About Martin Ott
A former U.S. Army interrogator, Martin Ott is the author of six books of poetry and fiction, including the forthcoming books Underdays, University of Notre Dame Press and Interrogations, Fomite Press. More at www.martinottwriter.com
Part 5 of 6
Friday
Hangover. How can it last two days? It sucks getting older. Something always hurts a little more than it used to, and that includes old wounds. My older sister Lorraine thought I was a too much of a dreamer for my own good, and once hid my boyhood diary in her bra drawer to make me want to go out and play with other kids. That didn’t stop me, and led to one of our worst fights. She never understood that I liked the anonymity of observation, which made the masked hero such a freeing idea. In the suit, I had met tons of people, and partied with kids that normally would have thought me a bit lame. I felt like there was some lesson here that I needed to learn, and I was eager to get my ass back to work.
Ahhh... the best laid plans. I returned to my blank star and noticed that my pal Jack Sparrow was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, he was taking the day off or else he was on his way to Thailand. It wasn’t long before Zorro came by with his stupid plastic rose and made the sign of a knife slitting a throat with it. “I warned you,” was all that he or anyone else said to me that day.
Maybe I was being paranoid, but it seemed as though all of the other characters kept a wide berth around me. Was I being blacklisted? More than once, I saw Dirty Bert whispering in the ear holes of masked crusaders or painted vixens, pointing to me. It was a good thing that I had that rap song to fall back on. I danced like I was still on E, and attacked the air until I felt like I was going to pass out in that polyester spider top. The maneuvers worked...ind of. I ended up making about half that day what I had with Jack, and couldn’t help but wonder if he was in a mass grave somewhere with hundreds of other Jacks Sparrows, Goofies, and Little Mermaids, the victim of some secret Disney-funded hit squad.
By the time the sun started pinking, I was wiped from not eating enough and being overheated. I was just about to take off when I saw a nightmare walking toward me. It was Maria with her loser barista boyfriend Chuck strolling down the street hand-in-hand. What kind of name was Chuck...he was blond, bearded, and overweight...she should have called him upchuck. She couldn’t be happier with this ass, could she? I was jealous and wanted this jerk to feel the same pain I did. A plan came to me and I acted with a hero’s reflexes. I hurried over to Zorro and threw down the gauntlet of a challenge: I bet him $20 that he wasn’t suave enough to get a kiss from that hot Asian chick holding hands with a bearded loser.
Zorro laughed and flipped his shoulder-length locks. He strode up to the couple, holding out his plastic rose and offering a kiss to “the most dazzling lady in all the land.” Maria smiled at the compliment, and Chuck looked like he had swallowed a fly. Then the impossible happened. My former girlfriend sighed and shook her head, handing back the rose. Did she actually like that turd? Zorro sneered at me and said, “I never took that bet, loser.”
Yes I was a loser, and I was sick of it!
Chuck grinned like a young virile Santa and took Maria’s hand in his. He led her down the boulevard ultra-slow, rubbing it in with a victory lap. He would no doubt take her for a hot night of street tacos and sex at his pad to reality TV shows. So what if that big shot could pay for cable? What about me? My whole life was slipping away...but only if I let it.
I was a hero now, and I took action. I snatched the rose out of Zorro’s hand with my left and cold-cocked Chuck with my right. It hurt like hell, but was worth it. The barista lost his balance and collapsed face-first onto the sidewalk, pulling Maria down with him. Just like the hit men that killed Batman’s parents, I tossed the rose onto Chuck’s ass, and stepped back into my shadowy alcove.
Zorro walked up to try to lend a dashing hand and Chuck sprung up, crushing him in a bear hug. “Maria, call the cops,” he said, squeezing the swashbuckler in his arms with serious intent…like a blackhead pimple.
What did I do? I got the hell out of there. The very last thing I heard was Chuck yelling: “What do you mean it was Spidey-Bat? You asshole, there is no such thing!”
Saturday
I had become a legend on the boulevard. Apparently, Zorro had been cuffed and taken to the Hollywood Police station. Dirty Bert hadn’t shown up yet for the first time in months according to Spiderman #2, and I felt a bit like Dorothy after the Wicked Witch had been melted.
Sponge Bob pulled out a breakfast croissant from his square pants (no I didn’t eat it) and it was only the beginning of the tribute. Old Marilyn offered me a “Frenchie”—what the hell?—that I politely refused. Little Batman and Batman saluted me with a two-man Pyramid that brought us all a bit of attention, and tips. I was suddenly big man on campus for the first time, well, ever! The whole area around the subway funneled crowds to my alcove, and I was no longer getting Zorro’s leftovers. At this rate, rent wouldn’t be a problem. I was even thinking about grabbing lunch with Wonder Woman, who had been trying to rope me all morning.
She wasn’t bad looking even if she was taller than me in boots and had surprisingly muscular shoulders. Perhaps my mojo had returned? Then the incident happened. Dirty Bert emerged from the subway like a vampire from the crypt, stomping with oversized furry feet straight toward me. Time stopped, just like in an action movie, and every creature in homespun outfits, sequins, and leather froze to watch the showdown.
The success I’d had with Chuck wasn’t all luck. I had worked for three months in a Tae Bo studio, and readied myself to launch a front kick that could theoretically drive my nemesis back to Sesame Street. This weirdo couldn’t be packing, could he? How could he hold a weapon with those furry mitts?
No, I was the amazing Spidey-Bat. Nothing could hurt me...nothing except for the secret weapon Dirty Bert had prepared all morning.
You see, Zorro had been the muscle of the operation, and Dirty Bert was nothing but a fetishist and a drunk. After visiting Zorro in the holding tank, he went on a bender. Dirty Bert did something unthinkable. He took off his head mask by yanking on his zippered unibrow, revealing a mustached creep with pale skin and acne scars. If I thought the unwashed stench rising from the neck hole was rank, it did little to prepare me for what came next.
Dirty Bert had a gift. He projectile-vomited the night’s drinks, the morning’s drinks, and his McDonald’s breakfast onto me. It smelt like he pissed, yacked, and oozed his small intestines right into my facemask, which did not stop the liquid from burning my eyes, filling my nostrils, and causing me to dry heave. My eye slits filled with mucus and I would have screamed except for fear of swallowing it.
I couldn’t stand it. The boozy egg stench was too much. I had to unmask, but what about my secret identity? My pride? Before Mom died of cancer she used to call me her little hero. I thought of that moment often, when I had my back to the wall, and dug deep to find a way, any way, to keep my dream alive.
I spied a Popeye’s chicken bag that several pigeons had been pecking—those cannibals! I picked it up, took off my mask, and stuffed the bag over my head. Through the tattered holes, I could make out Dirty Bert laughing and a large German tourist yelling in horror at the fight Spidey-Bat had lost. I suddenly had cramps and would surely toss my cookies if I could not get out of this costume. For the second time in two days, I fled, running as fast as I could without my makeshift mask flying off into the confused crowd of onlookers.
to be continue...
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6