Chapter 1 - 1

         The story of a real life superhero does not begin with a bang. The cape and mask come without that fabled moment of metaphysical rebirth, without a ludicrous spectacle like some great and colorful cosmic baptism signifying a magnificent transformation of character. There are no columns of fire-blue space rays beaming down upon a lonely bone-dry mesa at sunset, or alluringly delicate pinpoints of ruby light weaving profound and epic messages against ashen midnight skies. Concentric rings of shimmering alien cloud formations - those are absent here.

There is none of that in this.

I wish there was. I would very much like to say that I witnessed such metaphysical splendor. I would like to say that these kinds of experiences exist and that I know of them, am part of them, live as a perfect extension of such wonders. It would be a terrific way to start this story.

I wish I could say that I was a spectacularly tortured soul born into secret misery, weighed down by suffering, some unthinkable physical ailment - a disorder of the liver, a dribbling secretion of glowing poisonous bile, taking blood and bone, leaving nothing left but a whisper of a shell, an empty vessel. Or, better yet, a blessed creature, something rare and other-worldly, a divine misfit of nature, enhanced, ethereal, a one of a kind roll of the dice, just by chance, the distillation of the most powerful and gifted genes; a Darwinian wonder.

            But these things, if I said them, would be lies.

I am five-foot and eleven inches tall, one hundred and forty pounds. My legs are as thin as pipe-cleaners and the climb up from there – well, it’s a formula that doesn’t want to be seen in a pair of tights. I also believe that my head is a bit too small for my body and I’ve got a weak chin. At thirty-five years of age I firmly believe that I should have more hair on my head than I do now. Some picture. I am not suggesting that I am grotesque in any overt, Quasimoto-like way. In fact, I have been told that I am a fairly attractive man. This is subjective of course.

I am the kind of man that you might bump up against, nose to nose in a crowded elevator, and never see. There is no hint of superhero in the geometry of my physical being.

My brain is reasonably reliable but I am not, by any standard, gifted.  My IQ is tepid. I know enough to know when I have done something stupid, but I am not nearly bright enough to avoid doing stupid things for any practical length of time. This is not the stuff that makes for a high-tech, braniac superhero. I did not devise a superhuman, electromagnetic skin-suit based on quantum mechanics or the theory of special relativity. Math and science were never my strong points. I will never strap myself down to a cold, perfectly milled bed of titanium held at an acute angle under an ungodly proportioned laser-syringe with the intention of injecting myself right between the eyes with a futuristic nano-syrum. It just won’t happen. And furthermore, I have not been, nor do I ever expect to be, blessed with any particularly charming attributes like sudden-psychic-awareness or uncanny catlike agility.

One final confession: my childhood was mostly uneventful. My formative years were pale and bland, churned out into the tired and even consistency of an old piece of gum. There are no outrageously sad or rattling events to splinter memories of my youth. I am not the victim of ghastly family trauma. My parents are no nuts. Insanity does not run in the family. My family tree is as colorless as cardboard.

One man becomes a real-life superhero the way another might become a dentist a shop-clerk or a thief; one day you look in the mirror to find that you’ve become a housewife, a tailor, or a movie star. It happens simply, it happens a little bit at a time. I turned around one day and found myself stuffed in an orange leotard with rubber beak strapped to my face. Was it a surprise? Sure it was. Was it magic? No. There’s no magic in the becoming – I can say this now - the magic is what you make of what you have become, or perhaps more curiously, what it makes of you.