For
years I had suffered my uniqueness in silence until the fourth grade. Excited with
the first week of school, I was walking home, playing with a super ball. When I
bounced it too hard and it ended up in the gutter of a nearby house, I stopped
in frustration. I really liked that ball and wanted it back. Looking around to
make sure no one was watching, I quickly flew up, grabbed the ball, and landed
back on the ground. I heard a screen door slam, and turning back I saw a boy
walking quickly towards me.
“Hey
that's a neat trick,” he said as he caught up to me.
“What
trick?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“How
you flew up to get that ball,” he replied, pointing to my pocket.
I
realized no one else could fly after getting a weird look once from a friend
when I mentioned it, but the burden of hiding, had grown heavy, even after the
careful realization that everyone had a secret to hide. But the desire to
confide in someone usually vanished quickly at the thought of being exposed.
The boy continued to walk alongside me in silence for two more blocks.
“It's
okay, I won't tell anyone. Superheros have to keep it a secret. Superman and
Spiderman do,” he pointed out. I stopped walking and stared at him in a panic.
“What
are you talking about” I said, playing dumb.
“I'll
show you,” he replied, gesturing for me to follow. Curiosity overrode my
paranoia.
We returned to his house--the one with the
ball-snatching-gutter--and he showed me into a house overflowing with books,
shelves of them everywhere.
We
threaded our way to a room at the back of the house to his bedroom library. I
was unfamiliar with the world of comics but he had an extensive collection and
an encyclopedic knowledge of the origins, history and powers of each caped and
masked superhero. Pete invited me to come by anytime and once again promised to
keep my secret.
Pete
Galway was only a year older but was the wisest eleven-year-old I’d ever known.
He was a head taller with a
tangled mess of blond hair and freckles that multiplied in the summer sun. His
mother taught literature and his dad was an anthropologist. They endowed him
with endless fascination for the world; Pete seemed to know everything.
As
our friendship grew, I was glad to have someone to share my secret and he
thrilled to be my spiritual sidekick. Vicariously enjoying the moments when my
quick reflexes peeked out as I dodged snowballs in neighborhood battles or won
at track meets. Encouraging me to test the limits of my flying and acted as lookout
when I snuck off near dawn for quick lessons out in the country, standing guard
with a whistle.
I had no interest in the fantasy world
of comics however, I was too grounded in reality to take any of it seriously.
The
only hero I emulated was my Father. He was fair and honest with everyone,
teaching me to judge people by their actions and not their appearance. I
remember when he came back to the store one day after lunch with a portrait of
Martin Luther King tucked under his arm. He hung it on the wall with the photos
of Gandhi and John F. Kennedy. The reason for this addition was a crude comment
at the local cafe by a Mr. Ivers about a Vietnamese family that had recently
moved to town.
"Son,
people may look different on the outside but we are all the same on the
inside," Dad informed me gravely. Ivers refused to shop at Dad's store
after seeing the new photo.
I
repeated Dad's observation to Pete who considered the remark deeply as he gazed
at the sky.
“It's
a start,” he conceded.
Pete came to realize I had no ambition
to be a scientist or engineer like his comic book idols, and took it in stride,
but deep down hoped I would change my mind. Over the years he continued his
attempts to convince me I was more than an average kid, but I dismissed the
idea.
“You
have a gift to share with the world and a personal mythology to realize,” he
told me as we walked home from school after his first driving class.
“You
sound like your father,” I retorted, and he smiled at the comparison. The highbrow
analysis was a bit much for me but there was no stopping Pete.
While
my parents taught me to always be considerate of others out of simple kindness,
Pete taught me the deeper consequences of altruism. I never gave it much
thought because it brought on too much brooding, which I was never good at. He
handled big ideas with ease, while I squirmed at the need for such lengthy
contemplation.
“A
hero is someone who acts out of concern for others. He gives his life to
something bigger than himself. Superheroes are the same. They are wiser, using
their intellect and reason to solve problems like others, but it's their morals
that make them extraordinary. You need to read the classics, dumb ass,” he
said, giving my shoulder a playful shove.
“Yes
Herr Professor,” I returned with the right amount of sarcasm, shoving him back and knocking him off his
feet.
That
summer was spent getting lessons from him on the hero business as we sat at the
edge of an isolated pond surrounded by a dense wooded park of mature oak and
poplars. Insects flitted over the
green water as a current stirred in the slight breeze. It was the ideal place
for contemplating the wider world.
The
idea of being a superhero dispensing justice had a certain appeal. God knows I
wanted to bash in the faces of the bullies at school, and the evil twins next
door could use a good drubbing, but what good would it do? They aren't going to
listen to Pete's version of reason either.
“I
can't see myself as some kind of supercop meting out judgement,” I answered to
his latest argument.
“There
are other ways to use your special skills, and you don't have to do it alone,”
he advised. Here comes the sidekick pitch again, I thought with an inward
groan.
“I
know you don't like the structure of working within a unit but it can offer you
the kind of discipline beyond individualism,” he went on without missing a
beat. I turned and gave him a frown of irritation.
“Would
you please use words a fifteen-year-old can understand,” I pleaded.
He
laughed and explained why I preferred the one on one competition of track
compared to the team dynamic of basketball.
I liked making decisions on my own but that wasn't entirely true
when I gave it more thought. Sometimes I wished others would make decisions for
me. I wanted to do the right thing but it wasn't always clear or easy. I guess
that's what Pete was trying to teach me but my stubbornness got in the way.
Such
camaraderie meant revealing my abilities to others and I wasn't ready for that,
if ever. Being a loner made it easier to avoid. I got up to stretch out, raising
my hands high over my head and my jeans damn near slipped off my narrow hips.
“Yeah
well, I guess I can put these weird tricks to use some day I suppose.” I really
wanted to drop the subject.
“Some
day you will be a hero, whether you like it or not and I'll be there to say I
told you so.” His loyalty left me speechless. Pete paused and gave me the
strangest look.
“What?”
I asked, his stare making me uncomfortable.
“Nothing.”
He shrugged.
Phil's
snoring broke my reverie once more. I went to the bathroom to douse my face and
the emotions the memories stirred up. What's the point of having these
abilities if I can't use them? I
desperately wished I could talk to Pete.
I
was shattered when he and his father were killed in a car accident when he was
barely eighteen. I heard the news while at the school library and stared out
the window, seeing his house in the distance looking empty and forlorn in the
dull gray light of the snowy landscape.
I
lost my best friend and my childhood in the same moment. It was the first time
I had encountered death. Once again, I was alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment