Flyover City! A Novel (with Superheroes)

22. That Old Black Magic

Yesterday, magician and "mystical warrior" Hector Hex cancelled all performances of his San Francisco stage show for the remainder of the week. Rumors are swirling that the good Doctor is in the midst of a deep trance (read: coma), his astral form engaged in psychic battle against some necromancing evildoer.

Is it just me, or do magic (okay, "magick" - yeesh) based powers seem like they'd be a real pain in the ass? Too unpredictable, no easily defined parameters. One day, Count Aeon nearly destroys Ultraphenomenon; the next, he's taken down by an ancient artifact, readily available from an "ancient artifacts" exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry. Something else I've never been able to get my meat-based mind around: is Hex's witchcraft derived from the same source as Ms. Mage's Sumerian sorcery? If so, how come the latter can teleport, while the former has to levitate himself from location to location?

On the other hand - feeling the purplish-black bruise on my shoulder pulsate - the idea of a battle waged on some ethereal, non-physical plane sounds pretty good, right about now.

I've been feeling ambivalent about my own heroic aspirations, lately. I suppose staring down the glowing muzzle of a death ray will do that to a guy.

So I get to thinking: maybe my plain-old, vanilla life really isn't so bad after all. I like having my weekends off, and my free time all to myself. Besides, between "customer service agent" and "masked adventurer", there's a whole host of other career options that I haven't even considered yet. Right now, I've got an article about microbreweries that I'm passing around to a couple of different websites. If somebody picks that thing up, there's nothing I can't do.

These were the idle thoughts that were floating through my head as I sat at my desk - when Tim dropped his chubby paw down onto my shoulder. I flinched, but somehow managed to censor a string of expletives.

"What's up, buddy? You got a sunburn or something?"

"Yeah, I don't know. I think I maybe... pulled it at the gym." I reached under my shirt to sooth the discolored tendrils creeping off the edges of the wound.

"A couple drinks at happy hour tonight ought to ease the pain, huh? Are you in?"

For his 12 + years of dedicated service, Tim has been rewarded with an ill-defined promotion. He'll still be in the Denver office, but he'll be reporting directly to the corporate bigwigs. The whole thing will probably result in little more than a pay differential, and a few more of those shirts with the company logo embroidered on them. Nevertheless, he's been planning a party for himself all week.

I assured him that I would most definitely drop by. And I wasn't lying, either. After all, I overheard Gwen saying she would be there.

***

The whole "happy hour with co-workers" thing is a mixed bag. It's probably a completely different experience if you're all architects, or, I don't know, a team of brain surgeons. But when you're a bunch of call center employees, with nothing more in common than the need for a paycheck, and the fact that you're unqualified to do anything else - the prospect of drinking margaritas with a group of complete strangers (more or less) can be a little jarring. At best, you'll be swapping war stories about the last time you were drunk (which for most of my coworkers was at the last happy hour we organized); at worst, you'll find out that the middle-aged woman who sits in the cubicle next to you, with the photocopied transcript of the "Our Father" hanging on her computer, is having an affair with her neighbor.

Even so, I actually managed to enjoy myself last night. Maybe I was just happy to connect with people over something completely trivial, to bask in the mundane, for a change. It's the only reason I can think of that I stayed until nearly everyone else took off.

Tim, Corrine, Gwen and I sat around a table at Benny's, our last pitcher of frozen margarita melting down to alcoholic Kool-Aid. The bussers swarmed around us, making a show of the fact that they were trying to clean up, but Tim just continued on with stories of his glory days as the lead singer of a heavy metal band. Finally, Gwen stood up.

"I better hit the bathroom before they kick us out of here."

Corrine grabbed her purse. "Wait up for me."

Tim smiled at them, all the way until the bathroom door shut. Then: "Okay, here's how this is gonna go. You offer to give Gwen a ride home, and then I can see if Corrine wants to come over to my place to hear some of my old recordings."

I fidgeted with the half-empty basket of chips on the table. "I can think of a couple reasons Gwen's not gonna go for that, not the least of which is the fact that I don't have a car."

"Oh, dude, you're killing me. Too bad for you..."

"What're you talking about?"

"Are you kidding? Please, I see the way you're always checking her out, man. You and Gwen have been a foregone conclusion since before you were on my team. It's totally obvious."

Totally. "Yeah, I don't know."

"Seriously. And I think she likes you, too."

The girls returned, saving me from continuing the awkward exchange. Corrine was trying to talk us into finding a place for one last drink. I was actually considering it, but Gwen asked me if I'd be willing to walk her home.

A few quick goodbyes and a wink from Tim later, and I was pushing my bike alongside Gwen, through the quiet, weeknight streets of Capitol Hill.

"Thanks for walking with me, Joel. She was planning on staying the night at my place, which meant she might have invited him over..." she shuddered. "I'm surprised you made it as long as you did. I figured you'd be gone as soon as Tim brought up Jokester."

"Hey, who am I to question the Aurora Weekly's pick for best metal band of 1989?"

"I'm mean it. You seem different. More patient. Maybe even a little more serious."

I mulled that over for a minute. Ever since Lilywatt's comment, I've been thinking that maybe, deep down, the whole hero thing was just a big joke, nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to my breakup with Gwen. Hearing that I've changed, and hearing it from her... it was weird.

I told her about Manitou Springs, the kaiju, about staring death right in the face. It was nice to couch it in terms other than "Whoa, that was so cool...", to have a sympathetic ear. But I stopped short of telling her the rest; the training, and Kyle, and the other night. I don't know, I'm just not ready for that, yet. But maybe I should've, instead of what I did say, as we stood outside her building.

"...so, I guess I have changed. I'm still changing. Thinking about what's really important. But some things will never change."

Nothing. She just continued digging for her keys, which meant I'd have to keep talking. "I don't expect this to change anything, of course. This isn't about that. But I want you to know, that I know I've made big, huge mistakes. But I still love you."

I didn't expect her to drop into my arms. I figured maybe surprise, or anger. Instead, she had a look that just sort of said "Uh huh."

"Uh huh," She said, "Well. That's sort of a problem, then."

"Oh. Is it?"

She was holding her keys, but didn't move for the door. "It's a problem, because if you didn't, I'd just have to figure out a way to deal with that. And if I felt differently, then I could be all smug and aloof about it, because I'm still feeling that vindictive. But as it is, now I know how you feel, and I've got to deal with the fact that I still don't know if I can trust you."

I would've told her she could, if it would have meant anything at all. Instead, I just said, "I'm sorry."

She leaned in and kissed me on my jaw, in that space right between my cheek and my neck. Just below my ear. Left side. And she said "Thank you".

She went to unlock the door, but stopped herself, turning back like she forgot something. She walked over to punch me on the shoulder - the bad one. Maybe a love pat, but still, there was some anger behind it. Then she went inside.

Ow.