“Pillars of ice,” George said. “We’ll line them up side by side.”
Daniel punched his open palm. “Impenetrable!”
“That’s a good word,” said George.
Daniel took his time to work free a box of Atlas fluorescent bulbs partially hidden under a bag of rotting fruit. He inspected each tube. Superman stripped the bare copper wiring out from an electrical box and tied the bulbs to the ends of four six-foot water pipes. He drove them into the ground at an angle by the entrance. Daniel adjusted the pipes to give them an ice-crystal-recently-speared-out-from-the-core-and-mantle look. The metal pipes were cold to the touch, and Daniel exhaled into his cupped hands every few seconds to keep them warm.
Superman punched out a water heater’s two corroded ends to complete the last section of tunnel that ran the length and width of the fortress in a small trench that Daniel had dug out with a bucket for the last hour. He covered the tunnel with the flattened cardboard boxes and flipped old tractor tires on top to anchor it all down. It was impressive enough that he asked Superman to let him know what it looked like from space if he ever got the chance. It seemed impossible that man might ever find his way into deep space to ever do it himself. Space was just a Sunday drive for Superman. Daniel stacked up all the hubcaps he could find on the dirt mound nearest the fortress. Superman bent precisely and hung each hubcap on sheet metal to catch all the light from the southern sky. “You’ll reflect the sun here all day,” George said. “A couple more of these, and this will be the brightest spot in the city. No one will be able to look up here without shielding their eyes.”
The procession in town had ended, and Daniel knew he had to get home. There was no surprise that his father hadn’t realized he was gone. His mother would have flipped La Loma inside out by now, but she worked the swing shift as a nurse’s aide at Central Receiving Hospital downtown. Daniel suspected a young woman—perhaps one of the Herrera sisters—might be sitting on the front porch, counting how many push-ups the Champ could do. She’d eventually crawl up onto his back and dare him to do ten more, and when the Champ pretended he couldn’t press up another inch, he’d roll over onto his side and she’d tumble on top of him and they both would laugh, and he would say you smell like the ocean, and she would swat his bare chest and say he’d better be careful because the ocean has a beautiful body that knows how to move, and he’d say that’s funny you should mention that, muñeca. It was the Castillo family broken record.
“Do you remember your father?” asked Daniel.
“Barely,” said George. “That was back in Iowa, a long time ago. My mother says he was a decent man, though.”
Daniel winked. “You mean Krypton-Iowa.”
“Daniel, I’m just a man like you’ll be when you grow up,” George said. “There’s not a shred of difference between us.”
This excited Daniel. “I knew it!”
Carlos and two men Daniel recognized from the railyard shined a red-and-white Coca-Cola flashlight in Daniel’s face. “You knew what, Danny, huh? You think you’re funny taking off like that?” said Carlos. He shifted the flashlight to Superman, who held his hands up to his face.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Castillo, I can explain,” said George.
“Dios mio! You again, George Reeves. I must be the luckiest man in all Chavez Ravine to run into a television star two times in one day. Look who it is,” he said to the two men who stood mostly unimpressed. “It’s the Superman from that kids’ show.”
Superman pushed up from the ground with only one pants leg intact. He brushed the dirt from his hands and removed his necktie headband. “Look, I was just making sure Daniel was safe. I was concerned after I saw him run off,” said George.
“I don’t think that’s your job.” Carlos hit his chest with the flashlight. “I’m the jefe here, George Reeves. You are pretend.”
“That may be,” said George. He pointed to Daniel. “But that boy needs more than a jefe or a champ or whatever you want to call yourself.”
Daniel traced the edge of the pocketknife on the outside of his pants. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who ran—”
“I think maybe this is all a misunderstanding. I’ll gather my things,” said George.
Carlos walked around the Fortress of Solitude. “I see you cleaned up the dump.”
“That’s where I live now,” said Daniel.
Carlos laughed and pushed Daniel to the ground. He poked Daniel’s black eye with his finger. “You talk to me like that and maybe you need another one of these.”
Daniel rolled out from underneath his father and crawled into the tunnel. Carlos and the two men kicked at the water heaters until Superman stepped between the three men. “That’s quite enough, Carlos,” he said. He put his hand on the tunnel wall and instructed Daniel to take the long way out and head home.
“I can see it in your eyes, George Reeves. I know that look better than anyone. I seen it in pendejos like you my whole boxing career. You’re curious about my offer earlier today. Maybe you finally want to know what it’s like to not hit in make believe, no?”
“What are you proposing?” asked George.
“Maybe you want a shot at my title,” said Carlos.
“What good would come of that? I’m just gonna see to it that Daniel gets home safely, then I’ll leave.”
Carlos again shined the light in Superman’s face. “You can tell all your rich friends how you stood toe to toe with the Champion of La Loma. And where you’re from, that’s still got to be worth something.”
“What do you get out of all this?” George asked.
“Well, George Reeves, I get to be the Mexican that beat up Superman.”
All of Chavez Ravine came to the witness the greatest fight card in the history of La Loma boxing—Manos de la Roca vs. the Man of Steel. Stores opened in the late night and vendors who typically took their carts down to city center during the day rubbed the sleep from their eyes to sell conchas and popsicles. The women prepared pumpkin and raisin tamales. Los veteranos put on full uniforms in case someone from the Times came to take pictures. The ring was made from milk crates and utility rope with white-caulked lines.
Superman apologized to Daniel that the day had come to this. He thanked him for his hard work building the Fortress of Solitude, said it was better than his own and that it really had been such a long time since he’d felt truly at home anywhere until now.
The two men stood under the single streetlight in La Loma. A growing ball of moths fluttered overhead. Carlos took off his shirt. The muscles on his chest resembled a marble staircase. He danced around the ring, delivering high-speed jabs at the hollering crowd. Carlos called Superman to the center of the ring with his fists. One of the men from the railyard worked Carlos’s corner and held up a pair of boxing gloves to both men. Carlos shook his head. “No los necessito. I want George Reeves to feel this.”
When Superman took off his shirt, his white gut flipped out over his waistband. There was no definition in his arms and a slight inward cupping of his shoulders. A patch of hair was the only feature that split his chest into two equal parts. It had been Daniel’s single most anticipated moment, for everyone in attendance to see the shield on Superman’s chest. Carlos called to the vendor selling sweet bread to come into the ring to serve his most loyal customer. Daniel took a place in Superman’s corner.
Superman stretched out his fingers and advanced on the Champ. Carlos delivered the first blow. A technically sound right cross that crumpled Superman to the dirt. The crowd cheered as Carlos raised his hands into the air and pretended to fly around the ring. Daniel sensed that this might be Superman’s number-one rule playing itself out. He slapped on the ground for his hero to rise up and get back in the fight. Superman rubbed his jaw. “I can see why you were the champ,” George said. A voice called out from the crowd: Hey, Superman, ’member that episode when you fought the bear? Get to it, amigo! Superman stood up and thanked the voice from the crowd. Carlos’s next combination i
ncluded a flurry of body shots. All the boxing memory in the Champ’s body had obviously not run out, and he painted Superman into the corner, pushing him over a stack of bushel barrels. Carlos yelled for Superman to get up, to stop being so damned maricón on the one night he should try to make a name for himself. When Superman finally threw his first punch, he telegraphed it so much that Carlos needed to only stroll out of its way. The retaliation Carlos delivered on Superman was so severe that the crowd covered their eyes. Some turned away completely, then decided to leave altogether. They had never witnessed anything like it before in La Loma. The Champ sat on Superman and punched his face repeatedly. Daniel felt in his own body, the pain attached to each blow. He begged for his father to stop, that he’d do anything his father wanted, that he’d become anything his father wanted him to be.
Superman turned his head toward the boy. Daniel noticed something that no one else had, something that no one in the world could have imagined happening except for him. Beneath the swelling in Superman’s face, under the blood that began to clot and cake, was a man in such uncontrollable laughter that you’d swear he was a tickled child. Rule number two, Daniel thought. He pointed it out to the crowd, and stopped others from leaving. And the louder Superman laughed, the more frustrated Carlos became. He rained his fists down on Superman for what seemed like close to an hour. The blood splatter painted Carlos as his body weakened. When Superman did his best to catch his breath, he only did so that he might laugh from some place deeper inside his belly. Carlos finally collapsed off Superman onto his back. The crowd cheered for Superman. They chanted, Hombre de Acero, Hombre de Acero! Daniel wiped his father’s body as he shivered with exhaustion and dehydration. The two men from the railyard dragged him from the ring and took him home.
Superman’s whitewall tires had been stabbed with ice picks. The candy-cane boat of a car sat flat on the ground. Superman pulled off its hubcaps. “Take these, Daniel,” said George. “You know what to do.”
He limped into Genaro’s Market and asked to use the phone. Alberto Cruz had worked at the store for close to a decade and knew Daniel well. He opened two sodas with a flathead screwdriver and placed them on the counter next to the phone. He shook Superman’s hand. “Anything for the new champ,” Alberto said. “And, champ, you talk as long as you want.”
“I’m sure Mr. Cruz knows someone who can fix your car,” said Daniel.
Mr. Cruz scrambled for the phone book.
“It’s late. I’ll get a tow truck coming,” George said. “She’ll be as good as new tomorrow.”
They sat on the front step of Genaro’s and waited for Superman’s ride to arrive. The Man of Steel held a rubber water bottle filled with crushed ice to the left side of his face where the swelling had started to close his eye shut. Daniel made two trips inside the store to change out the ice. Mr. Cruz sent him out with a hot towel to drape around Superman’s neck. Two young boys wrestled in the middle of the street. They grappled each other into headlocks and broke the straps on their overalls. Daniel threw chunks of ice and yelled for them to stop. Superman closed his good eye as Daniel slipped his glasses back onto his swollen face. “That’s where those went,” George said. “I’m not worth a damn without them.”
Two sets of headlights bobbed up Bishop’s Road. A flatbed tow truck and a black town car with darkened windows pulled up to the storefront. Superman waved. The tow truck mechanic stepped out and seemed surprised that it was George Reeves needing a tow. “Aren’t you the TV Superman?” the mechanic asked. “It’s hard to tell with your face. . . . Mister, are you okay?”
Superman handed the mechanic his keys. “Never better,” George said. “They say I’m the Man of Steel.”
“Do they now,” said the mechanic.
Mr. Cruz came out of the store with his push broom to hit the boys still locked up and pretending to be the new champ. No one got out of the black town car. Superman only nodded to the barely visible driver through its darkened window. The mechanic attached a chain to the Chevy’s underbelly and pulled it up onto the flatbed. He walked to the back of the car and attached a set of magnetic lights to the trunk. Heavy black wiring slapped each rear quarter panel.
“Be careful with her,” Daniel chided. “She’s one of a kind.”
Superman whispered through his bloodied, bulbous lip. “That’s right, son. You tell him.”
Daniel helped Superman to his feet. Mr. Cruz muscled under Superman’s right shoulder to give him support. A small gathering of Chavez Ravine residents gathered nearby, no doubt hoping to get one last look at the new welterweight champion. The children asked for autographs. Superman promised them he’d be back to sign every one when his vision improved. The women formed a circle around the black car. They draped Superman in orchids and yellow plumeria, oleander and Stargazer lilies. They prayed for Superman and signed the cross over his alien heart. Superman opened the back door and thanked Mr. Cruz for his kindness. He leaned on Daniel to balance himself as he let his body fall onto the backseat.
“We’re birds, you and me,” Daniel said. “Old crows.”
Superman forced open his swollen eye. “The last two sons of Krypton.”
Daniel shut the door and stepped away from the car. The neighborhood waved their good-byes as the car pulled away from the market steps. Mr. Cruz said he would never forget the day that actor George Reeves came to Chavez Ravine and left as the Last Champion of La Loma, that it would be as memorable to him as the day he opened his store for the first time. Everyone agreed and began their walk home.
The car stopped and the back door opened. Superman searched the hills for the Fortress of Solitude in the pitch black. Daniel anticipated the morning sun. When Superman stepped out of the car in his red boots and waved, he sent a vibration across the earth’s crust that knocked Daniel off his feet. The car continued down Bishop’s Road, where it eventually turned onto the Pasadena Freeway, heading away toward Benedict Canyon. Superman finally split open his bloodied shirt to reveal the Kryptonian S set against a yellow prism traced in crimson across his chest, the finely dimpled armor of his impenetrable blue skin. Daniel floated in the brief delay in gravity as Superman raised one arm and took flight, pulling all the clouds over Chavez Ravine through a burning hole punctured into the night sky.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The highest level of consciousness one can attain is to be in a constant state of gratitude. This is a science measured by the collisions in my own lifetime. Let’s call it love, and it starts here: My blessed mother, Rosalia Fierro Kaylor, despite the gravity in it all, you found our way through and brought me to the place where I could listen best to my heart and soul. Larry Kaylor, for your fatherly love and guidance. Nana, you painted on my heart the unconditional love, compassion, and faith of a thousand saints. Tata, my very best friend and superhero—you protected me in rocket ships and in the wash of transistor L.A. Dodgers games. My hand will forever be in the rough of yours. Nani, your love has always been an anchor in place and home. To family lost and now found. Shiloh, my heart is complete.
My thanks to Kathryn Conrad and the University of Arizona Press for inclusion in this honored Camino del Sol series. My heart-felt thanks to Kristen Buckles, Amanda Krause, Leigh McDonald, and Rosemary Brandt for the pure magic you poured over this work. To Pacific University MFA program director and friend Shelley Washburn for your kindness and devotion as I took the long walk into the wastelands. Tayari Jones, you invested in me when you didn’t have to. Christine Sneed, for your sensibility and story heart, for being my hero at the eleventh hour. Colleen Sump, a mile above and a mile beyond. A very special thanks to Poets & Writers Magazine, Bonnie Marcus and Cathy Linh Che, Ann Napolitano, and the Maureen Egen Writers Exchange Award, for all your giving support. Manuel Muñoz and Helena María Viramontes, for your time and the lessons in your own work. Lorian Hemingway, for your encouraging words and generosity. Thank you, Neltje, Lynn Reeves, and the entire Jentel Artist Residency for the invaluable gift of stopping time and the
Wyoming expanse. Kathryn Kulis-Fierro, for showing me the value of the journey well traveled. David Ballenger, for your friendship and Spartan approach to this craft adventure. Ron Spatz at Alaska Quarterly Review, for your belief and lessons on fearlessness. Don Rearden, for more than a decade of storytelling navigation, kitchen genesis, and all the piñatas on all the streets.
Luis Alberto Urrea, you are the firing pin in this grenade. The engine inside your heart transforms pain into laughter and prayers. I am forever grateful for our warrior friendship. Jake Adam York, if I’ve ever written one durable and lasting word, it came from you. There’s nothing in this craft if not for your lyric and the quest for the perfect BBQ. Jody Ellis, your steadfast and patient love saves me from daily capsize. All my love to you.
A special thanks to the Montebello Bat Cave, Newberry’s, and Saint Jude’s lair—for all the miraculous wonder and homemade tortillas a quarter mile off Atlantic Boulevard.
And finally to you, for following me home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BRYAN ALLEN FIERRO holds an MFA from Pacific University in Oregon. He grew up in Los Angeles and now splits his time between L.A. and Anchorage, Alaska, where he works as a firefighter and paramedic. Fierro is the recipient of the Poets & Writers Maureen Egen Writers Exchange Award in Fiction.
Dodger Blue Will Fill Your Soul Page 17