Super Born: Seduction of Being

by Keith Kornell

  I stood against the door, while Paige, I knew, stood in the hall with her arms folded. There was no way I could tell her what I had just done, although my soul cried out to do so. Without knowing I had just done, she had to feel that I was making mistakes that she couldn’t make me see like she was the mom and I was the kid.

  Probably simultaneously, we both sighed and said to ourselves, “She’ll never understand.”

  * * *

  When I first heard about the incident, they were calling it the “miracle of flight 118” and praising the captain’s incredible skills. As I read and saw more, I smelled a rat, or maybe spilled beer; anyway, it was something that didn’t smell right.

  I started by putting five hundred dollars in the palm of a man who had worked the airport tower that night. It was painful as hell to count out those five crisp hundreds—it felt like losing five hundred close friends—but I knew this money-grubbing turd knew something and I needed to find out. He didn’t say everything he knew, but it was enough to confirm that I was on the right trail and off to a great start.

  I gathered the rest of my information about flight 118 from interviews, research of records, TV interviews and reports. Even though I wrote the article, you can believe it’s all true…really, no kidding. (Okay, they made me write that article about aliens living under the White House.)

  When Dr. Jones heard my story, he danced around like a featherless chicken hip-hopping on a sun-baked asphalt road—not that I have ever seen such a thing, or that anyone else in the world has, for that matter. (That’s just how his image struck me at the time. “My boy, I am telling you now, we are so close! It’s not a theory anymore! She is here, and we will be finding her soon, very soon, I’m telling you! What did I say? This will be the story of your lifetime!” Then he bent over for a second, tapped his butt, and said, “Mom and Dad, you will be kissing my professional ass!…‘Little man with a little mind,’ they said at grad school…They will be the ones bowing down to me!” Jones shook a finger at me, as if I were one of his tormentors. “We’ll see whose thesis is unimaginative crap!” Then he paced in a circle and calmed a bit before mumbling, “Little fuckers.”

  I had told him Ed’s story of the beer truck, just leaving out the minor detail of his death. I had told Jones about the airplane landing, how I had researched and interviewed my ass off to get the story, until I was certain the miracle of flight 118 was just a pretty myth that even the FAA was starting to doubt (though I embellished on how much it had cost me to do so). I just could not bring myself to tell him about the blue/green eye flashes and that we had been within inches of our prey days before.

  Then, when I told him that I had tracked down the first of the women born during the Super Bowl and I would be meeting with her that evening, the dance started again. It made him so happy that he literally showered me with money. He grabbed a wrapped stack of bills each time he passed his desk and threw them up in an arc to me, mumbling and muttering joyfully to himself as he went. Whether he spoke English or an Indian dialect I could not say, only that I just kept waiting for him to pass that desk again. One thousand dollars…five hundred dollars…two thousand dollars—thank heaven for Mom, Dad, and that trust fund. I could tell money meant nothing to him…but it did to me. How about one more trip past that desk?

  Finally, he began to pant a little from his exertions, and slowed down. “You have done well, my friend. This is true progress. Are you prepared for your meeting with this woman? Was she born near halftime?”

  I took my notebook out of my bag and fingered down the list. “Her name is Jennifer Lowe. She owns a flower shop. And she was born the closest to half time of them all.”

  “She has lived here her whole life?” he asked, patting the sweat on his forehead with a black bra he had lifted off of his desk.

  “Yes, her whole life. That’s what made her so easy to find. Never been married.”

  “ In a town like this I can’t blame her... Nothing more notable in her background than a florist?”

  “No…but our B.I.B…that’s what I call her…”

  “B.I.B? What does it stand for?”

  I told him the story of how Ed had come up with the name, bitch in black.

  Jones shook his head. “Best we stay with just B.I.B., okay?” He said it again with musical tones, the I being the highest note. “I think I like it. Kind of catchy.”

  “Sure…what I was saying was our B.I.B. is undercover. She’s not like Olga Settchuoff—movie star, cosmonaut, and the whole nine yards. She doesn’t want to be known, so she will have a cover. She could be a florist, an accountant, anyone.”

  “Maybe we should have this Jennifer Lowe followed, a private investigator, perhaps?”

  Inside I thought, Fat friggin’ chance of my handing her over to you! This girl’s eyes glow and you’ll never see either of us again! Outside I said, “If she looks like a good candidate after our meeting, it would be a good idea.”

  “You have all the papers from the university about the research project and survey?”

  “Yes,” I said. He was referring to the “real” Penn State Psychology Department survey that would be my cover to meet Jennifer. I’d told her that she fit a profile our researchers were looking for and that we would give her a whole twenty-five dollars just to meet with me and answer a few simple, confidential questions about her parents and her success later in life.

  “Good,” he said, then patted me on the shoulder and pushed me toward the door. “I’m certain you’re right about the private eye. Good luck and good hunting, my friend. Now, if you will excuse me, it’s ladies night at The Banshee.”

  Chapter 4

  Jennifer Lowe (Bitch): Not My Finest Hour

  I now know what a bug feels like just before it gets fried by a bug zapper. The exhilaration, heightened by anticipation and hope, totally overrides what should be an impending sense of risk and doom. As I approached the coffee shop where I was to meet Jennifer Lowe, the hope that she was the blond with flashing eyes made me ignore all else. Simple things, like how I was going to communicate in more than single slurred syllables, or what I would say to her, or what in heaven I could offer someone like her, or if I would end up like Ed if I got too close and she felt exposed.

  “Hi, I’m a rarely published writer whose work you’ve probably seen in your cat’s litter box. Pardon me, but did you flash your eyes at me and save a hundred people on flight 118, and do you have super powers? Do you want to go get a burger or something?” somehow just didn’t seem to cut it. I wondered what Jones said to attract all of his women. Or did he just open his wallet? I shook my head. Jones’s women were great, I’m sure, but she…she was a super woman.

  I concluded that the excitement I had felt since learning of her existence made any risk worth it. She had brought me back from a dull life that now seemed meaningless to one alive with the risky anticipation of what was around every corner. But in actuality, it wasn’t a logical choice at all; I was emotionally compelled to be there, and that was that; just a bug drawn to a light.

  I arrived way early to be certain I got there first and found a table near the window. I would see her before she saw me—that was for sure. What possible good that would do, I don’t know, but give me credit; it sounded good. Despite not needing the artificial energy, I sipped a coffee as I waited.

  For the next half hour, people came and went with their lattes and chai teas: some groups, some couples, and the occasional lone female. No one I saw fit the bill. I was just about ready to get a refill on my coffee when I heard a voice , “You must be Mr. Penn State,” a woman said in a cheery tone, suddenly standing beside me.

  I got through an instant of surprise and panic without showing much of it, then rose and offered my hand. “You must be Jennifer,” I said to the woman, who was obviously not the blond. “I’m Tom,” I lied—why, I don’t know. “Have a seat. Can I get you a…”

  “Latte, please, extra foam,” she answered, slipping off her coat revealing a
rack the visual guy half of me couldn’t help but notice.

  I put my eyeballs back in my head and asked, “And?”

  “How about a cinnamon roll,” she said, sitting down, crossing her legs, revealing muscular skater’s thighs pushing the limits of her jeans.

  I went to the counter, placed her order and got my refill, then leaned back against it to try to figure her out while I waited. The hopeful anticipation had drained out of me faster than money through my checking account…on a Friday. Jennifer had reddish-brown hair down to her shoulders and a sober, almost cocky look on her rather plain face. She wore jeans and a light-colored blouse, expensive but not flashy; but oh, the way she filled them. Oddly I noticed her feminine form but didn’t feel aroused by her in the least.

  With the “guy” half of my brain sleeping I could tune into my journalistic reasoning. (It could happen.) This woman didn’t seem like the florist type. I could imagine her Congress or on the board of a corporation. Self-confidence and assertiveness flowed out of her like the Amazon River. Her gaze was surgical. Although she acted very calm, you could feel the whirling of a keen intellect unnecessary in the floral trade.

  I grabbed our cups when the order arrived and made my way back to my chair, studying her face as I did. She had a very average face and young, smooth skin. I could barely see her eyes, as they were hidden behind glasses, the type that lighten or darken in the light.

  I knew she was not the one with the flashing eyes but I was still curious to see those hidden peepers, “You need those dark glasses in here? I can barely read my survey,” I joked..

  She gave a little laugh and then pulled them off, folded them, and put them in her pocket. “No need for those in here,” she said.

  Her eyes looked almost colorless gray to me, but the only thing that mattered was that they didn’t flash blue and green at me.

  When she saw me staring at her, she added, “You like hazel eyes, Tom?” she said leaning in toward me, her gray eyes almost sucking me in with their lively, flirty glow.

  I looked away thinking, Hazel eyes, my ass! Does every woman in Scranton think she has hazel eyes? Is it a law? Then my eyes dropped, or should I say were pulled down, to notice that the top two buttons of her blouse had mysteriously become unbuttoned since I’d left the table, revealing echoing cleavage. Holy hot dogs, was she coming on to me? This sort of thing never happens to me…God, I was starting to love Scranton. Was this a woman starved for attention by RFDs, or something else? Exactly who was playing who here?

  But again, the consummate trooper, I recovered without too much embarrassment or drool.Actually it was surprising how well I kept my cool. Many women with far less to offer had turned me into testosterone jelly. Instead I pulled out the authentic Penn State Psychology Department survey and a very professional, expensive chrome pen Dr. Jones had given me.

  “Everything you said on the phone is true, right? You’re not trying sell me a time-share or something, are you?” She put her chin in her hands, her elbows spread on the table, leaning forward.

  I chuckled, as if such a thought was absurd, then pulled out a business card and Penn State ID Jones had prepared for me. “There, you can see it’s all legal. And we really appreciate your taking the time to participate in this research program. The relationship between women and their parents is so critical in the formation of self-esteem,” I BSed. Talking, trying to be cool, yet keep my eyes from wandering, was peculiarly possible tonight.

  “That’s true. I loved my parents, especially my dad. They were murdered, you know. I assume that’s why you picked me for the survey.”

  That was all news to me, so I bluffed. “Oh, yes. That’s why we picked you… The difficult circumstances around their death and your success later in life put you right at the top of our list.”

  “It took me years to get my head around it. Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me to talk about it anymore…in fact, a man’s interest in little ol’ me is sort of comforting. I can just let all those feelings out. Do you know what I mean Tom?”

  I swallowed hard enough to down a basketball. Whoever this Tom guy was, he was one lucky bastard.

  I started to read the questions on the survey form, all of which seemed pretty stupid to me, but I wasn’t the PhD. I wasn’t having much trouble speaking, but my handwriting was a little slow, due to my anxiety level and unfamiliarity with the forms or the field of study for the survey… or maybe it was just the focused beam of her sexuality that was causing me to become nervous, sweat, and lose my cool. You choose.

  She slid into the chair next to me, in the process being certain to brush her chest against my side. “Why don’t I move over here? It’ll make it easier for me to see the form.”

  “Okay, sure,” I answered and pointed a shaking pen point at question number four.

  She ran her hand through my messy, hair, brushing it back into a look she preferred, and looked at me like I was a juicy steak—okay, hamburger, at least, and not fast food…. Jennifer used her thumb and forefinger to run an outline along my goatee. “My answer would have to be my father, definitely my father,” she said, not even looking at the form as her left hand began to roam my thigh.

  I wrote down her answer. When I moved on to question five, she moved up to my crotch. I couldn’t have felt less in control unless I was falling out of an airplane without a ’chute. I was surprised, yes, shocked, yes, but then totally dismayed. Never before had my little man failed to answer with a woman knocking on the door. But now, it had failed to rise to the occasion; nothing. Her hand stayed there a good while, but didn’t find anything firm.

  Without giving it much thought, as was my method, I stood up, began packing my things, and stammered, “Sorry, I just forgot that I was supposed to meet my boss. I have to be going. I’ll leave you the survey to fill out. There’s a stamped envelope—you can mail it back at your convenience.” (Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.)

  All was still in my pants, nothing. Just to be sure, I took a good long look at her chest as she rose…nothing, nothing but panic.

  “Are you…okay?” she asked, apparently never before having seen a genuine a-hole in action.

  I mumbled something, maybe in English.

  “You’ve been with her. Haven’t you?” said Jennifer, suddenly cold and incriminating. “How’d you find her? She fall for this little survey trick?”

  Luckily I had a clever response to her new, suddenly indicting attitude: “What?”

  “What color were her eyes when she marked you? She did mark you, didn’t she? You know, it’s a shame too, because I’d have marked you and you’d have really liked that. Wouldn’t you?” She grabbed my lapels, looking at me fiercely. “Where is she? Tell me where she is!”

  But I was two steps ahead of her in our chess match, and my reply shocked her. “Who?”

  “You think pretending to be dumb can save you?”

  I thought yes, because dumb had always worked for me before.

  She held me at arm’s length and stared through me with those gray eyes for a long moment. Then it seemed like her eyes actually began to glow for a second before they faded back to gray. “Damn that bitch,” she said letting me go. “What’s so fucking special about you?”

  I mumbled an incoherent few syllables, which I’m sure cut her deeply, then took this as my opportunity to beat feet. She called after me as I left. “I’m the only one who can save her… and you too! When they come for you, remember that! Call me.”

  Being socially correct and totally confused, I fired back, “You too…have a nice day.”

  * * *

  It took me days to recover from my meeting with Jennifer. During that time, I didn’t accomplish much of anything. I didn’t even return Dr. Jones’s phone calls. I suppose I had just been too overconfident, excited, or whatever. What if she had been the B.I.B.? I expected more from myself and my buddy in my pants, as far as managing the meeting. Many beers and long, meaningful conversations with my buddy failed to resolve an
ything. Christ, I had a lot more of these appointments to schedule, and I hoped they all wouldn’t end like that. I needed the break to get it back together.

  Chapter 6

  She Reappears (Thank God)

  After a few days, these three articles in the local paper awoke me from the doldrums. They appeared in different sections of the newspaper a day apart, but I knew they were related:

  “Mysterious Woman Saves Cat…Twice”

  (Scranton) Scranton native Billy O’Leary credits a mysterious woman dressed all in black for saving the life of his pet and best friend Mr. Jingles, not once but twice. The first event occurred at 10:00 a.m. on February 19th, when Mr. Jingles accidentally got out of the O’Leary Monroe Street home. Mr. O’Leary tells the story:

  “I blame myself. I brought in some groceries and didn’t quite close the door. Right then, Mr. Jingles shot through the door, out in the yard. He’s not what you would call an outdoor cat. By the time I put down my bags and headed after him, he was out in the road. I looked down the road, and here comes this beer truck, not slowing down a bit. There was no way I could reach him in time, and he wouldn’t come when I called to him. I was sure he was a goner and I turned me head.

  “When I looked back, there she was. This woman dressed all in black from head to foot with a mask around her eyes, carrying Mr. Jingles like he was a baby. He was liking that. From the look of her, there was no way I could tell who she was. All I know is that she was dressed in this skintight black outfit and had long blond hair.

  “I tried to thank her, but she don’t say a word, just hands me Mr. Jingles. But he didn’t want to leave her and tries staying in her arms, purring, as it were. I never wanted to be a cat so much in my whole life. Finally, she gets him out of her arms and then she’s gone, just like that.”

  Apparently, Mr. Jingles again escaped Mr. O’Leary’s home that afternoon. Luckily for him, the woman in black was there, again, to save him from yet another of the beer trucks that frequent Monroe Street.

  But the story didn’t end there. The next morning, Mr. Jingles apparently broke through a window and he ran for the street in an apparent attempt to be “saved” yet again by the mystery woman. Unfortunately for Mr. Jingles, this time she was not there to scoop him up, and he was hit by yet another beer truck. He is in stable condition at a local veterinarian hospital. The vets expect him to make a complete recovery, although they are unable to stop him from purring, apparently an aftereffect of his contact with the mysterious woman in black.