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The Hero Experience - Chapter 10

 
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Bud Brewster
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PostPosted: Thu Mar 19, 2015 8:21 pm    Post subject: The Hero Experience - Chapter 10 Reply with quote



____________________________________________

Chapter 10

_______________ How I Spent My Summer Vacation

_____________________by Bradford Jones

I spent my summer vacation sitting in a Jeep Wagoneer with three morons, listening to a police band radio. The whole summer. Every stinking minute of it.


________________________The End


The Dynamic Quartet was back in Bowmen uniform, but not exactly back in action. We had gotten an early start, determined to see combat before curfew.

As I sat in the front seat of the Jeep and let idle thoughts chase themselves around in my head, I pondered the phrase “combat before curfew”. It sounded like the campaign slogan of a retired Army general seeking public office. “Vote for me and I’ll make sure our soldiers see combat before curfew!”

Apparently the city’s criminals were all at the polls voting tonight, because during our last four hours of diligent radio monitoring, we hadn’t heard enough criminal activity to keep the police busy, much less the poor underworked Bowmen.

I squirmed on the car seat as I realized that the leader of the Bowmen was sitting there feeling disappointed because no one was breaking the law. I should have been ashamed of myself.

But I wasn’t. I was bored, restless, and disappointed.

“Uh-oh,” Stan said from the backseat.

“What?”

“Rain.” He pointed at the windshield, and I saw the first fat droplets splatter across the glass. A distant rumble of thunder announced that a summer shower had ambushed us.

“What does the Superhero Handbook say about fighting crime in the rain?” asked Doug.

“It says you’ll get wet,” Stan replied, his voice full of disgust. He grabbed his mask from his lap and tossed it into the back where the bows were stowed.

“I vote we pack it in, guys,” said Carl. “My butt hurts from sitting so long.”

Desperately, I tried to put things into perspective. I pictured Batman turning to Robin after a long stakeout and saying, “Let’s head for the Batcave, old chum. My butt hurts.”

Nope. This just wasn’t a situation that ever occurred in the world of comic books.

Carl got no argument from us, so he started the Jeep, and we pulled out of the parking lot of the office supply store we’d been loitering in for three hours. Obviously it was an unlucky location. Next time, we’d take our business elsewhere. We hadn’t gone more than a hundred feet down the road when the sky sprang a serious leak and dumped a few million gallons of water on the world. The rain seemed determined to hammer the city flat. Before we had gone three blocks, the rain was so hard we couldn’t see the car ahead of us. Lightning frequently turned the night sky into a day sky for a blinding instant, after which the night looked even darker than before because our irises got all confused about whether the sun was out or not.

Carl’s driving skills were mostly wasted under the present conditions. We rolled along at a stately twenty miles per hour through two inches of water. The rain drummed on the roof hard enough to make conversation difficult, which was probably a good thing since it prevented anybody from saying something stupid like, “Think it will rain?”

“Is the radio still on?” Stan called out above the roar.

“Who can tell?” I shouted back. The windshield wipers were fighting a losing battle against the watery bombardment. A deluge like this could easily drown the whole world in a mere forty days. And it wouldn’t be the first time, either.

About ten minutes after it started, the rain slacked off and settled itself into a mere downpour. The police band radio succeeded in being heard again, which was a good thing because the first thing we heard was a report of a bad accident on the freeway.

“Sounds like I-85 is all blocked up,“ said Carl. “I guess we better stick to the Roosevelt Highway all the way home.” Carl had gotten permission to have Doug stay over at his house to cut down on the cross-town driving we'd have to do if we decided to try the Bowmen routine tomorrow evening.

We headed out of the downtown area on State Road 29, which was Main Street for several little towns south of Atlanta, such as East Point, College Park, Union Point, and Fairburn. The further south you traveled on Highway 29, the more each town you passed looked like it hadn’t changed since Gone with the Wind was a way of life instead of a very long movie.

Conversation was neglected, probably because we were all disappointed by the dull evening. Then the radio grabbed our attention and hung on tight.

Dispatch to Unit 18.

Unit 18, go.

Reported 10-101 at 1108 Willow Lake Road. (A civil disturbance.)

Unit 18, copy. I’m on Ellsworth Drive heading north. As soon as I see how bad the downed power line is, I’ll be 10-49. (Proceeding to that location.)

10-4. Dispatch clear.

I had the map open in my lap, and the bright spot of the flashlight was dancing around as it looked for Willow Lake Road. And by gum, there it was, just a few miles ahead, and a few blocks off to the right.

“Hey, now . . . that civil disturbance is right on our way home. Let’s drive by there.”

There was a long, quiet pause while everybody silently expressed their unanimous lack of enthusiasm for the idea. Then Doug, sitting in the backseat, felt the need to put it into words.

“What’s the point, Brad?”

“Just curious,” I said. Doug shrugged and turned to gaze out the side window as the world was washed away. Stan gave me a noncommittal look and abstained from voting. I looked over at Carl and said quietly, “It’s a right turn off Roosevelt, about three miles ahead.”

Carl’s eyes never left the road as he smiled and said softly. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

The sign for Willow Lake Road was barely visible through the steady haze of falling rain, but we managed to spot it in time to make the turn. Carl and I peered through the gloom and precipitation, looking for house numbers. 1100 . . . 1102 . . . 1104 . . .

Just ahead of us, I saw a strange little drama unfolding in the front yard of a house on the right. Stan leaned forward from the backseat and pointed.

“Now that . . . is something new.”

The front door stood open, and the porch light was providing just enough illumination for us to see a large man emerge from the house with a double armload of clothes. He dumped the load onto a pile of miscellaneous items that had already accumulated on the front lawn.

Carl cut the headlights as we approached, and he rolled the Jeep up to the curb a few house up from 1108 while the man turned and trudged back into the house. Carl studied the situation for a moment, then he said, “I think maybe somebody is moving out of that house.”

We could tell from the way he said it that it was an attempt at understatement. Somebody was being thrown out of that house — against the person's will — in the pouring rain.

A moment later we found out who it was when the man returned with another bundle of clothes. He was followed closely by a hysterical little woman who beat at his arms and tugged frantically at his sleeve. Her efforts hardly slowed the man as he added his cargo to the sodden pile on the lawn. Then he turned around, planted his hand squarely on the woman’s chest, and shoved her roughly out of his way. She stumbled backward and sat down hard in three inches of water, her backside making quite a splash.

The four of us sat there in shocked silence. Having enjoyed peaceful lives in quiet, stable homes, not one of us had ever seen a man so much as raise his voice in anger to a woman — much less shove one backward six feet and send her fanny-first onto a muddy lawn.

“Do you think we should do something to help?” I said in a uncertain voice. No one answered, and I was actually glad. Even though I didn’t like the way Alley Oop was treating the little lady, all he’d really done was get her backside muddy when he shoved her down. And besides, the weather wasn’t real favorable for a heroic rescue. If we waited about fifteen minutes, we could change our team name to the Frogmen and swim to her rescue.

Just then, the Incredible Hulk emerged from the house with an armload of shoes and purses, which he pitched at the pile on the lawn from six feet away. The poor woman staggered over to him, wrapped her hands around his big upper arm, and pulled herself against his side. It was obvious that she was begging and pleading as she clung to him in a classic feminine gesture of supplication. The four of us sat in the Jeep in doe-eyed silence and felt our young hearts go out to the poor woman. We waited for the man’s anger to melt away in the rain and take her inside before she caught her death of cold.

It didn’t happen that way. He tried to step around her, and she started flailing at his face with her tiny clenched fist. The man’s head jerked backward with the first few blows, then he grabbed the front of her blouse, raised an open palm high, and slapped her into next week.

Hot damn, that did it.

Doug, Stan, and I were out of the car almost before she hit the ground. Carl started to get out, but I told him to stay with Jeep. Stan yanked open the tailgate while Doug and I hastily put on our masks. I grabbed my bow and turned to sprint toward the lighted front porch. I heard Stan and Doug behind me as I splashed across the weed-grown front lawn, stumbling through the inky shadows caused by the weak porch light.

I didn’t realize the ditch was there until my feet were suddenly pawing the air. My stomach collided with the muddy wall on the opposite side, and then I landed in ankle-deep water. The impact had knocked the wind out me, so I couldn’t even say all the dirty words I was shouting at the top of my voice inside my head.

Doug and Stan came right down on top of me, and for one horrible second, I thought I was going to drown in the oozing mire. The back of my head was pushed down firmly into the slimy mix, and I heard Doug cut loose with a few classic invectives.

In a why-me-lord voice, Stan stated the obvious. “They’re diggin’ up the plumbing.”

The trench ran diagonally across the front yard from the house to the street, but it had been perfectly camouflaged by the pouring rain and the inky shadows created by the wimpy porch light. We helped each other get to our feet, climb out of the trench, and stand up facing the house. The couple had gone back inside just after we’d gotten out of the car.

So, we waited. We were an awe-inspiring sight. Our clothes were not visible, covered completely by a creamy chocolate coating. If we had lain down, we would have been invisible like the Clay People of Mars in the old Flash Gordon serials.

Just then, Ming the Merciless returned with another ton of personal belongings. His wife followed him like the tail of a comet. She slapped at the back of his head without attracting his attention. He was so intent on his task that he didn’t see us standing forty feet away in the dim light. He flung the load at his growing pile, turned around, and gave the little woman such a clout that her teeth would have to be re-glued into her head. She spun halfway around and landed face down in the mud.

I was shocked, mad, and muddy — all at the same time. I tried to yank an arrow from my clip, but my gooey fingers on the slippery arrow made the job practically impossible. When I finally pulled it free, I fumbled with it, unable to line it up properly.

Still struggling, I shouted, “Okay, hold it right there, pal!”

He whirled around and fixed the three of us with a glare that was so filled with molten rage I fully expected our coats of mud to bake into pottery. Stan managed to fit a slugger into place and draw it back, purely as a threatening gesture. He got out eight words —

“Mister, you shouldn’t have hit that poor little . . . "

— when his slimy fingers slipped on the bowstring, and the slugger ricocheted off the man’s massive left shoulder. He grunted once, glanced down at his shoulder, and then charged toward us like a bull.

Doug displayed more common sense than courage by turning around and jumping right back into the ditch!

I finally got my slugger in place just before the man reached me. I took two steps back to give myself room to shoot — and toppled back into the ditch as well.

I landed flat on my back with a splash just as Bigfoot rushed up to the edge of the ditch with the obvious intention of leaping down and burying me in this conveniently dug grave. Just as he crouched to jump, a slugger flashed up and caught him so squarely on the chin that he lurched backward with his arms pin wheeling. I heard him stumble and fall into the water on the lawn.

Doug was lying on his back next to me, fitting another arrow, ready to hold our position against the enemy.

“Bravo,” I said. He grinned, white teeth framed by a coating of wet muck as brown as a Hershey bar.

We struggled up to peer over the edge. From our ground-level view, we saw that Stan was in big trouble from an unexpected source. Apparently, blood really is thicker than water. The man’s wife was slapping at Stan while she chased him around the front yard. The family unit was sticking together when faced with a common foe. Stan had his free arm up to protect his face as he backed around in circles, pleading with her to stop, while her husband struggled to his feet nearby.

“Let’s get out of here!” I shouted at Doug. “This ain’t workin’ out too good!”

Meanwhile, poor Stan’s efforts to escape from the irate little woman caused him to backpedal right into the ever-popular ditch. He sailed into the blackness, and a cascade of water leaped up into the night.

Doug and I came up out of the ditch like two dolphins at Sea World.

“Let’s go, Cowboy!” I called out to Stan. He launched himself out of the dark hole like a big brown seal. As we splashed toward the street, I heard the man screaming things at us that were thankfully lost in the hissing rain. Carl had moved the Jeep past the house during the battle and stopped in front of a house beyond 1108. We saw the taillights, and we reached it quickly. We tossed our bows into the back, then I hurried around to the passenger side and yanked open the door.

Carl took one quick look and me and exploded. “You’re not getting in my car like that!”

“What?” I shrieked.

“You can’t get in until you clean yourself up!” he said firmly. I started to get in anyway, but he tapped the accelerator and pulled away quickly, causing the door to slam shut as he moved off down the road. The three of us screamed at him as he drove several yards further and then stopped. We ran after him, but when we got within a few feet, he shouted from the open rear window and tailgate.

“Put everything but your pants in the back! Wipe them off as much as you can!”

Stan did a fine job of expressing the indignation we all felt when he bellowed, “Stop screwing around, Carl! We gotta get outta here!”

Carl’s reply shot back from the open rear window. “Then hurry!” And he rolled further down the street to emphasize his bargaining position.

“Okay, okay!” I shouted.

We started peeling off our t-shirts, masks, shoes, and socks and tossing them into the back of the Jeep. Stan surprised us when he sat right down in the rapidly moving mini-river of rainwater that rushed along the side of the road and bounced up and down energetically while he splashed water on his face, arms and torso. It was outrageously undignified, but it worked. It washed away most of the mud on his pants, feet, and upper body.

So, Doug and I did the same thing, feeling absolutely ridiculous. And during the whole humiliating ordeal we kept looking over our shoulders to see if our arch-enemy, the Evil Evictor, was charging towards us through the rain with a baseball bat to teach us that trespassing was not considered polite.

Finally, all three of us climbed into the Jeep, cold and wet and half naked.

“Now get us out of here!” I pleaded. Carl put the Jeep in gear and spun the tires on the wet road as we shot forward — only to find ourselves at the end of a dead-end street.

“Oops,” said Carl. He hastily maneuvered the vehicle in a desperate effort to get us turned around. Way down the street, I saw the flashing lights of an approaching police car. Carl backed onto the shoulder and jammed the Jeep into first gear. But when he let out the clutch we didn’t move, and I heard the tires spinning in the mud.

“Uh-oh,” grunted Carl.

The police car was drawing nearer. If the man at 1108 Willow Lake Road told the police that we had driven down the dead-end street, we were goners. Carl frantically rocked the Jeep back and forth, shifting from first to reverse while the rest of us had nervous breakdowns at the thought of being arrested half-naked and soaking wet for assaulting a man and his wife on their own property. It’s a cruel world.

“Got it!” yelled Carl as the Jeep came back onto the pavement and we finished our turn. Carl gave it full throttle, damn the torpedoes, as we plunged into the rain, heading back up the street. We flashed by the house at 1108 Willow Lake Road just as the police car pulled into the drive-way. We glimpsed the man and woman standing nose to nose, screaming at each other. I pitied the poor police officer who had to break up that fight. Watch out for the ditch, officer. That first step is the worst.

“Get me to a phone, Carl,” I said as we roared down Willow Lake Road.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Doug said, “Good God, Jones! You’re not going to call this one in, are you?”

“Hell yes!" I said with great conviction. "We’re sunk if we don’t. Those people will charge us with assault and trespassing. We need to get this whole thing written up as a big misunderstanding. Good intentions, unfortunate occurrence, funny situation — that kind of thing.”

Everybody was very quiet as they gave the matter careful thought and considered the tragic consequences on their future lives. Finally Carl said, “Brad’s right. I saw it all from the street. We’re screwed if we don’t handle this right.”

And so I made the call from an outdoor pay phone while I stood there barefooted, half-naked, and shivering in the rain, wrapped in the blanket we used to cover the bows in the back of the Jeep. Here was yet another aspect of being a masked crime fighter which the comic books neglected to show us.
_____________________________________________

“Here it is,” said Stan as he held up the newspaper the next morning after searching through the first half-dozen pages. He scanned the article in the Atlanta Journal, the morning edition of the paper. But then he turned an even paler shade of white than usual, and his eyes took on a troubled look while he stared bug-eyed at the article. After fifteen seconds of silence he blurted out, “Oh, no. I can’t. I just can’t! Here, Doug, you read it.”

He handed the newspaper to Doug, who was leaning back on the extra bed in Carl's bedroom, where he'd slept last night. The rest of us sat around looking dejected. Doug found the article and then read it aloud:



“Oh, good lord . . . I can’t read the rest either!” Doug tossed the newspaper aside in disgust.

But Carl was laughing, and I couldn’t keep a straight face either. Stan’s expression still showed more than a little sympathy with Doug’s negative attitude toward the situation.

“This whole project has sure gone haywire," Stan stated bitterly. "This isn’t what we planned at all.”

I was amazed that Stan felt that way. “Hey, that’s not true! This has worked out better than we ever expected. Admittedly, it’s not much like the comic books — but that doesn't really matter. We really are masked crime fighters!”

Stan stood in the middle of the room looking at me with two small wrinkles between his eyebrows and the same skeptical expression my father gave me once when I told him I got an F in math because the teacher didn't like me. Carl and Doug were staring at me like I’d been standing too close the modeling glue. Stan gave a snort of disbelief and said, “Brad, we appreciate your boundless enthusiasm. But how can you say that? We’re just four guys who tried to pretend we were — ”

“Whoa, hold it, stop right there. Look, guys, we knew the Bowmen weren’t going to be swinging from the rooftops of the city and battle gangsters in the streets. That’s what comic book superheroes do. In real life, it just ain’t that easy. But we have managed to ride out of the night and stop a few crimes — and we did it wearing masks and using crazy weapons we invented ourselves.”

Stan gave me a look of pity. “And you think that makes us real superheroes?”

“Yes! Don’t you get it? We’re not competing with the characters in the world of comic books. We're making this work in the real world. And since we’re the first ones to do it, we're setting the standards! Whatever we do . . . no matter what it is . . . becomes the criteria for success or failure.”

Carl and Doug seemed to be catching on, and they were nodding slowly. But Stan was still wrestling with the idea, and the inner battle was pulling his face in different directions — up, down, and sideways. I was silent for a moment while his emotions slugged it out.

Finally, Stan said, “Ummm . . . I still don’t get it.”

Surprisingly it was Doug who took up the baton. “Stan, what Brad means is that we are the mold, not the copy. We’re the real thing — even though we were patterned after fictional characters.”

Stan held his look of confusion while he closed his eyes for a moment and reread Doug’s remark on his brain-screen. Finally, he said, ”I repeat, I still don’t get it.”

“Let me try it again, Shakespeare,” I said to Doug. I turned back to Stan. “As the first, real-life masked crime fighters, we are making the rules . . . not following them. If we get kicked in the head or covered in mud, that doesn’t matter. Whatever happens to us is what happens to real masked crime fighters. We’re setting the standards — we're not trying to measure up to 'em.”

Stan’s face began to brighten with the light of comprehension. “Oh, I get it. Since we’re the first of our kind, whatever we do is right — just because we did it first.”

Pygmalion had finally mastered “The Rain In Spain.” With that in mind, I proudly announced, “By Jove, I think he’s got it!“ But then I saw Stan’s face fall back into the land of gloom. Fearing a relapse, I said, “Okay, what’s wrong now, Jenner?”

“I keep wishing that article hadn’t made us sound so ridiculous. Couldn’t you have dressed up the situation a little?”

My face turned red. “Good Gawdalmighty, I did dress it up! But that guy Daniels is a mind reader. I’d say something like, ‘We had a little problem with a ditch in the front yard,’ and he would interrupt with ‘You mean you guys fell into a ditch?’ Then I’d say ‘The lady must have misunderstood our intentions, because she resisted our efforts to help, so she — ‘ and he blurted out, ‘Let me guess! She tried to run you off just like her husband did!’ By the time I hung up, Daniels was in stitches!”

I shook my head sadly and felt my face growing red all over again as I relived the embarrassment of the experience. “Guys, I think we’re gonna have to get us a new reporter to call if we do the Bowmen thing again.”

Carl suddenly leaped up from the bed and glared at us like we'd just insulted his mother.

“Hell no, we’re not gonna do that! He did us a big favor. He had two choices: either focus on the fact that we had trespassed on private property and attacked an unarmed man — or turn the whole story into a slapstick routine in which the Bowmen meant well but ended up looking like mud-covered morons.”

After a stunned silence from all of us, Doug nodded in agreement. He launched into an oratory that proved he would someday make a fine lawyer.

“Carl’s right. Daniels downplayed the fact that we broke several laws, and he made the whole thing seem like a big misunderstanding. The article says that Simpson’s wife was treated for injuries caused by her husband. But it says that Simpson got a bruise on his shoulder and a black eye from our rubber-tipped arrows. I think most people would agree that a guy who beats his wife and throws her out of the house in the pouring rain deserves much more than a bruise on his shoulder and a black eye.”

Now everybody was nodding in agreement. The more we thought about it, the more we realized that our new public image was probably pretty good.

“Hey! Yeah. Good point, guys,” I said softly. “We symbolize adventure, excitement, and comic relief. All rolled into one.”

Doug picked up the paper and read the rest of the article. It sounded much better now that we wanted to be both dashing and amusing. See, folks? The Bowmen are just regular guys. Our career is well rounded. Danger, excitement . . . and mud wrestling.



When he finished, we were all feeling much better about the summer project that had taken such strange and interesting turns since its initial conception.

Stan suddenly noticed what time it was. “Hey, let’s go watch the noon news!"
____________________________________________

The Bowmen had been promoted. We were no longer just one of those funny little news items at the end of the show. We were mentioned among the top stories listed before the news started. “Get the full story on these and others, next on the News At Noon.

Wow. Admittedly we were still a local curiosity, but apparently we were a popular local curiosity. When our story aired, there were shots of the Simpson’s front yard, complete with the Ditch of Doom. Mr. Simpson was shown leaving the police station after his wife charged him with assault. Good for her. We all cheered.

When they showed poor Mrs. Simpson leaving the police station, she had a bigger black eye than her husband. That made Doug feel pretty good about smacking her husband in the face with a slugger. We all slapped him on the back and told him he was a true defender of damsels in distress. That was just what Doug wanted to hear, and we knew there would be no living with him from this day forward.

One distressing note marred the happy occasion. The police stated that they now had plaster casts of the footprints we left in the mud. They also had two more sluggers. But we had wiped the prints off of each one before putting them into their clips. Since they were always extracted from the clips by hands wearing the three-fingered archer gloves, we didn’t sweat it. But there was still the danger that we hadn't wiped all our prints off, or that our uncovered thumbs had left a print. It was a scary thought.

Doug suggested that we disband the Bowmen before we were arrested. The motion didn’t carry, but it was sure good to have Doug back to normal.

“When are we doing it again,” said Stan.

“Not for two weeks, at least,” said Carl.

“Why so definite,” I asked him.

“Because my father said I was putting too many miles on the Jeep,” he replied.

“Are you grounded?” Stan asked.

“No, but he’s getting grumpy about all the time I spend goofing off with you guys.”

“My dad is getting edgy, too,” I said.

“I think we better lay low for a while.” That was Doug. No surprise.

Everybody was giving me quick glances and uncertain looks. We had been pushing our collective luck since we’d started this project, and we were itching for an excuse to take a break — even though we didn’t want to quit entirely.

I looked around, heaved a big sigh, and then said, “All right. We lay low for a while. A superheroes’ leave of absence.”

This motion did carry without objections. I leaned back in my chair and looked over at Carl. “So, Romeo — how’s Cindy?”

He was slow to answer. Finally, he said, ”She’s okay.”

Hmmm . . . short answer. I waited a few seconds, then I said, “Did her friend Linda patch things up with Andy Gilliam?”

“Nope. He ditched her.” Carl’s expression changed, and he gave me a smile that put me on the defensive. “So . . . are you going to ask her out?”

Now it was my turn to be slow to answer. “Maybe.” I was hedging. Linda was a friend of Carl’s girlfriend, Cindy. It was interesting to know that lovely Linda was currently in need of comforting.

“Want me to fix up a double date?” Carl asked.

Fascinating thought. With Carl and Cindy with me, I just might be able to handle the mild terror that seized me whenever I was near a girl that I really liked.

After a few subjective hours of mental debate, I came to a decision. “Okay. Fix me up.”

Carl gave me the proud smile of a new father. “Atta boy!”


____________________________________________



_________________
____________
Is there no man on Earth who has the wisdom and innocence of a child?
~ The Space Children (1958)
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