by S. G. Browne
“They come in five colors,” he says. “Red, blue, yellow, black, and green. They even have silver and gold lamé. And they’re only thirty bucks!”
“What part of ‘keeping a low profile’ do you not understand?” Vic says.
“Let him have his fun,” Frank says around a mouthful of the turkey sandwich he bought at Duane Reade. “It makes him happy.”
Frank’s a lot more easygoing since he’s accepted what’s happening to him.
When Frank told us about his ability, we were sure he’d want to adhere to his bullshit Guinea Pig Code and report his mutation to the proper authorities. But like the rest of us, he was more concerned about the possibility of ending up in a research lab than he was about any potential long-term effects.
Some people might say we’re being stupid and risking our health in order to live out some childish comic book fantasy. Maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re smarter than we are. Or maybe they’ve never felt lost or useless, as if their existence didn’t matter.
Common sense doesn’t stand much of a chance when you’ve been given the opportunity to be something greater than you ever imagined.
When we walk past the Staten Island Ferry terminal, I glance up at the curved glass façade of 17 State Street stretching forty-two stories into the sky and I think about quantum mechanics and cause and effect and Sophie, and I wonder how much longer I’m going to be able to keep this from her. It’s a good thing she works nights or I’d have a lot of explaining to do.
Now I understand why most superheroes are single.
As we walk into Battery Park, Frank pulls out a two-pack of Little Debbie cupcakes and starts eating one.
“I hope you brought enough to share,” Vic says.
A number of drugs are associated with weight gain or increased appetite. The irony is that a lot of medications used to treat obesity-related conditions like diabetes, hypertension, and depression can cause those who are taking the drugs to gain weight.
Frank finishes the first of his Little Debbie cupcakes before starting in on the second.
“Is that healthy?” Randy asks, then takes a drag on his cigarette.
Frank looks at Randy. “Are you kidding?”
Randy used to smoke in high school but quit once he got hooked on cardio and weightlifting. Lately, however, he’s become fidgety and says smoking an occasional cigarette helps to calm his nerves and keep him focused.
“Everyone ready?” I ask.
Charlie, Vic, and Isaac nod, while Frank answers in the affirmative around a mouthful of cupcake.
The plan calls for one of us to act as a decoy in order to draw the attention of any would-be muggers. The idea is to isolate our targets without causing any innocent homeless people to projectile vomit or break out in purpuric eruptions.
We’re still getting the hang of this superhero thing.
“Randy?” I say.
Randy volunteered to be the decoy and dressed up in some old clothes and a knit beanie and brought along a forty of Olde English 800 in a brown paper bag.
“Ready,” Randy says, then grinds out his cigarette before putting the dead soldier in a cigarette case. “This is so Lynyrd Skynyrd.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean we’re all about to die in a plane crash,” Vic says.
“ ‘Saturday Night Special.’ ” Randy looks around at our blank faces. “Because it’s Saturday night and this is a special moment. Am I the only one who gets this?”
“Yes,” everyone says.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Frank, Isaac, and I keep to the shadows of the trees on one side of the pedestrian path while Vic and Charlie take the other side. Randy stumbles along the path, weaving his way toward the water and the Statue of Liberty Ferry terminal, drinking his Olde English 800 and singing in a drunken slur. At first I can’t quite make out the song, but then I recognize the melody as “New York State of Mind.”
“I’m drinking a forty, on the Olde English brewery line. I’m in a fucked up state of mind.”
The three of us walk along in silence as Frank opens a small bag of Cheetos, which he offers to me and Isaac.
“No thanks,” I say, while Isaac accepts.
“I love Cheetos,” Isaac says. “They’re yummy.”
“Your stutter seems to be improving,” I say.
Isaac shrugs and stuffs some Cheetos into his mouth. “It c-c-comes and goes.”
I listen to Randy channel Billy Joel while the three of us walk along in the shadows and I think about how the six of us have been living in the shadows, existing on the margins of society, doing whatever it takes to find a way to survive: selling ourselves to research labs and panhandling in Central Park or working menial, low-wage jobs in order to pay our rent and buy groceries and afford minor modern-day luxuries like cable TV or a wireless data plan.
Now here we are, doing something to help others, and even though we’re just getting started and haven’t really proved ourselves yet, it feels rewarding. More than that, it feels like a validation of my existence.
There comes a moment in everyone’s life when you realize your true purpose. Sometimes that moment takes years to arrive, moving like a glacier until it starts to nudge you in the right direction. Other times it arrives like a slap in the face. Or a kick in the nuts. Either one gets your attention. One just hurts more than the other.
“Hey man,” Randy says, his voice slurred with false drunkenness. “What are you guys doin’?”
“None of your business,” a voice says, deep and threatening.
“Stop it!” a second voice shouts, high-pitched and indignant. “Those aren’t yours! I found them!”
“Shut up,” a third voice says, the menacing twin to the first.
Frank, Isaac, and I move closer until we see a big black guy with a scraggly beard and dreadlocks rifling through a couple of rolling suitcases. A homeless man with wild gray hair is on his back, pinned to an adjacent bench by another black guy. This one doesn’t have dreads or a beard like his buddy, but he’s nearly as big.
“Hey!” The homeless guy shouts in frustration and thrashes his arms and legs, making a futile attempt to get free. “That’s mine!”
“Not anymore.” The dreadlocked giant continues to pull items from the suitcase, tossing most of the contents aside.
I get Frank’s attention and point from me to the dreadlocked guy, then motion for Frank to take the guy on the bench. He nods once before tossing a few more Cheetos in his mouth and starts moving.
“What about m-me?” Isaac whispers.
I don’t think giving one of these guys an erection is in our best interest. The last thing they need is more testosterone. But I don’t want Isaac to feel left out, so I motion for him to follow me.
“I’m giving you one last chance,” Randy says, while Isaac and I circle around the two muggers.
As I get into position to sing the dreadlocked giant his own personal lullaby, someone shouts, “Bah bah dah dah!” like a trumpet fanfare. Before I can act, Charlie emerges from the trees, says, “Unhand him!” then runs right out in front of Randy, stops, shivers, and goes into a full body spasm.
When it comes to being a superhero, Charlie has as much self-control as a teenager who just discovered masturbation. But you have to give him points for enthusiasm.
The black behemoth stumbles back, his arms flailing and his legs twitching and jerking, a marionette controlled by a puppeteer with cerebral palsy. Then he starts to go into convulsions, like someone plugged his spine into an electric socket. His mouth opens in a silent scream and a big pink tongue flops out across his lower lip an instant before his teeth snap shut. The tip of his tongue, a quarter-inch of pink, shiny muscle glistening with saliva and blood, tumbles from between his lips, turning over in the air before landing on the ground and bouncing once, then coming to rest on the pedestrian path like a paralyzed slug.
A moment later, he drops to the ground, twitching and convulsing, his fists clenched and
blood foaming out between his closed lips as Randy shouts, “Goddamn it!”
I don’t have time to see what’s wrong, because the other guy says “What the fuck?!” in a deep, menacing voice before he gets up off the homeless man and heads toward Charlie.
My lips grow numb and I feel myself getting sleepy, the pressure of a yawn building up in my throat. Before I can open my mouth, the guy stops walking and lets out an incongruent high-pitched squeak, his eyes opening wide before he suddenly starts to inflate.
His arms and torso and legs expand and for a moment I think he’s actually a giant who is revealing his true identity. In a matter of seconds, he looks like he’s gained more than twenty pounds. Or maybe it’s thirty. I never was good at guessing anyone’s weight. But the baggy clothes he’s wearing are now a good two sizes too small. I half-expect him to pop, but instead he just screams in agony as he splits his pants and tidy-whities.
I can’t hold back any longer, so I let loose with a yawn and the inflated mugger topples over in a heap of fat and ripped clothing next to his convulsing partner. A moment later, Frank appears out of the shadows, licking Cheeto dust off his fingers.
“Well,” Frank says. “That was fun.”
The homeless guy scrambles over to his suitcases, zips them up, and then gives us a crazed, wide-eyed look before he hurries off with his prized possessions rolling along behind him.
No one knows how to say thank you in this city.
“What were you doing?” Vic says from behind me.
“I was just trying to help!” Charlie shouts.
When I turn around, Randy and Vic are standing next to Charlie, who is scratching at himself as if he has spiders crawling all over him.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“Genius here ran right out in front of Randy,” Vic says.
When I get closer I see that Charlie has hives all over his face and neck.
“Stop scratching,” Frank says, then he removes a Snickers bar from his jacket and takes a bite. “You’ll only make it worse.”
Isaac stands there looking forlorn, like the last kid picked for kickball.
“You okay?” I ask.
Isaac nods. “Yeah, but no one could t-tell I gave that guy a b-b-boner.”
“I could tell.” Randy puts his hand up for a high five, which Isaac reciprocates with an enthusiastic smile. “That was awesome!”
I’m guessing Randy’s just trying to make Isaac feel better. If he does have the ability to tell if Isaac gave one of those guys an erection, I don’t want to know.
Vic walks over and looks down at the would-be muggers. “So what should we do with these two?”
“Why don’t we tie them up?” Randy says.
“With what?” Frank asks as he finishes off his Snickers.
“Did anyone think to bring any rope or zip ties?” Vic asks.
No one did.
“You g-got any Twinkies?” Isaac asks.
“I don’t think they have enough tensile strength,” I say.
It takes us a moment before we realize Isaac is talking to Frank.
“No,” Frank says. “I don’t have any Twinkies.”
“What a surprise,” Vic says.
We leave the two incapacitated muggers behind and make our way out of Battery Park, our first mission as superheroes a relative success.
“How long does this last?” Charlie asks, his skin covered with red, angry hives.
“Twenty minutes,” Randy says. “Maybe half an hour.”
“Half an hour!” Charlie says.
Randy shrugs. “Maybe longer.”
Charlie groans and scratches his chest and back. “Does anyone have any calamine lotion?”
From the New York Daily News, page 2:
JUST SUPER! UNIQUE COLLECTION OF HEROES TAKES MANHATTAN
Vomiting and seizures and rashes, oh my!
What sounds like a musical number for an Off-Broadway mash-up of The Wizard of Oz and Rent is, instead, the aftermath of a series of bizarre incidents involving a group of individuals who have interfered to stop crimes against New York’s elderly and homeless.
Ramona (no last name given), a homeless woman who lives at the Neighborhood Coalition for Shelter, claims to have witnessed them in action.
“There were three of them . . . maybe four.” Ramona said. “I saw them one night in Central Park. They helped a friend of mine. Made one of the men attacking her throw up and the other one fall asleep, just like a baby. Like they sung him some kind of a lullaby.”
Over the past several weeks, there have been increasing reports of anonymous strangers who have come to the rescue of people in distress—which isn’t all that unusual in New York. In recent years, Manhattan has been home to superheroes such as Squeegeeman, who wields his squeegee of justice to fight crime, and Dark Guardian, who employs his martial art skills against drug dealers in Washington Square Park.
So while New York has a history of ordinary people taking extraordinary measures to try to make a difference and help clean up their neighborhoods, these new crime fighters appear to have somewhat unique methods of dispensing justice by allegedly causing their victims to vomit uncontrollably or break out in full-body rashes.
The police have so far refused to comment other than to say that crime fighting should be left to the proper authorities, but there have even been reports of would-be criminals allegedly suffering bouts of narcolepsy, going into epileptic seizures, and experiencing extreme and sudden weight gain.
“One of the men who attacked me inflated like a balloon,” Carolyn Vecchio said. Vecchio, a 72-year-old woman, was mugged in Columbus Park. “I thought he was going to pop.”
As is often the case in eyewitness accounts, it’s not always easy to separate fact from fiction. However, according to medical reports, the rashes and seizures and vomiting are apparently real. And while the effects suffered by the criminals appear to be temporary, how these vigilantes are able to cause others to experience such reactions is unknown.
However, some people, like Kyle DeWolfe, one of the homeless helped by the group of heroes, have their own theories.
“I bet they’re some kind of army experiment,” DeWolfe said. “Soldiers in training for some new kind of covert warfare.”
Could they be part of some kind of government experiment? It’s a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream, and not without precedent.
In addition to these crime-fighting vigilantes, there are continuing reports of people throughout the city suffering from memory loss and hallucinations, the latter of which call to mind Project MKUltra—a Cold War CIA project that involved dosing unsuspecting citizens in several U.S. cities with LSD, mescaline, and other hallucinogens in an effort to develop mind control.
“I’m telling you,” DeWolfe said. “It’s the government. You mark my word.”
So are these mystery vigilantes for real? Agents of a covert government operation? Or simply part of an elaborate hoax?
While the answer remains to be seen, Captain Glenn Cotter of the Ninth Precinct shared the NYPD’s company line.
“Whoever these vigilantes are, they’re operating outside of the law,” Captain Cotter said. “Criminals are best left to those who have been trained to deal with them, and we do not encourage or support their assistance in fighting crime.”
In spite of the NYPD’s unenthusiastic embrace of the vigilantes, New York’s latest superheroes are sending a message to those who would take advantage of the disadvantaged—a noble endeavor in a city often plagued by apathy and inhabited by those who frequently turn a blind eye rather than lend a helping hand.
So how’s the job search going?” Sophie asks while we’re eating a dinner of quinoa pasta with organic tomato sauce and a fresh spinach salad with cranberries and walnuts.
“Good,” I say, almost choking on a walnut. “It’s good.”
Though when you think about it, a job search is only good if you find a job. Otherwise your job search is, by definition, a failur
e. That’s presuming, of course, that you’re actually seeking employment. If not, then I guess technically your job search is a success.
This is the circular logic I use to justify my answers.
The problem is, it’s becoming easier to lie to Sophie and harder to tell her the truth. But I keep managing to convince myself that eventually I’ll figure out the best way to tell her that I’m now a superhero half the city is talking about and that when I do confess, everything will be fine.
Apparently, delusions aren’t limited to prescription-drug side effects.
“I know you’re disappointed that you didn’t get the job with Starbucks,” Sophie says. “But I appreciate that you’re out there looking.”
I wonder if guilt can ooze out of your pores when you perspire.
“And I know you’re doing it more for me than for you,” she says. “But I want you to do this because you want to do it.”
“I do,” I say, with a smile so counterfeit you could buy it out of a suitcase on Canal Street.
“I hope so,” Sophie says. “Because as much as I’d like you to find a way to earn a living that doesn’t involve taking prescription medications, I just want you to be happy.”
“I am,” I reply, this time with a genuine smile. Except I’m not happy for the reasons Sophie imagines.
Several nights a week, at least three of us get together to help those who can’t help themselves, fighting crime all across Manhattan.
Turtle Bay. The Meatpacking District. Central Park.
Tompkins Square. Stuyvesant Square. East River Park.
It feels good to be doing our part to clean up the parks and neighborhoods, teaching would-be thugs a lesson. More than that, it feels good to have a purpose that doesn’t involve getting injected with radioactive tracers or wearing a twenty-four-hour rectal probe.
Mom and Dad would be so proud.
Sophie looks around like she’s lost something. “There you are,” she says to Vegan, who’s watching us from behind the corner of the bedroom doorway, staring at me like he’s trying to make my head explode.
