Less Than Hero (20 page)

“If I apologize to my girlfriend, will she forgive me?” he asks.

“Deeds, not words, define the man,” Karma says. “Apologize with actions and you will reap the rewards.”

The young man gives his thanks and leaves the restaurant.

“Is it too late to make something right?” a young woman asks.

“It’s never too late to atone for one’s offenses,” he answers.

She starts to cry and then leaves.

“Oh, come on,” Vic says. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Charlie stands up. “Will I be able to find happiness?”

“Happiness is found within,” comes the reply.

“What the hell are you doing?” Vic says.

Charlie shrugs and sits back down. “I was just curious.”

As the sound of sirens approaches and several other customers stand up and ask Karma for his advice, one of his answers plays back in my head:

Man creates his own destiny. The path you seek is your own.

Whenever Sophie talks about destiny, I always resist the idea, because the concept makes it seem like someone or something else is in control of my life. Not that I’ve done such a great job of managing things to date, but I like to think I have some say in the decision-making process rather than being bound by some cosmic decree written in the stars. But maybe I’ve been thinking about destiny all wrong. Maybe it’s not so permanent.

Man creates his own destiny. The path you seek is your own.

Maybe our future isn’t written in the stars. Maybe it’s right here in our own hands, waiting for us to do something with it.

Then the police come in and arrest Karma and drag him out in handcuffs.

I
’m standing across from the Flatiron Building just after midnight, my hoodie pulled up as ghosts of breath disappear into the chill of the early-November morning. The homeless who sleep in and around Madison Square Park have been getting attacked, assaulted, and beaten up. Since the police haven’t managed to solve the problem, we thought we’d see if we could lend a hand.

Inside the park, Vic and Charlie wander around pretending to be drunk, while Randy waits across the street by the Twenty-Third Street subway entrance smoking, which he seems to be doing more often lately. Frank stands next to me, eating an apple fritter. For a few weeks, Frank kept exercising in an effort to keep off some of the extra weight, but eventually he decided it was a losing battle, so his wardrobe now consists almost entirely of sweats and loose-fitting clothing with elastic and Velcro.

“Mmmmm,” he says, licking his fingers, then holding the apple fritter out to me. “You want a bite?”

“No thanks,” I say.

I’ve already had my fill of pretzels and jellybeans, which are
high on the glycemic index. Not as high as sourdough bread or instant rice, but they’re easier to carry around and they help to up my glucose levels so I can improve the strength of my superpower. I just have to make sure I don’t become diabetic. Even if I could afford to take something for type 2 diabetes, I wouldn’t want to deal with possible side effects like jaundice or suffering from a severe skin rash. If I want that, I can always hit up Randy.

Isaac is enrolled in a four-day lockdown for an experimental drug to treat dementia and psychosis, so he’s not here. While Isaac enjoys going out with us, I know he gets frustrated since no one can tell when he gives someone an erection.

Laughter drifts to us from inside the park by the Shake Shack, loud and boisterous, followed by the sound of a bottle breaking. That’s the signal. Frank gobbles down the rest of his apple fritter and I pocket my jellybeans. Out by the subway entrance, Randy takes one last drag on his cigarette, then stubs it out and disposes of it properly and jogs across the street to join us before we head into the park.

During the day, the Shake Shack is the scene of long lines of men and women waiting to order burgers, hot dogs, fries, frozen custard, and of course, milk shakes. But after midnight, this is just another place for trouble.

When we get to the Shake Shack, two punks are hassling Vic by the closed pickup windows while Charlie backs away from a third out behind the hamburger stand. Two more punks terrorize a homeless woman by the southern fountain. Frank peels off from me and heads that way with Randy while I stand point and watch
to make sure no one gets blindsided or outnumbered. Or in case someone pulls a gun.

Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve all worked on honing our skills and improving our teamwork. I don’t know if we’re ready yet to take on Doctor Doom or Magneto, but at least we’re able to make a difference for those who can’t stand up for themselves or who don’t have anyone to fight for them. And we’ve learned how to fight for each other.

Since Vic’s got his hands full with double the fun, I keep an eye on him in case he needs a hand. But as soon as he burps, the two punks start clutching their stomachs and stumble away, falling to their hands and knees before spraying vomit across the sidewalk.

While the local authorities have issued multiple statements saying that we’re vigilantes acting outside of the law and are not to be encouraged, the local press hasn’t helped matters by turning us into heroes and glorifying our exploits. They’ve even given us superhero names.

The two punks crawl around on the ground, moaning and puking, as Vic lets out a laugh and another burp and makes them throw up again.

Vic is known as Captain Vomit.

Out behind the Shake Shack, Charlie tries to reason with his would-be assailant. This is part of Charlie’s new attempt to maintain his self-control when channeling his ability. But the punk isn’t listening. So Charlie shivers in the early-November morning and the next instant the guy drops to the ground, shaking and convulsing like an epileptic having an orgasm.

Charlie’s been dubbed Convulsion Boy.

At first Charlie was disappointed that Vic was given the rank of Captain while he was relegated to the status of sidekick, like Robin or Kato, but eventually we convinced Charlie that it didn’t matter what everyone else thought. As far as we’re concerned, he’s a leading man.

None of us ever expected this to become our lives, but it’s who we are now. We’ve become drug-reaction crime fighters. Side-effect superheroes, using our pharmaceutically enhanced abilities to teach criminals a lesson.

Over by the southern fountain, Randy lights up another cigarette and takes a deep drag as one of the thugs starts scratching at himself and whimpering, his skin blistered and covered with angry red splotches.

Randy is called the Rash.

While it’s not the most glamorous of superhero names, Randy has embraced his new identity. We all have. We’re genetic mutants. Freaks of science. A product of our profession. The modern prescription for an overmedicated society.

The last of the criminals cries out as his waist expands and his arms and thighs grow to twice their thickness. Before he has a chance to run away from Frank, he busts through the seams of his clothes and falls down, incapacitated, his frame unable to support the extra weight.

Frank is known as Big Fatty.

Two more punks show up late to the party. When they see what’s happening to their buddies, they turn and run toward the subway entrance, so I take off after them.

In the four months since the skateboarder in Central Park, I’ve learned to direct my yawns at a single individual in a crowd with a range of up to fifty feet. I can even hit moving targets while running at full speed.

Just before the two punks reach Twenty-Third Street, I yawn and they collapse, sliding along the sidewalk and coming to rest next to each other by the park entrance, their eyes closed in deep, unexpected slumber.

They call me Dr. Lullaby.

Some people still get confused about my name, though I guess I shouldn’t take it personally. After all, it’s not like I’ve ever done any interviews or tried to set the matter straight. But apparently some people think I’m some kind of serenading physician or academic pedophile.

I think I need to hire a good publicist.

Since Isaac’s ability to hand out boners has largely gone unnoticed, none of the tabloids have given him a pseudonym, so to make him feel better we all call him Professor Priapism.

Vic walks up to me and slaps me on the back. “Nice shooting, Doc.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Now let’s wrap ’em up and call it a night.”

Using zip ties and duct tape, we tie up the assholes and leave them gift wrapped for the NYPD, then split up and make our way to our respective homes.

It used to be that after a session of fighting crime we would go out and celebrate. But with our exploits being chronicled in the papers and on the local news, it’s become risky for us to be seen together late at night grabbing a beer at the KGB Bar or pierogi at Veselka.

I guess that’s the price of being a superhero with a secret identity. Sometimes you have to be willing to make a few sacrifices.

Vic and Frank head for the subway while Charlie, Randy, and I venture home on foot, heading down Broadway. We don’t talk about what happened. Now it’s just business as usual. When we do talk about it later, we’ll discuss it in the privacy of Charlie’s or Randy’s or Vic’s apartment, breaking down what went right and what went wrong and how to do it better next time.

I never thought being a crime fighter would require troubleshooting.

The three of us walk past a bank of newspaper-vending kiosks, most of them empty, but there’s still a copy of yesterday’s
Wall Street Journal
in the display window as well as a copy of the
New York Post
, the headline announcing:

BAD APPLES IN THE BIG APPLE:

SUPERVILLAINS SUCK

Much as they’ve done with us, the media has given names to the two villains who have terrorized New York with their supernatural ability to steal people’s memories and give them hallucinations: Mr. Blank and Illusion Man.

Over the past few weeks their exploits have become notorious, leading to a lot of political finger-pointing and a demand for beefed-up police patrols. There have even been reports of the FBI and CIA getting involved.

The problem is, no one knows who Mr. Blank and Illusion Man are, what they look like, or where to find them. Not even us.

“I read that some people have had hallucinations that lasted for several days,” Charlie says. “And that everyone who’s encountered Mr. Blank has suffered permanent memory loss.”

I don’t know about anyone else’s personal best, but the longest I’ve been able to make anyone take a nap has been thirty-seven minutes.

“Illusion Man and Mr. Blank are awesome names,” Randy says. “A hell of a lot better than the Rash.”

Randy’s not real fond of his nom de plume.

“I hope we never run into either of them,” Charlie says.

“Why not?” Randy asks.

“Because they’re too powerful,” Charlie says.

“Come on,” Randy says. “You can’t believe everything you read in the daily rags. What kind of superhero are you?”

Charlie looks down at the ground and answers quietly into his chest. “The practical kind.”

Randy’s cell phone goes off, his ringtone playing “You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC/DC. He pulls out his phone and checks it, a grin spreading across his face. “Looks like I’ve got some late-night booty to call on in Chelsea, boys. Hallelujah! Can I get a Jim Morrison?”

I don’t know if that means he’s going to love her madly or be her back door man, and I don’t want to know.

“Catch you superheroes later,” Randy says, then runs off down Nineteenth Street.

“How does he do that?” Charlie asks.

“Do what?”

“Get laid all the time?” Charlie says. “It’s like a superpower or something.”

“Hopefully he doesn’t get his two superpowers mixed up,” I say.

Charlie and I continue down Broadway to Union Square. My lullaby radar sweeps back and forth, checking out the homeless camped out on the benches and the drunks stumbling out of the nearby bars and the late-night crowd gathered in front of the subway entrance.

“Hey Lloyd,” Charlie says once we’re through Union Square and heading down Fourth Avenue. “Do you think I have what it takes to be a superhero?”

“You
are
a superhero,” I say. “We all are.”

“I know,” he says. “But I want to be like the superheroes in the movies and comic books. Smart and brave and heroic. Someone like Spider-Man or Batman. Superheroes kids look up to and want to be when they grow up.”

“Spider-Man and Batman aren’t real,” I say. “While kids may idolize them, they’re just fictional characters. You’re real, Charlie. And people do look up to you.”

He nods. “I guess I just wish I had a real superpower. Like I could fly or become invisible or bend steel with my bare hands.”

“You do have a real superpower,” I say. “And you use it to help a lot of people. That’s the true meaning of a superhero. Not whether or not you have superhuman speed or can leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

After a moment, Charlie nods his head a couple of times and says, “Okay.”

“And for what it’s worth, you’re one of the bravest people I know.”

“Thanks,” he says, a smile brightening his face.