations so much as it was the costumed Peter Parker, swinging in midair through the concrete canyons of New York City.
He pondered the many uses to which he’d put his miraculous spider-powers. With such abilities as his strength, his speed, his spider-sense, the webbing that shot from his arms—why, he had stopped madmen in their tracks. Saved plummeting tram cars. Rescued countless people from falls or from being crushed by gigantic oncoming objects, or from fires, or from bank robbers, or bullies, or rapists.
The fact that he had accomplished so much wasn’t what daunted or haunted him. It was that he couldn’t get movies out of his mind.
In movies, as sequels progressed, the hero always found himself facing greater and greater obstacles. Not that Peter thought of his life as a movie: He wasn’t insane. He knew better than that. He knew that his life, however over-the-top it had become, was still his life.
But, what if life imitated art? Sometimes he would lie awake, imagining the stakes rising like floodwaters. What new dangers awaited him? What tremendous new challenges would be hurled at him? What dazzling new exploit would the amazing Spider-Man be required to pull off next?
Somehow, in all his midnight ruminations, delivering pizza at web-slinging speed never cropped up.
Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. The John Lennon line flitted through Peter’s mind with the same alacrity that he torpedoed across the skyline, deftly balancing a distressingly high stack of pizza boxes in one hand. He’d taken the precaution of webbing the boxes together so they wouldn’t skid off, but it was still a superhuman feat keeping them flat as he bounded from building to rooftop to building again. Then again, “superhuman” was pretty much his stock-in-trade.
It had certainly been his stock-in-trade less than an hour ago, when he’d been sporting this very costume and swinging up toward a dangling construction worker. As rescues went, it seemed as if it was going to be pretty tame, spiraling gracefully upward and snagging the worker who was clinging to an I beam, holding on for dear life. It was only upon Peter’s high-flying arrival that matters took an abrupt turn for the worse as it turned out the I beam wasn’t properly anchored.
It slipped from its moorings and the construction worker tumbled off. As a result, Peter gaped in horror through the lenses of his Spider-Man mask as the worker went falling in one direction, and the I beam went tumbling in another. The crowd below, screaming, didn’t know which way to run. Those who weren’t crushed by the I beam would be trampled in the stampede of frightened humanity.
Maybe that spider bite should’ve given me extra arms, as well, he thought grimly, and then regretted even coming up with the notion. It would be just his luck if Fate overheard the passing thought and said, “You want it? You got it.” Ba-bing, ba-boom, next thing he knows, he’s toting around four extra limbs to give him a grand total of eight. Go try to hide that under a windbreaker, why don’t you.
His straying thoughts didn’t slow his movements one bit. Anyone watching would have seen Spider-Man course-correct without hesitation, swinging on his web-line, angling toward the falling I beam. A huge glob of webbing fired from his wrist, enveloping the beam, and then Spider-Man’s trajectory took him feetfirst right into the beam. He struck it squarely, sending it bounding back toward the skeleton of the building under construction. The I beam slammed against the structure, the webbing adhered to the surface, and there the beam stuck.
It was only a temporary fix, but it was all he needed. Once the construction worker was squared away, he could come back and properly attend to the I beam.
However, at that moment he was in a hurry.
Using the momentum from impacting the I beam, Spider-Man hurtled down toward the falling construction worker. The man was thrashing about, screaming. He’d only been plummeting about two seconds, but the way he was flailing around, he wasn’t going to last much longer. The free fall would cause him to snap his spine or neck before he dropped another hundred feet.
Having already released his hold on his web-line, Spider-Man straightened his body, dropping like a missile, and fired a cocoon of webbing at the worker. His aim was pinpoint and perfect. In a heartbeat, the man was wrapped top to bottom in webbing. Unfortunately, he was still falling.
So was Spider-Man. But that was quickly attended to as he tightened his strands upon the falling worker, even as he fired another web-line. It snagged on the front of a billboard and he swung toward it. As he did so, he snapped the trailing web-line, and the worker rolled up toward him like a yo-yo. With a thump, Spider-Man landed on the billboard, with the worker—still screaming, not yet realizing that he was safe—tucked under his arm.
He stared at the billboard.
Mary Jane Watson stared back at him.
He couldn’t believe it. Beneath his mask, Peter Parker wanted to guffaw. But this was hardly the time. Instead, ignoring the irony, he crawled over Mary Jane’s face and settled the worker onto the rooftop. The man had finally stopped screaming, and had passed out.
It was a huge billboard. Mary Jane, her eyes literally gigantic, was gazing out at an undeserving populace. The logo read, “Emma Rose Parfumerie.”
As Spider-Man began to unwind his webbing from the unconscious worker, he felt a wave of almost Shakespearian melancholy falling upon him. Adopting the appropriately grave demeanor, he turned to the senseless worker and intoned, “I have been stung by fate. I am its prisoner. A prisoner of my own conscience. My love for the girl I want, always to be locked within me.” He glanced once more at the billboard. “With me, she’s always in danger from those who fight against me. Without her, I travel a lonely road. My story will always be about the loss of a girl.” He ceased his work and pointed at her. “That girl. Mary Jane Watson. And every day I ask myself, how long can I endure this loneliness?”
He stopped talking and exhaled a heavy sigh. “I know, I know. More lachrymose than you’d expect from your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Guess we all have our off days, though. So never you mind. Just keep on sleeping. I have an I beam to get squared away.”
And with that, Spider-Man fired a web-line and swung over toward the still-precarious girder.
All of that had transpired a little more than half an hour earlier. Consequently, when Peter pulled up in front of a seedy rat-trap of a restaurant called Joe’s Pizza over on MacDougal Street in the Village, his mind was elsewhere. Specifically, it was on another one of those same billboards with M.J.’s face adorning it, staring down at the pizza place in a manner that Peter might almost be inclined to call “protective,” if he were given to flights of fancy.
Now dressed in his “civilian” clothes, Peter sat astri
de a small motorcycle. His aunt May had had a fit when she’d first learned he was tooling around on such a “death trap.” He’d sworn to her he’d always drive responsibly, and never over twenty miles an hour. He suspected she didn’t believe that last part, but they maintained an unspoken agreement to let it stand.
Peter was rolling up to curbside, staring up at the billboard, reflecting on the things he’d said earlier to the unconscious construction worker. Is this what I’m reduced to? Peter wondered. So desperate to have someone to talk to that I chat it up with people who can’t hear me? But really, what other choice do I have? There are things I have happening in my life, and no one I can talk to about them. That’s just the way it is when the world knows you as Spider-Man but everyone you love only knows you by the name of Peter—
“Parker!”
Peter nearly toppled off his cycle, but instantly righted himself. Standing outside the pizza parlor was the owner, one Rahi Aziz. Dark-haired and of indeterminate Middle Eastern descent, Aziz was flustered and frustrated and didn’t hesitate to make Peter aware that he was the cause. With one hand he was pointing angrily at Peter; with the other, he was waving to the banner over the front wall that said, “Our Oven to Your Door. 29 Minutes or It’s Free!”
“Parker!” he shouted a second time. “You’re late again! Always late!”
“Sorry, Mr. Aziz,” said Peter. “There was a…”
Man about to die, and he was going to take a sizable portion of a crowd with him, and I saved him, me, with the strength and powers in these two arms. Whose life have you saved today?
Yeah. That would help the situation, big-time.
“… disturbance,” Peter finished, displaying far less conviction than when he’d started.
Aziz stared at him, giving him as much credence as if Peter had just said the dog ate his homework, or that his grandmother had died for the fifth time. “Another disturbance? Always a disturbance.” His expression warred briefly between amused incredulity and unfettered annoyance. Unfortunately for Peter, the annoyance won out.
“One more chance,” Aziz said, waving a finger in the air. “Twenty-one minutes ago, in comes an order from Harmattan, Burton, and Smith. Woolworth Building. Seventeen extra-large deep-dish pizzas.”
