Less Than Hero (19 page)

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.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Sophie says, trying to coax Vegan over without success. She walks over and picks him up and brings him back to the table, where he claws and fights and yowls until
Sophie finally puts him down and watches as he runs off and disappears into the bedroom.

Sophie shakes her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s been acting so odd lately.”

“Beats me,” I say, staring at my dinner as if it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

“So what movie do you want to watch tonight?” Sophie asks.

“You pick,” I say.

Tonight is Movie Night, one of the few evenings Sophie doesn’t have to work at Westerly. Since I missed our last Movie Night while out fighting crime, I’m letting her make the decisions.

“How about
WALL-E
?”

Sophie’s always been a sucker for animated films and environmentally themed movies.

After dinner, we put on our coats and head out into the cool October evening to rent a movie. Halloween is still a couple weeks away, but I’m on the lookout for goblins and trolls and other mischievous creatures, especially with Sophie at my side. It’s almost to the point where I can’t set foot outside without assessing any potential danger. When it comes to fighting crime, superheroes can’t afford to take days off. Especially with someone out there stealing memories and causing hallucinations.

More and more news reports and articles are popping up about people suffering amnesia and having delusional episodes. While some of the latter are homeless, most are average Dicks and Janes who suddenly suffer psychotic breaks from reality.

So far the police don’t seem to have any leads, and neither the
authorities nor the media have indicated they believe the crimes are related to us. I don’t know if the people responsible for the amnesia and hallucinations are working together or going into business for themselves but whoever they are, I’m pretty sure they’re guinea pigs. Otherwise, if they’re just average American citizens on meds for anxiety or depression or insomnia, then we’re going to end up with a country of mutants, considering fifty percent of Americans take two or more prescription drugs on a daily basis.

In the meantime, I’ll keep my shields up and my bad-guy radar on to make sure nothing happens to Sophie.

“There’s something different about you, Lollipop,” Sophie says, her left arm hooked around my right elbow.

“How am I different?” I say, hoping she doesn’t notice that my heart has started playing a drum solo.

“I don’t know.” She remains silent for several moments before continuing. “It’s like the Lloyd I’ve known for the past couple of years has taken a trip somewhere.”

I know what she means, although I think of it more as having been upgraded to a new version. The Lloyd 2.0.

“Is that a good thing?” I say.

“I wouldn’t say it’s good or bad,” she says, stopping and turning to face me. “But there’s definitely something new that wasn’t there before.”

“So you like it?” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “I like it. I just wish I understood where it came from.”

That’s not exactly the answer I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.

She reaches up and brushes the hair from my forehead, then traces her fingers along the side of my head. “I think you’ve got some more gray, Lollipop.”

“Thanks for noticing,” I say.

She smiles and runs her fingers behind my ear. If I were a dog, my tail would be wagging.

“I like it,” she says. “It makes you look distinguished.”

“Great,” I say. “That’s just the look I’m going for. Now can we go get the movie?”

Just before Delancey Street, we pass a couple of trolls hanging out with their hands stuffed in their jackets and their eyes all over Sophie. It’s probably nothing more than appreciative appraisal and isn’t anything I haven’t seen before. Sophie’s an attractive woman. Even when she’s not dressed up in her fairy outfit, she still exudes a certain something that men find appealing. But as we cross the street, I glance back and notice the two trolls still watching us.

Sophie and I go into the Duane Reade and rent
WALL-E
from Redbox. Since I’m in the mood, I suggest we get two movies and pick out
Mystery Men
, thinking maybe it’ll be a good lead-in to having a conversation about my secret identity.

“Okay,” she says. “But I’m not a big fan of superhero films. They’re kind of silly.”

Or maybe not.

On the way back, we cross Delancey again and the two trolls are still hanging out on the corner. As we continue down the street, I glance back and see that they’ve fallen in behind us.

“Something wrong?” Sophie asks.

“Nope,” I say as I summon my trigger and my lips go numb. “Everything’s ducky.”

I’ve never used my superpower in front of Sophie or anywhere in her general vicinity, and that’s not the way I want her to learn the truth about me. But I’m not going to risk her safety for my ideal confession scenario.

Up ahead of us there’s scaffolding erected in front of Eisner Brothers. Other than the two of us and the trolls, there’s no one else around, so once we get under the shadows of the scaffolding, I step in front of Sophie and face her and tell her to close her eyes.

“Why?” she asks.

“It’s a surprise.”

Sophie’s always been one to play along, and she loves surprises, so as soon as she closes her eyes, I step to one side and let out a yawn. Before the two trolls reach the scaffolding, both of them fall to the ground in unconscious heaps.

In a normal world, the one in which I used to exist, I never would have had the confidence to believe I could protect Sophie. Or even considered it. So Sophie and I might have been mugged. Or worse. But now I have the courage. Now I have the power.

“What’s going on?” she says. “Where’s my surprise?”

“Hold on,” I say, then search through my pockets to see if I can find a good cover story, but all I come up with are my apartment keys, some lint, and a half pack of Mentos. Sophie already has a set of keys and probably wouldn’t appreciate the lint, so I tell her to hold out her hands and give her the Mentos.

“You can open your eyes,” I say.

Sophie looks down into her hands. “Mentos?”

I just look at her and smile.

“But I don’t eat Mentos,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “That’s the surprise.”

Sophie stares at the half pack of Mentos, then looks back at me and cocks her head. “I don’t know who’s acting odder: you or Vegan.”

“Come on.” I take Sophie’s hand and lead her away from the two trolls slumbering behind us on the sidewalk. “Let’s go watch a movie.”

F
rank, Vic, Charlie, Randy, Blaine, and I are upstairs having lunch at Curry in a Hurry, which is packed with the weekday lunchtime crowd. Hanging plants and watercolor paintings of snake charmers and Indian romance adorn the walls. In the back, next to the bathrooms, a flat-screen television plays something from Bollywood.

“Did you know that a lot of Bollywood films are just remakes of Hollywood films?” Blaine says. “And not remade with permission, but plagiarized?”

“Like what?” Charlie asks.

“
The Godfather
.
It Happened One Night
.
Mrs. Doubtfire
,” Blaine says, ticking them off on his fingers. “There are hundreds of films that have been plagiarized. Some of them scene for scene.”

“Please don’t ask him to list all of them,” Vic says. “Otherwise he won’t shut up.”

“Another one of these!” shouts some obnoxious guy sitting with a friend three tables away, waving an empty Kingfisher Lager bottle, trying to get the waiter’s attention.

I glance over at Vic. “Don’t even think about it.”

“What?” Vic says, wearing his innocent face.

In spite of the fact that we all agreed to not use our abilities to teach douche bags a lesson, Vic seems to have a problem staying on message. More than once we’ve been out to the movies or to lunch or walking down the street and some man or woman smoking or swearing or blabbing away on a cell phone has suddenly started vomiting.

At another table, a Japanese woman answers her iPhone.

“Not her, either,” I say.

Vic pouts as he digs into his beef curry. “Cell phones shouldn’t be allowed in restaurants.”

“What about for emergencies?” Charlie asks.

“Emergencies existed before cell phones,” Vic says. “And we got along just fine without them.”

“More than seventy-five percent of nine-one-one calls come from cell phones now,” Blaine says. “The problem is, since cell phones don’t have a fixed address, police and fire departments and paramedics aren’t able to respond as quickly as if the call originated from a landline.”

“Speaking of emergencies, there was a four-alarm fire in my bedroom last night,” Randy says. “Total Talking Heads.”

“Can we please have one meal without you discussing your sexual escapades?” Frank asks.

I notice Charlie isn’t joining the conversation and looks kind of spaced out, staring at his food as if in some kind of a trance. I’m about to ask him if he’s okay when Blaine says, “Hey, check it out.”

The obnoxious guy has climbed on top of his table and is sitting down in his plate of half-eaten food.

“I like to think of myself as a scale,” he says, striking a pose with his legs crossed in the lotus position and his arms held out to the sides, palms up.

“How about now?” Vic asks.

Charlie laughs and takes a bite of his aloo gobi instead of staring at it, so apparently he’s fine.

“I am Karma,” the guy on the table says in a loud, commanding voice. “I weigh the outcome of your decisions. Heed my wisdom.”

“Heed this,” a balding man says, displaying his middle finger. A few seconds later, he trips and falls into another table.

“Now that’s some instant karma,” Vic says.

“I don’t know.” I watch the guy who is still sitting on the table and wonder if he might have had anything to do with Baldy falling face-first into someone else’s lunch. “Maybe it’s more than that.”

“What do you mean?” Randy asks.

I nod toward the guy sitting on the table. “Maybe he’s like us.”

“You think so?” Charlie says, his eyes wide like those of a starstruck teenager.

All of us turn to look at the self-proclaimed Karma.

“Couldn’t it be a coincidence?” Blaine asks.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Frank says, “nothing’s a coincidence.”

At the back of the restaurant, the manager points his finger at Karma and yells, “Get off the table! Get off the table and get out or I’ll call the police!”

Karma doesn’t appear overly concerned about the manager’s threats, because he’s not moving.

“If you do good things, good things will happen to you,” he says, then lowers his right hand and raises his left. “If you do bad things, yada yada yada.”

“Do you think we should go talk to him?” Charlie asks.

“And say what?” Frank says, his mouth full of chicken masala.

“Maybe we could recruit him,” Charlie says. “See if he wants to join up with us.”

“I don’t know,” Vic says. “He seems like a huge douche bag to me.”

The man who would be Karma remains on the table, espousing various Buddhist teachings to the lunchtime crowd about wholesome actions and kindness and truth. The strange thing is, a lot of the customers are actually paying attention. At one point, his lunch companion, who looks like the offspring of Brad Pitt and Ryan Reynolds, asks him a question about the path of destiny.

“Man creates his own destiny,” Karma says. “The path you seek is your own.”

While the manager calls the police and Karma continues to dispense his wisdom, a twenty-something man holding a baseball hat approaches him.