I'm no Superman

The other day at work, I dealt with this horrible customer. You know the type; thinks every store he walks into is full of people who’s sole mission in life is to kiss his ass and jerk him off at the same time. Now I deal with this particular brand of asshole everyday, and have been doing it everyday for fifteen of my thirty years. I’m used to it but have never grown comfortable with it. But I’m not complaining nor am I thinking that things will change for me. Assholes will always exist and as long as I decide I’m only good enough for customer service jobs, I will always have to deal with them.

After dealing with Sir Jerkoff, I went outside for a smoke. The sun was setting and the summer heat was finally dissipating and I swear I could almost see the heat bleed off of the cars in the parking lot. The sky was a typically gorgeous Minnesota blue and full of huge pillows of cumulonimbus clouds that were stationary in the sky. I smoked my smoke and stared at the clouds and was suddenly reminded of a recurring childhood memory of wanting to be able to fly like Superman. I would dream I could fly and I would soar straight up into the clouds. Lose myself and lose the world in (what I imagined would be) silky, soft whiteness. I would fantasize that I could nap on top of the clouds as if they were the world’s largest and most exclusive pillows.

I hadn’t thought about that in at least twenty years but there I was, a grown man, married with a child, staring at the clouds and dreaming. The last time I had had my cloud fantasy, I likely had a toy in one hand and the world in the other (for all children hold the world in their hands, even if it’s only their world). I wasn’t regressing into a childhood fantasy of being able to fly. No sir, just merely believing in myself again. Let me tell you; it’s been awhile.

After work I went home and made more room in our tiny apartment for our newly arrived daughter. I grabbed my toolbox from the hall closet and proceeded to take apart a long neglected exercise bike that had been slowly decaying in our living room. Like most exercise equipment owned by a fat American, I got more exercise moving the thing around than actually using it for its intended purpose. Rather than letting it continue to become a glorified hat rack, I decided to get rid of it. Nobody on Craigslist wanted the damn thing either so I took it apart and carried it three floors down to our dumpster outside. Then, against my better judgment, I dead-lifted the heavy fucker and threw it into the rusty green dumpster outside our apartment building. My semi-healed hand that I had surgery on last month bitched a little but not too badly. After that I trucked back inside and headed to the storage room in the basement of the building. Once there I furthered my manhood/idiocy by carrying a leather Lazy boy up three flights of stairs and deposited it where the exercise bike had previously called home. More room in our tiny apartment: Check. Comfy place to hold and rock the baby: Check.

Feeling like a better husband and father, feeling like a provider (“See honey, I provided a chair!”) I went outside our apartment for a smoke. In stark contrast to the afternoon, the sun had set and it was dark outside. The day’s heat went with the sun and it was a typically cool Minnesota fall evening. The sun was set but there was a full moon hidden beneath the clouds, backlighting the entire sky. Contrary to the afternoon‘s stationary Cumulonimbus clouds, the ones in the evening moved quickly and were thin and wispy like a stretched cotton ball. They seemed to be flying by while breaking all known speed limits to the sky.

Seeing the clouds moving that quickly made me think of the story-telling device used in many movies. You’ve seen it. The one where you see a city skyline sped up really fast with the clouds whipping past the screen and the sun rapidly sets as the sky darkens. It’s a way of showing the viewer that the day has ended. That night, watching the clouds speed away, I realized that I wasn’t Superman and would never be. Not even Batman, who had no super powers to speak of. I realized I would likely never be any of the grand things I used to picture myself being when I was a wee lad. I would likely never do any of the grand things I used to picture myself doing. It made me a little sad. It made me feel old.

When I walked back into the apartment I saw my wife sitting in the chair I had just hauled upstairs and put together. She was holding our newborn baby and rocking her slowly in the chair. She looked up at me and smiled contently, silently thanking me for bringing up the chair, for providing the chair. A nice place to sit with the baby. A good spot to rock her to sleep. Madeline, my new daughter, looked at me and smiled one of these early-baby smiles that melts away all hardness that exists in the hardest of men.

I am not Superman, nor even Batman. But all of us have daily opportunities to be heroes to our loved ones and, let’s face it, they’re the ones who deserve it most from us. I realized that night that I’ll never fly (under my own power anyway) but I could always be Superman to my daughter because that’s my job. That is my life now and it’s a good life. One definitely worth living.