Flyover City! A Novel (with Superheroes)

8. Joel VS. Kyle

I'm a fairly amiable guy. I may not really care for most of the people alive on the planet today (which is either a prerequisite for, or bi-product of, being a customer service agent), but my mutant live and let live gene generally prevents me from being outwardly hostile towards any one person in particular (my professional attitude notwithstanding. I consider that more "passive aggression as martial art") If anything, I'm actually nicer to people I can't stand, in order to avoid any unwanted and/or overlong conversations (i.e., "Have You Accepted Jesus Christ as your savior?", "The Broncos looked pretty bad yesterday, huh?", etc.)

But for those of you up in the cheap seats, who maybe don't find anything either inherently wrong-with or completely transparent-about a 26 year old bike courier who constantly refers to "when I was in New York"; who's straight (supposedly), and could bed any woman alive in the coveted 18-32 demographic (but is chronically single, anyway); who's totally aloof around the opposite sex, blaming it on being "shy" (a quality which the women in question refer to as "mysterious"); whose blond-streaked hair is always a mess, but looks model-worthy anyway; who works the archetypal - cliche, even - slacker-slash-hipster job, rather than dip into what is rumored to be a ridiculously enormous trust-fund (did I mention he has a trust-fund? And more importantly, did I really even need to?) - perhaps I owe those people a little more of an explanation, regarding my disdain for Kyle Tyler.

Spliff introduced me to Kyle in passing one night when Gwen and I were out on the town. And of course, I heard from Spliff for weeks about this "totally cool guy who came to drop some stuff off at work" and "I know that bike couriers and security guards are supposed to be natural born enemies, but this guy is different". So, while this wasn't somebody I was real hot to spend a lot of time with, I didn't really give him a second thought, either.

That was before I got to know him.

A few weeks ago, I'm sitting at a Starbucks, trying to get some writing done on my laptop. Yes, Starbucks. I know the expected setting is that funky little independent joint out on South Broadway, with the trip hop soundtrack and the workers who spend their entire paychecks on getting more holes punched in their faces, but the fact of the matter is, my bohemian stage never really took.

Even so, that's not really the reason I was at this particular Starbucks, right smack in the heart of downtown Denver's business district, an area where no one who lives downtown actually ever goes, teeming, as it is, with bank tellers and tourists and mall-bus surfers. I was at this particular Starbucks because of the company therein.

Namely, one Nora Dahl: this cute little 20 year old thing who mans the counter between her core-credit classes at the community college.

Okay, alright, gimme a break. It's not like I'm actively pursuing her or anything. Though, yes, she does exhibit some signs of a crush on me, and any guy who's being entirely honest will admit that they enjoy the company of just about anyone more if there are some small embers of sexual tension crackling. Spliff, regardless of his skills on the pool table, just doesn't cut it. But rest assured, I'm perfectly clear that I'm maybe, at best, a seven-and-some-change on the one-to-10 scale. How attractive any given woman will find me is directly related to whether or not she finds a guy like me attractive.

So I had parked my laptop over in the corner, on one of those itty-bitty tables they set alongside those bloated, shockingly-uncomfortable chairs; the whole setup feng shui'd for quick turnaround, and get line, trying to catch Nora's eye (without being too eager about it) to see if she wants to join me for a smoke, after I get my coffee.

Ahead of me in line there's this hippy-dippy courier, one of those guys who manages to maintain his beer gut in spite of cruising around town on a two-thousand dollar bicycle all day. He's nonchalantly zipping and un-zipping his way through the endless pockets covering every last inch of his body, and slung around his tattoo-covered neck. And it's not just a matter of finding a wallet; it's this whole delicate excavation process, separating legitimate currency out from lug nuts and Chuck-E-Cheese tokens. A few coins here, a few coins there: I swear I spotted couple of Spanish doubloons tossed on the counter.

From the back of the line, I hear, "Travis, man, hey, lemme get this for you, okay?" And there's Kyle - sweaty, unkempt, and looking exactly like an Ambercrombie and Fitch model. Apparently, with all this clusterfuck going on at the counter, he had time to find his wallet. "Oh, hey, Joel. What's goin' on?"

He gets my coffee, too, plus their two large green teas. (Tea drinkers. Figures.) Travis finds his way back outside, and Kyle proceeds to follow me back to my cluttered little corner.

"So, you working today or what?"

"No, called in sick. Just hanging out."

"Right on, right on. Good place for it."

"Yeah, it's alright." Dude, it's a Starbucks. Fascinating conversationalist.

Nora spots me from behind the counter and comes out to join us. She's one of those few elite Starbucks "partners" who can actually make that uniform look good, complimenting it with her buoyant blond 'do, and a nose-ring that isn't so assuming that it violates the dress code. And I'm under 30, so you know that's not just wanton fetishizing: the old "triple-grande threesome with the morning crew" fantasy.

"What's up, buttercup?" She says as she hugs me.

"Nothing much, just trying to get some writing done," I lie. I didn't have anything due that couldn't have been typed in a last minute panic at my desk at work, so I was really just going to surf my sites for gossip. But there's no doubt that a sizable portion of Nora's interest in me is attributed to my writing for the Cowtown, which, among the early-twenties set represents some serious capital towards getting some.

"Very cool," Then, noticing Kyle: "I don't think we've met. I'm Nora."

And I swear to God, he stands up from his chair to shake her hand. Like she's royalty. Like he's interviewing for a manager-in-training position, or something.

"Kyle. Nice to meet you. Jeez, everybody's so nice here. I just moved from New York a couple weeks ago."

There it is. Right There. Ta-Da!

If you take that as simple, innocent small talk... you are a girl, plain and simple. And quite possibly smitten by now, if you weren't already.

"Oh, I love New York. I bet you're totally helping Joel out with his feature. You probably saw all kinds of neohuman activity when you were there."

Okay, so now I'm cornered. Stuck explaining to somebody I don't even like about this grand idea of mine - or rather, this tiny, germinating start of an idea - about why neohuman activity is so much more dense in certain areas than others. I've never even outlined it, much less pitched it anywhere. It's just a conversation starter, really. The gun I pull when I'm stuck with Gwen's friends, talking about law school and their trips to Europe. Until Ultraphenomenon gets a Twitter feed and starts displaying his art on First Fridays, it's probably a no-go.

"Yeah, I never really saw that much. I mean, you do, living in New York and all, but never really up close. I've never been one of those guys who follows it, or anything."

Dick.

Nora is undeterred. "Well, I'm sure that some of it has to do with the overall crime rate, superpowered or otherwise. And the sheer density of people from all over the world, living in one place. You're bound to get some more 'unique' individuals." The hero groupie-ism that we have in common, that I've always felt is missing from me and Gwen's relationship, is suddenly grating on my already badly-frayed nerves.

"Sure. It is a big city..."

Just what is it about the subject of New York that turns everyone into these pseudo-worldly, pretentious assholes? I mean, yeah, I knock on Denver and all, and I complain about having to write stuff like Infused Vodka: The Next Big Thing? But I talk shit about my mom, too. Say something yourself, and I'll slug you right in the bread-box.

I tell Nora that I'm heading outside to smoke. "Okay," she says - and continues on with her conversation with Kyle.

Just because I'm taken, and not actively pursuing Nora, that doesn't mean I want to upset the delicate balance of... whatever this thing we have is. We have a good thing going.

Through the window, I watch Kyle pull out his phone, typing in what I have no doubt is her phone number.

Dick.