I, Superhero

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I, Superhero Page 7

by David Atchison


  Ernest glances at the stack of papers and can’t help but smile, anticipating Ryland’s next words.

  He also thinks back to a dinner conversation from 10 years ago. The baton was being passed from retiring Police Chief Josephs to the incoming Police Chief Washington, and Josephs had some news to share about his “special consultant” to the Force. Over the crème brulee at a posh downtown steakhouse, the conversation took a decidedly somber turn. With a voice worn and gravelly from too many years chewing on cigar butts and homicide reports, Josephs laid everything out for his successor in unblemished detail: who Ernest really was, how many times he had protected the city, the supervillains still at large and what was known about their capabilities, and finally, the need for utmost secrecy—for the sake of the SLPD, its citizens, and most of all, for Ernest’s family.

  Josephs then sat back in his chair and waited. After all, it’s not every day one gets told that your police duties involve managing a superpowered guardian.

  For his part, Ryland was digesting the news as slowly as he seemed to be digesting his meal. When he finally spoke, he expressed all the surprise of someone discovering that the steakhouse they were dining in served bone-in ribeyes.

  ‘You know,’ Ryland said, ‘I’ve always been fascinated with the superhero myths, and what they tell us about ourselves. To me, superhero stories are more about humanity than they are about humans.’

  Ernest raised his eyebrows. Josephs mirrored the gesture.

  ‘For me, the superhero is the saga of duality. Written on the grandest scale of imagination.’ Ryland wiped his mouth, eyes looking like they were searching through a catalogue of stories digested many years before. ‘The superhero informs us we can be both great and flawed. That our existence can make a difference. Or that it can be wasted. Within every villain is a cautionary tale. These are themes explored in stories ranging from Poseidon, to Superman, to Walter Mitty.’

  ‘Except… well, except I’m real,’ Ernest said, trying to process. ‘And I don’t wear a blue leotard. Or have a secret identity.’

  ‘Hiding in plain sight.’ Josephs punched Ernest in the shoulder. ‘Just some soccer dad, 24/7/365. Don’t need a secret identity when your real one is so boring.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ernest deadpanned.

  Ryland’s warm brown eyes smiled at Ernest. ‘I look forward to finding out what your story has to say about our humanity.’

  The three men seemed to wait on one another to see who would speak next.

  ‘Who the hell is Walter Mitty?’ Josephs asked.

  ---

  Ryland Washington opens the thick folder and retrieves an intimidating-looking report. With an expression that looks like the papers have an offensive smell, he offers it to Ernest for inspection. Ernest declines. Ryland begins reading from page two:

  ‘It is therefore recommended, that, in the opinion of the investigating officer, upon review of all reported events and statements, of available eyewitnesses at the scene, of the suspected hostage situation,’ he begins, then shakes his head. ‘Why the passive voice? Why 10 words when one will do? And why all the commas?”’

  How about this: ‘I recommend an award for Mr. Smith.’

  Ryland sighs. He slides the entire folder across the desk. As Ernest grabs it, he notices—not for the first time—Ryland’s magnificent Japanese maple atop the squat bookcase behind Ryland’s left shoulder. Grey trunk and red leaves, the bonsai is pruned to about 18 inches tall. As with the bookshelf, Ernest appreciates something unique about the tree each time he sees it, in part because the tree is deciduous—changing, renewing, and strengthening with every season. Seeing the tree always leaves Ernest oddly revitalized.

  It also reminds him of tea.

  This time, Ernest notices new cracks and variegations in the bonsai’s trunk, as though the tree had been planted at the dawn of time.

  ‘Most police work is 11th grade English,’ Ryland says. ‘Anyway, you should carefully review the entire report—’

  Ernest flips to the last of the overwritten pages and scribbles his name, thus treating the Special Commendation Recommendation like most people treat an iTunes Terms of Service agreement.

  ‘And sign,’ Ryland says as the folder makes its way back across the desk. He leans back in his chair, folds his hands. ‘So. How’s your recovery going?’

  Ernest is now the one taking a long time as he contemplates a response. The many hours spent in Washington’s company have had their effect. ‘Recovery is fine. I’m interviewing at a couple of places. Seeing what other careers might be available to a man of a certain age.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’ll say it again: you always have a job here.’

  ‘That’s what I told Phoebe.’

  Ryland folds his hands, then places his fingers against his chin. ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘She’s worried I wouldn’t be able to stay behind a desk. Thinks that I’ll just end up in the hospital again,’ Ernest says.

  ‘Wise to listen. Happy wife, happy life.’

  ‘She blames you, by the way. Says she wants to talk.’

  ‘I’ll take a vacation.’

  The two men exchange a smile. Ernest looks over Ryland’s shoulder. The tiny maple sits in a shallow clay container finished with a blue glaze. It doesn’t look like enough soil to nourish a tree that magnificent, yet there the tree stands, rebutting Ernest’s every assumption.

  ‘So. You’ve come to retire, then?’ Ryland asks.

  ‘Not exactly.’ One of the maple’s lower branches has been trimmed, making room for new growth. Ernest inhales. ‘Not even Phoebe knows what I’m about to tell you.’

  Ryland angles his head, curious.

  ‘I came here today to discuss the possibility of a successor,’ Ernest says. ‘Someone who can learn to do what I can do. When The Sentinel—’

  ‘The Sentinel. Your mentor, yes?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t just find me. He… taught me. Trained me. Along with a few others, at different times in different cities. There’s also an old potion or something involved. Or a magic tea. I’m not even really sure how it works.’ Ernest fidgets with a button on his purple gingham shirt. ‘The important thing is this: What I can do can be handed down to future generations, and has for thousands of years.’

  Ryland listens in silence.

  ‘And I’m sorry I never mentioned it before,’ Ernest adds. ‘For a long time, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to pass this down. Actually, I’m still not sure. There’s a lot of responsibility with the power. That old saying. Except most of the time it feels more like a burden. I’ve seen a lot of things I’d rather forget.’

  Eventually, the implications of the announcement find their way onto Ryland’s brow. ‘This is… I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘There’s really nothing to say right now,’ Ernest says. ‘Except for a name.’

  Ryland leans back in a Zen-like trance. Outside the office, someone shouts to a colleague about tickets to the Blues game. Ernest wonders if his boss has ever attended a hockey match. Ryland would appreciate hockey as much as he does, Ernest decides. The beauty. The flow. The balance. The respect opposing teams show for one another. And yes, sometimes the brutality. More than anything else, Ryland would appreciate how the best players always seem one move ahead of their opponent. Once he experienced that in person, this man who’d never put on a pair of skates in his life would be hooked.

  ‘Well. Not to state the obvious, but have you considered—’

  ‘No.’ Ernest interrupts. ‘I’m not putting my son at risk. He’s not ready.’

  ‘In some cultures, apprenticeships start at age 13.’

  ‘The whole idea is for my family to be out of harm’s way,’ Ernest counters, jaw set in a way that brooks no further discussion. ‘I just need to know if there’s anyone else you might recommend.’

  Ryland places fingers against his chin once more. He pivots in his chair, apparently seeking counsel from the bonsai.

  Sixteen

 
‘Jupiter!’

  Jennifer Hageman slugs her nephew; it’s the nicest thing she can think of.

  She’s punching Jupiter in the arm, she decides, for the same reason you scold a dog caught peeing on the carpet: A sharp rebuke is needed, and you can figure out the words later on. And really, what else is she supposed to do?

  Her grown adult nephew, a 28-year-old city councilman, is booing a referee. Loudly. At a girls’ soccer match. Played by 10-year-olds. While wearing a suit. On a Saturday.

  Jennifer’s nephew watches the referee line up the free kick. The kicking team will have the wind at their back. It’s a wind that barely moves a stray hair from Jupiter’s slicked back, dark pompadour.

  ‘Nice call, Mr. Magoo!’ The man just can’t help himself. After all, why keep a hilarious insult locked in the vault of your mind when it can be shouted for all the world to hear?

  He gets punched again.

  ‘What?’ the nephew asks, flinching. ‘What’d I say?’

  ‘Jupiter Tobias Blackshear. You stop it. That’s not funny. You’re not funny.’

  ‘Come on! Let them play!’ A grin loiters on his face, the residue of thinking that his Magoo crack was, in fact, just a little funny.

  Already, Jennifer regrets the decision to invite Jupiter, and the match is still midway through the first half. That the referee looks young enough to be working his way through his first can of shaving cream isn’t making her feel less stabby. ‘I swear to God, the next punch is going into your neck.’

  ‘I’m looking out for the kids here, OK? Like a superhero or something.’ Jupiter Blackshear folds his arms. His suit is blue with micro checks, single breasted, two buttons. Matching caramel-colored belt and shoes. A blue oxford underneath, the white French collar unbuttoned. Because Saturday. Aviator sunglasses hanging from the second button. He looks like either a banker or a Banana Republic mannequin. ‘You know how much taxpayers kick in to support this complex? And these are the refs we get? Pathetic.’

  ‘It’s private, and the city gives tax credits. So just zip it.’

  ‘Which is the same as kicking in. Look, that ref is old enough to get paid. Have I ever told you how much I got paid for working as an indentured servant for your brother’s farm when I was his age?’

  ‘Only a million times. And my brother’s farm. Interesting word choices.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s my point. I deserved better. And we deserve better, Aunt Jen.’ Jupiter glances around, seeking approval from other parents. ‘Huh? Am I right?’

  The opposing team restarts with a free kick. A defender misplays it; the ball glances off her shin and into the net. The guilty party is Peyton, Jennifer’s daughter. Of course. Peyton covers her face with her hands.

  ‘Boo! BOO! That call just cost us a goal! You shouldn’t call a cab, much less a soccer match.’ Jupiter shouts toward the penalty area.

  ‘I’m going to straight-up murder you,’ Jen says, keeping her eyes on the field. She tries to get Peyton’s attention; tries to wordlessly tell her daughter to keep her chin up, not get discouraged.

  The referee says something to Peyton. From under a mop of dirty blonde hair, Peyton smiles. A teammate arrives. Throws a comforting arm over Peyton’s shoulder. The error is forgotten, and the kids return their attention to playing instead of winning, because youth sports are so much better when left to the youth instead of the adults.

  ‘I’m not kidding, Jupiter. If you say another word, I swear to sweet Christ in a manger of hay that I’m going to run you down with my car.’

  Jen’s nephew giggles. He factors in what he knows about Aunt Jen. He steals a look out of the corner of his eye, and notes that Jen clearly isn’t in the mood to live her best life today.

  Jupiter Blackshear ceases with the giggling.

  ---

  After 60 minutes of play, the referee blows the whistle three times. Match over.

  Peyton’s coach corrals his team. Delivers strident pleas about effort, strategy, execution, and a warning about the next opponent, about how they can’t expect to win against those guys unless they step it up. Rosy-faced players listen. One of them raises her hand, arm perfectly straight. Glasses held on by a strap. Olive skin and brown pigtails and a wide, gap-toothed smile. She asks whether or not Coach is buying ice cream, seeing as how they won and all.

  Pep talk over.

  The referee has overheard the entire exchange while handling his post-match tasks. He peels off his striped yellow ref jersey, revealing a sweat-soaked grey t-shirt underneath, then crumples the jersey into a tight ball perfect for keeping sweat and odor trapped indefinitely, and stuffs the jersey in his duffel. After filling out the final score sheet, he heads to the soccer complex parking lot where his ride home awaits.

  When he arrives, he climbs in the passenger seat of a silver Toyota Camry.

  Ernest Smith greets his son. ‘Hey champ. How’d the reffing go today?’

  Fergus Smith shrugs in response. He sweeps away wavy auburn hair, damp with sweat, from out of his eyes. He remains silent while his father presses forward. ‘Any yellow cards? Have to kick any unruly coaches out of the game?’

  ‘I want a car.’ Fergus stares out the windshield. He spies the young defender with the curly blonde hair. Flanking her on one side is a woman wearing her brown hair in a short ponytail. On the other, a man with thicker dark hair swept back over a high forehead. And dressed in a suit. On a Saturday. The man who was booing. He doesn’t look old enough to wear a suit on a Saturday, or any other day, Fergus thinks. He also thinks that if anyone deserved to be kicked out, it was suit-guy. ‘And why do you care?’

  ‘No reason. Just checking on you, kiddo. No reason to—’

  ‘So how was the fire station? Have to save a cat? Run into any burning buildings?’

  ‘Actually, today was quiet. Yeah.’ Ernest says. ‘Mostly email. Responding to a couple of interview requests. Couldn’t have been more pleasant, actually.’

  ‘So why are you leaving the fire department again?’ Fergus asks.

  Ernest clears his throat. ‘Well, you know. It’s, uh, complicated. Lots of reasons. I mean, I was in the hospital recently, so that’s part of it. The injuries on the job and such. I’d love to talk about it some time.’

  ‘Yeah. I’d love to hear about it.’ Fergus kicks off his shoes without untying them, an act that is sure to stretch them out, as Ernest has mentioned at least 4 billion times.

  ‘Good. We will… set up a time. Sound like a plan, boss?’

  Fergus watches the trio of the ponytailed mother, blonde-haired daughter, and the suited somebody get into their car, an Audi SUV. In a recent psychology class, Fergus learned that people watch themselves all the time, but what they see is subjective. The guy in the suit is watching himself spend time with the kid. A good dude. That he’s the same guy who spent the last hour booing another kid won’t factor into dude’s self-observation.

  ‘Sure,’ Fergus says.

  ‘Perfect.’

  At last, Fergus glances at his father. Ernest is watching Fergus watch the trio. For a moment, father and son study each other. Each observes the lie on the other’s face, and each decides not to press the matter of Ernest’s employment any further.

  Ernest puts the car in gear.

  Seventeen

  Four men frown at the speaker addressing this legislative session.

  The whole proceeding has a courtroom feel to it, with proponents of a measure speaking first, followed by those opposed. And so the men seated at the half-circle conference table aren’t quite Twelve Angry Men, as they’re eight short of the requisite dozen. Yet their anger grows with each passing minute as the man they’re listening to — one of their own, no less — continues to make his case. And, because the four women at the table are equally frustrated, it means almost everyone at this evening’s city council meeting is now well and truly pissed.

  Besides the peeved council, most others present in this small auditorium are there because they have to be: one woman, tra
nscribing minutes from an adjacent desk; two men in the second row, overweight reporters who smell of fast food; two additional men in the back, each wearing amused expressions, enjoying the back-and-forth.

  The councilperson these last two spectators have come to observe continues with his overture, speaking a bit louder than he has previously: ‘So, once again, I’m urging the city to take up this casino development proposal—’

  ‘Blackshear. Every. Damn. Meeting,’ interrupts one of the eight angry people before Councilman Jupiter Blackshear can finish.

  The gold-tone placard in front of this particular councilman’s seat says “ROWE” in big black letters. As in City Council Treasurer Douglas Rowe, he of the 3rd District. As in one who seems quite done with parliamentary procedure. ‘Debated and decided at the last meeting. The development isn’t happening on the land you inherited.’

  From the back, Ernest Smith’s eyes sweep the room. The auditorium in the new Chesterfield City Hall building is a cozy space whose designer apparently loved the entire palette of colors, as long as the entire palette was confined to some shade of brown. Contemporary design inspired by tastes of the 1970s. Beige walls. Golden walnut horizontal slat paneling along said walls, which nearly matches the (reportedly) reclaimed wood used in the semi-circle conference table. The desk chairs upholstered in wavy patterned fabric probably called espresso, Ernest decides, by someone who has never seen a shot of espresso.

  Currently at stake, apparently, in this sepia-toned room: zoning. Not terribly exciting, at least when compared to arguments over punishment for failing to pick up dog excrement (fines should be increased, Ernest believes), or to the woman who attends every meeting to stress the need for a citywide protective shield against gamma rays (sorely needed, in Ernest’s experience).

  Or at least not terribly exciting unless many millions of dollars are at stake, which is the case almost every time any city council, anywhere, meets to discuss zoning. When decisions are made about whether a parcel of land can be used for schools, houses, or sprawling shopping complexes, tens of millions of dollars often hang in the balance.

 

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