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 6 of 6
Sunday
It’s surprising how quickly you can go from hero to goat. When I returned to my star early the next morning, Zorro was back and the first to come up with my alternate rap song: “Spidey-Chicken, Spidey-Chicken, he’ll run from any ass-kicking.” Storm Trooper must have been an actor because he made the most lifelike chicken noises to accommodate the song, and all of the gang flapped their wings whenever I was near. Tiny Godzilla did the chicken dance and that caused Old Marilyn to fall off one of her high heals and she had to steady herself on Sponge Bob’s suspenders.
Apparently, Dirty Bert and Zorro had regained their status as top dogs. I wouldn’t have come back except that I needed a few more greenbacks to make rent. One good thing had come out of this already. Last night, I called my sister to ask her advice on how to get puke out of my superhero costume, and she didn’t even judge me. We weren’t on the phone long, but she advised me to treat my costume like a carpet (since I couldn’t afford to dry clean). I bought a special cleaner to soak up the vomit, then vacuumed it off. It was gross, and looked like wet saw dust in my Dirt Devil, but I finally got the costume in good enough shape to be able to come back (even if the egg smell still lingered).
I also had a new plan. I had brought along some adhesive and black Magic Marker in my bat belt, and stenciled Spidey-Bat on my own star, figuring that it would catch the attention of the crowd. I was right. Quite a few tourists snapped pics of me and my walk-of-fame star. I was able to make rent money after only a few hours. The other heroes didn’t like my new tactic, not one bit.
Zorro led the scariest of the curb creatures to confront me about it, too, including skinny Hulk grunting with a wrestling mask: “No star for you!” My Spidey-Bat senses must have been working overtime because I felt an incredible sense of danger. And I was right. Just then, the Hollywood Police made a raid, with three wagons pulling up curbside and a squad of police started rounding up heroes. A few lucky ones on the ends of the block took off, and I understood why the subway was a big advantage when Dirty Bert and Zorro raced down the escalator.
I stopped to pull up the adhesive, and it took just long enough for me to get nabbed by a female officer pointing a taser at my nutsack, looking eager to have a story to tell her pals about. I held up my hands, and she cuffed them behind my back with with a plastic tie. It was pandemonium as parents tried to shield the eyes of children crying because their heroes were being arrested. I was escorted onto the street, where the sergeant in charge looked me over.
“Christ, he’s not Marvel and he’s not DC,” the police veteran muttered, pointing to the first two wagons where the Batmen and Spidermen were being separated and led to different vehicles.
“And he’s not an independent,” the policewoman behind me said, and I looked into the third van which was being filled with Old Marilyn, Sponge Bob, Godzilla, and Shrek. “Where should I put him?”
“We’ve got strict orders on segregation. I don’t want to hear it from the Captain if there’s a brawl because we couldn’t keep these creeps under control.”
I was having a hard time following this, but I thought I saw an opening. “Hello, officer, I just wanted to let you know that the Amazing Spidey-Bat is retiring from crime fighting!”
Storm Trooper made a clucking noise on his way to the third van, and I hoped this interruption hadn’t ruined my plea.
“You smell,” the sergeant said. “I don’t want you riding in my squad car. It’s your lucky day, dimwit. You can go.”
I didn’t wait for him to change his mind. I hurried across the street, away from the raid, and didn’t even care that my hands were still fastened behind my back. I was free. I could pay rent. I had another month to make my mark.
First thing was first. I headed to Beano, hoping that Maria was there to cut me loose. Or perhaps Chuck or one of the other baristas could use a bagel knife to set me free. I felt like I was hero enough to take on the world as I shouldered my way through the gawkers and tourists. Dad would be happy to not get the call he’d been dreading for years, and perhaps I had enough leftover money to invite Maria to a flick. Perhaps, my luck was changing. Over my shoulder, I could see the crooked white teeth of the Hollywood Sign beaming down on me.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6