“But why? Why do you want people to think you’re one step up from homeless?”
Mickey shrugged. “Nobody looks too closely at someone on the poverty line. It lets you hide in plain sight.”
“But why hide? You had some kind of hero name to protect your identity, didn’t you?”
“You make a lot of enemies leading this kind of life. You’ll see. A secret identity helps to keep you and your loved ones safe. But secrets have a way of getting out. Believe it or not, there’s a bunch of assholes out there that get off on digging up heroes’ identities. They got me a couple years back, though thankfully after Sarah had already moved out. So, I keep a low profile now.”
“Ok, I’m here, and I brought everything on your shopping list. Now what?”
“Eager to get on with it? I like that,” Mickey said, taking the beer from Chuck. “Tonight is probably the most important night of your hero career. Tonight we lay the foundation for everything to come. All your training. All the skills you’ll build to help people. I hope you brought your ‘A’ game tonight Chucky boy, because you’re going to need it.”
Chuck mentally spun through all of the things he could think of that fit that bill. Cardio? Possibly. Maybe Mickey was going to make him run all night. Some kind of martial arts training? Could be. Seems like that would come in handy. As he ran down his list, he wished he had worn more comfortable clothes.
“What’ll it be then? Let me guess, cardio?”
Mickey let out a sharp laugh. “No Chuck. Way more important than cardio. I hope you cleared your calendar tomorrow, because tonight we’re getting shit-faced.”
Beer before liquor, hits you quicker? Chuck struggled to remember the lifesaving adage he’d learned in college. Liquor before beer, have no fear? That’s it, I think.
Mickey was holding out a beer and a tumbler of bourbon, offering him the choice of where to start. He’d made it clear that it didn’t matter to him which one Chuck started with. They going to drink all of it before the night was over anyway. How they got there was just logistics.
Chuck grabbed the bourbon, figuring he’d drink the good stuff while he could still taste it. Mickey popped the top on the beer and sat on the couch. He gestured for Chuck to sit on the room’s only chair, an overstuffed recliner that faced the giant TV.
Chuck sat, and took a slow sip of his drink. “I know I’m not allowed to ask ‘why’ we’re doing this, but can I ask what, exactly, it is we’re doing?”
Mickey grinned and drank his beer in one long gulp, before crushing the can in his hand. “Bonding,” he said, punctuating it with a loud belch.
“Bonding?”
“Bonding. Getting to know each other. Building trust. The bond between mentor and pupil is critical to the success of the partnership. We have to be comfortable around each other. You need to know that whatever I’m making you do—no matter how crazy it might seem—it’s with your best interest at heart. And I need to know that—no matter how pissed you are at any given moment—you’re not going to turn me into a smoking pile of goo. In short, we need to trust each other.”
“And drinking is the best way to do that?”
“Not just drinking. Getting totally hammered. Blitzed off our asses. Now, drink up. You’re falling behind.” He grabbed another beer from the box he had conveniently left next to the couch.
“I can’t remember the last time I got drunk on a Wednesday.”
“And if we do it right, you won’t remember much of this time either. Drink up.”
Chuck pulled out his phone and texted Penny. “Crazy old man making me drink. Don’t wait up. Love you.” Then he put down his phone, picked up his glass, and drained it.
His phone made an R2-D2 noise. He checked the text. “You’re not 22 anymore. Be careful. And of course you love me ;) BTW watch your butt…you don’t know this guy.”
When he looked away from his phone, Mickey had already refilled his glass. “Good start,” he said. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
“No, really, the guy called himself Major Mayhem,” Mickey said, clearly enjoying having someone to tell old hero stories to. “Terrible name. I’ll never understand why these ‘evil geniuses’ can’t come up with better names. ‘Major Mayhem’? That’s the best you’ve got? Anyway, he was a former Army officer. Claimed to have set a bomb in one of the federal buildings downtown, but wouldn’t say which one. Wanted to create enough chaos to mount a coup, and install himself as Dictator of the United States. Max and I found the bomb and threw it in the Tidal Basin before it blew. Ol’ Jefferson got a nice shower that day.”
Chuck laughed at the visual of Thomas Jefferson, in full colonial attire, taking a shower in a modern bathroom. After four hefty pours of 100 proof bourbon, his grip on reality was slipping.
“How’d you find it?”
“Max was a hell of a detective, on top of having those great powers. Had a knack for chasing down leads, and following the right hunch. He was a cop before he got the cape, so it came naturally to him.”
“Great. I’ll be able to do the bad guys’ taxes for them.”
“Do you have any idea how much of detective work is following a money trail?” Mickey’s voice was more sober than it should have been. The case of beer was nearly gone, but he showed no effects. “You’d be surprised how many crooks let the money trail lead right to them. Only a few are smart enough not to get their hands dirty with it, to run it through businesses that don’t connect back to them. Don’t discount your accounting skills as an asset just because they’re not glamorous.”
“Ok, ok, got it. Being an accountant is awesome. It’ll make me a great crime fighter. Can we talk about the stuff I don’t know how to do? Isn’t that why I’m here?” Chuck was proud of not slurring his words. At least not enough that he could notice.
Mickey finished the beer he was holding and let out a thunderous belch. He grabbed another. “You want to know how to use the cape?”
“Duh. I can’t very well go around tossing accidental fireballs or blowing up TVs. I need to know how to control it.”
“What you need,” Mickey said, “is to learn how to control yourself. Once you do that, the cape will take care of itself.”
“Did this just turn into a Kung Fu movie? It did, didn’t it? You’re the wise old master. I’m the impatient student. You need to build my discipline before you can build my skills. Am I going to be carrying buckets of water up a mountain?”
“Maybe. You ever stop and think that maybe, just maybe, all those Kung Fu movies have the same setup because it actually makes sense?”
“I’m not an 18-year-old who just found a magic pair of nunchucks, Mickey. I’m a grown man. With kids. And a house. Responsibilities. I can handle myself. I’m ready for the ‘How To’ section”
Mickey finished the beer he had just started and popped open another. He furrowed his brow, his face a portrait of gravity.
Chuck braced himself for the inevitable “I am the teacher, you are the student” lecture.
Mickey took one more slow sip. “Ready, are you? What know you of ready? A Jedi must have the deepest commitment, the most serious mind. All your life you have looked away. To the future. To the horizon. Never your mind on where you were, what you were doing. Adventure? Heh. Excitement? Heh. A Jedi craves not these things.”
Chuck stared at him, dumbfounded. A giggle started deep in his gut and crept slowly up toward his mouth, ignoring his attempts to squelch it. It snuck through, brought friends with it. The giggle turned to a chuckle, blossomed into a guffaw, and before long, he was doubled over with tears streaming down his face.
The laughter was contagious, and Mickey fell under its spell. He managed to compose himself first. “There will be plenty of time for the cape, Chuck. But not nearly enough time for this. Try to enjoy it.”
Chuck raised his glass. “Do or do not, there is no try.” He barely getting the end out before the laughter overtook him again.
Chapter Fourteen
&nbs
p; “Rise and shine, Chucky Boy.” The words took a few disorienting moments to register. Chuck’s bourbon-soaked brain twisted them around. Pulled them apart. Rearranged them. They fell into place and his brain sent a signal to his eyelids. A signal so slow it might as well have been sent by carrier pigeon. Finally, the lids received the message, and began the Herculean task of opening.
“You alive, Chuck?” Chuck could see the foggy outline of a man, silhouetted against the trailer’s dirty window.
“Wrong question,” Chuck said, forcing the words from his dry throat. With effort on par with climbing Kilimanjaro, he sat up. Mickey shoved a mug into his hand. It was hot, and Chuck could smell the rich aroma of roasted beans. Not the instant stuff he made every morning. Real, quality coffee.
“Oh yeah? What’s the right question?” As Chuck’s eyes focused, he could see that Mickey was holding his own mug. A plain white mug with black block letters stating “There’s a Chance This Isn’t Whiskey”. Given the fact that Mickey didn’t seem to be phased by the previous night’s bender, Chuck guessed it was, in fact, whiskey.
“The right question is ‘do I want to be alive?’” He wasn’t quite sure he knew the answer. “What time is it?”
Mickey looked at his bare wrist and proclaimed “Half past ‘who the hell cares’”.
Chuck patted his thighs, feeling for his phone. He was alarmed to find he wasn’t wearing pants. Or boxers. His brain kicked into full gear, and he covered his crotch with his free hand. “Where the hell are my pants?”
“You don’t remember? I didn’t think you were that far gone. Shit, I didn’t mean to do that when you were drunk. It was going so well, and I thought you were into it…”
“What the fuck, Mickey?” Chuck shouted, jumping off the couch, keeping his hands over his groin. “Give me my pants and my phone so I can call the cops, you sick old bastard. Penny tried to warn me. I knew I never should have taken you up on this…” He trailed off when he realized Mickey wasn’t listening, couldn’t listen over the roaring laughter that shook his whole body. “Very funny, asshole. Now what really happened to my pants?”
Mickey took a few moments to compose himself. “Ah, that was too easy,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “They’re in the dryer. You puked on them. I’ll grab you some shorts or something to wear while they finish up.” He sat his mug down and walked toward the far end of the trailer.
Chuck sat back down, hands firmly over his crotch, and tried to collect himself. The previous night was a blur. He remembered coming to Mickey’s, the terrible neighborhood, and Mickey convincing him they needed to get drunk together to bond. After that he had hazy fragments, snippets of things that may have happened, or may have been dreams.
Mickey came back into the room, holding a pair of gym shorts that Chuck figured might have been made in the mid 80s. “Here, they might be a bit snug, but they’ll keep your junk off my sofa.”
Chuck slid the shorts up, struggling to get them over his butt. When he managed to get them on, he felt very much like he should be Sweating to the Oldies. “Thanks. And my phone?”
Mickey pointed to the kitchen counter. “Been going off all morning. Did you forget to call in sick?”
Chuck leapt from the couch, snatching the phone up. 11:17 AM. Eight missed calls. Seventeen text messages. “Shit shit shit shit shit,” he said, scrolling through the messages.
“Ur l8, again
A Dad in a Cape (Mr Wonder Book 1) Page 9