Devious Origins

CHAPTER 4

The next morning, I slept through my alarm and barely made it to my morning Software System Design class on time. I must have looked like a maniac running across campus. Taking notes during class was an exercise in futility. I found my attention snapping back to the present while the professor was halfway through explaining some intricate point. My notes were reduced to a handful of cryptic scribbles that I hoped would make more sense after reviewing the related section of the textbook. But despite my repeated efforts to concentrate on class, my mind kept returning to the events of the previous day.

Dee. She was a force of nature, and not in a gentle rain and warm breezes sort of way. At first I assumed the whole superhero thing was just a joke, but the more time I spent with her, the more invested she seemed in a dangerous delusion. Maybe it was harmless. Maybe she was a superhero in the way some people put on costumes and then visit sick children in the hospital... but I really didn't think so. There was a seriousness underlying her casual banter. I was worried about how far she might take things. She could get herself into a lot of trouble. Trouble that might engulf anyone close to her. The next time Dee called, if she called, I was tempted to just let it go to voice mail.

I was still chewing on these worries as I walked back from class, so much so that I nearly ran into a petite redheaded woman that had stopped in front of me. She looked at me with a curious and very tired expression. I looked back with what was no doubt an equally perplexed gaze. Finally she spoke.

"You were at the Brass Rail last night, right?"

"Um, yeah. For a while anyway," I responded.

"I came in right after you I think," she continued, "You rode in on a yellow scooter?"

I just nodded. She looked familiar. Then it came rushing back. The really drunk woman. The one that had to be nearly carried out.

"So, how are you doing this morning?" I asked cautiously even though the answer was already clearly written on her face. The Dollar Tapper Hangover. More than a few students have fallen victim to it. I was no exception.

"I didn't think I had that much to drink," she replied. She was silent for a moment, then said, "in fact, I'm sure I didn't."

The significance of that statement began to drive a disturbing train of thought, but before it got up to speed, she continued.

"I just wanted to thank your friend, the one you showed up with. I don't remember much about how that night ended... but I remember her. I remember that yellow scooter."

No answer formed. This whole encounter was so unexpected, I was still trying to get my head around what it meant. We just stood there, silent. Her hands were shaking. She seemed to realize it as well and self consciously stuffed them into her pockets. A scrap of memory drifted to the surface. A volunteer group visiting the campus earlier in the semester, warning about an increase in sexual assaults on campus. They had even handed out special drinking straws that changed color in the presence of date rape drugs.

"I... Is there anything I can do," I asked. She shook her head.

"No, I'm fine," she insisted. "Just... tell your friend thanks. If she hadn't shown up when she did last night..." She shuddered. We stood there silently again for another long moment. I searched for something to say. Something supportive. Comforting. Anything. Finally, she broke the silence again. "I'm sorry, I'm probably making you late for something"

I watched as she hurried off toward the Brenner Art Center. In my mind I replayed the previous night, picturing the scene as Dee said goodbye to me at the Rail and then drove off on her Vespa. On the screen of my imagination, I watched Dee recede into the distance and disappear around the corner again, this time wishing my imagination could trail behind her and see all the hidden events that followed.

I don't think she was visiting sick children at the hospital.

* * *

I spent the next hour resisting the urge to call up Dee and ask what exactly had happened after we parted ways the night before. My curiosity was considerable, but so was my conviction that I should not feed her superhero delusion. She had obviously done a really good thing last night, but what sort of danger had she put herself in? Had she engaged in some sort of risky vigilante-ism when a simple call to 911 might have sufficed?

As I sat down next to Jake in our Theory of Computing class, these questions were still running dizzying laps around the inside of my skull.

"Hey dude," Jake greeted me, "how'd things go last night after I left? Did you and your babe close the place?"

"No, we didn't actually stay much after that."

"Oh, I see," he answered with a wise-ass grin, "Relocated someplace more private. I got ya. Nudge nudge say no more."

I rolled my eyes. "It wasn't like that," I insisted, "I barely know her."

Jake shook his head in mock disappointment and said, "Barry my boy, do you and I have to have a little talk about the birds and the bees and what grownups do when they really really like each other?"

I didn't answer. He was just trying to get a rise out of me. Jake grew up with older brothers, and this sort of teasing seemed to be a twisted sign of affection in his family. Or maybe it was some sort of dominance ritual, like dogs tussling to assert their position in the pack. God only knows, but I had learned it was best to just ignore his verbal jabs. I really didn't have his skill or experience at it.

Still, he was a good friend. I considered giving him the whole story. Unload every bizarre detail and get his opinion. Was I right to be worried about Dee, or was I taking the situation too seriously? I started to form the words... but they wouldn't come.

It felt like it would be a betrayal.

This made no sense. Dee hadn't sworn me to any sort of secrecy that I could remember. But somehow it didn't seem right, sharing the whole superhero thing with someone else. I mean, there is an implied confidence to be kept, right? Superhero. Secret identity. Heck, its got secret right in the name.

My quandary receded into the background with the arrival of Professor Perdowski. The next hour flew past in a flurry of note taking. As the class wrapped up, Jake made me promise to attend the Friday study session, then he left for his next class before I was even done packing up. If I was going to talk to him about all this, it would have to wait.

I was barely out the classroom door when I ran into The Mook.

OK, I realize that might be an insulting thing to call someone... but that really was the first impression that slammed into my brain as I set eyes on this guy. The term Mook has a few different definitions. It can mean a slow witted ruffian. It might refer to an organized crime enforcer. To me, it mostly means a particular card in the hilarious role playing game Munchkin, and I'll admit the graphics on that card shaped my perception in this case. This guy was huge. He had military buzz cut hair, tinted glasses, and an ill-fitting suit that barely contained his over-muscled frame. I couldn't really know, but I imagined his suit jacket concealed some sort of hand gun. Something black and shiny, chosen as much for its intimidating aesthetics as its efficiency at dealing death. What really frightened me, however, was what he held in his hand.

It was my blue Theory of Computing binder.