The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel (Yellow Shoe Fiction)

by Neil Connelly

  I reach for the beer, twist the top free, and take a slow drag. “Things with Thomas could be better.”

  “Teenagers are tough,” he says. “At least that’s what I hear. That’s probably my one regret, and such a strange one, that I won’t leave behind any children.”

  “Not that you know of,” I say, attempting something like bawdy humor.

  Magus smiles. His veiny hand stretches across the table, and his fingers tap my forearm gently. “Dear sweet boy,” he says, “you don’t know me at all, do you?”

  As I try to make sense of what he’s telling me, he points toward the sugar packet. It rises into the air and sails itself back into its container. “Listen,” I ask, “you know anything about the Majestic?”

  He looks at me.

  “It’s an old movie house on the south side. I’m wondering if it used to be a theater, if maybe you ever did your magic act there.”

  His eyes turn upward. “Were there golden orbs hanging off the ceiling? A big chandelier under the balcony?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then I can’t say for sure. Maybe. Sorry, but my memory’s slipping. Frankly, everything’s slipping.”

  I know how he feels. The beer is no longer giving me a buzz, isn’t relaxing the pressure ratcheting up in my head. In fact, there’s a familiar tightness forming in my throat, the bitter taste of my own stomach acid. I reach in my pocket for some Tums, but then remember that Clyde packed these clothes. Magus says, “So, tell me what you’d like for your birthday.”

  “Antacids would be great. Got any in that hat?”

  “I’m entirely serious, Vincent. You were always respectful to me, always treated me with decency and kindness. And I haven’t forgotten how you flew upstate to speak at my parole hearing—more than once. I’ve made amends with those I’ve wronged. So, if there’s anything I can do, anything within what’s left of my powers, all you need do is ask.”

  I consider asking for another burning house, maybe a tip on some bank robbers I could capture without risking my back. I glance around the room, take note of Clyde coming our way, and lower my voice. “It’s maybe not such a good idea to talk about violating the terms of your probation.”

  “Bone my probation. I’m seventy-seven. I doubt I’ll see eighty.”

  Clyde sidles up to the table. “Try clean living. You’ll live to be a hundred.”

  Magus gives me a look of disgust, and I shrug. Clyde goes on. “Listen, Mr. Magic, I just learned who you are, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises. This is an invitation-only affair.”

  “He’s with me,” I say.

  “We can’t consort with known felons. Even when we’re dressed like civilians. It may suggest the appearance of impropriety.”

  “Clyde, give it a rest, eh?”

  He turns to Magus. “How did you learn about this gathering? Did you tell any of your cohorts?”

  “I live in a nursing home, young man. Most of my cohorts these days wear diapers and use walkers with tennis balls on the legs.”

  “What’s the big deal, Clyde?”

  “The big deal is that I orchestrated this event. It’s to celebrate your birthday and the illustrious career you’ve had. I don’t want it spoiled by some villainous plot. For all I know, you could be under his mind control right now.”

  “I don’t do mind control,” Magus says. “It’s morally reprehensible.”

  They keep arguing, but something Clyde said starts looping in my head. I scan the room and realize again that quite a few folks don’t keep eye contact with me, especially among the young crowd. Jersey Devil sees me looking and actually turns his back. “Hey Clyde,” I say. “You’re being a bit premature talking about the career I’ve had, aren’t you?”

  Clyde’s face turns two shades of red, and he looks to his left and right. Now I notice Debbie watching. Next to Typhoon Man, she stands up but does not approach. Clyde tells me, “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Magus thrums the table with his fingers. “Liar.”

  “Clyde,” I say. “You got three seconds to level with me.”

  He puts his hands on the table and leans down. “There’s no need to raise your voice. There are civilians close by. Now look, you’re a big boy, and your feelings shouldn’t get hurt by this. Hear me out. It’s just that there’s been a lot of talk, with the Tucker Commission and all, about maximizing the team’s assets. Maybe changing up the roster.”

  Acid sours my throat, and I have to swallow hard to force it down. “You’re looking to put me out to pasture?”

  “Don’t be crazy. No one is talking about firing you. That’d be a PR nightmare. But yes, there are those who have begun to discuss your graceful exit from the active team.”

  I rise up and stiff-arm Clyde square in the chest, hard enough to launch his body straight back about fifteen feet. He flips twice in the air and lands upright on an empty table, then leaps down and assumes one of his bullshit kung fu ninja poses. Both his hands glow a dull red, a sign that he could be ready to unleash one of his starburst blasts. I’m striding toward him, ready and spoiling for all this, when Debbie steps between us. “Maybe you two didn’t notice we’re in public?”

  Bubba has grabbed Clyde from behind. I say, “You know Clyde here’s decided I’m past my prime?”

  Debbie blinks. Both her hands are palm down on my chest.

  “That’s right,” I tell her. “He’s had his first original idea—a surprise retirement party.”

  Her hand over my heart tightens. “It wasn’t just his idea,” she says softly.

  These words suck the life from me. My anger dissipates, and my knees go weak. Rather than fall, I stumble backward and sit down in the booth. Magus says something. Debbie kneels and tries to look into my face. “Get him some water.” Bubba and Clyde step up behind her. Quietly, she says, “We all want what’s best for you, Vince. And I think that means getting you out now. I need you healthy, and Nate needs you healthy.”

  “Hurricane Juno was a Category 5,” I say. “People were in trouble.”

  Clyde says, “There are other ways to serve the team. We could use you in tactical training or combat analysis. You could oversee—” He keeps talking, but I don’t hear a word. I’m disgusted with myself, that instead of feeling rage or betrayal, all I can muster is a gathering nausea. I feel tired and old.

  Clyde’s speech sounds like it could go on forever, so I’m thankful when his cellphone rings. This is followed immediately by Debbie’s, then Bubba’s. There is an awkward pause, then Clyde reaches into his pocket. Just as he’s answering, my Danger Ring glows.

  Clyde says, “Got it. They’re all right here with me.” He snaps his cell shut. “Trouble in Washington Park. Cavemen on the loose, throwing spears at tourists. And get this—there’s a saber-toothed tiger! Ecklar just got the official request for intervention and support. We need to go.”

  Somebody puts a glass of water on the table in front of me, and I ignore it. Debbie stands and places a hand on my shoulder, squeezes it to show something, I don’t know what. Clyde, giddy with the rare possibility of a genuine threat, says, “Given the circumstances, Vince, you should sit this one out. We can pick up the conversation tomorrow. Tonight, you’re in no condition to fly.”

  He’s wrong. I know that even on my worst night now, even with a few drinks in me and a spine bolted together with screws and rods, I’m twice the hero he’ll ever be. I decide I’ll prove it to him, prove it to them all, and I lift my head to show my wife my new resolve, show her my power and confidence. She’ll see this resurrection, and it will ignite her, and she will look on me again with desire and love and belief. But when my eyes find Debbie’s, all that comes back to me is disappointment, something just a few degrees shy of shame. It’s more than a man can stand. “Go,” I say.

  Debbie says, “We’ll talk later,” then kisses me, not on the lips like a lover, but on the top of my head. I watch them leave. The Deputies join them at the exit, and the tumble
rs fall into place. Clyde has been recruiting all night, looking for my replacement. The trouble at the park could turn into tryouts.

  Magus asks if he can do anything for me, maybe share a cab. I think about his wish and wonder if he could make me young again, but I recognize this as an absurd idea born of a bad night gone worse. I tell him I’m fine and get to my feet. I’m a little wobbly on my way out. The remaining well-wishers clear a path for me. There are a few pats on the back, something that makes me feel even worse. I won’t be an object of pity.

  Outside the cool air feels good. A breeze makes the treetops rustle a bit. Autumn isn’t far off. My plan was to catch my breath, then change into costume and join the others, regardless of whether they want me or not. I can think of worse ways to deal with the night’s revelations than beating on some Neanderthal or going head to head with a prehistoric man-eater. But in the parking lot, my resolve seems to weaken, and then I realize that Clyde has my mask and cape.

  I don’t know where to go. I can’t think of what I should be doing. But I know I don’t want to be where I am. So, dressed like any civilian in jeans and a goofy flannel shirt, I lift my arms to my sides and rise up into the night, hoping to outrun the man I’m becoming.

  THREE

  Taking Refuge in a Tree House. Periodicals of Questionable Literary Value.

  Bobbling Headlights. Debts You Can’t Pay Off.

  Moving Unfettered into the Future.

  Below me, the city’s density gives way to suburbs and strip malls, then hotels and gas stations clustered around interstate exits. I leave the highways behind, cross high above the Allegheny Mountains, pass valleys with towns nestled between sloping giants. Before long I find myself over the patchwork quilt of farmland and rolling open spaces of central Pennsylvania. Maybe it’s seeing the barns and silos that makes me think of my ex-wife, or maybe I was thinking of her all along, but realizing my destination comes as a kind of inspiration, and I accelerate through the clouds. Less than a half-hour after lifting off from Chili’s, I settle gently into a tree house in the branches of a sycamore on Sheila’s farm.

  The main house is dark except for the blue glow of a television on the first floor. Maybe it’s Sheila watching late-night cable news, silently critiquing the biased coverage, gathering notes for her next lecture. But there’s an equal chance it might be Thomas. I’m not exactly sure what I’d say to either of them. Actually being here has made me question my motives.

  It saddens me to see the tree house fallen into a state of such disrepair. Rain has gotten in through a shattered window, and some wood beneath the sill is rotting pretty bad. A two-legged telescope sits crippled in the corner. This was one of the only projects Thomas and I worked on together as father and son, a feeble attempt at being a good dad on the verge of the divorce. When Thomas and I helped Carl build this tree house eight years ago, my son didn’t yet know that I wasn’t moving with him and his mother. To help ease the transition, I stayed for a couple weeks, sleeping on the couch. One brilliant autumn morning, Carl and I loaded a pickup with lumber and he scratched out a basic design on a napkin at McDonald’s. Carl’s a great guy—told me at the wedding that he and I were a good match, seeing as he had no sons and I had no father. And he never blamed me for the divorce, something I greatly appreciated. He was foreman on the construction site, and Thomas and I did our best to follow his instructions. When we finished, Thomas insisted we call it HALO 2. Both of us slept in it that night, shivering in sleeping bags side by side. The next morning I woke to an aching back and my eight-year-old son gazing out the window at the sun rising over distant peaks. This was one of my life’s finest moments, and even in the instant I was lucky enough to know how good it was. But I also knew the rest. I knew that soon he’d find out I was leaving. Gypsy has told me that being able to see the future isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  It looks like the farmhouse has fared quite a bit better. Since I was here last, Sheila’s closed in the screened porch and added a brick deck in the back. Probably Carl’s doing. The rhododendron she planted on the side have grown in nicely. She made the right choice, leaving Kingdom Town to return to her family’s farm. It’s peaceful out here, and I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t concede that part of me, maybe the best part, wishes we had made things work, that I too could be living in this place. Central Pennsylvania probably doesn’t have much need for a superhero, and I doubt the university would let me teach criminal justice classes with a mask on. But maybe as a civilian, I could sign up as an assistant wrestling coach at the high school. Even junior varsity would be fine.

  As my eyes adjust to the dark, I make out a tiny cooler tucked in one corner. It’s the kind of thing construction workers and fishermen use for lunch, and it looks less beat-up than the rest of the tree house. My heart lifts as I imagine Thomas climbing up here for old times, enjoying his solitude and a meal and thinking perhaps of me. I reach for the cooler but stop. I worry now that my son, like any teenager, is prone to certain vices. I worry that opening it could reveal a warm six-pack of beer, a pouch of marijuana. In my prime, I could have seen through the cooler’s plastic, but now I’m going to have to open it. When I pull back the lid and reach into the blackness, my fingers find slick paper. A thick stack of magazines nearly fills the cooler. For a moment I imagine them as Guardian comic books, a hidden stash he keeps from his mother so he can maintain his teenage hostility while secretly admiring me. But they are too heavy for comics. In the darkness, I hold one up to my face and squint, trying to confirm my second guess (Sports Illustrated?). Then the Danger Ring glows, and in its red illumination I find myself inches away from two unnaturally huge breasts. There are pert nipples, a beaming smile, and spread legs. I drop the porno and stumble back. I am stupid and old. Old and stupid.

  I squeeze the ruby and say, “Yeah?”

  Ecklar says, “Vince. We both know you shouldn’t be where you are.”

  I think of the little green man’s supercomputers, their tracking systems, and the locator chip I know damn well is part of the Danger Ring’s design. “No shit,” I say. “I should be in Washington Park kicking some caveman ass. But I wasn’t invited.”

  “I heard about Chili’s. I’m sorry you learned about the situation that way. Wish I’d been there.”

  Because of Ecklar’s appearance, he tends to draw a crowd and isn’t much good on undercover ops. I’ll say in his defense, though, he’s loyal to a fault. If he’s representative of Andromeda, it’s a far better planet than ours. Still, I can’t repress my anger at the evening’s revelations. “Did you know this was coming?”

  He is quiet for a moment, then says, “No, no. Well, not tonight at least. But Clyde did discuss this with me, the notion of you stepping down.”

  “And why, precisely, did you not knock him on his ass?”

  There is another pause, this one long enough for me to imagine Ecklar running a long-fingered hand over his hairless, bulging head. “Vincent, Clyde is a troglodyte. Put that issue to the side. Really, do you think you can do this forever?”

  In the main house, the blue TV light goes out.

  “I don’t want to do it forever,” I say, not even sure it’s true. “I just want to do it until—” The different ways to end that sentence—until I get it right, until I prove myself, until I have a chance to die like a hero—flash through my mind. And each of them seems right, and none of them seems right. I leave the statement unfinished.

  Ecklar says, “You sound like shit. Why not come on home? I’ll open a bottle of something unhealthy.”

  “How’s Nate?” I ask.

  “Snoring. We watched Montana Moon. 1930. Classic western.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “He’s asleep, Vincent.”

  “I didn’t get to say good night. That matters a lot to a kid, don’t you think? He’ll fall back asleep. Now wake him up.”

  “I have a rational counterproposal: you return and carry him down to your quarters. That sounds like what a father
would do.”

  I’m about to say, I don’t need your approval of my parenting skills, but I realize how right he is. Instead, I say, “The situation in the park is contained?” “Interesting plot twist there. Apparently, hostages have been taken, some sorority girls. Clyde’s opened up negotiations.”

  “He’s negotiating with cavemen,” I say. I’m sure Clyde’s got a bullhorn. Guys like him love bullhorns. “I should be there.” I accidentally speak this thought out loud.

  “Maybe so. But I know you shouldn’t be where you are. I’m not trying to intrude. I know this night is painful. But don’t forget—things can get worse.” With three spouses of his own, Ecklar fancies himself a bit of a relationship expert. He goes on, “You know how Sheila feels.”

  Upstairs in the house, a small window lights up. She’s brushing her teeth, taking out her contact lenses. All this I see in my imagination, though not long ago my ultravision could have pierced the walls and watched her prepare for bed. In a way, I’m glad I no longer have that option. “I don’t need you to tell me how my wife feels.”

  “Vincent,” Ecklar says, his voice heavy and sad. “She’s not your wife anymore.”

  When I crush the ruby in my fist, it bursts into dust. The gold band left on my finger reminds me of that other ring, and I tug it past my knuckle and toss it through the broken tree house window.

  I know that my alien friend is right, that the most prudent course of action is for me to fly back to the city. Debbie will be worried about me, and perhaps later she’ll try to offer comfort, stretch across the cool space between us in our bed and waken me with a touch. The notion of consolation sex makes my stomach tighten. More likely than not, though, even if something got started, Nate would appear. A creaking door would still Debbie’s hand, and just like that, I’d find myself escorting our son back to his bed, where I would threaten him to stay tucked in, poking a finger in his face and gritting my teeth. All this in the slim hope of climbing back in my bed and groping my young wife. This is the sort of man I am on the verge of forty.