Less Than Hero (27 page)

Randy stares across the street, watching Lloyd and Blaine, trying not to think about what he’s going to do or how he’s going to do it, but trusting that he’ll know what to do at the time it needs doing. Then the M14A bus pulls up at the stop in front of Whole Foods, temporarily blocking Randy’s view of Union Square.

He glances at his watch. Two minutes until Lloyd is supposed to give the sign. The bus should continue on its route before then, but Randy senses that if he doesn’t act now it’s going to be too late. And if there’s one thing Randy has learned over the years, it’s to trust his instincts.

Randy leaves the shadows and runs around the back of the bus, checking to make sure he’s not going to get flattened by traffic before he runs across Fourteenth Street. Even before he reaches the sidewalk, he knows something has gone wrong.

Blaine is standing up and pointing at Vic, who is frozen in place, like he and Blaine are playing a game of Red Light, Green
Light. When Blaine spins away, Vic looks around, his eyes blinking like he just woke up. Then Blaine shouts something at Lloyd about an agreement, his voice filled with rage, while Frank struggles to move his overburdened frame through the lunchtime crowd.

Randy doesn’t think about what he’s doing—he just sprints toward Blaine and grabs him from behind, slipping his arms under Blaine’s armpits and clamping his hands behind his neck, then spinning him away from Lloyd in a single move. It’s something he learned in wrestling during his phys ed classes and put to good use during his nights as a bouncer, though he never thought he’d use it in a situation like this. Turns out high school wasn’t a complete waste after all.

Blaine struggles against him, twisting and squirming, elbows pistoning into Randy’s ribs, hitting their target, but Randy is bigger and stronger and he doesn’t let go. He can’t let go. If he does, he knows Blaine will win.

Nearby a woman on a cell phone stops talking and collapses to the ground, her head hitting the concrete with a hollow
thunk
, while a guy playing chess cries out and turns into a sumo wrestler. In the background, the Hare Krishnas chant and play their drums and cymbals while accompanied by the mournful wail of bagpipes.

Deep inside of him, Randy’s superpower continues to heat up, hotter than it’s ever been—like a geothermal geyser. Or a volcano about to erupt.

This time when he releases his superpower, Randy is pretty sure it’s going to cause more than just a rash. And it’s not going to be temporary.

Blaine continues to yell and thrash against him. For an instant Randy thinks about all of the things he’s done wrong in his life, the mistakes he’s made and the regrets he’s had and the women to whom he wishes he could apologize. But mostly he thinks about Charlie and how he wishes he could take back his criticism of his friend’s resolve.

Then it’s all wiped away in a searing flash as he unleashes his superpower.

It starts out as a rash, red and angry, but quickly turns to boils that erupt and explode on Blaine, causing him to scream out and thrash harder. Except it’s not only Blaine who’s affected. Randy can feel his own skin burning, the flesh starting to bubble, and it’s all he can do to hold on.

Blaine’s shrieks of pain and anger fill Randy’s ears, mixing in with his own screams, but Randy doesn’t let go. His hands dig into the back of Blaine’s neck, his fingers fusing with Blaine’s flesh, the two of them melting together. Randy has a moment to wonder how long this is going to last and if his soul will be linked with Blaine’s in the afterlife.

Then he and Blaine both burst into flame.

From the front page of the
New York Post
:

UP IN SMOKE!

SUPER HOLIDAY SPECTACLE AT UNION SQUARE

The lunchtime crowd at Union Square bore witness to a spectacular and deadly exhibition yesterday as New York’s newest superheroes descended upon Manhattan’s iconic intersection to do battle. Two innocent bystanders caught up in the preholiday showdown experienced the telltale side effects induced by Dr. Lullaby and Big Fatty, while two others burned to death in what several witnesses described as spontaneous combustion.

Ben Vincelette, a Boston native spending the holiday in Manhattan, was playing chess next to one of the men.

“This guy stands up and yells something at his playing partner, then this other guy runs up and grabs the first guy from behind,” Vincelette said. “Next thing I know, the guy I’m playing chess against blows up like a puffer fish and the two guys wrestling each other go up in flames. Strangest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

Although neither of the two men who died in the unexplained fire has officially been identified, the popular consensus among those interviewed is that the Rash was one of them.

Greg Magill, a retired firefighter from Queens, was an eyewitness.

“I saw the two guys wrestling from the start,” Magill said. “The one holding the other from behind in a full nelson started glowing, and the guy he was holding broke out in hives, as if he was suffering the mother of all allergic reactions. A few seconds later, they both turned as red as lobsters and started peeling and blistering. I never seen anything like it. But that was the Rash. I know it was, God rest his soul.”

John McCormack, an off-duty police officer from the Bronx who arrived at Union Square moments before the two men burst
into flames, believes the other man involved in the human conflagration was none other than the infamous Mr. Blank.

“I talked to at least a dozen people who were frontline witnesses,” Officer McCormack said. “Half of them couldn’t remember what happened. Others couldn’t even remember what they were doing there. Now I don’t know for sure what happened, but having that many people unable to remember anything . . . Let’s just say it’s out of the ordinary.”

While there are those who remain skeptical of the motives of New York’s newest superheroes and believe this latest episode indicates that Dr. Lullaby, Captain Vomit, and their crime-fighting cohorts have gone rogue, Patricia Goggin echoes the opinion of many of Manhattan’s homeless and less privileged.

“I don’t believe they were there to cause any trouble. I believe they were there to stop Mr. Blank,” Goggin said. “They’re good boys. All they want to do is help people. I believe in them. A lot of people do. They’re real-life heroes. And it breaks my heart to think that one of them may have died.”

Whether the Rash, Dr. Lullaby, and the rest of New York City’s other vigilante crime fighters were at Union Square yesterday to wage battle against Mr. Blank is yet to be determined. But what appears obvious is that something supernatural took place.

The NYPD, however, has its own interpretation.

“This is just another example of what happens when ordinary citizens take matters into their own hands,” Captain James Goudrealt of the Thirteenth Precinct said. “Innocent people get hurt.”

The man who suffered from rapid and excessive weight gain courtesy of Big Fatty was taken away in an ambulance, while the woman allegedly assaulted by Dr. Lullaby regained consciousness at the scene and was evaluated by medical personnel for concussion-related symptoms.

I
t’s a week before Christmas and I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of Citibank in the fading twilight with several dozen men and women in holiday winter garb, while across the street several hundred people have gathered at Union Square in front of the George Washington statue. Some hold hands or candles in reverent silence while others play guitars or drums and sing ballads and hymns, paying respect in their own way, as tourists and news crews and amateur videographers document the event. The Hare Krishnas are out in full force, chanting their Maha Mantra, adding their own unique flavor to the evening.

A middle-aged woman in a black overcoat and matching beret stops and stands next to me to watch the tribute. “What’s everyone doing over there?”

“It’s a memorial,” I say.

“Who for?” she asks.

I almost say Randy’s name, then I catch myself. “A local hero.”

The woman continues to look toward Union Square. “It looks like he had a lot of friends.”

When I heard someone was organizing a memorial for the
Rash, I didn’t know what to expect. I figured a few dozen people would turn out to pay their respects—maybe a hundred or so, tops. But I never imagined anything like this. It’s humbling. And inspiring.

While I always felt like the six of us were trying to make a difference and doing something worthwhile, I had no idea what it meant to the people we were helping. Until now, I had no idea how much what we were doing mattered.

I wish Randy were here to see this. Of course, if Randy were here, none of this would be happening, which only emphasizes the fact that I feel responsible for his death.

Guilt is a merciless instrument of self-torture.

As the daylight continues to fade, more candles appear among the gatherers. Those without candles raise lighters in the air. Here and there homemade signs appear above the crowd, thanking the Rash in one way or another. Most of the people who’ve come to honor the memory of Randy just stand and look around, not exactly sure what to do. I’m guessing this is their first superhero memorial. I know it’s mine.

A few of the signs in the crowd decry Mr. Blank and thank Randy for getting rid of him. While I know better than anyone what Blaine was capable of doing, and I realize that his death probably saved countless others from his diabolical plans, the signs strike a chord on the strings of my conscience. I know I’m not to blame for what happened to Blaine or what he’d become, but I still wish there had been something I could have done to change how things turned out.

For all of his annoying know-it-all facts and his desire for
world domination, Blaine was still my friend. Or at least he used to be once upon a time.

A dozen feet away from me, a guy starts playing “Christmastime Is Here” on his guitar, adding some holiday spirit to the somber mood. Several people walk past and throw singles into his guitar case, which after less than two hours appears to have at least forty bucks in it.

I should really learn how to play a musical instrument.

After watching the faithful memorialize Randy for a few more minutes, I decide to beat the crowds and head back to Charlie’s apartment.

A month after his stroke, Charlie is still in a coma. Apparently he’s experiencing continuous seizures, something called status epilepticus—which sounds like something out of a Road Runner cartoon. In any case, the seizures are preventing Charlie’s brain from recovering, leading to his prolonged unconsciousness.

This doesn’t help to improve my spirits, holiday or otherwise.

The fact that Charlie doesn’t have health insurance and won’t be able to pay his bills isn’t precipitating his hasty exit from the hospital. Even in an age when health care seems to be more about profit margins than about compassion, the hospital won’t discharge Charlie or move him to another facility until his health is stabilized. Then they’ll hit him up with a seven-figure invoice for services rendered.

On my way to Charlie’s apartment, I pay a visit to Frank.

“Lloyd,” he says, greeting me at the door and waving me in with one hand while holding a slice of pepperoni-and-sausage in the other. “Pizza?”

“No thanks,” I say. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“We seem to be on opposite ends of that spectrum.” Frank closes the door, then waddles over to his couch and sits down with a grunt and a creak and a cloud of dust in front of his coffee table, where an open cardboard Domino’s box holds the remaining slices of what used to be an extra-large pie.

Frank looks like he could play right tackle for the Jets. If he’s not pushing three hundred pounds, then I’m a Patriots fan.

I sit down in the mafia chair at the end of the coffee table, my back to the wall, and watch Frank finish off the slice he was holding.

“So how was the memorial?” he asks.

“Overwhelming,” I say, and tell him how many people showed up. “You should have been there.”

“I’m not a big fan of crowds,” he says. “Especially since I tend to stand out in one.”

Frank hasn’t left his apartment since the events at Union Square. I don’t think it’s because he’s afraid he’ll be recognized, but more because, like me, he’s suffering from a severe case of the guilts.

While I know rationally that Charlie and Randy made their own choices, I hold on to my personal responsibility for them like a security blanket. In a strange way, it’s the only thing that gives me comfort.

Frank and I chitchat for a few minutes, talking about nothing of substance while Frank powers down another slice, both of us ignoring the elephant in the room. And that’s not a fat joke.

“So I was thinking . . .” I say.

“That’s never a good thing,” Frank says. “What about?”

“I was thinking we should keep going.”

“Going where?” he says. “I didn’t realize we were in motion.”

The image of hundreds of people in Union Square holding candles and lighters plays back in my head.

“I think we should keep going with what we started,” I say.