“There’s this new disease you’ve got to look out for,” I tell Brian. “It’s called sucrotizing fasciitis. Basically, your flesh starts turning into sugar crystals. It affects people whose diet is more than 50% sugar.”
Brian scoffs. “Oh, a diet lecture from Dr. Dominos himself! Which of these is more recently true for you: you drank eight glasses of water in one day, or you drank eight glasses of soda?”
He’s got me there and he knows it, so he presses on. “Pot calling the kettle, you know?”
“Yeah, but listen to that cup when you stir it! You can hear the sugar grains gritting around at the bottom. There’s sludge left at the bottom when you’re done!”
“Which only means that I didn’t drink it all, making me better off than you. You know how much sugar is in a can of Coke? Over two tablespoons, man. Eight teaspoons. Next time we get coffee, I’ll pour my sugar into an empty cup and we’ll measure it out. Then we’ll see who gets to call who names.”
I sip my coffee, which really is pretty horrible. There’s no way I’m adding sugar to it right now, though. Even a tiny amount would be ceding the argument, and just because I’ve already lost doesn’t mean that I need to go around admitting it.
“So — any fun ambulance stories?”
Brian, good guy that he is, accepts this topic change as tacit admission of my defeat and doesn’t rub my nose in it. Besides, he likes talking about the ridiculous stuff that happens to him while he’s out on the job, and I think that most of his friends work at the hospital and are all inured to the stories. They’re new to me, though, and I’m still vastly entertained by the sort of nonsense that drugs, alcohol and bad decisions can lead to.
Brian’s halfway through a story about the latest SOCMOB — hospital slang for “standing on the corner, minding my own business,” which is apparently what everyone was doing just before they got shot, stabbed or beaten — when all of a sudden, I feel new powers setting in.
I’ve described it before as an all-over ice cream headache, and I’m sticking by that. You know how it feels like a sudden, swift pain, but somehow it keeps going? And there’s nothing you can do, nowhere you can go to move away from it, nothing you can press on to relieve the pain. It’s inside your head, all of your head, pressing from all angles.
Now imagine that in your knee, and your ribs, and the soles of your feet. Your whole body, all at once. That’s what this feels like.
Not surprisingly, Brian notices my discomfort and breaks off his story. “You all right, man?”
The discomfort fades, and I shake my head to clear it. “Yeah, no, I’m good. I just — I think I just got new powers.”
I don’t know why I’m being coy about this. I’m absolutely certain I just got new powers. It just sounds kind of stupid to say it so matter-of-factly out loud, I guess. Putting an “I think” in there gives me wiggle room in case of skepticism or ridicule.
Brian’s not skeptical in the least, though. He grins, slightly wide-eyed. “Cool! So what can you do?”
“I have no idea yet! These things don’t come with an instruction manual. I’m just lucky I was awake when I got them this time. Half the time, they show up in my sleep, and I don’t find out about them until later.”
I’ve got a ritual that I go through every day, a checklist of tests for all of the powers I can think of. I’m not going to do a lot of them inside of a shop, of course. Some would be dangerous to other people if I was right, and nearly all would make me look stupid for trying them. But I can check some of the small ones right now.
I pull out my multitool and unfold a small blade, then prick my finger with it. Brian raises an eyebrow at me.
“When’s the last time you washed that blade, man?”
“Relax, Mom. It’s just a pinprick to see if I’ve got invulnerability or regeneration or anything again.” A drop of blood wells up, so invulnerability is clearly off the table. After a second, I lick it away, but the tiny cut underneath is still visible, so it’s not regeneration either.
I look up to see Brian watching me, now with both eyebrows raised.
“What?”
“Dude, you just poked yourself with a dirty knife and then licked the cut, and you’re asking me ‘what?’ You know how many infections you just exposed yourself to?”
I gesture at the dingy shop surrounding us. “Name one thing in here that’s cleaner that I could have used.”
“There’s soap and water in the bathroom, man. You could have acted like you’re not living in the 14th century and washed your hands.”
“Look, you wanted to know what powers I had! I was checking a couple of them for you. I thought I was talking to my friend Brian, not Panic Spasm, EMT.”
Brian snorts at that one and relents. “You want to get the superpower of gangrene, fine, that’s your business. I’m just used to working with sterilized medical tools, is all.”
He pauses, then says, “Hey, we could actually test your blood, you know? Find out if there’s anything in there that’s causing this. I can get a sample and take it down to the hospital.”
“You just carry blood sample stuff on you?”
“No, I’m saying in general, man. We can set it up. I’m not taking your blood in a coffeehouse.”
I grin at that image. “I don’t know, I bet you guys would do a lot better at the blood drives if you just showed up at coffee shops and asked people to donate in exchange for buying them their morning coffee. Back on topic, though: what are the odds that it’s something in my blood? I’ve had the same blood for 30 years, and this only started happening a few months ago.”
“The same blood, sure, but who knows what got introduced into it? Especially with your hygiene habits, man.”
“Hey, my hygiene is fine!”
“I’ve been to your house, Dan! Don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t give me that. I keep that place spotless just in case my parents stage a surprise visit.”
“Yeah, there’s not a spot of dust on the collection of pizza boxes and soda bottles piled on the counter.”
“You were there the day before trash day!”
“Sounds to me like your new superpower is ‘making up excuses.’ You can be The Apologist.”
“Pipe down, Snidely Sidekick.”
I can see Brian preparing a retort, but just then his phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket. “Listen, Chief Passing Buck, I’d love to continue this chat, but it’s time for me to get to work and dispense medical assistance to people who do dumb things like stab themselves with rusty knives, you know? Give me a call when the infection sets in, and I’ll bring the ambulance by.”
Brian and I walk out to his car, still bickering amiably. As he’s getting in, he says, “You need a lift home?”
“Nah, it’s only like a mile, and it’s the wrong way for you. Besides, for all I know, I can fly there now.”
Brian cracks a smile and drives off, and I make it about a dozen steps before I realize that hey, maybe I really can fly home! I take a quick look around and see no one in the evening gloom, so I take a few running steps and jump as high as I can.
This turns out to be probably about two feet up, at which point gravity intrudes on my dreams of flight and pulls me back to the sidewalk. I stumble slightly on the landing, and as I recover, I see that an older woman and her dog have rounded the corner just a few dozen feet in front of me. She and the dog are both looking at me with identical expressions of curiosity and disdain.
Rather than try to make up an explanation, I just mutter “Evening” and hurry on by. This is why I test for superpowers in secret.
- Chapter Three -
So after an hour or so, here’s what I know. The new power isn’t strength, speed or intelligence. It’s not flight, levitation or balance. It’s not telekinesis or gravity manipulation. If it’s breathing underwater, I don’t know how to activate it, and I’m not willing to take in a couple of lungsful of water to find out if it’ll kick in on its own. I can’t grow, I
can’t shrink, I can’t morph my body at all.
In short, I’m starting to wonder if I really got any power at all. I mean, I’m sure I did; that sensation is incredibly distinctive. But I can’t figure out anything that’s reacting at all.
What if it’s something stupid? What if I’ve gotten the power to be super-allergic to clover, or to flash orange in the presence of radon? If so, I’m never going to figure it out. I’ve been basing this on the theory that these are classic superhero powers, things that I can save the day with, but maybe I’ve just been deluding myself. It could be totally random.
But if that’s the case, then it suggests that there’s no controlling intelligence behind this, no reason for it to be happening. And that doesn’t square with what I’ve seen so far regarding the abilities that have kicked in. It’s got to be something reasonable, something I can use to defeat my nemesis when he shows up.
That thought sends a pain shooting through my leg, healed though it is. I’m not ready for another nemesis. The last one, Regina, literally dragged me through broken glass on our final encounter, and all things considered, I came out of that pretty well. I’ve been kind of enjoying being in one piece. I’m not looking forward to someone else trying to carve a chunk out of me. Especially if I can’t even figure out what it is that I can do to fight him.
Maybe I’m going about this all wrong. Last time, my power showed up on its own, manifesting where it was relevant. I didn’t have to do anything to find it except be near magnetic objects. And if somehow I hadn’t managed that before running into Regina, her electricity-based power was a complement to my magnetism-based one, so I could have figured it out from that. It kicked in pretty automatically to save me from her lightning bolts, after all. So if I just wait for the new guy or gal to find me, maybe my power will be evident in the right context.
It’s not an ideal solution, not by any stretch of the imagination. But it’s getting late, and watching training videos all day is surprisingly exhausting. Anyway, for all I know, I’ve gained the power of dream projection, and once I fall asleep I’ll be able to go spy on the world and find my new nemesis.
It’s a pretty flimsy excuse for going to bed early, but I’m pretty wiped out, so flimsy is all I need. Besides which, I remember the many nights I collapsed into bed the last time these powers kicked in. Being a superhero is bad for the sleep schedule; I should get sleep now, while I can.
Thus rationalized, I strip down and flop into bed, where I’m out in mere minutes. Unsurprisingly, I totally fail to dream-project anywhere.
- - -
Morning brings with it the muzzy-headed realization that this is my first real day of work in months, and that as such, I should probably heave myself out of bed and prepare to get there in a timely fashion. I reluctantly pair thought with action and mumble my way to the shower, where I let the water wash the sleep from me.
The shower, breakfast, and a walk to work on what turns out to be a surprisingly balmy day have me arriving at Børger with a smile on my face. Matt matches me with a smile of his own as I punch in.
“Morning, Dan! Are you excited for your first shift?”
No one has ever been excited to work in fast food, I think automatically, but then I realize two things: Matt obviously is, and honestly, I kind of am, too. This might be the first time in my life that I haven’t started a job with a sense of dread. And yeah, it’s a stupid, monkey-push-the-button kind of job, but my boss is awesome, my other coworkers seem friendly enough from what I’ve seen, and the customers — well, the customers will probably be terrible. But if that doesn’t get anyone else here down, I can weather it, too.
These days, if you want to look up facts about something, you just pull up a search engine and scan the internet. But you used to have to go to a library, and despite the internet, libraries are still around and people still use them for research. Similarly, if you want to go be a horrible human being to someone, you can just stop by the comments section of any YouTube video or about half of Reddit. But before the internet, if you wanted to go be terrible to a stranger, you went to a fast food restaurant and shouted at the employees. And even though the internet has taken over, you’ll still find these sort of customers waiting angrily in line for their food.
As I work the register, the Børger corporate-approved greeting already coming to my lips automatically for each customer, I find myself scanning the line, trying to guess who’s going to be the first problem. The guy with his headphones in is predictably distracted, but gives me his order clearly enough and even smiles and says thank you at the end of the transaction. The lady who’s only keeping an eye on two of her four kids is polite, too, and the worst that the kids do is use a couple of the ketchup cups as horns in a matador/bull fight with each other.
After an hour, everyone’s still been nice, and I’m starting to get worried. It’s practically a law of nature that the longer you have to wait for these things, the worse the bad one’ll be. Finally, I think I spot the one. A guy comes in and starts to walk to the shorter line, then sees Matt at the register. He grimaces and switches over to my line, even though it’s several people longer. I immediately peg him as a racist, and steel myself for the unpleasant remarks he’s doubtless going to slip in about Matt when he orders his food.
“Welcome to Børger, sir,” I say, staring him down. He doesn’t seem to notice my gimlet eyes, and places his order, which I dutifully punch into the register. As he’s swiping his credit card to pay for it, he says, “Are you a new hire?”
“Yes, I just started here.”
“Let me give you a piece of advice.”
Here it comes. He’s going to say something offensive, I’m going to refuse to serve him, he’ll end up ranting in the parking lot until we have to call the cops. “Lay it on me.”
“Relax. You look way too tense. Just breathe, and don’t let the job overwhelm you.”
Have you ever been walking up a flight of stairs, and at the top, tried to step up one more time onto a stair that wasn’t there? That jarring sensation of stepping through a solid object is how I feel right now. Oblivious, the man wanders off to the side to wait for his meal, and I shake myself and move on to the next customer in line.
Later in the break room, I tell Matt about the incident, and he laughs. “That guy? He comes in here once or twice a month, and he never stands in my line. It’s not racism, though. He’s got no problem with the other black employees. It’s just me. I have no idea what I did to him, but he’s clearly not going to let it happen again. He’s been coming here for at least a couple of years now, since before I was manager.”
He pauses, then says solemnly, “You shouldn’t assume the worst out of people, Dan. They deserve better than that.”
I don’t believe that at all, but I wish I did. It’s a nice way to look at the world.
- Chapter Four -
As the day goes on, I have to admit that Matt’s attitude seems justified. Six hours into my shift and everyone’s been, if not always pleasant, at least never rude. I’m still tensed up for a punch, but I’m starting to admit to myself that it might not be coming.
I’m in the middle of serving a guy who looks like a cross between an undertaker and a scarecrow, trying to figure out the key code for a Børger Bønanza, when he says to me pleasantly, “I think you’ve got a problem with your fryer.”
He points past me with an arm like two broom handles loosely jointed together, and I turn to see that flames are leaping up from the boiling oil in one of the fryers. Sammy, the guy who’s supposed to be watching them, is nowhere to be seen, so I race over there to deal with the fire.
In the few steps that it takes me to get there, though, fire springs up from the next fryer, too, and the whole thing is burning briskly by the time I arrive. I grab for the fry baskets, but the burning oil dripping from the sides convinces me that this is a bad idea, and I leave them in the fryers as I look desperately around for a solution.
“Grab the fire extinguisher!�
�� shouts Matt, but I wasn’t paying attention during that part of training, and I don’t know where it is. Looking around, I don’t see it, but I do spot a cookie sheet sitting unattended in the sink. I grab it and slam it down over the top of the fryers, and fortunately, it’s big enough to cover them both and smother the flames.
I’m feeling very proud of myself for my quick thinking until it registers that I’m holding a metal sheet to a fire with my bare hands. I whip my hands away, shaking them briskly, but the fingertips are already reddened and it’s a good bet that they’ll blister.
Suddenly, I realize that I’ve found my problem customer and my nemesis all at the same time. I turn around, knowing that the broomstick man is already long gone, and I’ll have to go hunt him down before he burns again — only to see him still standing patiently at the counter, gangly arms hanging at his side.
“I’m going to have to wait a little while for the fries with my Bønanza, aren’t I?” he says with a smile. “That’s all right, I’m not in a rush. I hope you’re okay!”
“Nice work!” says someone farther back in line, and everyone in the restaurant starts to applaud.
Maybe Matt’s right after all. Expecting the worst out of people has usually served me well, but so far today, it’s just making me feel like a jerk.
- - -
The workday ends much like it began — with a walk home in unseasonably warm weather, and me in an unexpectedly good mood. Despite the fact that I smell strongly of fry grease and I have blister band-aids on the ends of seven of my fingers, I’m feeling pretty great about the Børger job. As I was clocking out, Matt said, “Hey, Dan! Great first day,” and it legitimately lifted my spirits. In the fourteen years that I’ve been working stupid throwaway jobs, that’s the first time that’s ever happened.
The Experiment (Book 2): Making Friends Page 2
