by Lavie Tidhar
"Just believe." I put down the glass on the table and fled to the hallway.
I pressed my hands to my face. I knew that my father had wanted to talk about the future before he died. Was it good news or bad? I realised his message didn't matter. What I see in the future doesn't matter—for we are not unlike each other, the old lady and I. I know only a little bit more, and still I asked her to believe me. And what about me? Do I believe myself and what I have seen?
Or do I decide not to believe, and only believe what I wish for myself?
I clenched my teeth and hoped I had a little of my heart left still, for it has to feel. If it breaks in the process, it still has to feel.
I know the future. But I resist it.
I turned away from my past smelling of cinnamon, and while my clogs rapped loudly and quickly on the floor as I fled towards my room, my future melted at last and, salty and streaming, it overflowed.
The Secret Origin of Spin-Man
Andrew Drilon
Andrew Drilon is a Filipino comics creator, writer, illustrator and editor. He was a finalist for the 2008 Philippines' Free Press Literary Award and is a recipient of the Philippine Graphic/Fiction Award. He is best known for his experimental webcomic, Kare-Kare Komiks, and is a regular cartoonist for The Philippine Star newspaper.
So you don't know Spin-Man? Five-nine, lantern-jawed, starry-eyed Spin-Man? Spin-Man the Caped Cosmische, Spin-Man the Super-Cop, Spin-Man the Meta? Muscle-bound, brown-skinned, wrapped from beefy neck to toe in blue-and-gold spandex? Don't worry about it. It's okay. I don't blame you. Spin-Man was one of those forgotten heroes of the Dark Age of Comics, just before the Image Era of big guns and chains and Spawn and bloodstained alleys. The champion of the Multiversal Continuum, balls-out science fantasy, following in the footsteps of Jim Starlin and Silver Surfer and Jack "The King" Kirby—Spin-Man was the last good Space Hero of the 90s and my number one favourite super-person. I'll explain.
Okay, this may seem unrelated, but hear me out first because it's important. When I was nine, my little brother and I went to the bargain bins of CATS as often as we could. After being picked up from school by our assiduous driver, Manong Eddie, who had been instructed to take no detours but had a soft spot for us boys; after an intermittent car ride, owing to the long stretch of traffic circling the vast perimeter of our private school; after a half-eaten merienda of adobo sandwich and Zesto Orange sent by our grandmother, God rest her soul; James and I would take it in turns (sometimes called out in unison) to remind our driver: "The main entrance of Virra Mall! We'll only be thirty minutes! Mang Eddie, pleeeese!" Then the drive past Uni-Mart, around the corner facing McDonalds, as we busied ourselves counting the money in our pockets, at times almost two hundred pesos when pooled together, until finally my grandfather's Altis slowed outside the mall's main entrance, and we'd thrust the car doors open and hop out, promising Manong Edie that we'd be waiting there at exactly 4.45, no later, cross our excited little hearts.
Running in, ignoring the cinema schedule by the entrance where five or six people always stood deliberating what to watch, we would brush past strangers and other boys in school uniform, our trajectories plotted through the long air-conditioned corridors of the mall to avoid the various temptations that lined its capitalist halls (including the arcade) until we arrived at the shop of our hearts' desires. Its windows, covered with painted posters of masked men and women, sheltered under a primary-coloured electric display that announced its most hallowed name: CATS. (Comics And Then Some.)
For a moment, we would ogle at the comics on the New Arrivals rack, committing their covers to memory and silently promising to acquire them when we had more money, after which we would go directly to the bargain bins; James starting on the leftmost end while I worked on the opposite, thumbing our way through rows and rows of titles as if in a marathon, flip flip flip, until we met at the middle, ready to sort through two piles of bargain comics. We would debate on 30-peso copies of X-Men, Avengers, Batman and numerous other titles, eliminating possible purchases by creating an agreed-upon hierarchy based first upon the title's character, then artist, then writer. On rare occasions when we came to a disagreement, we would split our money down the middle and dictate our own purchases, though most of the time, our tastes were in complete accord.
By the end of our ritual, a stack of five or six carefully-considered comics were rung up at the till and wrapped in the customary CATS plastic bag, complete with a crude drawing of Wolverine printed under its wonderful, acronymic logo. Manong Eddie would be waiting for us outside, as patient as ever despite the extra quarter of an hour of waiting, resulting in a drive home that transpired in complete silence, as James and I lost ourselves to the outrageous adventures of these fictional men and women.
James and I agreed: the world's greatest comic book artist was Jim Lee. I also liked Erik Larsen on Spider-Man; but his replacement, Mark Bagley, couldn't draw Carnage with the appropriate menace, in my view. At an early age, I had become acutely aware of the people who worked on these comics, and in my wildest dreams I imagined myself drawing the X-Men under the pen of my favourite writer, Chris Claremont. I spent hours scrutinising these comics, copying my favourite poses, memorising the costumes and learning the vagaries of super-hero anatomy; the intricacies of foreshortening and the convolutions of idealised musculature wrapped in spandex. James struggled to keep up with me, but in the end resigned himself to colouring my illustrations in deference to my burgeoning drawing ability. I suppose our tastes were still far from refined, and if you had told us back then that Neil Gaiman was far superior to Scott Lobdell, we would have argued you out of the room. As a nine-year-old who could draw Superman with a modicum of accuracy, I had pronounced myself an expert on these multicoloured worlds, and James was more than willing to share in my obsession.
James, in turn, proclaimed himself to be the real-world counterpart of Daredevil. He would sit in the corner of our room facing a crumbling dartboard, one hand over his eyes, a trained dart in the other, declaring: "I will hit a bull's eye using only my ears!" He rarely made the centre of the board, but when he did, it was a cause for celebration, and we'd jump around the room in a mock-battle between Daredevil and the vampire, Morbius. For a while, I myself was intent on developing a keen psychic talent à la Professor X, but that ambition fell by the wayside when I failed to read my classmate's mind during a critical science exam. Fortunately, I had gained some popularity at school for my art skills, and in the end it was this ability that I cherished as my one and only superpower.
It was 1991, the year of the Pinatubo eruption, when James and I were invited to stay over at our Lolo Doming's house in Los Baňos to finally meet our long-lost uncle: Tito Fermin. According to my mother, he had lived in the States all our lives, hiding as an illegal immigrant, and it was only that year, when he had married into an American citizenship, that he was able to visit the Philippines without fear of recrimination. Both James and I were eager to meet our uncle, having heard that he was a comic book artist; one who actually made a living conjuring up the four-colour worlds we were so fond of.
It was with some disappointment that we learnt the specifics of his occupation: Tito Fermin was a cartoonist for neither Marvel nor DC, but for a small independent company known as Echo Comics. They produced a grand total of four titles a month, one of which was a black-and-white superhero comic that, Tito Fermin said proudly, he both pencilled and inked. We were slightly more impressed when he showed us samples of his work, but though his art had the romantic quality of classic Tagalog Komiks, it lacked the inflated modern dynamism that we had grown accustomed to.
Regardless of his artistic prowess, Tito Fermin was a striking character. Long, shaggy black hair spilled down from his head and his face was rounded out by a full beard which, in retrospect, made him look like a Filipino Alan Moore. His eyes had the hint of a Chinese slant; he spoke in a low, sonorous voice that commanded attention and, as with our grandfather (who we'd nicknamed Santa Cla
us) you could rarely tell if he was smiling under that beard.
Tito Fermin spent most of our first dinner talking with Lolo Doming, the details of which I can no longer clearly recall; only the slurred American accent that possessed my uncle in the midst of his soliloquies on life abroad and the inscrutable grunts that my grandfather contributed to the discussion. Rain hammered through the trees outside, splashing against the windows and conversation, the warm yellow light of the chandelier washing over the lazy Susan that pivoted food around the dinner table. James and I contented ourselves with fielding questions from Lola Lita, who we had insisted on calling Lolita in spite of her good-natured refusals. We asked her what superheroes were popular in her time and she shook her head as she replied, "My heroes were movie stars, ballet dancers and singers—Judy Garland, Irina Baronova and Frank Sinatra. Those three are my favourites." And then she crooned a few lines from the song she always sang when she put us to bed, the song I will always remember her for:
No, there's nothing to be ashamed of if you stub your toe on the moon
Though it may be a blow to your pride, you're a hero because, well, you tried
So don't give up too soon, if you stub your toe on the moon
Perhaps, as a consequence, as we were falling asleep that night, James confessed that he had grown tired of Daredevil. "I want to be Silver Surfer now," he said. We contemplated the means by which James could acquire cosmic power and a silver board capable of space flight. I suggested that he find a way to contact Galactus while he mused on the existence of cosmic rays beyond our atmosphere, and after a while we simply lay in our beds for the thousandth night next to each other, our thoughts racing to find the path to James's goal until, finally, sleep overtook us.
Due to its distance from the city, Los Baňos was a place that we rarely visited, and when we did it gave off the impression of being otherworldly, like a dream that never happened: bosky mountains stretching to the horizon, tiny three-floor shopping malls, the subtle incline on all the roads, sari-sari stores, the musky-sweet smell of Lolo Doming's cigars, trips to the video rental store, a rough-painted cement ceiling, flower-patterned bed sheets, non-cable television, wood-panelled walls, kare-kare stew, marble floors and, best of all, discount bookstores with five-to-ten-peso comics.
It was there, in the Book sale beside Carmela Barbershop, that Tito Fermin began to participate in our love for comics. He was leaving for the States the next morning and had been meaning to pick up a few Filipino Komiks to take with him. James and I were simply excited to find more back issues of Ghost Rider and Wild Dog. The bargain bins were smaller, only three rows, but we commenced with our ritual anyway, thumbing through back issues, flip flip flip, until we each had our stack of comics to choose from. Tito Fermin surprised us by taking both piles and paying for them, more than 30 comics each and, as we walked out of the store suffused with happiness and gratitude, I silently calculated that he'd spent over 500 pesos on comics, which was a huge amount at the time, at least to me.
And then lunch at Nilda's Restaurant, where we ate mushroom burgers while Tito Fermin quizzed us on our love of superheroes. A lengthy discourse ensued on the extended line-up of the X-Men, the convolutions of Peter Parker's life, the rogues gallery of Batman, how Hulk was too boring, how the Legion of Superheroes had too many members, how the Fantastic Four had too few, how Superman and Captain America were outdated; and more besides. He shared stories of his meetings with various comics' creators during conventions; of the long argument on the art of cartooning that he'd had with Gary Groth; the drink he had shared with long-time Spider-Man editor Tom Brevoort; and the time he had managed to procure a sketch of Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman from Jim Lee.
The last one fired me up. There we were, sitting in a restaurant in the Philippines eating mushroom burgers—and we were right next to a man who had actually shaken hands with Jim Lee. Jim Lee! The phenomenal artist's artist, the person who'd redesigned all the X-Men costumes, the comic creator that I dreamt of one day becoming. Tito Fermin laughed at my ebullition and promised that the next time he met Jim Lee, he would ask for a signed sketch and post it to me.
As we made our way back to Lolo Doming's house, our uncle began to relate the difficulties he'd been having with his latest project. Echo Comics was intent on adding another superhero title to their monthly line-up, and they were looking to Tito Fermin to deliver it. This was his concept: a superhero that policed the multiversal continuum, spinning from dimension to dimension in an eternal struggle with the Forces of Chaos.
"Spin-Man!" James interrupted.
Tito Fermin stopped and gave my brother a profound look. "Spin-Man?"
"Spin-Man. I don't know. I just thought of it. Do you have a name already?"
"Spin-Man," my uncle said, enunciating the syllables slowly, as if he were tasting them. "Spin-Man is a good name. I was thinking of calling him Omni-Man, but Spin-Man sounds much better. Would you mind if I called him that?"
"Yes!" James exclaimed, almost lost in delight. "I mean, no! I don't mind!"
It was unprecedented—my brother's idea was going straight into an actual comic book to be published in the States. His idea was going to be the name of the superhero, if not the title of the series. I was a little jealous of his moment of brilliance, but conceded that it was fair since he'd thought of it first. That was, of course, before things got out of hand.
"Can I be Spin-Man?" James asked, pulling on Tito Fermin's shirt sleeve. We had just arrived at my grandfather's house, and our uncle seemed lost in a daze.
"You mean his alter-ego? That would be a little like Shazam, wouldn't it?"
"Yes! Please? I can be a good character. I'll fight the Forces of Chaos."
James made a spinning move, grinding his sneakers against the pavement, and ended it with a punch to the air and a shout: "Spin-Man!"
Tito Fermin laughed. "All right, all right. You can be Spin-Man. What about your brother?"
By that time, I was foul-tempered and indignant. James had thrown a load of ideas at Tito Fermin, including Spin-Man's name, his costume, thoughts on potential enemies and even a love interest. My jealousy was frothing at the mouth. I was an artist; a creative; I should have had more ideas than my colourist brother, but my mind was blank. I couldn't visualise Spin-Man. He was merely a figment, a cipher; I had no story to hang him onto. I struggled to keep my resentment in check, but when you're nine years old it's a difficult thing to hide. "No thank you, Tito Fermin. I think I'd rather draw Spin-Man. At least I'll make money doing it."
"You can draw it when you're older. I'll even ink you, if you'll have me." It was a promise that I knew would never be fulfilled. With that, Tito Fermin ruffled my hair and walked off to his room. As he moved away, I caught my little brother staring at me, and this is the face that I will never forget: James biting his lips, his eyes wide open, his expression a mix of guilt and apology, as if he had done something wrong.
That night, before we went to bed, he broached the topic one last time. I had ignored him throughout dinner and he had respected my silence, but after Lolita had tucked us in, he turned to me and asked, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I said, though obviously I wasn't.
"You can be Spin-Man if you want. I can just tell Tito Fermin—"
"No thank you," I said, cutting him off.
And that was that.
I awoke late the next day. The sun was shining, the midday heat had begun to settle in, and my first thought was that I'd somehow overslept and missed Tito Fermin's leave-taking. My second thought was of James. There was no-one in the next bed, and I assumed that he must have been too bothered about my reaction the previous night to wake me. I put on my slippers and went downstairs. Santa Claus was asleep on his favourite couch, and Lolita was in the next room, sweeping.
"Good morning," she said. "Your Tito Fermin left early. He didn't want to wake you because it's your vacation, but he said that he loves you and that he'll keep in touch."
"I'm sorry
about that, Lola. Have you seen James?"
"James?" she asked. She seemed puzzled. I rubbed my eyes and thought, She must be going senile in her old age.
"James," I repeated. "My brother."
She stopped sweeping and eyed me with suspicion. For a moment, she seemed to be considering what I meant, though it should have been obvious. And then she smiled. "Perhaps when you sleep tonight, you will see him again. Lunch will be ready soon."
I frowned at her. My grandmother was patronising me. Clearly, some sort of joke was happening that I was unaware of. I left the room and began to look for James. I had searched the living room, the terrace, the dining room and the balcony before I began to wonder if James was playing an impromptu game of hide-and-seek with me. I pursued him through the house. I looked in bathrooms, closets, cabinets and convenient hiding places behind doors, between bookshelves and under beds. It was only when I noticed that his bag was missing; the bag that my mother had packed for him the day before we left for Los Baňos; it was only then that I began to worry.
"James!" I called for him as I ran through the house. "Where's James?" I yelled at Lolita as she was putting out dishes for lunch. Lolo Doming walked in on us, scratching his head.
"What is he talking about?" he asked. "Who's James?"
I grew frantic, panicked. "James! My brother! This isn't funny!" I ran back to our room, looking for the pile of comics he had chosen the day before. There was only one pile. Mine.
"What's the matter with him?"
"I don't know."
I shouted. "I want my brother!"
Lola Lita ran after me. "What happened? What's wrong?"
"Where did he go?" I ran out of the bedroom and tossed my stack of comics down the stairs. "I want my brother!" I yelled.