Zephyr Box Set 1

by Warren Hately

  “We were a little worried about you, Joseph,” Max lays it on me eventually. “Your mum ran into Beth last weekend and something she said made us wonder if there was cause for alarm? You know what we’ve always said about partners supporting each other.”

  I mumble something and the monologue continues. (Yes they really do speak with one mind sometimes. It’s scary).

  “What about dinner? It’s been an age since we saw little Tessa. She’s growing so fast. I know you’re probably terrified about the prospect of her spending more time with her grandparents, but really, Joseph. . . .”

  “Jesus, mom, give me a break.”

  “That’s your inner teenager talking, Joey,” Max replies sternly. “She must be what, almost fifteen? I’m not going to let anyone seduce her. God forbid she would grow up anything other than the ‘normal’ Elisabeth seems to so fervently want.”

  “Beth’s got some pretty strong reasons for wanting her family normal sometimes. . . .”

  “That sounds like something we could discuss over dinner one night this week. What do you say?”

  Knowing when to fold, I nod reluctantly and we pencil it in. I’m no Sisyphus, but even I know when a chore’s overdue.

  Zephyr 1.8 “Between The Greetings And The Disconsolate Sighs”

  ANOTHER NIGHT AND we’re piling out of Mastodon’s armored limo on the perennial red carpet at Mechano’s. Doormen dressed as robots give me the creeps, but I’m with British hero Lionheart, Adam Sandler, and actors Jason Statham and Stanley Tucci, though I don’t actually know which one is which, though one has an English accent and seems to be keeping Lionheart amused and that’s all that matters because Mastodon and I are trying to show him a good time. He’s been in the country a week on a film promotion for his new documentary on the evils of forgotten land mines, a passion he developed apparently after being intimate with a certain formerly alive British princess, not that he’ll admit it, the cause like a torch he’s carrying in her memory. I don’t know why he bothers. He’s plenty interested in the local variety of “tottie,” so it’s not like he’s a monk.

  Mastodon is an enormous, beyond barrel-chested one-time hero of the 70s who hasn’t exactly gone to seed, but whose reputation was only enhanced by the news he’d married porn actress Ginger Lynn. He still gets around in the open fur-lined jacket, enormous side whiskers and the bull horns protruding from either side of his collar, but these days there’s more white in his hair than black. I don’t really care. I once saw him throw a taxi at a guy for wolf-whistling at a pair of underage girls. I like his style, plus I was quick enough to catch the cab and save everyone from an embarrassing lawsuit. If only he’d stop calling me “son,” reflecting on battles with Dr Stingray and his Orbital Death Station, and remember I’ve saved the world once or twice on my own, things would be peachy keen.

  Mastodon also has the best drugs. Almost a motto. I am sailing pretty close to the wind with a concoction the old man calls Lottery 99. He has connections to a private chemist and I know I saw him once, some years back, in police observation photos taken of Twilight’s uncle, Mob boss Tony Azzurro.

  As we emerge from the limo, Mastodon mutters something about “finding some bitches” and coincidentally the crowd of people who for some reason have nothing better to do than hang outside the club like lepers give a cheer and I, stupidly as it turns out, hold up my hands and grin. Jason Statham or Stanley Tucci elbows me and I turn to see a yellow cab disgorging four shabbily dressed Bohemians. It only occurs to me this is the rock band U2 when Bono walks up the steps past me, looks me up and down and nods, “G’day mate” in a fake Australian accent and gives a stoned laugh echoed by his bandmates. Me and Mastodon and the others filter into Mechano’s like the rest is some kind of dream, and doormen and hat-check girls and bar staff effortlessly disappear in front of us as we proceed. Although I never have to pay anyway, it is slightly disturbing to see the actors we seem to have accumulated aren’t at least being weighed for their value by the customary big men at the door.

  Inside, it’s like there’s been a power failure. It’s pitch black, the air so cold our breath comes out like from a dry ice machine, and for a moment I think I can smell sewage until I realize Courtney Love is standing in the foyer nervously juggling a baby it seems someone has unwisely passed her, the diaper full, her make-up a smear of red and black like some Norwegian goat metal band gone wrong.

  “Zephyr,” she moans like a zombie as we go past.

  “I do not know this person,” I say loudly just in case anyone’s actually paying attention.

  We round the bend and it seems like the Messiah has returned to earth. Amid the strobes, cameras flash, which seems weird because Mechano’s has such a strict policy, yet Bono has his hands in the air and moves up some carpeted steps and I realize they are moving to our usual booth. Twilight, Darkstorm, even Red Monolith – none of them are there to stop it happening. The club owner is Mechano himself, a mutant nobody has really worked out whether his life depends on weird proto cyber-technology or if he just has a kink for wearing lots of metal. His polished bald head positively gleams in the light from rows of overhead monitors showing explosions and car chases and girls in vinyl giving lap dances and cars exploding from alleyways and leather-clad Japanese power pop bands pulling faces while women seemingly giving birth to fully-grown men.

  Lagging behind Mastodon, we fall into a rut inches from the dance floor once we realize no one knows where to go. Lionheart bends over and throws up among the feet of some underage girls and they dance in it, oblivious, eyes closed like caught up in the Rapture. There’s already ketchup stains on the left side of the Brit hero’s tawny-colored bodysuit, just shy of the heraldic lion-thing in maroon on the middle of his chest, and the matching briefs he wears over the top aren’t as skin-tight as they probably were when he got up this morning. The strobe lights make my eyes tired even though today has been a total loaf. And when, minutes later, I spy Lady Macbeth slow-dancing with the Edge, frustration threatens to boil over.

  We mingle near one end of the horseshoe-shaped bar. Red Monolith and – of all people – Miss Black stand with a guy in a pale blue-and-white bodysuit I don’t recognize.

  “Can you believe that shit?” I ask, thumb in the direction of the former villainess, but between the greetings and the disconsolate sighs, no one seems to take me up on my frustration.

  I nod to Miss Black wearing her usual variation of the same elegant outfit, hair teased out a bit more and a diamond necklace around her high throat, and eventually my gaze settles on the guy in blue. He and Red Monolith talk half in sign language because of the music pulsing overhead, and one of Mechano’s plate-armored waiters walks past us with a tray of drinks going in the direction of you-know-who.

  “So who’s this guy?” I ask the person on my left, realizing only as I turn that no one’s there, Mastodon and Lionheart nowhere to be seen.

  Jason Statham or Stanley Tucci says, “Where’ve you been? That’s Sky Blue.”

  “Sky Blue? What sort of name is that?”

  “He’s the guy that saved that girl from that film,” the actor replies.

  “Oh.” I want to say something about wishing someone had saved me from Deuce Bigalow as well, but it’s just too fucking loud and I’m too annoyed to be bothered.

  “And he was in Starscene this month,” one of the two actors add. “I can’t remember why.”

  It occurs to me it’s been a while since I was in Starscene and I think about giving one of the reporters a call. Then I remember my ringtone and Nate Simon’s column in the Atlantic City Post.

  Fuck.

  At that precise moment, Sky Blue leans across and asks, “Has anyone else been hassled out by that guy in glasses?”

  I look at the spot not indicated by Sky Blue and recognize Clark Kent standing looking anxious. Every other head is turned in the opposite direction except for him, standing watching our little group, white teeth clamping his bottom lip, “stalker” written all over
him.

  “Yeah, I know that guy,” I mutter.

  I’m too tired for this shit.

  “I’m going,” I say, and physically push off from the bar.

  Across the room, Mastodon and Lionheart sit in a booth with Cameron Diaz, Sheryl Crow, Ralph Lauren, Jack Black, Scarlett Johansson and the Edge.

  As I’m leaving, I practically run into a skinny guy in an Armani overcoat, horn-rimmed glasses and suede pants, designer unknown, hair the color of an albino cat. Practically isn’t actually the word since the other dude basically collides with my chest and it’s only reflex that makes me snatch him by the upper arm so he doesn’t fall over on rebound.

  “Thanks,” the guy yells in my ear. He has an Irish accent. “I’m a big fan of your work.”

  “Really? Thanks.”

  I barely slow. The guy holds out his hand. “Adam Clayton.”

  “Nice to meetcha,” I throw back and then I’m gone.

  Except not quite. Miss Black comes out the exit after me and calls out. We pause for the spectacle of mega-star Macaulay Culkin arriving in a white muscle car, the crowd surrounding Mechano’s going nuts, the chiseled twenty-something still milking the success of his lead role as Achilles in Troy. I feel slightly ill to see Black Honey is Macaulay’s date for the night, especially when I don’t mind admitting he’s one of my favorite actors. As the happy couple tread past, Black Honey’s eyes find mine and she mouths, “Fuck you” very, very slowly and clearly.

  I turn to Miss Black and tell her, “This is doing my head in.”

  “Being famous?”

  “Are we famous?”

  “Well I was reading about you in the Post yesterday,” she says.

  “Christ. I’m not gay,” I stress.

  “No shit,” she replies, as I happen to be eyeing her boobs.

  I make a noise to signal surrender. Miss Black shrugs and brushes back her hair.

  “I wanted to ask you if you were serious about reforming the Sentinels?”

  “I think the mayor thinks we’re called the Squadron,” I reply. “Why?”

  “There’s a bullet point in Sal Doro’s piece last week about the robot malfunction,” she says. “Man, I can’t believe we can’t keep anything a secret any more.”

  “I blame Animal Boy, personally,” I say like turds wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

  “Gary?”

  “Isn’t his name Tom? Thomas?”

  “No!” Miss Black laughs. “Jesus, Zephyr, how many years have you known him for? It’s Gary . . . Gary Something-or-other.”

  “Long enough that he’s not a boy any more, I guess?”

  “Would you tell me, if you were thinking about it?”

  I pause a moment, reflecting on what exactly we’re talking about. I’m straight again, I also note with abject disappointment. Hand-in-hand with that comes wondering about the time. A revelation.

  “Is this what Sal Doro thinks?”

  “Quote, ‘Is Zephyr reforming the Southside Sentinels? It’s no coincidence the whole team from 2002 were at City Hall’.”

  “That schmuck.” I feel owed five hundred dollars like it’s a palpable thing, as conscious of it as I am of the hole in my ass.

  Miss Black touches my arm lightly. “Zephyr?”

  I smile, lifting a finger to brush across her cheek. I’m the hero again, at least for a moment.

  “What’s got you worried?”

  She looks indecisively at the finger and refocuses her gaze on my eyes, eyebrows furrowing intently.

  “It’s been a quiet couple of years for me,” she says. “I think I’m ready to take my career to the next level. I’m getting an agent.”

  “An agent?”

  “Yeah. When I heard Aquanaut talking about it, I thought it sounded like a good idea.”

  “Since when does being a hero need an agent? Jesus,” I sigh. “There’s no end of bad guys to fight.”

  “It’s a tough business,” Miss Black shrugs.

  The word business seems to resonate, and I think of my wife. It’s only been a few days, but Miss Black hands me a card, still crisp from the printer.

  “Just think about it, will you?”

  Zephyr 1.9 “Older, Less Interesting, But Even More Essential”

  IN THE WALLSPACE, once the window is secure, I switch on the light and fire up the computer on its small folding trolley. As the iMac goes through its start-up, I shuck out of my leathers and sniff my armpit and check my breath and squint into the small round wall mirror and then I put my Enercom phone and Miss Black’s business card (“For all sorceries, great and small”) on the pile of disorganized paraphernalia on the shelf unit built into the support struts at the back of my neighbors’ wall. The piles of business cards, scrawled notes, spiked receipts and creased paperwork seem to stare back at me like a mistreated pet. Not for the first time, I imagine what it would be like to have a secretary, a personal assistant as they call them these days, but because of my talk with Miss Black I start seeing the idea in a new light.

  An agent?

  On the top of the pile is Senator Keenan’s card and below is the one Nautilus gave me. Perhaps cleverly, the teal-colored rectangle only has the name of his agent, Saul Osler, a mobile number and an e-contact. I turn the card over a handful of times before snatching up my cell. It’s just after one in the morning. On the computer, I move the mouse in the cramped space allowed and click on a link I have to Enercom’s home page, and I hope I might be able to find some technical help because I can’t find the card for the woman who signed off on the sponsorship deal, Karen Someone-or-other.

  The call to Nautilus goes through to a machine and I leave a terse request for him to call me back, hitchingly reciting the Enercom number. I put the phone down and there comes a muted thumping on the bathroom wall letting me know Elisabeth is awake and knows I’m home. My phone problems will have to wait for another evening.

  Thinking on Miss Black’s comments again, I thumb the power down button on Zephyr central and tug the lever to release the secret door, not bothering with the spy-hole as usual. A vision from the Hell of the Irish clad in a dark lavender gown awaits.

  *

  “I THOUGHT YOU were coming home hours ago?” is the first thing she says.

  Wearing just a pair of boxers and feeling the cold, I say nothing as I start the shower running, hoping the banging pipes won’t wake Tess until Elisabeth tells me she’s staying at Astrid’s place.

  “Again?”

  “What of it? She’s fourteen years old, Joseph. She doesn’t have a wife to explain where she’s spending all her time.”

  “God, you know where I’ve been. Out,” I say – not my cleverest response.

  Elisabeth nods. “I didn’t see anything on the news.”

  “I’m touched that you even looked.”

  “Joseph,” she says, and eyes me seriously for a moment until I cease all other movements and concentrate on her stern expression. “Don’t talk to me as if I’ve stopped trying. One day I might, and you’ll know about it then.”

  Elisabeth’s parents were refugees from 70s Derry and there’s still enough Northern Irish twang in her own voice that it reminds me of Bono and the other guy who shirt-fronted me at the nightclub and I go sullen, no real suitable reply, and shuck my shorts off and step into the shower which is too hot as usual. I rapidly spin the cold water tap and the handle comes off, so I repeat the move using slightly more care.

  Elisabeth switches on the exhaust and steps from the room.

  When I’ve crackled dry, I dress in jeans, a faded pair of trainers, a long-sleeve tee under a Jets shirt, and I grab my motorcycle jacket as I head for the door. Elisabeth sits on the bed like she’s riding it side-saddle, a pool of light falling upon her from the tasteful reading lamps we recently installed. Her mouth opens in an O of surprise as I go for the front door and it’s a pernicious but immature part of me that takes pleasure in it.

  Down the all-night deli, I tinkle in through the glass doors and make
a hotdog from the machine and take a napkin and eat while browsing through the newspapers and magazines. I take copies of the Post and Starscene and the last two Chronicles, since I don’t know what day Sal’s article appeared. Once the unmoderated buying begins, it’s hard to know where to stop. Even TV Week does a line in supers gossip, and once I’ve got a Who, a What’s Weekly, a Give-Me-Five and CityLife, even the teen magazines start looking reasonable. I belatedly realize I’m on the cover of a kids’ magazine that is one part activities, one part comics, and three parts mindless drivel, with the caption “Could he be your father?” emblazoned underneath. I grab this one as well and head to the counter where the Uzbekistani teenager with a mohawk and lip ring nods coolly as he tallies up my spend.

  I’m yearning for coffee and at the same time looking forward to sleep. I stumble and lose my hold on the magazines just inside the doorway to the flat and Elisabeth emerges, wild dark hair standing up, watching with quiet eyes as I clutch my purchases to my chest and push the dropped magazines along the floor with my foot and through to the coffee table in the lounge. The flatscreen is on mute, tuned to a news channel showing forest fires half a world away, and the city is dark and asleep outside the panel windows that line that wall of our apartment. A modular sofa starts beneath the windows and curls around the coffee nook, and I sit down, followed by Elisabeth, and start pawing through the Post.