by S. G. Browne
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
You got any Tylenol?” Randy asks as we walk into Charlie’s apartment.
“In the kitchen,” Charlie says. “Above the sink.”
Randy opens the cupboard. “You really need to work on your aim.”
“Yeah, you’re not the only one.” Charlie burps and makes a face, then puts a hand over his mouth and runs to the bathroom.
“It’s not my fault you were standing right next to my target,” Vic says, sitting down on the couch. “I was trying to keep you from getting stabbed!”
While Randy chases three Tylenol with a glass of water and Charlie dry heaves in the bathroom, I can’t stop thinking about what just happened and how good it felt to take down those two punks. It’s not exactly the Yankees or Playboy or National Geographic, and you’d think if I’d been born to make people fall asleep, then I would have just become a politician or an art-film director. But there’s something undeniable about the importance of what we just did.
“Hey, have you guys thought about why this happened?” I say.
“Yeah,” Vic says. “It happened because Charlie needs to work on his aim.”
“I’m not talking about tonight,” I say. “I’m talking about what we were meant to do with these new abilities of ours.”
“You mean like our destiny?” Randy says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”
“I didn’t think you believed in all that crap,” Vic says.
“I believe in destiny,” Randy says, sitting down next to Vic. “I think we’re all born with some specific purpose and that things happen for a reason.”
“Well,” Vic says, “then I believe this happened so that I can teach all the douche bags in Manhattan a lesson.”
“Don’t you think there should be more to this than just dishing out our own form of karmic justice to the douche bags of the world?” I say. “Something more fulfilling? Something that gives our lives a little more meaning?”
“What are you guys talking about?” Charlie asks, returning from the bathroom.
“Lloyd is waxing on about predestination,” Vic says.
“What does that mean?” Charlie asks.
“It means that I’ve been thinking about why this happened to us,” I say. “Or at least why this happened to me. I don’t know if it’s destiny or God or some random act of weirdness, but I’m starting to think that we’re supposed to do something more with these abilities than just teach lessons to litterbugs and smokers and people who read their e-mail in the movie theater.”
“Like what?” Charlie asks.
“Yeah,” Vic says. “What could be more important than that?”
When you don’t have health insurance or paid sick days, putting yourself at risk for a complete stranger is more often a matter of economics than doing the right thing. Heroism doesn’t stand much of a chance when common sense is in charge. But once you’ve accepted the fact that the drugs you’ve been testing for five years have affected you on a genetic level and you’ve decided to avoid seeking medical help because you like yourself better this way, common sense isn’t really part of the equation.
“Like tonight,” I say. “Like that homeless man we just helped. Like the asshole Randy took care of on the subway. I think we’re meant to use our supernatural powers to help people.”
Randy stands up and pumps his fist in the air. “Right on!”
“Hold on a minute,” Vic says. “Did you just say supernatural powers?”
“Wouldn’t you call what we can do supernatural?” I say. “Or even superhuman? Causing people to fall asleep and throw up and break out in rashes?”
“And go into seizures,” Charlie says.
“I just think calling them supernatural powers is taking it a little far,” Vic says. “They’re more like freakish genetic mutations.”
“A lot of supernatural powers are genetic mutations,” Charlie says. “Spider-Man. The Hulk. Mister Fantastic. The Invisible Woman. The Human Torch. The Thing.”
“The X-Men are all mutants, too,” Randy says.
“Yeah,” Charlie says. “But they were all born that way.”
“They’re still genetic mutants,” Randy says. “And the X-Men could totally take the Fantastic Four.”
Vic looks back and forth from Randy to Charlie. “You two both got the shit kicked out of you in high school on a regular basis, didn’t you?”
While I’m not a huge comic book geek, I’m familiar enough to know that we have something in common with a lot of comic book superheroes who gained their powers due to mutations after exposure to some scientific experiment or anomaly. While we can’t make ourselves invisible or engulf our entire bodies in flames or turn into green, humanoid monsters with anger-management issues, we’re not that dissimilar from the Fantastic Four or the Incredible Hulk.
“If we have superpowers,” Randy says, raising his eyebrows, “doesn’t that kind of make us superheroes?”
“Here we go.” Vic points to his watch. “Delusions of grandeur, right on schedule.”
“Hey, there’s a superhero supply company in Brooklyn,” Charlie says. “They have capes and secret-identity kits and all sorts of gear and supplies for fighting crime. They even have mechanical web shooters and invisibility-detection goggles. We could totally pimp out!”
Vic throws up his hands. “Great. We’ve now left the country of the Silly and have entered the country of the Absurd.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It doesn’t seem absurd to me.”
“Yeah,” Charlie says. “New York is superhero central. The Fantastic Four live in New York.”
“So does Iron Man,” Randy says.
“Spider-Man grew up in Queens,” Charlie says. “Daredevil was raised in Hell’s Kitchen. And Captain America was born on the Lower East Side.”
“It’s unanimous,” I say. “We’re genetic mutants living in New York City. We don’t have a choice but to become superheroes.”
“It is our destiny,” Randy says in his best James Earl Jones impersonation.
Randy and I high five each other while Charlie grabs some beers from the refrigerator.
“Not to play Eeyore to you three Tiggers,” Vic says, “but I don’t think we can just start fighting crime without thinking about the consequences.”
“Like what?” Randy asks.
“Oh, I don’t know. Like getting shot or stabbed,” Vic says. “We’re not exactly impervious to bullets or knives, you know.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t use our powers to help people,” I say.
“Yeah,” Charlie says. “Just because we’re not from the planet Krypton and we weren’t bitten by a radioactive spider doesn’t mean we can’t be superheroes.”
“Whatever’s happened to us,” I say. “However it’s happened, I don’t think we developed these abilities for our own personal amusement.”
“ ‘With great power comes great responsibility,’ ” Charlie says, looking pleased with himself. “That’s from Spider-Man.”
Vic looks at Charlie and shakes his head. “No wonder you never get laid.”
“So what do you guys think?” I say. “Are you in or out?”
“I’m in.” Charlie says with a smile and thrusts his hand high into the air like an exclamation point.
Randy raises his bottle of Budweiser. “Me, too.”
Vic looks at the two of them, then over at me for a moment before he lets out a sigh and puts his hand up like he’s giving a lazy Heil Hitler.
“Okay. So now that we’ve decided we’re all idiots, what’s next?” Vic says. “How do we go about cleaning up the city?”
Before I can come up with an answer, the intercom by the front door buzzes. Charlie walks over to the intercom and presses the TALK button.
“Hello?” he says, like he’s used to getting visitors after midnight.
“It’s Frank,” says the voice out of the intercom.
Charlie buzzes him in.<
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“What’s Frank doing here?” I ask.
“I texted him while I was in the bathroom and asked him to come over,” Charlie says.
“Why?” Vic asks.
“Because I was worried about him,” Charlie says. “And I don’t believe he’s mugging people or making them have hallucinations.”
Thirty seconds later there’s a knock at the door. Charlie goes over and opens it to reveal Frank standing there with a Big Mac in one hand and a large fountain drink in the other, dressed in sweatpants and a generous V-neck sweater.
“Charlie,” Frank says and walks in.
Charlie closes the door behind him and we all just stand there, not saying anything, looking around at one another like guilty teenagers.
“So Frank,” Vic says. “What have you been up to?”
While I’m with Charlie and don’t believe Frank has been behind the hallucinations or muggings, Vic’s apparently not so convinced.
“Oh, you know.” Frank takes a bite of his Big Mac. “A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”
From the looks of it, Frank has been up to a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and a lot of the other. If he hasn’t gained another ten pounds, then Charlie doesn’t have an inferiority complex.
“I see you’re still storing up for winter,” Vic says.
I’m expecting Frank to counter with some angry comment about his weight. Instead, he sucks down the last of his drink and belches. “Not exactly.”
INTERLUDE #3
Supersize Me
Frank sits at a table at a Dunkin’ Donuts on Tenth and West Forty-Fourth, eating half a dozen Double Cocoa Kreme doughnuts for breakfast and washing them down with a large Dunkaccino. He was going to order an extra-large Dunkaccino, but he didn’t want to be a glutton.
Up until about a month ago, Frank hadn’t stepped inside a Dunkin’ Donuts in years, not even for coffee. At first it was a matter of avoiding temptation. He didn’t want to end up overweight and depressed like he was for the first six months after his divorce. Once he started guinea-pigging, he laid off sweets and empty carbs that might increase his risk of being disqualified from a trial. Not to mention that a diet high in sugar, trans fats, and salt can lead to type 2 diabetes, hypertension, and heart disease.
Frank has always found it kind of ironic that pharmaceutical companies make prescription drugs to help treat humans for their poor lifestyle choices.
But over the last few weeks, Frank has given in to his temptation more often than not. In the last week alone, he’s been to Dunkin’ Donuts three times, including this one. While he knows how easy it is to become addicted to sweet foods and to the rush of a sugar high, the brain telling him that he’s still hungry even though he’s already eaten three doughnuts, Frank can’t seem to help himself.
It’s not that the doughnuts are so yummy, which they are. It’s more like he’s eating to stock up on resources, like his body knows he’s going to need them but isn’t letting his brain in on the plan.
So he finishes off Double Cocoa Kreme number three, knowing that he’s had more than enough but unable to stop himself from picking up number four and biting into it. The fried cake and the creamy center fill his mouth with sugary goodness, which he washes down with a long pull on his large Dunkaccino. Frank realizes with a sense of despair there’s not enough of his drink left to complement the rest of his half-dozen deep-fried confections.
While Frank is bemoaning his decision not to order the extra-large version of his beverage, a couple of frat boys walk in, one with dark hair and the other blond and both of them fit and trim and barely out of their college diapers. They order up matching bacon, egg, and cheese bagels with medium coffees, then sit down with their fourteen ounces of caffeine apiece and wait until their bagels are ready. One of them looks Frank’s way and gets a smirk on his face like he’s about to make a wisecrack, which he does after he turns back to his friend. Then they both look at Frank and start laughing.
Frank knows he’s packed on extra weight. The other guinea pigs remind him of it every chance they get, so it’s kind of hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother him—not the questions and the ribbing, but the fact that he can’t seem to keep the pounds off.
He doesn’t know why he’s been so hungry, craving pastries and fast food and milk shakes and wanting seconds of everything when he knows he should be full. It baffles him, because he’s made a point of taking care of himself and watching his weight, especially when he’s getting ready for a trial. He prides himself on his preparation, on being able to trim down and get himself in shape, on having better discipline than the other guinea pigs. But lately, his discipline has been taken hostage by his appetite.
Frank finishes off his fourth doughnut and the last of his drink as the two frat boys continue to look his way and laugh. If Vic were here, he would start in on his talk about how the two of them were douche bags. And for once, Frank would be inclined to agree.
Anger and resentment build inside of Frank. He’s always had a problem with anger, ever since he was a kid. Tantrums and bursts of vitriol were just part of his daily existence. Most children go through the Terrible Twos, but for Frank the Terrible Twos lasted until he was eleven. That’s when he discovered girls, or at least discovered that he was interested in them and wondered what it would be like to kiss one without being worried about cooties. For some reason, that caused him to turn into a more pleasant human being.
But ever since the divorce, Frank’s anger has been surfacing more often, making guest appearances and cameos whenever he gets frustrated or annoyed or when he can’t figure out why he can’t stop eating.
While he knows he’s not hungry and he should just get up and go home, maybe take a walk to get some exercise, Frank grabs doughnut number five and takes a bite, the cream squishing out around the sides of his mouth and a glob of it dropping onto his T-shirt.
The blond frat boy makes a sound reminiscent of a pig squealing while his dark-haired doppelgänger brays laughter like a donkey; then the guy behind the counter calls out their order.
As Blondie walks past him to the pickup counter, Frank’s anger flares up and he gets this feeling inside of him, a bloating in his stomach, like he’s suffering from indigestion or gas. Except it feels stronger. More intense. And it’s not just his stomach. Frank feels as if his entire body is expanding, growing larger. When he looks down he half expects to see himself inflating, like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. Except his body remains the same size. And his skin hasn’t turned a deep shade of blue. And there aren’t any Oompa Loompas singing and getting ready to roll him away.
Even though Frank feels like he’s about to burst, he also feels as if he’s floating, suspended in air—though in his current state of mind he feels less like a kite and more like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Oh no, he thinks. Not again.
Frank closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, trying to calm down and relax before it’s too late. But the sound of laughter distracts him and he opens his eyes and sees the two frat boys sitting at their table, biting into their bacon, egg, and cheese bagels, glancing over at him, laughing.
So much for calm and relaxed.
Frank stares at Blondie and imagines himself floating, a big inflatable Frank going higher and higher into the atmosphere—the pressure outside of him decreasing while the volume of gas inside of him continues to expand until, inevitably, he pops.
Blondie drops his bagel then opens his mouth and lets out a strange sound, a cross between a strangled cry and a squeak. An instant later, Blondie starts to expand, his hands and arms and torso swelling up.
“Oh shit!” His buddy pushes away from the table and stands up. “Hey! I think he’s having an allergic reaction or something!”
Or something is right.
Blondie continues to inflate, his shirt stretching and tearing at the seams. He lets out a strangled cry as the top button pops on his pants an
d the inseam starts to rip.
“Help,” he squeaks.
One of the customers is calling 911, while another is performing his civic duty by taking a video with his cell phone. Several people come over to see if they can help, but everyone else has stopped what they’re doing to watch the spectacle. Some of them move farther away, apparently afraid that whatever is happening might be contagious.
Frank realizes he’s not hungry anymore. Not only that, he feels lighter. When he looks down he hopes to discover that he’s lost some weight, but other than his sweatpants feeling a little looser around the waist, he’s the same goddamn size he was when he sat down to eat his half dozen doughnuts. Blondie, on the other hand, has popped every stitch and seam on his clothes and looks like he’s gained more than thirty pounds.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. There was the steroid monkey at McDonald’s, the NYU coeds at Shake Shack, and the snarky tourists at Papaya Dog. But Frank doesn’t want to admit he had anything to do with what happened to them. The idea is ridiculous and unreasonable and beyond the laws of biology and physics. The problem is, Frank’s beginning to think that those laws might not apply to him anymore.
Frank gets up from his table, takes one final look at the inflated frat boy, and walks out of Dunkin’ Donuts, leaving the last of his Double Cocoa Kremes behind.
Two days later, the six of us (Frank, Charlie, Vic, Randy, Isaac, and I) are in lower Manhattan after 10:00 p.m. on a Saturday night, on our way to help some of the homeless who have been getting mugged in Battery Park. It’s our first official foray as superheroes. Our own little band of Mystery Men. The Super Six.
Or, as Vic likes to call us: the Mutant Squad.
We’re all wearing hoodies or baseball hats to help conceal our identities and keep a low profile. Charlie, on the other hand, thinks we should have worn capes.
