"How did we come to this, eh, Barry? You and me? Hunh?" Topper's voice rang harshly against the concrete walls, but Barry did not stir. When he wasn't needed, policy was to keep the creature under heavy sedation.
As Topper looked down on Barry, he felt guilty. This was a new emotion for Topper, so he didn't quite recognize it. He just knew that it wasn't the way things were supposed to be.
"S'not the way things are supposed to be, y'know," he said with the earnest obviousness that an adult can only manage while too drunk to enter into a legally binding agreement.
"Ya loved him once, didn't ya, ya poor sap?" Topper could only be talking about Edwin, but this idea was ridiculous. Edwin had destroyed this man-child's life. Topper continued to project himself onto the world. "So did I. So did I. But ya can't love somebody who doesn't love himself."
He took another pull on the bottle.
"You know what's good about me? I love me. No, I really do. See?" Topper asked as he gave himself a hug. "I'm awesome."
Barry started to snore.
"Yes, I am. Awesome. And screw him if he can't have a good time. 'Cause that's not what I'm like. I can enjoy myself anywhere. I can have a good time just being me, y'know? 'Cause being me is the best time there is."
Tears streamed down the small man's face.
"'Cause I bring my own party, wherever I go. I mean, you wanna step out with me? That's fine, c'mon. Bring your friend, or mattress, or whatever down there. You don't? That's fine. I'm gonna have a good time anyway.
"See, that's the difference between me and Edwin Windsor. I have a good time. He has a JOB. But I'm working on him." He sighed deeply. He had been trying with Edwin, but it never seemed to do any good. It's all lies, he thought.
"Lies! It's all lies. But you know that. He was gonna make you rich and powerful and now you are down here in a hole in the earth. And if you get out of line, he's going to drown you."
The tears slowed and Topper wiped them away. He wondered if he had wound up like the Cromoglodon. He had told people that Edwin was the devil, but it had been a joke, or maybe a compliment. Edwin had promised that he and Topper could be bad guys. Villains. Evil. Get to do whatever they want. But the only person who got to do what he wanted was Edwin.
Topper realized, for the first time, how truly unhappy he was. How had he gotten himself into this? It was supposed to have been fun. But it wasn’t any fun. Topper couldn't remember the last time he had fun.
Even stomping the architectural model and strong-arming the guy, that wasn't fun. That was just a release of anger. Something Topper had done to keep his sanity. But fun. The pure, maniac fun that had sustained him through all of his revels and excesses—it was gone. He didn't know where it went. "Fucking suburbs," he said, taking another swig from the bottle.
"He's the devil Barry. He's the devil. He's always working! None of his promises come true!" Topper wondered if Edwin had implanted something inside his brain to keep him under control. He didn’t think so, but he knew the way Edwin worked. And by the time he found out about it, it would be too late.
"He's the devil, Barry. But he's the only friend I've got. I just don't know how to talk to him. How to make him hear me, Barry. How do I make him hear me?
"Okay, okay. I'm gonna try this out on you, because I trust you." The Cromoglodon’s snore grew a little louder. "We're gonna play make-believe. We're gonna pretend that you are Edwin and that I am, well, me. Ah, while we are at it, let's pretend I'm taller. I've always wanted to be taller. OK?"
Topper shuffled around the concrete floor of the pit, shaking his arms and legs, trying to loosen them up. Even the thought of speaking his heart—what he really felt, deep down inside—to Edwin Windsor terrified him. He told himself, this was make-believe. That no harm could come of it. If it didn't come out right, he wouldn't say it to Edwin. But all these things that were wearing on him, he had to do something with them. Or else he would burst.
The way Topper looked at it, other guys could hold things in but he just wasn't big enough to swallow his emotions.
"Okay, okay. See, Edwin, the thing is... look, there's more to life than business."
As he stared into the darkness, listening to the Cromoglodon's short, troubled breathing, he imagined how Edwin would turn his head just so, raising an eyebrow in a gesture of confusion that demanded clarification. How could he say that there was more to life than business? What evidence could Topper provide?
" ...uh, yeah, more to life. Because, what you're doing is..."
Making money? That is what Edwin would say.
"Yes, but..."
The “but” echoed through the empty hollow space. His objection swallowed by the darkness and lost underground. Topper stared into the blackness. The utter void from which he now tried to forge an argument against Edwin's cold rationality.
"Okay," he said, his tiny larynx producing a note of confidence at last, "here's the deal. Ya got things, right? And every thing has a purpose. A sports car is supposed to go fast and get you laid, right?" This would be the point where Edwin's eyes would start to glaze over, "RIGHT? Right! And the faster the car goes, and the faster it gets you laid, the better the car is, right? Un-hunh, you can measure it, you can put a price on it.
"But there's another kind of thing in the world, Beanpole. There are things that don't have a use. That you're not supposed to use. Like a sunset. It just is. It's not supposed to do anything. It is complete in and of itself.
"And there are other things like that. Like me. Like you. Like friggin' EVERYBODY! You don't have to be judged on what you do. You can just be! Right? You can just be. Even if there's no policy or procedure—just sitting your lanky ass in the sand and watching the sunset—that's enough.
"You don't need somebody to tell you if you are doing it right or not! You don't have to find something productive to do... You can just… just..." He trailed off. Even the invisible, imaginary Edwin in his head wasn't buying it.
Tears streamed down Topper's face. This was hopeless. He couldn't even think of anything to try to say to Edwin that might make him understand. He had lost his only friend (or the closest thing to a friend that he had ever had) and he couldn't even figure out something to do to try and get him back.
In frustration, Topper stamped up to the control room above the pit. He slammed his fist down on the electroshock button. The Cromoglodon awoke in fear. He cried out and convulsed against the rough floor of the pit as fear penetrated every fiber of his being. He whimpered clawed at the cement floor of the pit as if he was trying to dig a hole in which to hide.
His weeping having replaced by anger, Topper took his finger off the button. Jesus, thought Topper, there's just no talking to this guy. Even an imaginary version of him.
As he made his way back to the secret elevator, his heart was a little lighter. Sure, Edwin was hopeless. But now he didn't feel so guilty. It wasn't like Topper had betrayed him. There was just nothing else he could do.
As Topper swaggered towards the lobby exit, he took the final pull off the bottle of liquor. The security guard gave him an angry and confused look. He had gone to look for Topper in the bathroom and there was nobody in there. Now he was back? It just didn't add up.
Seeing the confusion on the guard's face, Topper couldn't resist. He raised the empty bottle high above his head. He turned from side to side, as if to acknowledge an imaginary crowd of spectators that packed imaginary stadium seating. Then he looked back at the security guard and said, "When you write this up in your report be sure to use the word, 'Extraordinary!'" He spiked the empty bottle of booze on the hard marble floor and it shattered.
The guard's face moved from shock to anger.
"MUAHahahahah!" Topper laughed and ran for the door, the security guard lumbering in hot pursuit.
As he cleared the door, Topper was screaming, "Let's go, let's go, let's go!" and laughing hysterically. Just another day on the job for Stevie.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gus thought he had
known what cold was. The cold in the middle of the North Atlantic. The man-killing wet cold of Korea. The high arctic cold that snatched the breath from your lungs. But Gus had never known what it meant to be cold when he couldn't stamp his feet.
The wheels of his chair crunched the flecks of salt spread across the stone of Excelsior Plaza. As his arms shoved the wheels downward, he could see his breath in the air. It was well before dawn, and the only noises were the humming of the lights and the roar of the gas jet that fed the eternal flame. He rolled to a halt in front of the stature. It was supposed to be Excelsior overcoming the Cromoglodon. Didn't look a thing like either of them.
The official story was that this is where the world's mightiest superhero had died while defeating the world's most powerful villain. That God so loved the world... Jesus, thought Gus, you’d think after thousands of years, they'd get a new story. He guessed the old one was still working.
But Gus didn't believe the story. He knew the truth. Excelsior was a strong horse, but not the kind that came from behind. He had seen him the few times he’d gotten his ass beat down. More than once he had given the 'World's Mightiest Hero' a pep talk to get him up off his melancholy ass. That was what his job had become. Well, most of it anyway. He didn't like to think about the other part of his job.
Gus turned his head and spit over the arm of his wheelchair. His shoulders ached. It was like they had kept him in that hospital just to suck all the strength out of him. He could still get angry, though. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Gus could run on anger. And boy didn't this statue get him hot.
Sure Excelsior had been here. So had a large building. Windsor Tower. Excelsior had knocked down the damn building fighting with an idiot in a purple leotard. At least that was the story they'd fed the press. But Gus knew different. Excelsior had wrapped up Lifto the Magnificent easy; he took the building down to screw with Windsor. Ah, maybe it had been an accident. Excelsior had been there to bust up Windsor's office. It got out of hand and the whole tower came down.
And that had been a mistake. As it turned out, Windsor was one evil bastard. Gus wasn't quite sure how, but he knew that somehow all of this was Edwin's fault. That Windsor was one of those rare Teflon bastards who managed to turn every twist to his advantage. Would have made a hell of an officer, thought Gus, with a sergeant's grudge beating in his frail, papery heart.
It wasn't long before they started showing up. Everybody who owed Gus a favor. Some that Excelsior had saved. Some who had been a part of the team, but had retired. And all of them knew that the official story didn't make any sense. It sure hadn't taken Gus long to poke holes in it. Why hadn’t anybody else seen through it? Half the world wasn't trying, the other half didn't care. Gus was just an anomaly. Like a two-headed cow or a three-eyed fish, Gus was a mutant, the guy who still gave a damn.
It hadn't been hard. A guy who used to work telemetry had given him Excelsior's last known position. It had been right on this very spot. And the transponder had cried out for nearly three weeks after he had disappeared. They could have looked for him, Smiles and all the other bastards who pulled his strings. The ones behind the flags and the badges and the seals. Why didn't they? There was only one answer. They didn't want Excelsior back.
There were, in Gus's experience, two ways to deal with everything. You do it out in the open, high noon, full daylight, man-to-man and settle it once and for all. Or you sneak around and jump a man from behind, or worse, overcome him with rules and paperwork. The death of fine print and a thousand paper-cuts. The “Them.” The “They.” The invisible few who ruled the world, they preferred to play the game in the shadows. No matter what side they were on, they didn't like to play fair. They weren't heroes. These were the men who had pulled Gus' strings too.
But no more. Now Gus didn't work for anybody. What was the worst they could he do to them? He knew he was going to hell. Valhalla was reserved for those who died in battle. Now Gus was in a wheelchair. There are no glorious last charges from wheelchairs.
"Couldn't you just find somebody with superpowers to dig him up?"
"No," says Gus. "No, Goddamn it, we have to do this. This is on us! Start digging."
The compressor started up and a jackhammer roared to life.
"I'm not sure about this," said the foreman. "This is a national monument. I mean, we could get into a lot of trouble. Why don't we go tell the authorities and have them dig him up."
"Hell, son, you think they want him back? You think they want heroes? They don't want heroes. They want people they can use, people they can control. They don't want people who will do the right thing. Who will see it through, no matter what the cost. They want people who will turn a blind eye to all the nasty things they do. Strong men with weak consciences.
"Oh, sure, they call those shadow men heroes. They give 'em medals and parades and cheer for them, but we all know the score. Deep down, those men are puppets. They're just giving medals to themselves.
"That's Excelsior down there, I'd bet my boot leather on it. And They're gonna leave him rot down there for all time. Heroes just aren't convenient anymore. So you—hell all of you—this is your chance. Your chance to prove where you stand."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When the concrete closed in over Excelsior, he knew relief. Not at first, of course. At first, he held his breath. He fought it for as long as he could. The primitive egg-sucking creature in his brainstem fought for life. It spasmed his limbs, raced his heart and dumped what little adrenaline he had left. It was no use. The cold, wet concrete poured over him and crushed him into the embrace of the earth. Eventually, he breathed concrete into his lungs and slept.
It was not as the sleep of ordinary men; its dreams were memory.
He remembered being young. His name, innocently enough, was Billy. And more than anything in the world, he had wanted a Schwinn Excelsior. The Excelsior was not an angular, computer-designed bicycle, but an object birthed by the caress of a draftsman's hand. Wrapped in chrome, the Schwinn Excelsior seemed to defy you to find a straight line on it. To Billy, it looked like it was flying even when it was standing still. A few years later, when he hit puberty, he would discover the real reason those curves appealed to him. The thing was sexy.
But there wasn't a lot of extra money floating around Rice County, Kansas in 1940. There was just farm work, and plenty of it. The locals counted it a boon when any boy was born, provided he grew up straight and true.
When Billy wasn't exhausted, he would sneak away from the farm and pick up what jobs he could. $89.95 seemed a long way away when he started, but little by little, he had filled up the Webb's coffee tin that he used as a bank.
If he'd been a little bit lazier, he would have given up on the bike. He would have lost his innocence and blown it on girls or demon rum or any of the other vices that were so ably advertised from pulpits across Kansas. But he was raised from good strong stock, and hard work was bred in his bones.
Every night he would count his treasure like some fabled miser of yore. And by his last nightly count he was five dollars and thirty-eight cents short. And it was the harvest. While that meant extra, groaning hours at home, it also meant that everybody was looking for help. If he could break away, it should be easy for a strong boy to earn that money in no time at all.
He thought he was keeping all of this as a great secret from his parents. But they knew. And when a lull came in the threshing, they let the boy go, turning a blind eye as he rushed to "visit a friend." He ran as fast as his feet would carry him. All the while, thinking, "This would be easier with a bike.” Everything would be better when he had that bike.
As fate would have it, the next farm over belonged to Ol' Man Wilkins.
Hard workin' people respected those that were frugal. Even those who drove a hard bargain were fine, but Wilkins, he went too far. And what's worse, he wore it as a badge of pride. So when he saw young Billy running all over town taking every job he could find—a boy possessed by the lust for a bicycle tha
t looked like a dream and went like the wind—Ol' Man Wilkins' smelled sweat that his cunning could turn into money.
When he asked Billy if he wanted to make a dollar an hour, Billy didn't even ask what the job was before he said yes.
The job was hay. One hundred bales moved to the top of the barn. Technically it was a job for two people, but why would Wilkins pay for two, when he could get it done by one, and for half the price? When he showed Billy the full hayrick in his yard, Wilkins sucked his teeth and said, "This here hay needs to be up there, and before it rains. Gets wet, it'll rot."
Billy nodded. Why was the old man telling him this? He knew all about hay. Hadn't he grown up in the most boring, hay-infested place on Earth. If the old man would be quiet, he'd just get it done and get his bike.
"And I won't have you putting wet hay into my barn. You check each one. If Johnson cheated me, well that's on him. But you put hay in my barn that sets itself afire, I'll take it out of your hide!" he said as he brandished his cane.
Billy was sure the mean old man was as good as his word. He just wondered how the old cripple would catch him with his withered old leg. He also wondered why the old man thought that his old barn was worth saving. Wouldn't even need a tornado to knock it down, looked like the merest breath o' wind would take the weathered planks right off it. It was old and twisted, seeming to lean a little to one side, just like the mean old man himself.
"Now get to it, youngster. And you best get these in before it rains, I ain't payin' you for no wet bales."
If Billy hadn't been so pure of heart, he might have used Wilkins' position of weakness against him and negotiated for more money. It was a hot day. It would storm in the afternoon. And if not today, then tomorrow for sure. And who else could Wilkins' have found to help him? A mean old man, living all alone and doing nobody no kindness.
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