Neighborhood HeroesJeremy Bromgren stood uncomfortably on the expensive carpet, in front of the massive desk. He was surrounded by lost art treasures from all parts of the world and all eras of human history. Mr. Brown had his chair turned away from Bromgren and was talking on a headset. This was his little game to make Jeremy feel small and unimportant. “Good,” Mr. Brown said to his secretary, who he dealt with only by phone and computer. She had never met her boss. Jeremy didn’t even know whether she was in the building. She could be in Sri Lanka for all he knew. Mr. Brown turned his chair towards Jeremy. “It went well?” he asked. Jeremy was sure that he already knew the answer. “Sun Man faced his first battle. He lost, badly. We feel that it softened him up for the next stage of the program. The media, as you have probably seen, was fed selected clips of the battle and a script that made it seem as if Sun Man won.” “We’re ready for the next stage with this kid?” “Yes, sir, with one little problem.” “What’s that?” Mr. Brown asked. Jeremy swallowed. Mr. Brown looked at him exactly as if he didn’t know what Jeremy was going to say. He knew, of course. The bastard always knew. “Uh,” Jeremy said. “We don’t know where he is.” ***** A villain was attacking Mike, pushing down on his chest in an attempt to suffocate him. Mike struggled to shake the villain off, sitting up quickly and shaking off confused images of figures that blasted him with heat and ran into him like flying battering rams. A gray and white cat jumped away and ran under a nearby table. It turned its back to the wall and curled its tail around itself. It glared at Mike with big yellow eyes, asking how dare he disturb its comfortable sleep. Mike lifted a hand and rubbed his head. His head hurt, along with his ribs and most of his muscles. He sat further forward on the sagging couch where he had been sleeping. The room was small and cluttered. Across from the couch was the table where the cat had run. An old sewing machine and piles of fabric covered the tabletop. A washing machine and dryer took up the end wall, away from the door. The washing machine made gurgling noises as it did its work. The door opened and a plump brown skinned lady came in with a basket of laundry. “Buenos dias,” she said. Mike realized that he was nearly naked. He was still wearing the special superhero underwear, but had only a sheet to cover the rest of himself. The lady turned back to the door and shouted, “¡Mija! El hombre del sol estas despierto!” Mike didn’t really know Spanish, but growing up in New Mexico it was impossible to avoid learning a few words. Did she really say what he thought she did? “Donde es...,” Mike asked, furiously trying to think of the right word. “...mi ropa?” he wasn’t sure if he just asked for clothing or rope. “En la machina,” The lady said as she left the room. In the what? Mike looked again at the chugging washing machine. Oh. When Mike had asked Mireya for help the day before, pursued by three villains in his first major fight, he thought she might find a place to hide him long enough for the villains to pass by. Mireya was standing on the side of a skyscraper at the time, strolling vertically up the glass as if it was a garden path. Mireya did hide Mike, in the van that she used to distribute food and water to the homeless. When they were sure that the flying villains and the giantess were gone, she had also insisted on taking him back to her home. He tried to object, but he was a lot more banged up from the battle than he had realized. As she drove he lay on a thin blanket surrounded by cases of bottled water, and every jolt of the van as it hit the many potholes of L.A. streets threatened to beat him up more than the villains did. Still, his eyes started to fall shut, and the next thing he knew he was waking up with a cat using him as a bed. “Good morning,” Mireya said, entering the little room. She was dressed in jeans and a white blouse with puffy sleeves. She looked great. “Hi,” Mike said. “Was that your mom?” “Yes.” She sat on the old kitchen chair at the sewing machine table. Mike kept the sheet over the medallion on his chest. “I don’t know a lot of Spanish, but I think your mom called me—” He looked around for anyone who might hear, then softly said, “Sun Man.” “El hombre del sol,” Mireya nodded. “How does she know? And how did you know I was Mike when I flew up to you and asked for help?” Mireya stood up and walked to the washing machine. She opened the top, and the noise of the machine stopped. Mireya reached in and pulled up Mike’s Sun Man costume. It was soaking wet. “It was filthy. My mother insisted on washing it. She doesn’t think white is a good color for someone who gets in fights all the time.” Mireya let the costume fall back in the water and closed the lid. The washing machine began chugging again. “I’m trying to keep a secret identity here,” Mike said. Going back to the chair, Mireya said, “Then don’t disappear and two seconds later come back as the hero. I knew it had to be you who brought the container full of bread out. You were the only one who left before Sun Man appeared.” Mike couldn’t argue with that. “Then you were on TV that morning, and...” Mireya said. “I was on TV?” “You must have seen it.” “I haven’t seen much TV recently.” In fact, the Society had kept him so busy that he hadn’t turned on the big flat screen in the hotel suite once. “There was video of you carrying the container, and opening it up for everyone. Then there were people at the morning shows in New York with signs about you.” “What? Who was out filming in the middle of the night? And I don’t know anyone in New York.” Mireya shrugged. She started to say something, then a chorus of dogs started barking in another part of the house. “They’re here,” she said. “Find some clothes and come and meet everyone.” She waved at a basket full of clothes near the dryer. Mireya turned and left the room. Mike got up and fumbled through the basket. He found a white t-shirt and some shorts with a wild black and tan pattern on them. He wondered whose they were. The brother, Hector? Mike pulled on the shirt and shorts and went through the door. There was a kitchen to his left, but all the sounds, of dogs and people coming through the front door, were coming from a tiny living room to the right. Three dogs, a small one of indeterminate breed and two large shaggy ones, were circling around as Mireya let two people in. The big ones had stopped barking, but the little one seemed to think it was his or her duty to let out a shrill “Arf!” at random intervals. A cat, this one pure black, sat on the couch with its feet tucked under its body. It watched everything. “Mike,” Mireya said, “This is Anthony, and this is José.” Anthony was tall and skinny, just a few years older than Mike. José was a man who must be in his thirties. He had dark brown skin and resembled the people carved into the walls of Aztec temples. “Dude, I saw you on TV!” Anthony said. “Awesome battle. They said you kicked ass. How fast can you fly? Can you run fast?” “THEY KNOW TOO!?” Mike shouted. “They carried you in from the van,” Mireya said. “Why don’t you call the L.A. Times?” Mike asked. “I thought I could trust you, Mireya.” He turned and stomped back towards the laundry room, though stomping with bare feet wasn’t very satisfactory. Mike went to the washing machine and opened the top. It had finished its cycle and stopped. The Sun Man costume was in a load of white underwear and socks. Mike pulled it out. It was damp, but Mike was too mad to care. He started to pull off the t-shirt. Anthony came through the door, followed by Mireya. “Dude, it’s okay,” Anthony said. “We’re all superheroes too. We’re a super-team.” “Right,” Mike said. “Do you mind? I’m getting dressed.” Anthony raised his hand and pointed at the dryer. The machine slid forward a couple of inches. Then Anthony pushed with his hand and the dryer moved back into place. “I’m Lodestone,” he said. “Sounds like your as hard as a rock, or something,” Mike said. “What does that have to do with moving things with your mind?” Anthony rolled his eyes. “It means I’m magnetic, dude. Google it.” He left the room, shaking his head. Mireya stayed, and smiled at Mike. “Please stay,” she said. “These are my friends, they’re all special.” “I came to you for help, you blab who I am to everybody.” “I couldn’t carry you myself. You must be hungry, come eat something. You’ll like my friends if you talk to them.” Mike swore and pulled the t-shirt back down. “I am starving,” he said. The little kitchen was crowded. Anthony and José sat at the table, and Mireya’s mother was serving something from a large pot that smelled very good. She and José spoke in Spanish so quickly that it was impossible for Mike to pick out the few words that he knew. Someone else was also sitting at the table. All Mike could see at first was the top of his head. He was leaning over a bowl of cereal and bringing up huge spoonfuls, with milk dribbling all over, some landing on the table outside the bowl. “Mike,” Mireya said, “this is Dennis.” The room fell quiet. The conversation in Spanish died out, and Anthony and José started looking between Dennis and Mike. Mireya’s mother put the pot down on the stove. Dennis looked up, with a spoonful of cereal hovering over the bowl. He slowly put it down. Then he raised the same hand towards Mike. Dennis was dressed in what looked like ragged pajamas. He was a white kid with tousled brown hair, about fourteen or fifteen years old. His eyes looked directly into Mike’s eyes from behind a frayed black mask, the cheap kind that people wear for a Halloween costume, then throw away. His whole outfit was dirty. Someone had sewed a large red D onto the chest of the pajamas. D for Dennis? Mike thought. What the hell? “I’ve never seen him take this long,” Anthony said. “Shh,” Mireya said. Dennis concentrated. He shook his head a little. Everyone else in the room looked expectantly between Mike and Dennis. “Goodness,” Dennis finally pronounced. Then he went back to slurping his cereal. The chatter started up again. Mireya’s mother scooped some food into a bowl and pushed it towards Mike. Mireya pulled out the last chair at the table. “Sit and eat,” she said. Mike sat, still confused by what had just happened. The food smelled good, and he grabbed a fork that was on the table in front of him. It was some kind of beans and rice. He put a large forkful into his mouth. “Can I have some water?” Mike had to ask. “Um, agua, por favor?” It was not the spiciest food Mike had ever eaten, but it was enough to make him gratefully gulp down the water when Mireya’s mother put it in front of him. Anthony leaned forward. “Dude, that fight was awesome,” he said. I never heard of Buzz Kill and Heatwave working together before.” “They’re called Buzz Kill and Heatwave?” Mike asked. “Sure,” Anthony said. “How could you not know that?” “They don’t announce their names, like in the comics.” “Yeah, but all the heroes in town know those two.” “What about a huge woman, like eight feet tall?” Mike asked. “She threw rocks and cars at me.” “New one on me.” Anthony shoveled more beans and rice into his face. Loud music suddenly started to play in the kitchen. “That’s me,” Mireya said. She produced a cell phone from a pocket and answered. She listened briefly, then closed the phone, looking unhappy. “Lead on the shooter?” Anthony asked. “Yes,” Mireya said. “But I think we have lost him.” Mike felt like he had walked into a movie theater halfway through the movie. “Will someone tell me what is going on?” he asked. “We’re trying to catch the freeway shooter,” Anthony said over the sounds of Mireya’s mother washing dishes. “The freeway shooter?” “Where have you been? The biggest gang around here shot at a family on the freeway. A little boy was shot in the head.” “I said I haven’t seen the news recently,” Mike said. Anthony started to talk again, but Mireya cut him off. “Mike is new here, Anthony.” Then she addressed Mike. “There has been a lot of shooting between Spanish speaking people and black people,” she said. “The family on the freeway was black,” Anthony said. They were just driving down the freeway. Another car goes by, and bam bam bam!” “The kid’s dead?” Mike asked. “Miraculously, no,” Mireya said. “But he is damaged for life. Three years old.” Mike tried to imagine who would shoot a three year old. “The police have identified the shooter, but they can’t find him. The gang is hiding him,” Mireya said. “Or was. According to my tip, he’s on a bus to Mexico that left an hour ago.” “Damn!” Anthony yelled. “We’ll never get him.” Mireya looked directly into Mike’s eyes. Mike felt the power of a woman’s eyes concentrating on him alone. “You could,” she said. “Me?” Mike asked. “Oh, you mean, uh, Sun Man.” He almost didn’t say the hero name out loud, but it seemed everyone in the room knew. “Well, uh, I could fly down the highway and look,” Mike said, “but how do I know which bus? There must be a zillion.” “One of us will have to go with you,” Mireya said. We know the shooter, he’s from this neighborhood.” A vision of flying in all his heroic glory on a mission of justice, with Mireya in his arms, flooded Mike’s brain. She would be grateful for his help and then... “Take José,” Mireya said. “WHAT?” Mike squawked. His vision collapsed. “His abilities will be more useful than mine.” “I can’t even talk to him!” Mike said. “It doesn’t matter.” “Why don’t you go?” Mike asked, hoping she would change her mind. “Everyone in this neighborhood knows me,” Mireya said. “I don’t bother with a mask, everyone knows who I am when I start walking up a wall.” “What does that have to do with...” Mike began. “I know this boy, this shooter. His family goes to the same church as my family. If he sees me and gets word to the gang that I was involved, no one I know will be safe.” Mike was struck by her connection to her community. He had never been part of anything, he had always been apart. “But, then...” he tried to think about what it meant to have loved ones to protect. “Why get him? Why not let him just go to Mexico?” “I care about the people who live here. If the Spanish gang gets away with shooting blacks, then when the black gangs shoot back, it will be my people who die. All gangs have to learn that shooting isn’t the answer.” ***** Mike was not a happy horse. He flew with José sitting on his back, legs wrapped around his chest and hands gripping his shoulders. All he needed was a bit in his mouth. Mike flew faster than he had ever flown before. At first he worried that the man would fall off or not be able to take the speed, but Mireya had told him that José could take it. Mike still didn’t know what José’s powers were. Mireya had made him get into his costume, which still wasn’t dry, and leave as fast as he could. He found the costume shoes next to the washer. Mike’s bright light, his speed, and his unhappiness didn’t bother José in the least. José pointed to tell Mike where to go. Pretty soon they were following a freeway with as many as eight lanes, which according to the many large green signs was the 405 South. It wouldn’t take long to get to San Diego, and not far after that, the border with Mexico. When the freeway had gone to two lanes in each direction, and the traffic had been reduced considerably, José suddenly pointed at the roof of a bus that was reflecting the sun with a glare that bothered Mike’s eyes. “You sure?” Mike asked. There had been a lot of buses along the way. Then the realized that his passenger didn’t speak English. He flew over the shiny roof of the bus, and suddenly felt lighter. He was no longer gripped by José’s legs. He bounced up in the air a ways, no longer having to support the extra weight. José was striding purposefully along the roof of the bus. It had to be José. He was no longer dressed in old brown pants and a knit shirt with a collar. He had a feathered headdress, and a skull mask. Or was that a mask? He had some kind of necklace of round objects. Mike shook off his confusion, and flew down level with the bus driver’s window. He knocked on the window and waved. The driver was a black woman with her hair piled up on top of her head. She looked at Mike but didn’t flinch. “Stop the bus!” Mike shouted. The driver shook her head. Mike flew faster, getting in front of the bus. He twisted in the air and stopped, floating at the level of the large windshield. He crossed his arms and waited. The brakes squealed and the bus came to a halt an inch before it hit Mike. He dropped to the ground and walked to the door of the bus. The door opened with a hiss of air. “What do you want?” the bus driver asked. Then she turned to look behind her when screaming broke out. Light entered the bus from a large hole in the roof. José, or whatever José had become, walked up the aisle between the seats. People pulled away from him as he passed them, some screaming or crying. The round things on the necklace were eyeballs. Nice. A large woman near the back shouted, “Mictlantecuhtli!” then fainted. Who are whatever José had become, leaned forward right into the face of a very young man in a seat near the front. The young man sneered back. “I don’t believe in old fairy tales,” he said. “Do you believe in going to jail for shooting a three year old?” Mike asked. “If you don’t, you will soon.” The good thing about stopping a bus in the middle of the freeway, Mike discovered, is that the next state trooper to come along stops to see what is going on. This made it unnecessary to call the cops. Mike just dragged the young man off the bus and handed him to the trooper. “Miguel Vasquez,” he told the cop. “Wanted for a gang shooting in L.A.” José came out from behind the bus, looking quite normal. “Una buena dia,” he said. ***** “He’s some kind of personification of the Aztec God of Death,” Mireya said. “You could have told me.” Mike sat in the living room of Mireya’s house with a big bowl of Rocky Road ice cream. He swallowed a cold, delicious spoonful. One of the large dogs stared at Mike, hoping for a share of ice cream. Mike tried to ignore it. “I decided you had to see it for yourself.” Dennis sat on a chair nearby, also eating ice cream, though more noisily. He had brown smears around his mouth. “What about him?” Mike asked. “Is he a superhero too?” “Dennis!” Dennis said. “Yes,” Mireya said. “I was joking,” Mike said. “I wasn’t.” “Come on,” Mike said. “He’s, well, retarded or something.” “Autistic. His superhero name is Dennis. That’s the only name he has ever told us. I found him on the streets. He was already dressed like that, and he won’t wear anything else.” “A superhero can’t be named Dennis,” Mike spoke loudly to the teenager. “A superhero name has to have ‘Man’ at the end, or be dramatic.” Dennis looked thoughtful, while cramming more ice cream into his mouth. “Finish your ice cream, Dennis,” Mireya said. “It’s almost bed time.” Dennis shook his head. “Not Dennis,” he said. “New name.” “Oh really?” Mireya asked. “What’s your new name?”
“Dennis Man!”
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