Super for You, Bad for Me

by Asta Idonea

  I knew a lot about restaurants, having waited tables and tended bar in a large number of them in recent years. It was no difficulty to wander into the kitchens of some of the less salubrious establishments as if I belonged and then mill around, appearing busy, until waitstaff returned with half-eaten dishes. If I spotted anything promising, I’d snatch them up, or else quickly fly them over if they were out of physical reach and no one was looking. You’d be surprised how many people don’t finish their meals. Some days provided richer pickings than others, but on the whole, I scrounged enough to keep body and soul together. Restaurant chains were the best, seeing as they were often staffed by backpackers and university students. A high staff turnover made is less likely anyone would question my presence.

  It behooves me to confess that once or twice, I did eye up the freshly prepared dishes as they sat on the counter, awaiting distribution to the appropriate tables. One night, when nothing but scraps had filtered my way, I almost reached for one, only to stop myself at the last moment. Now, I’m no preacher, but I like to think I have a reasonable moral compass, at least when given sufficient time to consider the potential consequences of my actions. Taking leftovers destined for the bin was one thing. Snaffling a full meal smacked too much of stealing for my taste. Besides, some superhero I’d make if I gave in to such urges. My mandate was to stop theft, not commit it.

  Alongside the restaurant visits to fill my empty belly, I also tested my new talents in other ways, and I’d come to some important conclusions regarding my powers. Life was the key—or rather the lack of it. I could move almost anything with my mind, regardless of size; although, something large and heavy, such as a vehicle, took it out of me mentally. However, anything with a heartbeat was out of bounds.

  When I’d been unable to reach Kane at first on the day his wires broke, I’d put it down to nerves and lack of experience. Since then, I’d learned better. My neighbor’s cat had provided the perfect test subject. Every morning, the tabby tom meowed outside my door, looking for handouts, even though it was clear from a single glance at his pendulous stomach he was far from starved. One day I opened the door and let him in. For over an hour, I tried to shift him around the room, to no avail. I could feel his collar, but not the cat himself. Sir Moggles—by now I’d read his name on said collar—paid me no heed. He sat in the middle of my sofa bed, dropping fur on my sheets and cleaning his rear end, while I did my best to levitate him. He remained oblivious to my efforts; I couldn’t touch him.

  Further experimentation on the pigeons in Trafalgar Square confirmed my hypothesis: I couldn’t move anything with a living, beating heart. Flora was fine—I could air-dance a rose to my heart’s content—but fauna was another matter. If I wanted to move people, I had to focus on their clothing. Whether dead bodies would be fair game was a question I’d not mustered the nerve to answer thus far. The mere thought of attempting it made me squirm, so I decided it wasn’t a vital issue for the time being.

  Accepting my limitations, such as they were, I acknowledged that I would never be able to save a skinny-dipper from drowning, except by good, old-fashioned swimming and CPR, and fighting crime on a nudist beach might also pose a problem or two. But since that scenario was hardly one I’d encounter often in central London, again I let it slide, choosing to concentrate on the positives rather than the negatives.

  Now, some of the romantics amongst you may well be wondering about Kane, who’s been out of the narrative for a little while. I won’t say there was nothing to tell, but it wasn’t that exciting. He’d been in LA for over three weeks, and he called me every two or three days as his hectic schedule allowed. There was no kinky phone sex, nor even much in the way of murmured endearments passing between us. On the whole he sounded exhausted whenever we spoke. These promo circuits were always part of a lead actor’s contract, but Kane told me that he soon tired of the constant whirl of parties and premieres, with photographers snapping his every move for days on end. He said it made him feel like a performing monkey. No matter what, he had to keep smiling because the slightest crease of his brow would launch a social media storm of wild and outrageous accusations of trouble with his costars, with the director, with the producer….

  I commiserated as best I could, and I understood that it must be tiring to know that someone dissected your every word and twitch. Nevertheless, I still believed it would be worth it. To have everyone know my name and recognize my face, to be acknowledged and remembered, I’d put up with a few pesky photographs and titter-tattle. In addition, despite my new insight into Kane’s life, my admittance to his inner circle, I remained a fanboy at heart and couldn’t resist the desire to spend a few hours of every day on social media, lapping up each photo or post hashtagged #KaneTeague. It made me feel close to him, “seeing” him both morning and night, knowing where he was and what he was doing, even though thousands of miles separated us. That said, it did ignite a spark of jealousy whenever I wondered whom he was doing, as I came across picture after picture of him with his arm around a gorgeous model or hunky former costar. I constantly had to remind myself that those actions were all for show. When Kane phoned me, it was personal and private—the real Kane Teague.

  Jealousy is an ugly thing. I told myself that time and time again. I needed to put a lid on it if Kane and I were to have any hope of working out as a couple. He was an actor, and I knew as well as anyone, smooching for the cameras came with the territory. If I grew resentful every time he stood beside someone handsome or talented, I was a fool deserving of a good dumping. Still, though I knew this advice to be sound, I couldn’t deny my relief at the thought that he’d be back in London in a few short days. We’d already agreed to meet one afternoon following his return, and I’d taken to marking down the days in my diary. Huge black crosses eclipsed the dates already past and the red-circled entry drew ever closer. Only four more sleeps. It felt like the Christmases of my childhood.

  THREE DAYS later, I finally landed a job. It was in a miniscule Vietnamese restaurant in Soho. Wedged between two adult stores, the place was so small, I’d walked past hundreds of times without noticing it there. I only spotted it on that day because of the sign in the window, which, in broken English, stated that they were looking to hire new waitstaff. With no other prospects on the horizon, and my bank balance dangerously close to the red, I immediately inquired within.

  It turned out that someone else had written the sign because the owner—a spry, middle-aged fellow, wearing what I took to be traditional Vietnamese attire—spoke no English at all. Unsurprisingly, my Vietnamese was equally nonexistent. However, thanks to the marvel of hand waving and finger pointing, combined with the calendar that hung upon the wall behind the till, we reached an amicable agreement as to hours and wages, the latter of which I would receive in cash at the end of each shift. The arrangement seemed a happy one for all concerned, and given that the place only possessed nine tables, I didn’t expect to be rushed off my feet to earn my pay. In addition to my wages, I would receive a free meal at closing time each night, which meant I could put an end to my off-the-plate pilfering.

  I’d agreed to start that very evening, so I rocked up five minutes ahead of time—I was keen to make a good first impression—and exchanged my denim jacket for a plain black half apron with a pocket for my pen and pad. This was the only uniform, and I wore it with jeans and a white tee.

  Though tiny, the restaurant turned out to be busy—a favorite with the local Vietnamese community. Traditional music squeaked forth from the CD player’s tinny inbuilt speakers, but the quality of the sound hardly mattered since chatter filled the air, drowning out the songs. I couldn’t understand a single word, but from the grins and laughter, I deduced that everyone was having a good time. Some of the younger patrons spoke to me in excellent English when I approached to take their orders. In other cases, we had to make do as best we could. Luckily, a number preceded each menu item, so diners could simply point to what they wanted.

  That didn’t stop t
hem from making a few jokes at my expense. One elderly gent ordered the entire menu, one item at a time. I thought this a tad strange, but when I queried it, he patiently pointed to each listing a second time, smiling all the while. So I carried the order to the kitchen. The owner, Phúc Lành, took one look at the page and doubled over. From what I could guess from Phúc Lành’s reaction, the customer was a regular and prone to jests. The guy did leave a big tip when he left, though, so I forgave him for making me the butt of his joke.

  By the end of service—which wasn’t until late, no one wanting to go home—I was exhausted but happy. Phúc Lành beamed and patted me on the arm in a paternal manner when he handed me my pay. He gestured me to a seat and mimed eating, and my stomach growled in response. I’d been too busy to notice before, but I was famished.

  Don’t ask me what I ate that night, nor any that followed, but it was damned tasty and I scraped up every last morsel, all but licking my plate clean. Phúc Lành seemed pleased with this and chattered away for several incomprehensible minutes before he mimed going to sleep and intimated that I should go. I readily complied, eager to get to bed now that my stomach was full, and swapped my apron for my jacket.

  Outside, I met a stream of pedestrians. Many pubs were shutting their doors, and their former punters, keen to continue their partying, were moving on to clubs and cabarets. Although the summer night wasn’t cold, it still made me shiver to see how little some of the young women wore. As I walked toward the nearest Tube station, I noticed several passersby texting, and this visual prompt made me reach into my jacket pocket for my own phone.

  I found three missed messages. The first was from Kane, saying his final event was coming up and that he looked forward to the return to normality. Until the next media circus began. I smiled and knocked out a reply: a platitude, a statement about how excited I was to see him again, and a smiley face. After a brief pause, I added a heart and an X, and then clicked Send before I could change my mind.

  Message two came from my mother and contained the usual demands for information on my diet, sleep pattern, and prospects. I checked the current time and decided to wait until the morning to respond. I didn’t want to wake her; she’d only worry that I’d had an accident, getting a message at this late hour.

  The final text was short and businesslike, but it made me grin all the same. It was from Ellen. My costume was ready for final fitting.

  Chapter Ten

  THERE WAS something rather sexy about the way my hands glided over the material as I ran them along my outer thighs. I’d believed the move surreptitious, but Ellen’s brief yet visible smirk soon robbed me of that delusion. In Ellen’s case, it seemed appearances could be deceiving. I’d pegged her for a lovely, if strict, motherly type, but beneath her schoolteacheresque exterior there clearly lurked the mind of an outrageous voyeur. I wondered if she’d watched me from another room while I changed, and I glanced about me in search of a telltale peephole. Until I realized I was being ridiculous. I doubted I was her type even if she didn’t mind a bit of cradle snatching. She seemed the sort who’d go more for tweed-clad academics with old-fashioned spectacles.

  Although my fingers itched for more, I crossed my arms and pretended I hadn’t perceived her amused reaction. Ellen hummed as she tugged and pulled at the seams. The tune was classical and vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t name it. Perhaps someone had used it in a recent TV ad or maybe a film soundtrack. It was a melancholic air—lovers parted. She tapped my left arm and gestured for me to extend it. When I did so, she prodded my armpit.

  “It doesn’t feel too tight under there?”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” And it was. The fit was snug but in a good way—cradling rather than crushing.

  “How’s the bottom padding?”

  I’d asked her to reinforce the area in the hope of avoiding the dreaded wedgies. So far, whatever she’d done appeared to be working because nothing was riding up anywhere it shouldn’t.

  “It feels okay. How does it look?”

  “Nothing shows, but why don’t you see for yourself?” Ellen crossed the two steps to the door and closed it, revealing a full-length mirror mounted on its interior side.

  The first time I’d gone there for measuring, I had wondered why a seamstress wouldn’t have a mirror somewhere in her room. Then again, Ellen worked from home, and although her flat was larger than mine, this workroom was compact (bordering on cramped) due to all the clutter. There were buttons and bobbins abound, the former stored in old jam jars stripped of their labels. Rolls of material rested against the walls and each other. Stacked plastic storage boxes revealed a tantalizing glimpse of other scraps and treasures, and on the desk, side by side, sat a sewing machine and another contraption she’d explained was an overlocker—whatever that meant. An old piano stool provided the only available seating, and a dressmaker’s dummy took up the bulk of the remaining space.

  Returning my thoughts to the task in hand, I turned my back to the mirror and peered over my shoulder. A grin split my face. Ellen was right—and a genius. Nothing showed. If anything, the extra padding made my butt look more rounded and pert. Bonus! I gave it a quick wiggle, satisfied that nothing shifted or wobbled, and then I swiveled to view the front. This side was just as good. Although I was no body builder, the suit somehow managed to accentuate what muscle tone I did possess, while holding in any bits of flab.

  “Ready to fight some bad guys?” Ellen caught my eye in the glass. She tucked a stray strand of graying hair behind her ear and assessed her work. “The fit looks good to me. I don’t reckon we need any further adjustments. However, if you find that something doesn’t feel quite right once you start dress rehearsals, you let me know and we’ll fix it up. Maybe I’ll even come see your show. When’s it on?”

  My blood turned to ice and my calm, contented mood froze with it. I’d never dreamed that Ellen would want to see her costume in action. Maybe that had been foolish of me, but hindsight was twenty-twenty. I had to put her off the idea somehow, considering there was no performance to attend, but what could I possibly tell her that would sound believable?

  “Oh, I’m afraid it’s fully booked. It’s only a teeny little production space out in, uh, Uxbridge.”

  She gave a low whistle. “That really is fringe! What a shame. Send me some photos if you can, though, won’t you? I’d love one or two for my scrapbook. I’ve never worked with any ‘poly’ material, save polyester, before, so it’s been a fun challenge.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Arranging a few fake shots shouldn’t be too hard. Someone I knew was sure to be in a production somewhere. I’d simply need to bribe them to let me backstage and help me capture a few poses with my phone camera. However, another issue sprang to mind—one that couldn’t be so easily resolved.

  As usual, I’d rushed, full steam ahead, without thinking things through. The excuse of a fringe production had seemed eminently workable when it first occurred to me, but I’d forgotten one important factor. If I started saving lives in the city, it was likely my picture would eventually make it into the media. In this day and age, there was always a passerby with a smartphone, ready to snap a photo or shoot a video of the proceedings. When Ellen saw these future pictures, she would recognize her handiwork and know my true identity because, like a fool, I’d flipping given her my real name when I placed the order. How stupid! There was probably a good reason I’d never become a secret agent—aside from my lack of combat and language skills.

  “Say, Ellen.” I turned to face her, wanting to judge her reaction eye to eye, rather than through the mirror. “Is there such a thing as client-seamstress confidentiality?”

  She laughed. “Whatever do you mean? I don’t discuss my clients’ ‘assets’ with friends and family over afternoon tea, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Oh, good. I mean, no. I was thinking more if you happened to see someone in one of your costumes on the news and—”

  “There’s no play, is there?�
�� She moved her hands to her hips and pursed her lips, looking every bit the stern schoolma’am.

  I would likely get detention, but there was nothing else for it. “Not really, no.”

  “I thought you were being unusually shy about the details. Most actors would be bragging nonstop and eagerly trying to sell me a ticket. Are you even an actor?”

  Although I wasn’t surprised she’d never heard of me, it still stung. “Yes. Yes, I’m an actor.”

  “Then why all the subterfuge? What is it you’re planning?” Her slight frown morphed into a look of horror. “Good God, you don’t intend to rob a bank in it?”

  “What? No! No way. What I’m saying is….” What was I saying? I couldn’t exactly share my secret. “I can’t tell you. But it isn’t anything bad, I swear.”

  Ellen visibly relaxed. “Well, so long as you promise you’re not up to any wrongdoing, I suppose I can agree to help keep your secret.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, a hint of worry remaining. “But listen, Oswell, don’t go out there and try to be a hero, if that’s what you have in mind.” She squeezed my shoulder. “We have the police for that kind of thing. They’re trained. You’re not. Boyhood dreams of crime-fighting are all well and good, but leave the dangerous stuff to the professionals. Okay? I’d hate to see you get hurt. You seem like such a nice lad.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be in any danger.” I hope.

  Ellen’s concern touched me. In that moment, she reminded me of my mum, whom I hadn’t seen in several months, and I pulled her into a hug. She returned the embrace, then tapped me on the back.