Death of a Superhero

Death of a Super Hero

Paul Orton



The bus stop sign stands like a beacon for lost souls, drawing them like flies into its glass enclosure. Those not bothered by the light drizzle of rain remain outside with their hoods up and their collars drawn in tight to protect their faces. The sun made its last desperate attempt at breaking through the greyness blanketing the sky several hours prior, before finally surrendering the day to the colorless mass of clouds. The wind has a cold bite to it considering it’s still the early August, and the constant tease of rain just adds to the drab presence of the weather.

Alan walks slowly down the Calgary sidewalk, heels of his best dress shoes clicking audibly over the sounds of the cars passing by, planing over the water on the roads. The faded leather of his fathers hat darkens with every subsequent drop of water, leading the hat to adopt a pleasant and musky smell. A tan trench coat covers the relatively inexpensive, but well-fitted suit adorned by Alan. He’d always enjoyed dressing nicely, even on a wage that made paying the rent difficult, he still managed to find enough pennies to present himself well.

A spot between two souls opens itself in Alan’s path, and he settles into his place on the sidewalk; having located the beacon that called to him and his priors. There he awaits the malignant vessel that has become a routine to the many standing around him. The man next to him pulls long and deep from his cigarette, reminding Alan of how long it had been since he himself had indulged. He fumbles around in his deep pockets, locating his lighter among other various debris, simultaneously asking his new neighbour if he had an extra smoke to spare. The man obliges, pulling the pack from inside his breast pocket and presenting it too Alan. He offers his lighter as well, but Alan flashes his own quickly in the air; the cigarette already between his lips taking from him the desire to use words.

The taste is sweet and full bodied to a man who hasn’t bothered to partake in a long while, and Alan fervently enjoys every last drag.

He turns around, disposing of the spent cigarette and using the ball of his foot to crush it, just in time to see a pretty young thing walk by, clinging to the tattooed arm of her suitor. Her: early 20’s, long dark hair framing a feminine face beautifully, heavy make-up, but not quite heavy enough to hide the remnants of a black eye. The skirt she’s wearing is no match for the cold fingers of the wind, and Alan can see the goose bumps that have formed on her bare skin as she shivers against her companion for warmth. Her man seems the type that most other men won’t make eye contact with, simply out of a natural and animalistic instinct to protect their own lives. He is hardened, covered in ink, and has a look in his eyes that belays not a hint of couth or understanding, but rather a blatant anger.

Alan watches as the couple continues around the corner, heading down several more blocks before taking another corner to end up in front of their dilapidated town house. They’ll walk inside then, and they will stay there until later in the evening, when the drinks start to run faster than coherent thinking can keep up with. She will spill her drink then - not simply from her light head, but also from a natural clumsiness - and the dark redness of her boxed wine will quickly find its way on to the boyfriends pants. He will over-react; drunk, and angry to begin with at his circumstances. The hand will fly to strike, as it has done so many times before. Only tonight the stars will align in such a perfect way as too ensure the young woman does not have her balance when she receives the hit. She will stagger, falling backwards as she desperately grasps for any purchase to slow her decent. Of course, none will be found, the stars ensured that her path would be clear. They ensured that her head would complete the journey from his hand, down to the coffee table that houses a jungle of empty beer cans and cigarette butts, where it would connect with a dainty and suiting thud, leaving her sprawled gracefully on the floor. There she would pass away in undignified silence long before the phone was picked up and 3 simple numbers were dialed; long before the ambulance arrived; and long before anyone was told of how she clumsily tripped over her own feet and fell.

A familiar feeling of disappointment comes over Alan as he turns his attention back to the empty road in front of him. He’s just in time to watch the bus pull to the curb, settling down on the pavement. The sounds of diesel engines and airbrakes shatter the silence of the corner, and Alan steps into the bus, leaving the sign behind to gather the next batch of lost souls.

His pocket change makes a sharp metal on metal sounds as he drops it into its receptacle, and he makes his way back to row 14. Turning to his left to seat himself he smiles; seems the stars saw it fit for him to get the window seat this morning.

He sits down with a deep sigh; the air escaping his lungs in a warm rush. His eyes close as he casts his hand into the depths of his pocket, fishing for something familiar. A bite - and he comes up with a small, leather-bound journal. Alan’s hands find a resting place atop the book as it finds its own place in his lap. He lets his fingers run gently over the cover and the spine, feeling every time-laden flaw - every crack and crevice - that make the book real. When Alan opens his eyes again his demeanour has changed ever so slightly. A coy smile tickles at the corners of his mouth, and the slightest of sparkles has returned into his dark and intense eyes. The journal always has had that effect on him, being filled nearly cover to cover with true stories of love and life, of the happy and the humble, of the long-lasting and the last-laughing. “Hey handsome,” a voice from the past whispers into Alan’s ear. He revels in the familiarity of it, letting the words embrace him with their warmth.

“Hey”, the voice repeats, louder this time. Alan snaps back to the moving bus, jerking his head to the source of the voice.

“This seat taken?” says the young brunette. Her comfortable smile once again stirs that sense of familiarity in Alan.

“Not at all”. Alan returns the smile and gestures politely to the empty seat beside him. The young girl adjusts her skirt as she sits, resting her university textbooks on her lap. Among a calculus book, and one on philosophy, Alan notices a copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses. Alan’s smile returns to his face once again knowing that there are still some young people who appreciate classic literature, and he considers discussing the epic with her, but decides against it. He is, after all, a good twenty or thirty years her elder - having just turned 51 - and he doesn’t need to appear as some kind of creep right now. He has more important things to worry about.

The bus lurches forward again, back on its concrete track through the city, and Alan rolls the sleeve of his coat to get a glimpse at his watch. 9:47. Still a good 10 minutes left. He relaxes back into his seat and casts his mind out to take control on its own accord. It finds a predictable train to follow; the young girl reminding him so strongly of his first love, Sarah. Sarah was an angel; as no other word would suffice in describing the way Alan saw her. Dark long hair that flowed gracefully down the perfect form of her back, and a smile that would drive a man to buy her flowers before they even had the chance to realize what had happened. Her soft voice was accompanied by a soft hand driven by a soft demeanor. She seemed the very definition of innocence. Funny how in a city such as this, something like that can be viewed as a weakness; can make someone a target to those who feel they are stronger.



July 25th, 1979, 6:30 am - New York

(30 years earlier)



The radio starts up - Alan never cared for the harsh buzzing of an alarm - and a sultry saxophone brings his eyes to slowly open. He lays for a short time, letting the slow bass line walk through him, as the passionate melody works its way into his soul. He rolls on to his side, settling face to face with his lover. He is close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, and see the small traces of laugh lines already forming on the border of her lips. He whispers to her in the growing light of the morning, “Hey, I love you”.

Her eyes open slightly, and she smiles playfully.

“You woke me up just for that?” She kisses him quickly, not bothering to re-open her eyes afterwards.

“Go to work, you can worry about loving me later.”

Alan smiles at the sentiment, kicking his feet off the bed and standing erect in his proud, 160 pound glory. He’s not completely sure why he woke her up for that this morning - he can usually escape without her even noticing - but the thought of it makes his stomach drop. A strange feeling of dread stops him in his tracks, but passes so quickly he wonders if he did, indeed, feel it at all. He shakes - or shivers - it off, and goes about with the rest of his day.

4:39

A short phone call from work tells Sarah that Alan will be home late. Work needs to be done and he doesn’t think he can get out until after 9. Sentiments are exchange and the phones hang up.

8:50

Sarah decides to surprise Alan by meeting up with him on his walk home. She dawns a light coat and walks out into the night.

8:53

Alan’s stopped dead is his tracks by another terrible feeling that grapples his heart like some clawed beast dragging it up into his throat.

8:55

Sarah comes into sight, but instead of being overwhelmed with happiness, as he normally is, he is suddenly gripped with fear. She isn’t safe.

8:56

Alan runs towards her, putting everything he has into placing himself beside her. His briefcase lays discarded on the sidewalk, the papers scattered across the ground, grabbing at the slight breeze to bring them to new places. A man in black steps from the shadows, his dark form towering over the dainty frame of Sarah. She has a look of confusion on her face that tells Alan she has not yet even noticed the man behind her.

8:57

The man draws his blade from its make-shift sheath in the back of his pants, and Sarah suddenly becomes aware of him. She spins around frantically to come eye-to-eye with the man. She sees only his madness. Alan is suddenly overwhelmed by an image of the dark mans blade desecrating the temple that is his Sarah. He will not let it happen. He will not lose her.

Alan hit’s the man at a full sprint, knocking him to the ground. As he falls his knife hand swings uncontrollably, catching Alan just above his left eye. The warmth of his own blood suddenly clouds a considerable part of his vision, and he hears Sarah scream from somewhere behind him.

8:57:30

The two men grapple for dominance on the sidewalk while Sarah watches in terror from behind them. She takes a step back from them. Then another. Then another.

So distraught with fear, Sarah hasn’t realized how far away she’s backed from the scene. The cab driver isn’t to blame. As she stepped from the cover of a parked pick-up truck, he had less than a second to react. He put his foot to the brakes, eyes widening suddenly in surprise, and a photo of his wife a beautiful daughter flies from the review mirror to land somewhere on the floor. The behemoth of steel and plastic collides with the frail form of the dark haired girl at an alarming rate. The sound of screeching tires is enough to stop the two men fighting in their tracks. The dark man stands and runs.

8:58

Silence.

8:59

The driver is on his radio, calling desperately for an ambulance while an operator tries to calm him and find his location. Alan sits on the concrete, the broken body of an angel lying in his arms, and he makes no attempt to stop his tears from flowing freely. His body shakes as his mind searches through his emotions like a rolodex: fear, anger, denial, confusion, more anger, more denial, and finally they settle on overwhelming despair. Sarah’s breathing is labored, her chest rising and falling is spastic motions, her eyes fixed on Alan’s, searching for comfort, for a solution, for a knight in shining armour. Her fingers find his, and the feel of her soft touch tainted by her own blood is too much for him. His head drops to hers and he sobs uncontrollably.

9:00

Sarah’s body stills. Her shaking ceases, and the sporadic rise and fall comes to a stop after one last, slow exhale. Alan sits unmoving for an eternity, refusing to leave her side. The ambulance arrives, and the medics take the couple into the back of their vehicle. Both parties know that it’s too late. The sirens sound anyways, and fade slowly into the night.



*



Alan’s hand instinctively raises to his face. The tips of his fingers trace the outline of the scar over his left brow, while familiar tears form in his eyes. The young woman beside him notices, and puts a hand on his knee. She looks into his face with a genuine expression of caring, and Alan tries to form a smile. “Sorry,” he whispers quietly, “just reminiscing about things long past.”

She smiles again; a reassuring smile that does in fact work to give Alan some small comfort. Her hand makes a small circle on the top of his leg before returning to her open textbook. Regaining his composure, Alan once again looks at his watch. It now reads 9:52, and Alan sighs. Another 5 minutes to go.

Alan keeps his mind on a tighter leash now, preventing it from retracing its steps into the past. He instead occupies himself by watching the people on the bus; an activity he has always enjoyed thoroughly. A young woman at the front of the bus rocks her child gently against her breast, singing a lullaby in a surprisingly pleasant voice. Directly to her left, just across the aisle, sits a businessman. His briefcase rests beside him with a protective hand on top, while his other hand controls his walkman, its headphones trailing up from under his coat to rest in his ears. His eyes are closed and his foots taps out an indistinct rhythm. A couple seats behind him sits a handsome young man. His blues eyes can be seen darting to the side every few seconds, stealing quick glances at a gorgeous blonde-haired girl sitting across the aisle from him. She is completely oblivious to him, caught up instead in her harlequin romance novel, but she won’t be forever. In a short time she will adopt a completely different view of the boy, as before the end of the night, her life will be saved by his able hands. Then she will take the time to learn his name. Then she will take the time to fall in love with him. In a years time he will join the army, but she will wait for him - loyally and faithfully - until his return a few years later. He’ll have a good education then, and enough money to buy them a house out of the city, in a very pleasant little town by the ocean. There they will live together for less than a year before he calls her and tells her to meet him at their favorite restaurant, a little Italian place on main. There he will move from the table, planting his weight on to one knee, and pulling a small box from the pocket of his best coat. There she will turn a wild color of red, not that of roses but a softer red, reminiscent of the color of certain sunsets when the clouds lie just right. There he will pop the inevitable question, and she’ll be so happy she’ll blurt out “Yes!” before he is even given the chance to finish.

A couple years down the road the first child will be born. A boy, and they’ll call him Tom, after the young mans best friend who didn’t come home from the war with him. A couple of tears will be shed at that; one from happiness and one from sadness. The yin and yang balancing the moment to make it absolutely perfect. Their lives together will be long and happy, full of trials that only make them stronger, and they will pass quietly of old age, leaving a son behind who is destined for greatness.



*



Alan smiles and opens his journal, picking up the black pen that rests inside. He flips it to one of the few empty pages near the end and writes down a few paragraphs. The practice of writing lightens his mood again, and his past is once again left in his past.

He closes the journal, resting it back on his lap, and he notices the young woman beside him smile slightly at his sudden change of moods. She continues to delve into her book as Alan checks his watch again. Only a minute left now. He starts too feel a little bit nervous but quickly subsides the foolish feelings; after all he’s been ready for this for a very long time. He looks again to the front of the bus where a young couple have began to argue over something. Their words are hushed but their meaning can be conveyed in their eyes alone. Slowly their voices elevate, and the woman’s baby in the row across from them begins to cry. She pushes her voice a little bit harder in an attempt to calm the child down.

Only ten seconds left now.

The young couple elevate to a point where they are yelling audibly at each other. Everyone on the bus is now aware that there is a third, unwelcome, woman involved in this couples relationship. The bus driver is becoming agitated, as the couple are seated directly behind him.

Four.

The woman stands up, yelling profanities at her boyfriend, who tries desperately to calm her down.

Three.

The bus driver turns around, asking the woman in a pleasant but very firm tone to “please, take her seat”.

Two.

The light turns red, but the bus driver is distracted and fails to notice it. The mother suddenly stops her singing and tries to yell out a warning. Alan relaxes in his seat, freeing all of the tension from his tired and sore muscles, a slight smile still on his lips.

One.

The bus careens though the intersection at full speed. Alan turns his head to look through his window. He watches as the cement truck gets close and closer to him; seemingly in slow motion. Milliseconds pass as if they were decades, as foot by foot the truck barrels inevitably nearer to the bus. As the connection is made Alan can clearly see the look of terror on the drivers face as he tries desperately to slow down his vehicle. Of course there is no time for him to be successful, and the truck hits the bus with a devastating roar of metal bending metal. Glass shatters and the shards spray across the passengers, who instinctively cover their faces as they are tossed back and forth across the aisles. The bus is mangled and twisted as it is pushed horizontally through the intersection. Other cars in the vicinity swerve to avoid becoming a part of the snowballing catastrophe. When the scene comes to a halt, those who are conscious make a break for the door. The young couple - forgetting about their argument - help the women and child to get out first, before exiting in each others arms. A young man sees a beautiful blond girl trapped in her seat where the truck bent the metal of the bus to cover her lap, securing her legs. He stops his journey to the exits and makes his way back. In an almost inhumanly feat of strength he bends enough of the metal away to slip the frail form of the girl out from her death-trap. He picks her up into his arms, as he will do again one day on their wedding night, and carries her out the nearest exit. The first thing she will see when her eyes open again will be his worried face hovering over her, and she will never love another man again.

A fireball of fuel touches the heavens as the truck explodes. The driver looks around, trying to account for everyone that was on his bus, when a young woman grabs his arm frantically. “The man sitting beside me!” she cries, “I don’t think he made it off the bus!”

The drive looks frantically over at the vehicle already engulfed in flames and shakes his head. He knows that it would be suicide to walk in there. He touches his fingers to his forehead, then his chest, then his two shoulders, and, wrapping an arm around the girl, leads them both away from the hellish scene.



*

A small article is posted in the August 4th release of the local newspaper. It is basically a subscript of a larger article outlining the accident that took place the day before. Its introduction is short, saying how a journal was found that belonged to one of the victims, and a scrap of paper sat, undamaged, inside of it. Written upon it was this:



*



The Nature of Time





Alas, I can’t think what to do except put my pen to paper and try to explain my mind to the world. An impossible task surely, but what else can be done. My name is Alan Bordeaux, and I can see the future. How, or why? I do not know. I know only that what most would view as a blessing is in fact a curse.

You see time is a strange thing, surrounded in so many mysterious shrouds. While one believes in fate, and a fixed track that life will follow, another believes in choice, and making his life what he wants it to be. I believe in both, but I also believe time to be a cruel mistress. Let me explain.

Picture, if you will, a long straight conduit; a pipeline perhaps. Our lives flow through it, from A to B in a way that we only think we are in control of. Then someone like me comes along; a plumber of sorts. While, from inside the pipe, you see only what is ahead of you, I can look at it in its entirety, tracing it all the way to its finishing point. So you may be thinking to yourself “this man can change it! Redirect the pipe!” and how I wish you would be correct in that thought. But, alas, it does not work that way. Were we talking of a wire, it could perhaps be bent - reshaped - in order to alter a certain event, before molding back into its original path. Our pipe, however, is not so flexible. I have tried to move it, pulling and pushing it with all my might. But the copper of its walls does not bend. Sometimes it moves slightly: a young girl who is seen as dying from a knife wound, instead falls into the line of traffic. Showing us that even though we moved the pipe, it still fell right back into place the moment we took our weight off of it. There is one more option though, I discovered. The pipe can be broken; a life ended prematurely. This is a power no man should ever have control over. The consequences are dire and unforeseen. Now as a plumber you tend to first check where the pipe is leading; and I’m sure you can imagine how terrible a life can be when you see the demise of everyone around you, without being able to affect the outcome.

So I found the only happiness I could, in the few people who will live long and prosperous lives. In this journal you will find an account of all those people. It has been my anchor to this cruel reality, a beacon of light against a stormy darkness that consumed me. So for those in my heart, know one thing: I passed away this 3rd day of August, in the year 2009, with a smile upon my face, and a weight lifted off of my shoulders. Take consolation in knowing that by following my path onto seat 14b of that bus, I could allow a young love to bloom, and I could prevent a beautiful student from bursting her pipe before it met her destination. Thus is the nature of my time, and thus are the memoirs of a tired, old plumber.



Sincerely,

Alan Bordeau

July 26, 1979