"My back. MY Back!"
Margarite jumped, sending the alcohol soaked gauze soaring through the air, only to splat on the far wall. It paused for a moment suspended before sliding to the floor.
"I'm sorry Spider-man. I didn't know you were awake. I was just trying to clean your wounds."
Face down, he craned his neck to see who was talking to him but was unable to see a face. The young man tentatively got his arms underneath him and he pushed himself into a kneeling-sit position. The sheet that had covered the lower half of his body slid off. His eyes flew open when he looked down at himself and he grabbed for the cover.
"Where're my pants?"
Margarite got up and went over to a pile of laundry and pulled out the hidden remains of his outfit. "This is all that's left of what you were wearing last night. It seems like the rest was burned off."
She noticed the crimson color filling up his face, and picked up the sweats that her son had brought out for him earlier. Tossing them to him she said, "We put these on you last night. I took them off this morning only to dress your wounds."
At the mention of his injuries he focused back on the pain and slumped. He took a deep breath and looked around the small room cluttered with laundry equipment and piles of clothing.
He put the clothes on. "Where am I?"
"You're in my apartment. Don't you remember me telling you last night?"
He shook his head.
"We think you were caught up in the giant freighter explosion."
"We?"
"My son, Juan, lives here too. He's at school right now."
His brow furrowed in thought. "I think I remember you saying something about an explosion last night. Is that why my back hurts?"
She nodded. "I was hoping you'd wake up and let me know if there's a doctor you trusted. I think you need to go to the hospital. Being who you are and all."
Margarite was confronted with an 'empty-as-a-vacuum-filled-jar' stare.
As silence followed she tried to read the young man's face. He looked like he was thinking very hard.
He asked, "Why?"
"Why?"
"Yeah, why would I need someone special to go to the hospital?"
A light bulb went off in her head. She remembered him questioning his identity last night. So she asked, "Who are you?"
"Uh." He sat for an eternity, mouth opened, waiting for a name to pop out. "Uh… I don't know. I can't remember,"
"You don't know you're Spider-man?"
"Spider-what?"
"Spider-man."
His mind was a void with no beginning and no end. He just shook he head.
"What about your real name? Do you know it?"
"Real name?"
He deliberated for a full minute, but when his face slackened, she knew he didn't. "Well, then. Do you have any preference to which hospital you want to go to?"
"I'm not sure I should go. Tell me more about this Spider-man. Is he liked? Is he a good guy or bad guy? Is he wanted?"
"I can tell you, the people of the city love Spider-man, but unfortunately the editor of the Bugle seems to have a grudge against him. He prints lies. Lots of them. So, the police do want to question Spider-man about many of the situations he'd gotten into."
"Do you know anything about the person behind the mask? Can he go to the hospital?"
"I don't know anything. If we go to the hospital, they are going to want your name and address. I'm sure they're going to keep you if you don't remember anything, especially with wounds like yours. I bet it won't take long for the media to put two and two together and figure out you're Spider-man."
"How?"
"Spider-man's missing. You have odd injuries that can only be had from an explosion and can't remember a thing."
Desperation filled Peter's voice, "Where else can I go?"
"You can stay here. But, I'm not a nurse. I don't know much more than how to clean your wounds. Suppose you get an infection? Get a fever? I won't know what to do with you."
"Well, if it comes to that, I guess I'll just have to go to the closest hospital and hope for the best."
She stood straighter. "Now if we don't want you to get an infection I advise you let me finish cleaning those cuts and that includes the areas you so richly wish to hide."
Peter removed the sweats he had just put on but kept the sheet wrapped around him. He laid flat on his stomach, hesitating before relinquishing his grasp of the cover.
X x x x
Juan barreled through the door, "Hey mom, how's our guest?'
"ASLEEP!"
A groggy Peter sat up. "I was."
Margarite was miffed at her son, "I expected you over an hour ago."
"Sorry. But I made a few extra bucks shoveling the parking lot at school. The areas the plows can't get into."
Spider-man perked up. "Parking lot?"
"Yeah, that's what I shoveled, a parking lot."
Peter lolled that word around. "Parking. Parking. Park. Parks."
Margarite showed some interest. "Do you know something about a parking lot? Maybe that's where you earn money, a parking lot attendant."
He just shook his head. "Parks. Park. Park. Parker. Parka. Do I need a parka for work? Am I a parker? Do I park cars?"
"Maybe that's part of your name." Juan offered.
"Parka? That's a funny name. Isn't it?"
Juan pulled out the telephone book. Well there are a lot of Park, Parkers, Parks, even a Parkhurst."
"Hmmm, Mr. Park. Mr. Parks. Mr. Parkers, Mr. Parkhurst. Doesn't sound quite right. Could something like that be my first name?"
"There's a Parker in one of my classes at school. It's his first name. He's always getting in trouble and the teacher is constantly screaming PARKER!"
The young man brightened. "Boy that sounds familiar. If it's not my name, I think its close."
Margarite smiled, "Parker it is. Do you want to pick out a last name?"
"No, not until I need one. Maybe I'll think of it by then."
X x x x
Carl escorted MJ out of the diner-café. "I don't know about you, but I'm coffee'd to death. I'm not going to sleep for a week."
"Even without the coffee, Dr. Jackson, I won't be able to sleep until I find out what happened to Peter. The explosion happened yesterday, why haven't we heard anything?" A lone tear rolled down her cheek.
He held her hands in his, "Mary Jane, I have a few ideas where to look. Please keep your hopes up. Remember, he has tremendous healing powers. Now, go home, charge up your cellphone and charge up yourself. Get some sleep and keep your hope alive."
She looked at the kind gentleman before her. For a moment she had wished she had him as a father, so kind, so understanding. What he did came from the heart. She reached up and gave him a tender peck on the cheek. "Thank you Dr…"
"Uh! What did I tell you earlier? It's Carl." He squeezed her hands.
She blushed. "Thank you…Carl."
"Here's your cab." He opened the door for her.
He bent over and softly spoke, "Please Mary Jane, try to get some sleep."
He watched her cab pull away, then raised his hand to hail another. As a taxi pulled up he thought, "Tonight's my lucky night. No waiting."
X x x x
Across the street, ice blue eyes were trained on a pretty redhead as she left the coffee shop with a black middle-aged gentleman. Holding his hands, she kissed him on the cheek. There was a brief hesitation before she let go of him. "Hmmmm, it's not good to mix races my beautiful Miss Watson. You ought not to tease him like that. And he is way too old for you, too."
Black gloves wrung the steering wheel in anger.
"Why can't you see me? I have been to every performance of every play you've ever done. Why can't you see me? Can't you tell that I am the one for you? I would put you on a pedestal, worship the ground you walk on, be your everything. You would be treated like the queen you are. Neither your new black boyfriend nor the nerdy geek can give you what I can." The last sentence was emphasized with a blow to the steering wheel.
Eyes squinted at the dark skinned gentleman as he held the taxi door open for the young actress. He leaned into the cab for a moment before standing and closing the door. The yellow car sped away. "You can't have her, buster. You're not the right age or color for her. You're not her type at all. YOU CAN'T HAVE HER."
He got out of his car. The skeleton of a man, swallowed by a black coat, stood and waited for a break in the traffic. In his haste to cross he didn't notice until it was too late that the African-American had hailed his own cab and was departing the curb. The stranger screamed when he reached the other side. "DAMMIT!"
With coat flapping, ignoring the harsh winter wind, he dodged traffic as he headed back for his own vehicle, but he was too late. His car faced the wrong direction, and he had already lost the taxi in a sea of yellow. He kicked the Buick in frustration, at a spot obviously kicked many times before, judging by the size of the dent.