The Superman Project

by A. E. Roman

  “The Superman is wholeness,” Hari Lachan rattled on. “If you want to get to The Superman in you, you must first accept that you are being trained by society, your parents, your teachers, your religions, to be The Little Man. But the day you decide to leave The Little Man, with our help, you will be on your way to more, more love, more friendships, and more financial abundance than you have ever known before.”

  The lights cut off again and the loudest GONG yet sounded. Everyone gasped, even me, and I’m no gasper. Suddenly a tiny spotlight shone on the center of the yellow sun painting, and out of this spot grew a twenty-foot projection of Father Ravi: a wise-looking, bearded gent, owlish and studious now in glasses, a touch of the Asian Indian saint about him. He stood in a courtyard full of sumptuous fabrics, plants, caged birds, reading, surrounded by books, and what looked like thin young models, wearing colorful robes. A question ran across the image: “WHO IS FATHER RAVI?”

  The questions running through my head were, Where is Father Ravi? Where is Gabby Gupta? Where is Joey Valentin?

  A recorded message, a feminine, soothing, and melodic voice began to play.

  “Father Ravi is a dreamer,” said the seductive voice, as slides were projected on the yellow painting. “The dreamer was found in a field in New Delhi by a kindly tea merchant from Uganda.”

  A slide of India and Uganda and a kindly tea merchant flashed onto the painting. The voice continued.

  “Father Ravi was flown to the tea merchant’s wife in Uganda, who named him William. The merchant’s wife raised William, and soon found that he was brighter, stronger, and wiser than all of the other children. He had read the Vedas, the Sutras, the Tanakh, the Bible, and the Koran by the age of five. He played on the piano that same year. He was plowing fields at six, and correcting the logical mistakes of wise men at seven. A brilliant young man, William Gupta, as he was known then, won a scholarship at Cambridge. In England, he excelled in English literature and physics and wrote novels. Perfect man, perfect son, perfect student, always right, never wrong. It was not simple but he finally found unconditional love, married, sailed off to America, had four children, and discovered success in the transportation industry.”

  I made a guess that transportation industry really meant cabdriver.

  “William Gupta had all the trappings of happiness. And yet, he still felt empty inside. Until a voice came to him. The voice told him that his destiny was to create and to lead something called The Superman Project. The Superman Project would empower people from the inside out. Father Ravi went to work, and the fruits of his labor, after many struggle-filled decades, are all you see before you today—from the beautiful urban luxury of the TSP mansion to the idyllic green of Utopia Farms. If you should be accepted as a member of this project, you will be one of the privileged few, the chosen, to take a step on a glorious ladder called The Superman.”

  Some final images of the ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans were superimposed over Father Ravi’s twenty-foot image and as they faded the lights snapped back on.

  “Welcome to The Superman!” said Hari Lachan, still on stage. “Applaud yourselves, gentlemen, for making the best, most profitable, and powerful move of your lives!”

  The recruits in the room applauded weakly.

  “You are not pygmies,” said Hari. “You are giants. You are not ants. You are The Superman. And now, you are not alone. Applaud!”

  More weak applause.

  “Is that all you got, gentlemen?”

  More applause.

  “Is that it, ladies?” Hari Lachan said, veins in his neck popping.

  Harder applause, almost angry, almost frightening.

  “C’mon!”

  The mob, furious with applause, whistled and stomped their feet.

  “That’s better,” Hari Lachan yelled. “Repeat after me. I can. You can. We can!”

  “I can. You can. We can,” they chanted.

  Chico don’t chant.

  “People say you can’t,” said Hari. “You can. Doctors say I can’t walk. I say that one day I WILL. Why? Because I want to, and if I want to badly enough, Father Ravi teaches, I can do anything. Anything I want to do. I CAN! That is the secret to The Superman!”

  Music came back on again; but this time it was a pumping hip-hop beat, and a short, muscular white man with a long blond ponytail came onstage wearing a skintight bright blue leotard with red and yellow trim, clapping his hands, yelling, “Everybody move your chairs! Move those chairs to the edge of the room! DO IT!”

  We moved our chairs.

  “Now follow me!” said the tiny blond Hercules, leading us to remove our jackets/ties/shoes and then into the quick performance of jumping jacks, then push-ups, then sit-ups on the red carpet, like some speed-freak version of a high school gym teacher.

  Soon, the crowd, minus a few skeptics, myself included, was chanting, jumping, sweating, for almost half an hour. I couldn’t tell what the new believers were feeling. Maybe hungry? Maybe heads spinning? When they were out of breath and dripping with sweat, the tiny torturer said, “Now, give yourselves a round of applause!”

  They applauded themselves.

  “Now hug! Hug!”

  Breathing like Boo after a good brisk walk in Parkchester, each person turned to the person on their right and hugged, then turned to the left and hugged.

  “I’m good,” I said, politely declining.

  The tiny blond Hercules stamped his foot three times, and the green doors of the auditorium swung open. A sea of Amazons wearing robes in many shades of blue and red and yellow entered with trays of iced yogurt drinks, baskets of mangoes, and platters of bread and cheese and lentils and some brown paste called hummus.

  “Drink this,” the women said. “Eat this.”

  And the men did.

  I thought about what Chase Gupta had said about her father Ravi. Mara has him staying somewhere safe. His current condition doesn’t quite fit The Superman image.

  I thought about Hari Lachan now in his wheelchair and how he could possibly fit The Superman image.

  Five minutes later, the three massive guards from earlier entered, still smiling, and the bald one called Doyle launched straight at me and whispered, “Can we have a word with you, pardner?”

  “What about?” I said as they backed me away from the others to a corner of the room by an emergency exit.

  “Dr. Mara would like to speak with you in private,” whispered Doyle the bald guard. “Can we see some identification to make sure you are who you say you are?”

  “Sure,” I said, but as soon as I reached into my pocket, Doyle the guard produced what looked like a large cell phone and pressed it like lightning against my ribs. Four electric currents hit my spine like a hot bull on a rodeo clown so hard that for a minute I forgot my name and I dropped and tasted the red carpet . . .

  TEN

  I was dragged like a rag doll up some back stairs to an office on the second floor, my legs like boiled vermicelli and my head on fire.

  “Sleeping beauty,” said Doyle, snapping his fingers in front of my face and snapping me back to the TSP office.

  I was reassessing my career choice of private investigator as Doyle’s fellow goons in red blazers tossed me onto a plush red chair.

  “I’m Doyle,” said Doyle, the third guy, the little guy with the strong Texas drawl. A toothpick dangled from his lips now, and he had cowboy energy like he was hunting for buffalo. And I was the buffalo.

  “This is Lieblich and Big Man.”

  “I heard trouble came in threes,” I said.

  Big Man was big, black, stiff with muscle. And Lieblich was smooth, white, drunk with testosterone. They worked for a “spiritual program,” but I didn’t let that fool me, Lieblich and Big Man were well-made, break-your-back, snap-your-neck-if-you-even-think-about-it machines.

  “Hi, fellas,” I said.

  Lieblich and Big Man stood there like two concrete pillars, no smiles, no nods, nothing—just a mixture of water, sand, cement, an
d crushed stone with eyes.

  “I’m head of TSP Security,” said Doyle.

  “How’s it hangin’?” I looked at Big Man. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare spinal cord in your pocket, would you, brother?”

  “You have any questions,” said Doyle, “you direct them at me.”

  I turned my head and looked into the cold brown eyes of Doyle. “First question. How did you get so pretty?”

  “How’d you like a knuckle sandwich?”

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’m watching my figure. Maybe some peanuts or Cracker Jacks.”

  “You want a snack?” Doyle said, and lifted both meaty hands. “Which one would you like first? The left or the right?”

  “Ooh,” I said. “You must be the alpha male.”

  Doyle smirked. “You got something to tell me?”

  I looked at him, bulging out of his clothes. “Get yourself a shirt that fits?”

  He turned to his partners and smirked some more.

  They looked at each other and shook their heads.

  Then Doyle looked at me and smiled, face going all soft. He passed a weary hand across his bald skull, leaned in, sitting at the edge of the office desk, and looked at me all unsympathetic.

  “You know what, guys? This trespasser looks kinda familiar,” said Doyle.

  “I have one of those common trespasser faces,” I said.

  “Well,” said Doyle. “Dr. Mara needs to have a word with you, common face. What were you meeting with Chase Gupta about?”

  “We were trading tandoori shrimp recipes,” I said. “Why?”

  “Where is Joey Valentin, wise guy?”

  “Don’t know, big shot.”

  Doyle clenched up, from his BVDs to his toothpick. “What the hell, Santana? Are you with the law or against it?”

  “I’m on a missing persons case.”

  Doyle took the toothpick that was hanging from his lips and poked my chest with it.

  “Have you heard of the Patriot Act, son?”

  “I believe so,” I said, pushing his hand and toothpick away. “It’s got a nice beat, but it’s kinda hard to dance to.”

  “You always this glib, Santana?” said Doyle.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And don’t think it’s easy. This kinda glib is exhausting.”

  Lieblich and Big Man shook their heads some more.

  “Egyptian!” Doyle said suddenly, placing the toothpick back in his mouth and clapping his hands. He looked at Lieblich and Big Man. “Doesn’t Chico here look like that Egyptian troublemaker wanted in Brooklyn? The Muslim?”

  Lieblich and Big Man nodded in agreement and Doyle twisted his head as if to get a better look at me. “You know what? Under the right hot light, Mr. Santana does look exactly like that Egyptian Muslim.”

  “Aw, man.” I laughed, pretending I wasn’t spooked, but I was. “Do I look like I just got off a boat? You think I swam to the Bronx or jumped a fence or something? You wanna see my birth certificate? I’m an American.”

  “American,” said Doyle. “You think just because you were born here, that makes you an American?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And if I was born in an oven, I’d be a muffin. I got other songs like ‘Yankee Doodle’ and the Bill of Rights. I can hum a few bars.”

  “Bill of Rights?” Doyle laughed. “It’s been suspended, son. We’re talking about national security here. We know people. They’ve got some nice prison cells where they could stuff you to think over what you do or do not know.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “We’re TSP, son,” said Doyle. “And you’re a trespasser. We don’t have to threaten you.”

  Doyle smiled. Lieblich and Big Man stepped closer, boxing me in. Doyle talked at me like a rapid-fire machine gun.

  “We know you met with Chase Gupta. We want cooperation. Information. Everything you know about Joey Valentin and Gabby Gupta. About Pablo Sanchez and Esther Sanchez. About Elvis Hernandez and Chase Gupta. Everything. Everything you know.”

  “Met Chase Gupta once,” I said. “And the truth is I love Gladys Knight but I’m still trying to figure out what the hell a Pip is, so I’m not the best at answering the tough questions.”

  “And I’ll tell you the truth,” said Doyle. “I’m tired of your kind.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “The kind that obstruct justice and the law.”

  “Why don’t you go find your bad guys on your own and leave me alone, Doyle? I’m just some chump with his own little private investigation firm.”

  “Look, Santana,” Doyle said, easing up. “We don’t want to interfere with your investigation any more than you want to interfere with ours. You’ve heard nothing from Joey Valentin?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you trying to infiltrate TSP?”

  I tried to get to my feet. Lieblich and Big Man pushed me back down. “Look, I don’t care if you guys are TSP, CIA, or ABC. I don’t know where Joey Valentin is and I’ve only infiltrated two groups in my life. One was so secretive, I didn’t know where the meetings were even after I infiltrated. The second was a hate group composed of anybody who saw Billy Baldwin and Big Daddy Kane in the movie Posse. But I couldn’t keep up my anger. I’m just not a good infiltrator. And until I figure out what’s up with your group, you get nothin’ from me unless you give.”

  The three guards closed in on me.

  “That’s enough!”

  Doyle and his goons turned.

  A woman, holding a clipboard, Asian Indian, late thirties, entered. She wore a severe expression, unsmiling, cold, in a tight dark blue suit with a yellow blouse and a red handkerchief. This case had more suspicious personalities than Nabisco had crackers.

  “Dr. Mara, I presume?” I said and stood up on my shaky legs.

  Mara Gupta walked in and the guards pushed me down into the plush red chair again.

  She closed the door after Doyle and his goons filed out.

  I stood up.

  “Sit,” she said. “The guards are still just outside the door.”

  I gladly dropped back down. “Is there something wrong with my credit rating? Besides the fact that it’s nonexistent?”

  Dr. Mara didn’t waste any time. “What brings you to TSP, Private Investigator Chico Santana?”

  “Actually,” I said, “I was in the neighborhood. My first choice was Lion King but somebody told me about your show and I thought why not?”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “I don’t appreciate being called a liar until you really get to know me.”

  “Chico,” she said. “That’s a child’s name.”

  “I’m big for my age.”

  “I know why you’re here,” she continued forcefully. “We know everything.”

  “So what do ‘we’ want?”

  “You seem relatively bright.”

  “Thank you?”

  She stretched and handed me a sheet of paper from her clipboard. It was the form, labeled TSP DIAGNOSTIC, which asked, among other things, how many hours a day you watched TV, how close you were to your mother, and the number of friends you had.

  “Don’t tell me you want me to fill this out?”

  “We already filled one out for you,” said Dr. Mara, calmly glancing at her Cartier watch.

  And to prove it, she looked down at her clipboard and quickly diagnosed me. “Your name is Chico Santana, son of Adam and Gloria Santana. You’re a private investigator, formerly of St. James and Company. You’re temporarily staying in the Parkchester section of the Bronx with a dog and a cat and a little girl named Maxine Johnson. You’re estranged from your wife Ramona Guzman Balaguer. You have a problem with alcohol, cigarettes, anger, attachment, and dwelling on the past. You are overly sensitive and you lack a stable home life and security. You are a man adrift in the world, floating from one thing to the next with no real focus, goal, or direction.”

  “Sounds like me,” I said, handing back the blank form, angry but impressed by the detective
work. “Is that bad?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “That’s the good news.”

  She tapped her clipboard with a long strong finger. “We’ll save the bad news for later if we need it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Then she added, “Your father went to Vietnam. He was a patriot.”

  “What?” I said, straightening up. “What the hell’s my father got to do with anything?”

  “Your father helped his country when his country needed help. He was a hero.”

  Hero. I don’t know from heroes. But it was true. One day, parked outside our building on Brook Avenue, hot summer, garbage steaming, fire hydrants blasting water, kids racing, radios beating with the salsa of Hector Lavoe and the soft, sugary love songs of Sam Cooke, on an overheated morning, motor running, heading for Orchard Beach, my father in shorts with his short-sleeved summer shirt rolled up, sitting in the driver’s seat of his sea-blue Charger with white racing stripes. I saw the letters USMC on his dark brown upper arm and asked what they stood for, and he said, “El pasado. The past.” And I was still outlining the anchor of the tattoo with my finger when my mother came out of our building, smeared shiny with suntan lotion, her short dyed blond hair braided like a crown of thorns on her head.

  At Orchard Beach, my father and his friends—mostly black and Puerto Rican or both, the only exception being Mr. Herman, who was Jewish, a ghetto doctor like my father who played the conga like nobody’s business—slapped down ivory dominoes and drank rum and beer, as the smell of pork roasting on a nearby grill spilled up past the summer trees into the blue sky. At some point, my mother separated me from the other children tossing a Frisbee and scolded me and told me that I was never to talk to my father about the tattoo or Vietnam because it made him sad. She told me that he had gone into Vietnam, volunteered, happy to serve, believing in America and Puerto Rico and progress and democracy, waving two flags, hating communism and what Castro had done to Cuba. She tried to explain, for the first and last time, she said, that when he came out of Vietnam, he was not cursing Castro and he was not waving any flag, American or Cuban or Puerto Rican. And the world made little sense.