‘And so,’ Jupiter says, ‘I’m resigning from the city council, effective immediately. I trust the good people of St. Louis to choose my replacement. I’ve arrived at this decision because I’ve been summoned by a more noble calling.’
Jupiter’s eyes sweep the room while Ernest startles. His eyes dart from the tall, athletic Rudd-Perkins to Jupiter. Suddenly, the final scene from the first Iron Man movie leaps to mind. The scene that concludes with a dramatic pause at a press conference, followed by an even more dramatic announcement to the entire planet. Is Jupiter about to have a Tony-Stark-drop-the-mic-moment at his very first presser? And if not, what the hell is he referring to? Ryland’s instructions couldn’t have been more clear: the superhero thing is to be kept on the down-low.
‘My mother,’ Jupiter says.
Ernest’s shoulders slump in relief.
‘My dear mother, Geraldine Blackshear. My noble calling. Out of respect for our privacy, I won’t take questions. What I can say is that she’s been diagnosed with a disease that will ultimately take her life. So again, I ask the press to respect our family’s need for privacy.’
Jupiter’s voice cracks, and he raises a knuckle to his lips. He clears his throat and takes a breath. The only sound in the room is a faint creaking of a chair.
Kelsey Rudd-Perkins sneezes.
To Ernest’s ears, the sneeze is both loud and productive. He hopes the lovely Ms. Rudd-Perkins has a tissue handy; there’s a certain phlegmy resonance in the sneeze. The sound echoes for several awkward seconds while the young reporter covers her mouth and apologizes with mortified eyes.
‘What I can also say at this time is that I leave this office with but one regret: that I couldn’t do more to help this city. I’m biased, of course, but St. Louis is the greatest city on the face of the planet.’ Jupiter flashes a wistful smile right into the cameras. It’s great TV.
Even better is what follows.
Jupiter inhales, and the smile transforms into tight-lipped determination. ‘And St. Louis deserves more than the constant bickering and useless gridlock it gets from elected officials,’ Jupiter says, punctuating his words by stabbing his index finger into the lectern.
‘I knew it. Cut off his goddamn mic.’ Ernest IDs the voice coming over the ceiling speakers. It belongs to the esteemed Douglas Rowe. Meanwhile, Chairperson Ephron bends in her chair to look under the table.
But Jupiter still has the floor: ‘This council has become corrupted. It has become a wretched hive of—
Jupiter’s mic cuts out. It shouts a high-pitched wail of electronic protest.
‘—scum and villainy collapsing under the weight of inaction!’
The cameras continue rolling. The news stations will have to augment sound in post, but Blackshear’s raised voice carries throughout the room well enough. Rudd-Perkins clutches the wireless microphone to her chest, looking rather astonished.
And perhaps, Ernest sees, a little attracted.
---
Two of the reporting teams have gathered up camera and tripod gear like campers escaping the path of an oncoming thunderstorm. Both KTVI and KMOX are now parked a few feet from Blackshear, gathering additional material that can be used to feed the beast that is 12 minutes of televised news, a beast that requires three daily feedings.
While Ernest and Ryland loiter, Jupiter once again expresses his frustration with the gridlock of local politics—as bad locally as it is anywhere. To both men’s relief, he does so much more diplomatically than he did just a few minutes ago. Jupiter says with a smile that no, he’s not considering a run for state office, and that no, he doesn’t know what his future holds at this particular time, and that yes, of course, he’ll figure out a way to continue serving the city he loves.
When the reporters are done and heading for news vans parked illegally just outside the Chesterfield City Hall, Ryland and Ernest approach. The trio start down a high-arched corridor toward a bank of glass doors leading to the parking lot. For such a high-ceilinged space, the acoustics are surprisingly good. The three men’s voices are muted by low-pile carpeting and textured panels along the hallway walls.
‘Well, that was… different,’ Ryland says after a few paces.
‘You’ve never mentioned a sick mother,’ Ernest offers.
‘I didn’t exactly say she was sick.’
‘But you said she has a fatal—’
‘Old age. Always fatal,’ Jupiter says.
Ernest slows. He makes a face. Ryland looks back at his crime-fighting partner: What are you gonna do?
‘Probably better to be honest, though,’ Ernest says to Jupiter’s back.
‘Oh, I see. Honest. Like you are about your career as firefighter?’
The three of them are just a few feet from the building foyer, where the carpeting gives way to hard tile, and the high ceiling gives way to an even higher one. Through the glass doors, Ernest sees the glare of lights from the news crews and their vans. Cameras have been set on tripods. Illuminated by the orange-yellow of the sodium vapor streetlights overhead, and more intensely by the blue-white of the LED arrays perched atop the rolling cameras, reporters from KMOX and KTVI record stand-ups.
Jupiter stops, considers the news trucks, and does a heel turn. When he’s within arm’s length of Ernest, he pats him on the shoulder. The gesture and tone are patronizing. ‘Honest, huh?’
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it? You’d rather I go out there and tell them why I’m really leaving? Want me to go tell those cameras there’s a 45-year-old man just inside who’s strong enough to lift both of those vans, one in each arm? Tell them superheroes are real? And worse: supervillains are, too? That we need people like Ernest to protect us from people like SlipKnot? Or DeathStryke? Or Fu Manchu? Want me to tell them about the attempted hijacking at Lambert you stopped? Want me to mention the plutonium heist at Monsanto you couldn’t stop? That I’m now the guy in charge of preventing the plutonium from becoming a dirty bomb—and that’s if I can figure out who took it and where it is?
‘Or should I go tell the smoking hot reporter out there,’ Jupiter casts a thumb over his shoulder while Ryland folds his arms, ‘that the SLPD keeps Ernest on retainer because the police simply can’t do enough to keep people safe?’
He steps back, looking from one man to the other, measuring the impact of his comments. Taking silence as permission, Jupiter adds: ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time as councilman, it’s that people prefer a comforting lie to a painful truth. You of all people can appreciate that, Ryland.’
‘Better to be hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie. That’s the exact quote,’ Ryland says while Ernest looks confused. ‘It’s from The Kite Runner. Khaled Hosseini. You have it backwards, actually.’
Jupiter opens his palms, conceding the point. ‘Or maybe Hosseini has it backwards. Or maybe I know politics, not kites. Or maybe all I know is that I’ve been thinking more about this superhero job, and I’m scared shitless. It’s like the fate of St. Louis now rests on my shoulders. And suddenly I feel the weight of all three million people.’
Ernest looks to Ryland, but the English major seems to be waiting for Ernest to have the final say, despite the mention of literature. ‘Welcome to my world.’
Jupiter exhales. His head drops, his shoulders deflate, and he huffs out a single chuckle. He then looks each man in the eye. ‘I’m sorry. I’m also frustrated. I gave four long years to that council, and you know how many of my proposals they voted in favor of?’
Ernest shrugs. Jupiter makes his right hand into the shape of a zero.
‘Not even one?’ Ernest asks.
Jupiter shakes his head. ‘My goals were too lofty, they said. Unrealistic.’ His face signals that he’s reliving the pain of hopes getting dashed repeatedly by society’s gatekeepers: old people with money and connections. Of doors being closed in his face time and time again. ‘Anyway. I’m sorry. I got carried away. All I’ve ever wanted to do is serve this city.’
Both men digest Jupiter’s words.
Ryland looks to Ernest, but the superhero seems to be waiting for the English major to the final say on matters of fighting crime. ‘You’ll get your chance,’ Ryland then offers. ‘That much I can promise.’
‘Thanks,’ Jupiter’s face relaxes. The politician chapter of his life has come to an end. ‘So, what’s next, then? Gamma radiation? A magic hammer? What happens now?’
‘Tea,’ Ernest says.
Twenty Three
While the tea steeps, Jupiter sits in a wide wicker chair.
He needs the space in order to wrap a bandage around an angry red welt on his upper arm. The welt appears about the size and shape of something made by a bamboo bo staff. There’s a perfectly good explanation: it was made by a bamboo bo staff.
More specifically, it was made by Ernest’s bo staff after he parried a clumsy strike, then counter-attacked with a quick flick of his wrists. The bamboo staff may have been round, but when it thwacked against Jupiter’s triceps, it bit as though lined with teeth. Jupiter yelped and dropped his own training weapon. After surveying the damage, Ernest decided that a) although it had broken flesh, the wound wouldn’t require a stitch, and b) this was as good a time as any for the two of them to finally share that tea.
Jupiter fastens the bandage, frowns at his handiwork, then looks up.
At the counter of the rustic little café, he sees Ernest. Ernest bows to the barista. This is no ordinary barista, Jupiter thinks. But then again, maybe Jupiter is just a coffee guy—well, he is a coffee guy, preferring Americanos and Macchiatos to Earl Greys and Darjeelings — and just hasn’t dealt with enough tea baristas (is that even what they’re called?) from which to draw comparisons.
One thing that immediately stands out: the guy’s age. The cappuccino-slingers he’s used to seeing in places like this café, full of bloggers and playwrights and freelance graphic designers pecking at laptops, are normally Blackshear’s age or younger. In fact, he once joked at a fundraiser stocked with MBAs that baristas fall into one of two demographics: those with a bachelor’s degree completing their fourth gap year, and those with a Ph.D. in psychology.
This barista (he’s going with barista), however, falls into a third demographic, one he likely can claim as his own: dude’s a septuagenarian if he’s twelve.
He has soft eyes and a round, friendly face, all framed by a shock of long, grey, Einstein-ish hair that seems to want to escape from the top of his head and flee for the hills, rather than be combed back neatly against it. Einstein hands Ernest two large mugs.
Jupiter notices the hands. Variegated and bony, yet they project a strength far more youthful than the barista’s face. Even from this vantage point, Jupiter can see the mottle of brown spots and blue veins showing through papery skin, although there’s no sign in those hands of palsy, Parkinson’s, or any other harbinger of age. Those hands look like they could shoe horses or hang drywall or even bare-knuckle fight, but instead choose to brew tea.
‘How’s the arm?’ Ernest asks upon returning to their table. His head angles sideways as he assesses Jupiter’s bandage, finding it lacking.
Jupiter peers into the mug. He sees a dark liquid topped with three leaves that don’t look like any tea leaves he’s ever seen. Rather, they look like five-pointed stars. He glances up at his mentor. ‘My arm? Here’s a better question: How’s my superpower? Oh yeah, I don’t have one yet. On the bright side, I’m getting good at CrossFit. I thought I signed up to fight crime, not do plyometrics.’
Jupiter shakes his head, a small smile creeping up the side of his face. ‘I get it. It’ll all pay off. Someday. And the arm hurts, thanks for asking. Hurts like a bitch.’
‘You were expecting a metaphysical gym?’
Jupiter chuckles. ‘Maybe. A place to build muscle by lifting… dark matter. Something. Or a table where we could sit Indian-style and do mind control exercises. Or some workout that would help me figure out IKEA instructions.’
Ernest smiles, thinking of many afternoons of scraped knuckles and near-psychotic rage while trying to decipher wordless instruction manuals. ‘No gym can help with that.’
Jupiter glances at the leaves in his mug again. They look a bit like marijuana leaves, except drawn about one-third scale. And they’re bright red. Hmm. ‘At least explain why you haven’t given me a superpower yet.’
‘Two-part answer.’ Ernest takes his mug in both hands and breathes in deeply, nose hovering just over the drink’s surface. ‘First, the physical training has to precede the Power. Otherwise, you come to depend on it.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Being Powered is only a small part of this gig. Mostly, it’s standard police stuff. Processing evidence. Search and rescue. And in rare cases: hand-to-hand combat. But in the instances you need it, you need to be good.’
‘Yeah, but let’s say I can fly,’ Jupiter says. ‘Like Superman. Or Iron Man. Then I don’t have to learn hand-to-hand combat. I just grab some criminal in the act of mugging someone, jet up in the sky, and…’ he flicks open his hands. ‘Because flying.’
‘Because courtrooms.’ Ernest replies. ‘Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but cops using deadly force is generally frowned upon.’
‘There was a second part of your answer?’
‘Yes. The second part,’ Ernest slurps his tea, ‘is that I don’t give you a superpower. You choose it.’
‘Seriously?’ Jupiter frowns at his teacup, the wheels of thought already turning. Jupiter nods toward the front counter. ‘Did this tea come from that tree?’
Ernest glances around, spies the Japanese bonsai. It’s very similar to the one in Washington’s office. A massive trunk, ash-colored and striated with cracks. The fiery red leaves exploding from its branches exactly match the ones floating in each man’s mug. ‘Fortran has had that tree for longer than I’ve been on earth.’
‘Fortran? That’s his name?’
‘Yes. Don’t ask whether it’s his first or last. Or if that’s always been his name.’ Ernest makes eye contact with Fortran. The barista’s face is almost devoid of expression, yet somehow conveys abiding warmth. Ernest thanks the barista again with a nod and then turns back to Jupiter. ‘Drink your tea.’
‘Why? Is the tea magic or something?’ Jupiter takes a hesitant sip. He smacks his lips as the flavors develop. His face then twists into something one makes when handling a soiled diaper. ‘This is what gives me a superpower? I hope so. Because it tastes like it was shit out of a snail.’
Ernest repositions himself. The wicker chair crackles. ‘The tea is good for you. And let’s not get bogged down in the details. At least not these details.’
‘Fair enough,’ Jupiter says. ‘So do I get, like, a menu of Powers and then pick a couple?’
‘One. You get one Power.’
Jupiter takes another sip. Tries not to wince. ‘Why not two? Or three?’
‘That’s just not how this works.’
‘Wolverine got two.’
‘First, comic book. Second, he gets superhealing. That’s one Power.’
‘What about those blade things?’ Jupiter asks.
‘They’re part of the Adamantium grafted to his body, which was just a plot by the military to turn him into a weapon.’ Ernest takes a long sip from his own mug. Doesn’t make a face. ‘Wolverine’s superhealing was the reason he survived.’
‘James Howlett, by the way.’
‘Excuse me?’ Ernest asks.
‘Wolverine’s real name,’ Jupiter says. ‘James Howlett. Good name, I suppose, if you’re going to be a Wolverine.’
Ernest’s eyes search the sky. ‘Wait. I thought his name was Logan.’
‘Logan was his alias while he was hiding in British Columbia. Logan was actually the name of the Howlett family groundskeeper while James was growing up in Alberta.’
Ernest snaps his fingers. ‘Right? Why do the movies keep forgetting he’s Canadian?’
‘And why’s a Cana
dian fighting in the American Civil War?’
‘Don’t get me started,’ Ernest says.
‘And, if Adamantium can cut through any metal on earth, then how is it blocked by katanas made of common steel?’ Jupiter shakes his head, his exasperation allayed by the fact that he’s found a kindred spirit.
‘We’re getting a bit off topic here, Ernest says. ‘And you need to finish your tea.’
---
Jupiter sets his empty mug on the table. After he swallows, he makes a noise that’s a cross between Gah! and Ugh! Then he gets down to brass tacks.
‘So, can I be blue and naked? Like Dr. Manhattan?’
‘Yes to your first question. Anyone can be blue and naked. But no to your second,’ Ernest replies.
‘What about smart? Like Ozmandias.’
‘Eh. I’d advise against it.’ Ernest thinks of the brilliant Dr. Strang, and about a half dozen other Mensa-types he’s put away. ‘The Super smart ones tend toward villainy.’
Jupiter nods. ‘I can actually see that. Use all that brainpower dreaming up schemes to take over the planet. Corner the market on energy supplies or something.’
‘A lot of them get into tech. Search engines. Social media.’
Jupiter exhales through his nose, starts brainstorming other possibilities. Meanwhile, Ernest notices a young man at a laptop nearby. Seems to be eavesdropping on their conversation.
‘So can I get a sword, like, grafted on my arm?’
‘No. You can have a sword, I suppose. You know, use one.’
‘Like Blade?
‘Uhh, yeah. But no. I mean, you can’t be a vampire if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Turning into a bat and flying around isn’t a superpower? How about a werewolf?’
‘Same thing,’ Ernest says.
‘Dhamphir?’
‘No. What? I don’t even know what a dhamphir is.’
Jupiter rolls his eyes, not believing that someone who’s taken note of Wolverine’s nationality needs to be brought up to speed. ‘A dhamphir is a dhamphir. A hybrid of a human and vampire.’
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