SUPER-DOWNSIZED
by Bridges DelPonte
The paper dead. Killed by the Internet. Glad Perry never lived to see this day. As I fill out the job questionnaire, I can't push it out of my head. Metropolis with no everyday newspaper. Who's going to cover those local stories of political corruption or sinister city crime? Or report on everybody's favorite super hero?
"Mr. Clark?" calls out the receptionist from behind a scratched Plexiglas window at the union's outplacement center.
"It's Kent." I stand up and smooth my gray suit.
"Ok, whatever." She snaps her gum.
I wait for an eternity at her window while she taps out the latest scribblings on her Facebook page. Finally, she buzzes me in and holds her hand out, her eyes still glued to the computer screen. I place the clipboard into her outstretched hand, and she quickly scans my job survey sheet.
"You missed one." She points to the block, "Other Special Skills."
Does x-ray vision or flying count?
"No special skills." To think, I dedicate my whole life to saving the world, and what do I have to show for it?
"Okay. Sixth cube on the right. Knock first." She hands the clipboard back to me.
The hallway is an endless row of indistinguishable beige, high-walled office cubicles. I see through each partition filled with beleaguered people pouring out their hard luck stories of job lay-offs, home foreclosures, and unpaid bills to overworked union reps who've heard it all, many times before. I knock on the frame of the cube.
"Enter," mumbles a balding, fifty-something black man, his mouth full of a roast beef sandwich.
"Do you want me to come back later?" I ask, motioning to his half-eaten lunch.
"No, com'on in. We're livin' in an 'eat your lunch at your desk' kind of world, now. Fred Johnson," he says with a nod. "Have a seat, Mr. Kent."
I sit down on a battered, green metal chair that wobbles unevenly under my weight. A small white poster with the words "Think outside the Box. Stay Positive." hangs behind a mountain of files.
"Nice suit," he says, slurping from his plastic soda cup. "Be sure to wear it if you get any interviews."
The "if" word rings in my ears. Checking my job survey sheet, he grunts several times.
"So thirty-five years at the same employer. Loved that old rag."
I wince at my beloved paper being called a "rag."
"Unfortunately, not enough advertisers or subscribers did."
"I hear ya. Any savings to live off of during your job search, Mr. Kent?"
"Not much. Journalism doesn't pay well."
"How about a pension?"
"All invested in the market."
"Damn those Wall Street crooks."
"If the SEC ever gets any of it back, I suppose my great-grandkids might enjoy it."
He laughs and I join in even though it's not that funny.
"Can any of your kids help out now?"
"No, I'm joking. No wife. No kids. Just me." Suddenly, that sounds pretty lonely. My adoptive parents, Jonathan and Martha, gone for such a long time. I really miss them.
"How about health insurance?"
"Can't afford COBRA." Not that I'd need it anyway.
For a moment, poor Lois's shocked face flashes before me. Her partner, Maggie, just turned in her police shield to deliver their first child together, Hannah. An adorable redhead with a mop of curls. Not going to be easy for them to find generous domestic partner benefits. And their Uncle Clark is dead broke.
"No undergrad degree?"
"Learned on the job. But Smallville is still a great high school."
The creases in Mr. Johnson's furrowed brow noticeably deepen with each of my responses. He puts down his sandwich, takes a deep slurp from his soda, and then looks directly at me.
"Mr. Kent, let me be frank. You're over 50, no Bachelor's degree, with skills in an industry shedding jobs faster than a stripper's thong."
"I love the news industry. Keeps my hand on the pulse of the city." How else can I continue to stay one step ahead of the evil forces in Metropolis?
"Mr. Kent, there are zillions of guys, much younger guys, in your same boat. All chasing a tiny number of openings. Mostly with online blogs or news sites that can't make enough cash to pay anybody."
"I'm willing to work hard. Grew up on a farm."
The beloved family farm lost to the bank about a dozen years ago and sold off to a bunch of developers building McMansions nobody wanted.
"It's more about working smart." He taps his forehead with his index finger. "Gotta think
outside of the box. And stay positive. Look at your skills in a completely new way. Schmooze your ass off. Reach out to your support network."
"My support network?"
"Yeah. Like me, you're an old fart. That's bad. But you know lots of people. That's good. Go home and write down all the connections you've made through the years. Especially those outside the news industry who need your interviewing and writing skills. Then get in touch with them. Stick a cover letter and resume in their hands."
"And then what?"
"And then call those people back to see how things are going. Check that list every week. Come up with new names and reach out to them, too." He stamps my survey sheet, my passport to obtaining a month of sub-subsistence unemployment benefits. "See you next month."
Walking toward the subway, my thoughts churn over the bizarre cast of characters I've known through the years. The vast majority are diabolical villains, bent on world domination, now locked up in prisons or orbiting Earth tied to asteroids or trapped in Phantom Zones. Fat chance Lex will float me a loan or a legitimate job, even if he ever gets out of the Supermax. The rest are unemployed co-workers, like Lois and Jimmy, tossed out of work when the paper went down in flames. Not too promising.
I fight off somber thoughts of my past and wrenching anxieties about my future. Could always squeeze some coal into diamonds to hold me over, but it's not right to use my powers for personal gain. Goes against superhero ethics. With rent due next week, I pass up a meditative trip to my Arctic fortress of solitude and head for a latté and free Wi-Fi at my favorite coffee shop. Hurrying past the federal courthouse steps, I notice a small gaggle of protestors holding signs, all demanding justice against crooked banks and investment brokers. Then it hits me. Justice. My old superpals from our League. We lost contact ever since that nasty dust up, but they might help out for old time's sake.
I order my coffee and sit at the at the old morning hangout, now empty. I "google" the League's founders on my cell phone. Bruce is still in Gotham City so I'll head there first. Diana's address remains listed in D.C., so she must still be attached to DOD, my second stop. I punch their contact info into my cell phone and activate my GPS app. They'll be easy to find. I text each of them to test the waters. No immediate reply. I focus on my new mantra. Think outside of the box. Stay positive.
Since phone booths are rarer than zero down mortgages, I duck into the café's family restroom. I pull down the hard plastic changing table and neatly fold my suit, shirt, and tie. Might need it for an upcoming interview. Once dressed in my flying suit, I spy a server propping open the back door with a brick as she readies the morning's trash for the dumpster. While she wrangles with an enormous trash bag, I dash out into the alley and ditch my office clothes into an empty box, squeezing it behind the HVAC unit.
#
Flying always makes me feel good, clears my thoughts. From the start of the League, Bruce and I easily connected through being orphans, even though I'm a decade older than him. I never disdained my meager upbringing with salt-of-the-earth parents who taught me good solid values, like truth, justice, and the American way. He ended up with a lucrative family trust, an empire of companies, and his playboy celebrity lifestyle. Maybe Bruce will put in a good word with his communication directors or his publicists at Wayne Enterprises. I still know how to write crackling copy.
Nearing Bruce's place, the manor looks desolate. Weeds and bare patches dot the grounds of the estate. I fly over the closed electric gate and begin to slowly tread along the wide front gravel walkway. A large topiary plant is toppled over, its tangle of roots hanging out of the bottom of a broken clay pot. A bright orange flyer, tacked to the enormous oak entryway, flutters in the early evening wind. The words "Foreclosure" and "Eviction" are splashed across the flyer. I see that no one is inside, but I rap the brass lion's head knocker several times anyway. No response. Where's Alfred? I wonder. I turn around and a paparazzi jumps out from the front hedges, his camera flashing right in my face.
"Oh my God. I'm so sorry."
I know the squeaky voice. "Jimmy, what are you doing here? And why are you wearing cammo?" I size up his green and brown outfit and painted face.
"Trying to get a quick snap of Bruce before they drag him out of his house."
"What?"
"He got brought down by a friend's Ponzi scheme. His empire's collapsed. Been holed up in the manor for the past week. My sources tell me Chief O'Hara and his guys are going to force him out either tonight or tomorrow morning."
"Jimmy, this is beneath you. Circling like a vulture over the scraps of a good man's life."
"Gotta feed my family. My oldest is starting college next year. As long as I have my digital camera, I gotta do what I can to make a living. Selling pics to the gossips brings in good money."
"How about you take a few pics of me and call it a day?" I ask, hoping to shoo Jimmy away so I can speak frankly with Bruce.
"Sorry. The Net is already flooded with your photos."
"Will a couple of minutes of video do? That YouTube video of me flying around Metropolis got about 3 million hits."
Jimmy rolls his eyes. "Like 2 years ago. Unless you're doing something fresh or new, people are bored with the whole flying thing by now."
"How about doing this as a favor to me?"
He scratches his blond buzz cut and crinkles his freckled nose.
"I'll do it under one condition."
"What's that?"
"You take me next week for a fly-over of Malibu. I'm looking to click off embarrassing photos of movie stars in their bathing suits. Maybe even catch some cellulite or a nipple slip or two."
"Absolutely not."
"Then I gotta stand my ground," replies Jimmy, turning on his heel and heading back into the bushes.
"Do you have any idea what my x-ray vision can do to your digital camera?"
"I can't believe you'd do that! Destroying personal property is a crime. And you're a crime-fighter."
"Trespassing on to the locked Wayne property isn't exactly legal. And taking pictures of a broken man who's foundation did so much good for Gotham City is pretty low."
"Geez. Cut me some slack."
Hard to believe Jimmy's giving me attitude after all I did for him. So much for my support network. I grab him by his collar and fly away, setting him down about ten miles from the manor.
"How am I supposed to get back to my car?" whines Jimmy.
"Have a nice walk. Shrink your carbon footprint. It's good for the environment."
I hurdle into the air and fly back to the Wayne estate.
#
On my return, I recognize Alfred shuffling up the front walk with a casserole dish in his hands. I slowly descend so as not to startle him. It's the first time I've seen him without his butler's attire, looking a bit tired and frail in a pair of casual gray slacks, an oversized navy windbreaker, and some worn out dock shoes.
"Alfred, how are you?"
"Oh thank goodness you're here."
"What's going on?"
"Mr. Wayne has lost everything. So busy battling crime and his inner demons. Very little time to focus on his investments. Left it up to his old family friend, Bernie."
"I'm so sorry, Alfred. I guess I've been so caught up in my own troubles that I tuned out the rest of the world."
"He's been so depressed. Dare I say, gone a bit batty with all of his financial troubles. His friends deserted him, even Robin and Vickie. Maybe you can help me talk him out before the police come to evict him?"
"Do you think he wants to see me after what happened with Diana?"
I should've gracefully bowed out, accepted her choice. Diana always had a thing for the bad
boy, not my "aw shucks" boy-next-door. The last time we were together, I had just bent Bruce's Bat Poles into pretzel shapes and buzzed the mansion all night long. People do stupid things when they're in love, even superheroes.
"Ancient history, sir."
"Has she contacted him, Alfred?"
"Yes. She called yesterday from Vegas."
"Vegas? Is she at Nellis Air Force Base?"
"No. Didn't you know, sir? She's no longer at DOD. Given up all that kind of work. I can give you her new cell number, if you like."
"Why did she leave the Pentagon?"
Although no one's around, Alfred lowers his voice and leans in to me.
"Some scandal involving her intelligence work at Guantanamo."
"Guantanamo?"
"These days, when you start threatening detainees with your whip or squeezing the breath out of them with your lasso, you're bound to be accused of crossing the line from enhanced interrogation into torture."
I'm stunned and can't wrap my head around the idea of Diana no longer with DOD, and living in Vegas. What's she doing there?
Alfred lets me into the mansion with his key and he calls out to Bruce, but no answer.
"He must be in the cave," mutters Alfred as he leads me to Bruce's study. The hands of the old grandfather clock still set to 10:20 p.m., the hour his parents were killed.
"Do you remember the code?" asks Alfred as he opens the secret panel beside the bookcase.
I smile. "Of course, I took my Ginko this morning." Punching in the secret code, the bookcase slides open, revealing the twin poles.
"Last one to the bottom is a rotten…."
Before Alfred finishes his challenge, I grab the casserole dish and swoosh down the left pole into the cave, home of the planet's fastest car and the most extensive forensics lab and high-tech weapons collection on earth. Bruce doesn't have superpowers, just really cool stuff. When I reach the bottom, Bruce is wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, an iPod strapped to his head, polishing the car. His beard is scruffy and dark circles ring his eyes. Looks more like I'm going to Bruce's support network, and not the other way around.
"Come here to gloat?" he says, without looking up from his task.
"No, here to help an old friend," I reply, putting down the glass dish on one of the lab benches.
"Unless you're delivering my bailout check, we don't have much to talk about."
"Bruce, it's only money."
He yanks the ear buds out of his ears and begins to yell. "Yeah, millions and millions, flushed down the drain. The Wayne family name disgraced. The foundation destroyed. Me, a laughingstock. If I ever get my hands on that bastard, I'll, I'll…" Bruce throws the polishing rag and then buries his face in his hands. "It's all over for me."
"Heck, no. Just time to reinvent yourself. Think outside of the box, Bruce. Some of the greatest entrepreneurs and companies of the century have gone bust. Only to come back bigger and better."
"He's right, Mr. Wayne," says Alfred, handing Bruce a plate of mac and cheese from the casserole dish.
Bruce glares at Alfred. "That's one in a million."
"Bruce, you can either be the one or the million, it's your choice. You got to reach out to your support network."
"What support network? All of my industry followers on Twitter abandoned me. Even Robin. That little brat. Who wants to read the tweets of a bankrupt loser?"
"You may not have money, but you've got a wealth of skills and experiences."
"Yeah, like climbing up the side of buildings, wearing tights and a cape. Lots of demand for that," he replies, biting into his plate of food.
"Look around you, Bruce. I see lots of potential."
"Like what?"
"How about the car?"
"I won't sell it!"
"No, but you sure know how to drive a jet-engine car, faster than anything on the NASCAR circuit. Lots of race teams looking for a great driver who can beat Jeff Gordon's butt."
"It would be like racing Model-Ts. Besides, I can't fight crime in Gotham City if I'm on the road all the time."
"Okay. Then how about you take this fabulous crime lab and use it to become a forensics expert?" I suggest, sweeping my hand in the direction of his neatly-maintained lab.
"I don't work for the bad guys," he says, gulping down his meal.
"You don't have to. Commissioner Gordon is always looking for an independent lab to back up his detectives. Or you can pick your private clients, wrongly accused people, needing your help."
"You mean like the 'Innocence Project'?"
"Exactly, Bruce."
"Our foundation donated money to them. I could help handle a few cases."
"Next thing you know, you're chatting up Nancy Grace on the latest grisly murder or kiddie kidnapping. Not to mention you've got the good looks for TV. With name recognition to boot."
Bruce puts down his plate and stops eating. "That's brilliant, Clark."
"They don't call me super for nothing," I nod. "Now let's get you cleaned up and out of here. We don't want our next script consultant for one of those CSI shows being dragged out of his estate on live TV."
While Alfred helps Bruce pack up his personal items, I laser shut the bookcase and melt the cave poles and the secret control panel. Bruce gives me Diana's cell number along with a dozen names of his prior publicists and communication directors, including Vickie's e-mail at The Globe. Not a bad start. We shake hands and promise to remain in touch.
"Stay positive, Bruce," I shout as I fly off the estate and set my sights on Vegas.
#
I'm not a big fan of Vegas. Sin City to a good Kansas boy like me. All those gaudy flashing lights, theme park hotels, Elvis impersonators, and crazy gamblers handing their hard-earned money over to shady casino owners. It's getting late, so I text Diana, and she invites me to come see her show at one of the casinos.
"Stage door. Get u fr row seat."
I zoom over the strip, fighting back sordid thoughts of Diana headlining at one of those XXX strip shows. At 2:00 a.m., I descend into the dark stage alley and spot a small group of costumed men and women at the end of the alley hanging around the stage door getting some fresh air. At least they're all still clothed, wearing iridescent outfits with tie-dyed tights, so they don't give me a second thought as I enter. I poke my head into a few dressing rooms. The place is abuzz with people lined up at mirrors applying make-up or adjusting costumes for tonight's show. I ask a man with a clipboard about Diana and he points me to a private dressing room. I gently knock.
"Come in."
The sound of her voice suddenly makes me feel weak in the knees. She still gets to me, my personal Kryptonite. I slowly open the door and spy Diana scooping up her jet black hair as a young woman fastens the back of her costume, a shimmering silver bathing suit over fishnet tights. I smell the scent of jasmine perfume.
"Diana?"
Her crystal blue eyes pop wide. "Clark, I can't believe you're here. I'm so glad you made it."
Unexpectedly, Diana rushes up, throws her arms around me, and plants a kiss on my cheek.
"Let me look at you. Still the Man of Steel!" she adds, giving me another tight hug.
I stand there in shock for a moment. I've never seen her so happy, so vibrant.
"Michelle, please give us a minute."
The dresser leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
"You look amazing, Diana."
"I feel great, Clark. The last year has been fantastic, almost like living back home on Paradise Island again. Please sit down."
I plop down on an overstuffed white leather couch with an ostrich-feather headdress resting on it. Diana pulls up the chair from her dressing table across from me.
"I guess I never saw you as the Vegas-type."
"To be honest, me neither. But after all those years at the Pentagon, I needed to start fresh. Time to mix it up. Tap into my long-forgotten creative side. So here I am. Starring in one of the hottest shows in Vegas."
"With or without your clothes?" I ask sheepishly.
She throws back her head and lets out a hearty laugh.
"Always the small town boy. You'll just have to wait and see. A front row seat, so you'll be up close and personal," she adds with a wink.
"Bruce sends his best."
"How's he doing?"
"You know, Bruce. He can get a bit dark, but I think he'll turn things around."
"I'm sorry to hear about the paper. I tried to e-mail you, but it bounced back. And I was afraid to call. I didn't want to add to your pain," she says, taking my hands in hers. "Clark, I never meant to…."
A knock at the door interrupts us. The dresser pops her head in. "It's time, Diana."
"Okay. Clark, please come back after the show, so we can catch up."
She gives me another quick peck on the cheek and the stage manager whisks me out. He shows me to a front row orchestra seat in the dark theater, just before the curtain goes up. I sit nervously in my seat, not knowing what to expect. I don't think I can handle it if Diana starts disrobing in front of a packed audience of strangers. I try to remind myself, "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas."
As the green velvet curtains parts, a single spotlight illuminates the stage, and I feel the rush of anticipation in the crowd. Then a swell of mystical New Age music rises from the orchestra pit, the stage explodes to life with multi-colored lights and costumed dancers. Diana then hangs by her ankle from her lasso and performs some of the most extraordinary flips and turns while other talented acrobats fly through the air. Throughout the performance, Diana radiates with her striking beauty and powerful athletic skills. After two hours of heart-pounding aerial tricks and acrobatics with lush sets and hypnotic music, I realize why everybody loves Cirque de Soleil.
After the show, Diana and her theater friends take me to an all-night Vegas buffet. Who says more isn't more? Later she shows me her new home, a beautiful Spanish-style home with a red tile roof and stone patio, surrounding a twinkling turquoise pool that overlooks the desert. We sit on the patio and talk only about the good times. She speaks animatedly about her new life in Vegas, her theater friends, her favorite hiking trails in the desert.
"What are you going to do now, Clark? Maybe join our show bench-pressing a pyramid of Mongolian contortionists?" she asks with a mischievous smile.
I shrug. "I don't know. The world doesn't want mild-mannered journalists just reporting the facts of important issues anymore."
"Why not think of something else to do?"
"Like what?"
"It's all about the journey, not the destination."
"Sounds like message in a fortune cookie," I reply.
"A lot of wisdom in them," she says, smiling. She gives my forearm a gentle squeeze. "Clark, just try to take some time to think about what you're going to do next. It's okay to take a break and do something new, something different. And if you need a little financial help…"
"No. I'm good." I abruptly wave off her suggestion.
In silence, we watch the desert sands turn more shades of purple, orange, and red than I can ever describe, before it glistens gold as the morning sun rises above the horizon. When we say our good-byes, she presses the business card of the theater company's marketing director into my hand.
"She's always looking for freelancers to draft copy for show ads and playbills. I'll let her
know you're the best." She hugs me and plants one last kiss with her ruby lips on mine.
Feeling a lump in my throat, I immediately leap into the air so she will not see tears welling up in my eyes. Stay positive. I taste her lips and smell her jasmine scent on my cape all the way back to Metropolis.
#
I return to the alley of my favorite coffee shop to pick up my business suit and make some calls. Oh no. My suit's gone from the box. I start to toss some boxes around hoping I just mistook it for another. But my gray suit is gone, just when I might need it the most. Frustrated, I'm about to fly off when I see a homeless man with my gray suit in his shopping cart.
"Excuse me, sir, but that's my suit," I reach into his cart. "And I need it for interviewing."
The man starts screaming for help and starts thrashing his arms wildly. I throw my suit over my shoulder and try to calm him down.
"Help! Thief, thief!" he yells. "Stealing my clothes!"
"Calm down, sir," I say, gently holding his flailing arms down, "Before you hurt yourself."
Next thing, I know, a crowd is starting to gather. A police man steps out of the onlookers.
"Let go of the man, drop the suit, and hands behind your back, buddy," he orders, hand resting on his holster.
"I'm just trying to get my suit back," I say.
"I said, let him go. Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your back."
"This is all just a misunderstanding. It's my suit," I reply. "He just went a little crazy when I asked for it back."
"Keep resisting arrest, and I'll have to TASER you, sir," said the officer.
"Don't you know who I am?"
"A wise guy in a rented costume. If you really are him, we'll determine that downtown. Now on the ground and put your hands behind your back."
"I've saved the world so many times. And this is how you treat me? All I want is my damn suit, back!" I roar in an unexpected moment of frustration.
I guess the past couple of weeks have been pretty emotional, more than I've been willing to admit to myself. I let go and step back from the man. As the officer nears me, I quickly gather up my interview suit, shirt, and tie and fly off into the Metropolis sky, thinking that ends the matter. However, by the afternoon, a video of me tussling with the homeless man and yelling at the cop goes viral on the Net. My old pal, Jimmy, cameraking25, makes sure to posts the video on his blog, and every blog and networking site he can find. The world now thinks I go around robbing homeless people. The talking heads diss me as an out-of-control freak while Mel Gibson and Jessie James express their deepest sympathies through the media. I'm now the most reviled man in America. Not good for me or my alter ego, the unemployed Clark.
Several humiliating days later, Lois calls to invite me to Hannah's christening while I'm typing up cover letters in my home office. I enter the details into my phone. She then tells me she's being flooded with calls from talk show booking agents looking for my favorite superhero. It seems they're all dying to get him on their shows to tell his side of the story.
"Clark, it's a real bidding war for his story. Plus two cable stations want to discuss superhero reality shows with him," she confides. "A crazy world out there."
"For sure, Lois. There's no he'd ever do any of those silly programs." But then I catch myself and ask her to give me the contact info, jotting it down on a scrap of paper. "I'll be sure pass it along to him, if I see him."
After we hang up, I stare at the note, then crumple it up, and toss it in the trash basket. I slice open the day's mail. Overdue rent notice, mounting credit card bill, cable TV shut-off notice. I stop and reach back into the trash, pulling out the scrunched up paper, and carefully smooth out the creases. I punch the numbers into my cell phone.
Hey, like the man said. Think outside the box. Stay positive.
-END-
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