“No one else is inside, ma’am,” a firefighter told me. “We’ll put the fire out. Stand back.” I gladly left the firefighting to someone else and took off into the air.
*
I woke in my hotel room bed, nowhere near my laptop. It sat innocently on a desk, sleeping. Resigned, I padded over and woke it, expecting to see another mystery drawing.
But there was nothing. No drawing. I searched but found no news story that mirrored my dream.
Perhaps it was only a dream, for once. A dream in which I hesitated to save someone, but knew it was my duty and did my job. A real dream, delineating my mixed feelings, my fear, the risk to me when trying to help someone else. My hesitation could be symbolic. I could interpret my dream as a message for me from my subconscious. A test of my courage was approaching, and I must rise to meet it.
*
Thursday
I didn’t sleep well after the fire dream. I wanted to, but I didn’t dare. I drank caffeinated sodas from the hotel vending machines, and set my alarm clock to jangle on an hourly schedule. I even drew a few “Average Chloe” panels during a rather wired hour or two, despite my shaking hands. My thoughts went around in circles the rest of the night.
I dragged myself to the first day of TV taping by the 8 AM they’d requested. I had no idea what to expect once I arrived at Rockefeller Center, at 30 Rock itself. I wasn’t clear on how a cable channel was shooting at the NBC studios, either. Maybe they’d cut a special deal involving cross promotion. Maybe they were owned by the same corporate parent. What did it matter?
There wasn’t anything for me to do for the first couple of hours after they ran me through wardrobe and makeup, except hang around and watch other people be busy. I occasionally stood where they asked me to stand. I was exhausted, but once I discovered the free coffee and soda and all kinds of food treats, I downed caffeine and sugar to keep alert.
I got a fan quiver from being in the fabled NBC studios at 30 Rock. But I utterly refused to wear the prescribed loud suburban pantsuit the wardrobe people told me to wear. It was pink. I was in my usual black jeans, black shirt, and black pullover. Nondescript and urban. I probably could’ve been mistaken for a messenger or delivery girl. Or maybe not. I didn’t carry anything except my backpack purse, which held printouts of the mystery supervillain attack artwork. I also had not put on any of the heavy makeup they’d loaded me down with last night. My hand was shaking too much this morning to apply anything in a straight line. Zigzag eyebrows I could have done. The makeup artists plastered over my real face again, but I was too tired to protest.
Mostly, I stood around trying not to get in anybody’s way. It was me and a lot of production assistants, and a stereotypically cheesy host type. He was bored, too, and didn’t bother to put on his game face. When I approached him, I could tell right away he was a heavy drinker. I smelled the gin, and it wasn’t even 9 AM. He had a weathered-but-polished look older actors get. From fake tans, or plastic surgery maybe? His hair was primped to look bountiful, but was thinning. Everything was within a minute of falling apart on him, but he was still trying to hold it together and give the appearance of youth and vigor.
“You’re the winner, right? I’m Biff Binder, the emcee.”
“Chloe Cole. I draw webcomics. Did you have anything to do with picking me in the contest?”
“Nah. I’m the hired ringmaster,” he said with an air of boredom. Despite his nonchalance and his gin reek, he looked happy enough to be in a TV studio.
“You should wear something a little brighter for the taping, kid,” he continued. “Sparkle and color make an impact. Plain black looks dull on TV.”
“Maybe I should wear my nose ring.”
He didn’t bat an eyelash at my attitude. “Make sure the ring doesn’t outshine your lip gloss or your eyes. Trust me, you won’t like the result,” he said with a kind of sour glee.
Biff turned to one of the assistants. “Jimmy, have you done a test on Chloe here, to make sure she looks right?”
They hadn’t. Now they did. I already knew none of them cared for my black garb. Turned out the camera didn’t like black either. I viewed the instant playback and saw for myself how my black clothing dulled me out. So I finally caved.
A wardrobe lady said “Pink, I think, with your brown hair,” and I almost choked. I hadn’t voluntarily worn pink since I was fourteen. Oh, hell, I should trust these people to know more about on-air appeal than I did. Not that how I looked was my reason for being in a TV studio.
After I’d been dragged into a dressing room and outfitted in yet another pink nightmare, I escaped.
People milled around, apparently doing nothing. Finally, after what seemed like hours, even with plenty of caffeine and Danish to occupy me, many people arrived all at once. The director, the producer, Jerry Fine and his small entourage, Eric, who seemed to be constantly talking into an earpiece cell phone and also manipulating a handheld, three actors in superhero costumes, and a studio audience.
*
There’s no point in giving a blow-by-blow of this utterly inane TV program. It was embarrassingly stupid. Basically, Jerry, Eric, and I represented three eras of the comics business. Our role was to judge the believability of characters several artists had drawn and submitted in comics format. The camera first focused on the art submission, then there was a pre-recorded segment of an interview with each hopeful creator explaining the key attributes of the characters they had invented. The production company had not bothered to give these artists a trip to New York. Guess I was lucky to get one. Or maybe Eric had had a hand in that, too?
After the intros and interviews, the actors came on stage and attempted to portray the supposed powers of the characters. The show was a rip-off of a better idea from a couple of years ago, from a series that was much more visual. Even I could tell this one would tank. The studio audience looked completely mystified. Not a good sign.
My job in all this dreadful mess was to be part of the Greek chorus of supposed comics experts. Jerry represented the classic Silver Age era, Eric represented the Modern Age that had turned into today’s corporate comics, and I represented webcomics and girls, too, all in one pink package. An efficient token in a short skirt and midriff-baring top. All we had to do was speak scripted lines about the believability of the characters, and occasionally ad lib something about characters we ourselves drew.
We taped a batch of shows, one after another, to air over several weeks. In between each episode, we all visited wardrobe to be outfitted in different clothes and have our hair adjusted. Thus it would look as if the next show was shot on a different day. The actors had it easier because they only had to don different superhero costumes. We four, the experts and our emcee, had to look a cut above. Also, a woman interviewer framed each set of interviews, and she had to change her look to introduce each segment. While we primped, each studio audience was led out and a new group was led in and warmed up.
This took awhile. I was ready early the fourth time. I’d given up objecting as they outfitted me in yet another overly cute girlie color—lavender this go around. We were still between audiences when I wandered around, poking into back corners I hadn’t checked out before. I couldn’t amuse myself by phoning Roland because the wardrobe lady had confiscated my backpack and my cell. Finally, I sat down, my exhaustion getting the better of me despite all the caffeine.
A skinny old guy in a janitor’s outfit entered the studio, pushing a trash can with brooms sticking out of it. What an odd time to clean.
A minute later, there was what sounded like an explosion down the hall. Everyone went running. I didn’t. I’m not sure why. Instead I sat, wiped out from lack of sleep, but alert from all the caffeine I’d consumed. I watched the janitor guy suddenly duck into the dressing room Jerry used. It had a star on it and everything. As temporary as this TV show was bound to be, Jerry was still treated like comic book royalty. A second later, the janitor came out. What had he been doing in Jerry’s dressing room?
>
The janitor saw me looking at him and motioned me over. “Come-a here, girl. I’ve got a message I need-a you to deliver personally.”
He had the worst fake Italian accent I’d ever heard. I didn’t want to get near this guy. What if he’d set the explosion down the hall to create a diversion? “Why can’t you deliver it yourself?”
“Give-a this note to big cheese, Jerry Fine. Only to him-a.”
I reacted like a dope, slowly. I stared at him, trying to figure him out. He thrust the envelope into my hand.
“Don’t let Eric Wood see you hand Jerry this note. Eric is trouble.”
He had lost all trace of phony accent. His voice sounded educated.
“You’re no janitor,” I said. “Who are you? What do you want with Jerry?”
“I must go now.” He walked out the studio door, abandoning his cart. No one but me noticed. Everyone was still out in the hall investigating the explosion. Weird.
Speaking of weird, why hadn’t a fire alarm gone off? Why hadn’t the entire building been evacuated?
Within minutes, the excitement was over. The director said we were stopping for the day because of the fire department. There was a protocol after all. We’d start early tomorrow to make up the lost time.
Jerry was hustled away, although I did manage to place the note into his hand before his entourage completely surrounded him.
Eric found me. “We’ve got some unexpected free time. I canceled a batch of meetings to be here today, so this is my chance to show you the city. Let’s change back into human clothes and escape.”
I nodded. I didn’t trust him, but I liked being with him.
A few minutes later, Eric and I took off. “We’ll orient you first,” he said. “Then we’ll walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s the best way to see New York.” He was full of energy suddenly. The lazy grace routine had vanished. Suddenly I could see why he might make an effective team leader.
I didn’t bother to tell him I’d grown up in Queens and had visited the city plenty of times. Especially since I had never been to most of the local tourist sights. Seeing the city through Eric’s eyes should be interesting. He was originally from Ohio, Roland said. A typical newcomer-to-the-city success story. I wanted to get more of a feel for who Eric was as a person. As well some other kinds of feels. My libido talking.
We saw the town in a taxi. Eric was an ideal tour guide, neither overwhelming me with facts and figures, nor displaying ignorance of sites needing explanation. After a while, I began to notice something odd. We visited the typical tourist places, sure. The Empire State Building. The Staten Island Ferry. We also stopped at every site where the masked supervillain had attacked.
When Eric had the cabbie take us all the way to the top of Manhattan to the Third Avenue Bridge, I was sure. This bridge was hardly a tourist mecca.
Eric seemed mesmerized by it. He had the cab pull over, and he got out and walked around the bridge supports. He put his hand on the metal of the structure, seeming to test its strength. I followed him, with a weird feeling in my stomach.
“What are we doing here, Eric?”
“Huh?” He was far away. “I don’t know. I like bridges,” he said. He seemed engaged in some inward contemplation.
He shook it off. “Let’s go walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.” He dragged me back to the taxi.
Eric was in cagey mode the rest of the afternoon. I pushed, but he had nothing to say about the supervillain. Instead, he asked me questions about the artwork. I evaded answering, since I didn’t want to slip and give him any new information. We fenced politely. Neither of us would give an inch. Finally, I broke the stalemate by changing the subject.
“What was all that heavy stuff you treated me to last night? You came across like a serial womanizer. Are you?” I asked.
Eric looked a little surprised at my bluntness. Maybe he’s used to women who simply take him at face value.
“No. If it works, it works. This is a fast town. Sometimes I forget things happen more slowly out in the provinces.”
“Oh, cut the crap. You’re from the provinces yourself. What was chatting me up all about? You can’t tell me you’re desperate.”
“Give me credit for recognizing what I want right away, and going straight at it.” He smiled his shark smile. I understood. He did want me. Like most men, he’d made up his mind on a visceral level within a second of seeing me, even before he spoke to me. Wow. I could have him—or at least sex with him—if I wanted.
“We women don’t usually do things that way,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, I know. You like it slow. I can do slow.” He smiled again.
Either this guy was the most obvious or he was the most heat-inducing, and I wasn’t sure which. Maybe both. But sex wasn’t the entire reason Eric came onto me, and my brain knew it even if my body did not. I had to keep up a front, not let him get to me. Try to find out what cards he held.
Eric talked me into going out with him later that evening, to do karaoke at a club. I said yes, knowing he had an ulterior motive in wanting to spend time with me. Beyond the sex, that is. I wanted to find out what it was. Beyond the sex, which I also wanted to experience.
After he dropped me off at my hotel, I picked up a couple caffeinated sodas in the little food shop off the lobby. In my room, I fought the need to crash thoughtlessly. I drank a soda, and set my alarm clock. I also placed a request for the hotel operator to call me. It had been a long day after a nearly sleepless night. I needed to catch some rest before what might prove to be a long night, but I didn’t want to dream.
Chapter 6
Thursday
The rock star singer finished his song and the enormous crowd cheered. I idly noticed something floating over the packed stadium. The Goodyear blimp? No. Two bad guys, henchmen types in matching uniforms, in a clear bubble. They shot out a plastic grappling hook with a kind of pseudo-fleshy hand at the end toward the rock star. The crowd thought it was part of the show and screamed in approval. The rock star knew better and tried to flee. As he did, security rushed to surround and protect him.
The grappling hook followed him. It shoved the guards aside. I flew down and grabbed the cowering man and hauled him off the stage and toward the bowels of the stadium.
“Go inside. You’ll be safe there,” I urged. I turned to confront the eerily malleable hook hand, which was bearing down on us. I shot my bolts at it, and the hook responded by rolling back into itself. The two men tried again. This time, they sent the hook to grab me.
Grab me it did, although I fought against it, twisting and turning. It was soft. It wouldn’t have hurt the rock star. Since I couldn’t get out of its grasp, I decided to let it reel me in. I would fight the men close up. When the hook tightened on me until I could barely breathe, I realized my plan wasn’t smart. I had a few tricks in my utility belt, and I could still move my left hand a bit to reach one of them, a smoke bomb.
When the hook brought me close to the bubble, I tossed the smoke bomb inside. It hit. The hook opened, dropping me. I instantly recovered and held myself in midair.
I shot a bolt that cracked the bubble in three places. The villains reeled in their hook and took off wobbling. Their bubble barely limped over the top edge of the stadium, and then vanished from view. Meanwhile, the crowd had watched it all on the giant video screens. When the villains left, the crowd applauded wildly. Wow. I liked saving the day.
*
I woke up. Caffeine fail. Alarm clock fail, too. And what about the wake-up call I’d placed? I must have been too tired to hear the phone ring.
My laptop was on the bed with me. My face was on a pillow, for once. A nice change.
Some dream. I didn’t even look carefully at the details on my computer screen. I knew I would not see myself drawn into the comic panel that sat there smirking at me. Nor in any news coverage of the event.
This time I knew there was a significant time lag. The concert in my dream had been held at night. My tiny hotel room
window showed me a bit of sunset afterglow.
Maybe this concert hadn’t happened yet, which was a scary thought because then I ought to warn the rock star somehow. Or had it happened last night?
I called Roland. As a computer geek, his time is pretty much his own. I wasn’t interrupting him. I described it all, including my conviction it occurred at the Meadowlands in Secaucus, New Jersey.
“This could be about to happen, Roland,” I concluded in a rush. “We’ve got to do something.”
“Chill, Chloe. All we do is look up the concert schedule.”
“Duh,” I replied, pacing the floor. “I’m an idiot.”
“No prob. It’ll take me a sec.”
“I’m too messed up to think straight.”
“I want to help you, Chloe. Call me anytime.”
The phone picked up the sound of Roland’s fingers tapping his laptop keys. I began to calm down.
“Okay. Elton John played the Meadowlands last night. One night only. The final gig of his current tour. Nothing more is scheduled.”
“It already happened.” I collapsed on my bed in relief. Then I leapt up, the phone still pressed to my ear, and shrieked at Roland. “It’s not me. I’m not causing any of the craziness.”
“Nope, you’re not,” he agreed. “This is proof the dreams and the comic panels don’t come first, the attacks do,” he reassured me through the phone line.
“Yesss.” My fist was in the air. I danced around my hotel room, then stopped. “Why didn’t the Elton John attack get reported? He’s a big deal, after all.”
Roland had an answer. He always does. “The concertgoers probably mistook what happened at the Meadowlands as a piece of intentional, over-the-top performance art. It might be discussed on entertainment sites, not news sites.”
“Of course. Fans have come to expect fake flying saucers at rock concerts. Why not an attack from supervillains?” My mind hummed with the sudden end of my tension. I only half-registered the rest of what Roland said.
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