My head takes out the railing on the third floor, and I fall back to where I started. I am not hurt, but the railing will never rail again. I scoot up the stairs in long strides, landing to landing, cringing when I pass floor number three. Between the lock and the railing, I have cost the hotel at least a few hundred dollars, and some poor slob will need body work on his Civic. Not to mention destroying a road and damaging a beach. A night's experimenting and I obviously have a long way to go.
That last thought leads me to another thought: I have to pilot a plane in a couple hours, and I have gotten zero sleep. I open the door to my room, and standing just inside the closed door, reach inside myself to squeeze the light. My pants fall down. I toss them to the side, remove the now too large shirt, and go take another shower. I have had no sleep, but I feel more relaxed and refreshed than I normally do after 10 hours.
I meet my crew for the airport shuttle and we head for home. At 35,000 feet, I wonder how long it will be before I can do this without the 757. Then a little light reminds me that I have limited time. In something less than 1,094 days, I will be dead.
Chapter 5
Grabbing the molecules with my feet, I slam them hard at an angle and tilt my body toward the open sky above. Shooting less than straight upward, the dark gold colored glass windows of the Bank of California building come angling at me at an alarming rate, exactly what I was trying to avoid. I grab a few more molecules and shove away as hard as I can. Rocketing even faster now, I clear the top of the building without making contact, missing the windows by inches, my joy lasting a whole two seconds until I hear the unmistakable sound of shattering, and turn to watch helplessly as the shards from a dozen or more huge glass panes disappear below me in the night sky, falling to earth.
"Fuck me." Three mother fucking months of practicing almost every fucking night and I still can't get it right. Even the light doesn't find me funny any more. It's frustrated beyond belief, which makes my frustration all the more mind numbing.
A million dollars in road damage in Hawaii. Shattered windows from here to Vegas to Denver on my first attempt at cross country flight that not only went to four times the speed of sound (Mach 4 for you air buffs), not only caused tens of thousands of dollars of damage, but started at least forty conspiracy buff web sites on everything from alien space ships to secret air force planes to terrorist plots. It did teach me that I am almost, but not quite, invisible on radar. Further testing suggests that I am 100 percent stealthy, it's my clothes that are not. If you can figure out what I did to test that theory, keep it to yourself.
The worst was the first time I got cocky and tried to navigate downtown LA at high speed. I came home literally covered in shit. They are supposed to put the sewer pipes inside the frakking buildings, but nooooo, someone paid off some building inspector, and the budding superhero, going too fast, breaches the wall of an older brick building, busts the pipe, and finds himself covered in God knows what. Something that three showers was not enough to clear away.
I did learn that I can get from downtown LA out into deep water in well under three minutes. Of course, that also meant I was supersonic, which meant blown out windows from the 101 through South Central, northern Orange County and a couple coastal cities. It's also the only time I have flown directly home, which still has me worried someone saw something.
West Hawaii Today confirmed not only my road damage, but that native Hawaiians are convinced that Pele was warning them of a major impending eruption from Kilauea. I've learned to run about 150 mph without causing damage, and been up to her volcano a couple of times to apologize with offerings of food (Twinkies actually, which she may not regard as food). The question is will I ever be faster on my feet than in a Ferrari? The real question is shouldn't Pele be happy with me for ripping up the white man's road? Couldn't she be helping me out with this powers thing? I do remember that she killed her husbands, so maybe I won't ask.
I'm convinced because of the view from inside the blurry that time is being affected around me. That's why I can run faster than my human brain should be able to control, and why everything looks normal and too fast all at that same time. It still makes me nauseous to travel top speed, in the air or on the ground.
I haven't saved one life, human or tree stuck feline, intercepted one drug shipment, fed one poor person, or gotten rid of one weapon of mass destruction, and I'm a few days away from the 1,000 days left on Earth mark.
The only saving grace is that I never sleep when in Hawaii anymore, and Halloween has no trouble with her superpowers, so I haven't had more than a 10 word conversation with the Fog Dude since May and it's September. He was obviously pissed at first, multicolored fog balls chasing me every time he swirled his way in, but has backed off, probably more concerned that maybe they picked a fucking idiot to give this stuff to who can't even fly correctly yet.
For at least the past month every time I fly downtown I have the sensation of being watched. It feels like when you're a kid doing something you know you shouldn't, turn around, and there's your mom watching you. I think it's Fog Dude's way of telling me to get my act together.
I have gotten good at floating, and I'm doing exactly that, well above the bank building. I tilt myself on a course out toward the Inland Empire, grab some passing molecules, and push myself up to a couple hundred knots, staying 150 feet above the ground. Straight line. Good at that. If I can find a terrorist group who will agree to run in a straight line, and not go indoors, I am ready to stop them today.
The Twin Towers I call them, actually two big rocks out in Hesperia, but I thought it would be a good reminder of what I should be able to do. More molecules sacrifice their energy to my feet and I push near to the speed of sound. My course starts here, follows the railroad tracks through the mountains back into Ontario, then north, up and around the hills and canyons to intercept the Grapevine, and then across the valley, out over the ocean, and back to wherever I hid my car for the evening. I have yet to do it without hitting a canyon wall, or a hilltop, or both. Tonight is no exception. I have a similar loop around the islands when I'm in Hawai'i, but I haven't bumped in to one of them yet. If Molokai sinks, you'll know who it was.
I bounce not so gleefully off the wall of the train tunnel, straighten out for a while, and punch it up and over the hill, swooping down into the valley by Magic Mountain. The other thing about this route is the irony of flying past the Superman ride, reminding me nightly just how lame I am.
Tonight I turn north only briefly, and pop back through the mountains to the desert. I have set up a weight lifting course too, really big and lopsided rocks that I carry around, throw, and otherwise destroy. I have to admit that I am not too bad at the 10,000 pound rock toss. OK, I don't know what the rock really weighs, but I'm sticking with the 10,000 pound story until a better one comes along. I get the same stupid "I'm watching you" feeling from Fog Dude out here, but at least I can aim the rocks.
I have given up moving cars, because I have yet to do it without denting something.
So 90 days in, the Superman-Spiderman-Captain Marvel composite can almost fly without causing damage, lift big rocks, but nothing of value, in his bare hands, and beat a Buick in a race, provided there are no turns. Alright, I could beat the Buick if there are turns, but we'd probably only be able to race one lap on the track because the road would be a disaster after I went by.
Done with rock tossing, my toes do the molecule dance and I am jetting back across the night sky into LA. I do have to admit that it is beautiful up here, the view is amazing, and nothing you can do with your clothes on feels as free or as fun. The wind is cool on your face, it's night so you can't see the smog. Clouds are a pain, but once you've gotten soaking wet a couple times, you learn to avoid them. Which would be a lot easier if I could steer better, which is why I keep a set of spare clothes in my car.
Did I mention this is also screwing up my relationship with Jen? Did I mention my girlfriend found a set of men's clothes in my car which were too
big for me, the morning after a night I begged off being together because I was "tired" from a flight to Denver? Lots of thunderstorms, I told her. Everything late, mentally draining, could we do it tomorrow instead? Then her car won't start in the morning, Starbuck and I race over to get her to work, forgetting that my extra extra large flying clothes are in the back seat. Fuck me. Which means I hardly get to fuck her. And she thinks maybe I'm gay and she's my beard.
I'd explain, then she'd want to fly like Lois Lane in Superman 1, and I'd drop her or something. "Yes Mr. and Mrs. Wareman, that puddle of goo in the middle of the Hollywood Freeway is your daughter. I'll try to do better next time."
Actually, I have spent a lot of time thinking on the tell her - don't tell her question, longer actually than I have spent on the love her - don't love her question, because I have an answer to the second one. I just don't want to not be with her. And, I don't know what she'd want if I told her, except I know she'd want to ride the salami, and I don't know if I could handle him fucking my girlfriend. I know he's me, but what if she loved the salami, or he loved her? Or whatever.
To avoid someone seeing the other me go in and out of my apartment, or worse flying in or out, I have been driving my car to two "safe" parking lots, and only changing into the other me once I am somewhere I know there is no camera.
Tonight I'm in spot number two, a hotel on Katella near Disneyland. I pop down into the alleyway behind a strip mall next door, smelling of half eaten Chinese food and a few other things I can't recognize. Despite that, I am able to close my eyes, listen to myself breathe, find the inner hand, make it squeeze the light, and grab my pants before they fall off. I am barefoot, and the trash bins do not restrain the goop dripping from them very well, which is why the alleyway is number two on the spot list.
I have found one accommodation, a kind of stretchy tights/underwear thing that fit both the original and other me. They are ever so slightly large on me (a little extra air flow around the bratwurst turns out to be mildly entertaining), and just a tad tight around the salami, which is probably good so that it doesn't become an extra airfoil during flight. They guarantee that I will never be overexposed, at least I hope they do. I continue to refer to them as "underwear" given that Jen already has too much questionable information. There is a chest covering version of them, which I have yet to try.
Holding my pants up, I walk over into the well lighted, but uncameraed, parking lot next to the Express Hotel, wipe my feet off with a paper towels I keep in the back, hop into Starbuck, put my shoes on, and head out. Harbor to the 22 to the 405 to the 710 and I'm home in time to shower, change, and get back in Starbuck, back on the 710, back on the 405, etc., etc., etc.....
I'm not home much, Halloween is mad at me, Jen is not sure about me, the Fog Dude is pissed, I haven't seen my parents in three weeks, and the radio is telling me that a homeless man was injured by falling glass downtown last night. Being Superman sucks.
Captain Amos is already there when I arrive, and so is Taylor. I don't even try to get in her pants this morning. She gives me a puzzled look.
"First Officer Packer," she says, "Did you know I am allowed free transit to Hawaii with your flight?"
I give her my puzzled look.
She switches to a fake deep manly sort of voice, "No, Ms. Mankat, I did not, but I have a beautiful girlfriend and my father would fire you if you went with us. Can I have my flight plan now, please?"
Back to her normal voice, "But of course First Office Packer, here is your 461 to Kona plan. I purposefully left you 2,000 pounds of fuel short, just to see if you are paying attention."
I take the folder, shake my head, and mumble my way to an empty table. Captain Amos apologizes for me, and is soon sitting at the table next to me.
"Decided to be an ass this morning?," he asks.
"Jen and I are having issues. My fault totally, but still takes the fun out of cheating on her."
A hearty laugh comes from the captain. "You need to work it out. She's not one in a million, she's one in a lot more than that."
I grab the paperwork without responding, and we check to make sure Ms. Mankat was joking about not putting enough fuel in the plane to get to our destination. In fact, she has given us a little extra, noting that the wind reports have been sketchy. Captain Amos gives me the paperwork to turn in and heads to the head. I take the hint.
"Sorry I was snarly before Taylor, it's been a bad few days."
"Hit the beach this afternoon, and I expect a big smile next week," she says, giving me a big one of her own.
"Done." I smile kinda lamely at her, but it's the best I can do. The captain and I walk out to the gate, and do our jobs as quietly as possible. He decides that he will fly the plane to Hawaii and I will do the return. Maybe he's afraid that I would fly the plane into the ocean instead of landing it. Little does he know that I would walk away from that.
Or maybe not. Reminds me that there is one set of tests I have not done. I have fallen from a few hundred feet into the ocean, run my head literally into the sand, and bounced off of many a canyon wall. I have not tried stopping a bullet, or a knife, or a rocket, or a rock, and I have no idea how protected I am when I am me, not him. Really don't want to stab myself to find out either.
On the other hand, I still get paper cuts and they are still as annoying as they always were. I got sunburned on the beach (but was pasty white again after flying around that night. The light works better than aloe.). When I hit my toe in the dark on a table or bed post, it still hurts like hell.
We push back right on time, wait in line behind eight other aircraft, and then I once again get to marvel at how smoothly Captain Amos gets us in the air. I can't do it as nicely with or without the plane. No cloud cover today, but a sharp and unexpected change in wind direction about 18,000 feet up which launches us into 30 seconds of heavy turbulence. Flying on my own I have experienced that kind of turbulence up close and personal. It makes me appreciate having the mass of aluminum around me. I got tossed half way to the ground the last time I hit that big a bounce without warning, while the 757 moves a few feet and resets itself back to equilibrium.
At altitude the air is smooth as glass today, and I set about picking the captain's brain. I have always relied on his career guidance, and I decided months ago that there was no reason to change. Without knowing it, he's helped me build a plan for the next two to three years. Beyond that, of course, the only planning I need is estate.
The plan is simple. It all depends on me actually learning to fly, run, and whatever else I can do. That might be the bug in it.
It says have a quiet year. Secret activity only. Save some lives, stop convenient smugglers, eliminate a few nukes, destroy scattered weapons caches. Learn the world close up, not from 10,000 miles away or 35,000 feet above.
Then go public, though I have not decided what the agenda should be. The Captain, without knowing what he was doing, convinced me to have the quiet phase, and has helped me target a few targets. Lately we've been talking about how to make permanent changes in the world. Jen thinks you can't. Captain Amos thinks you can, but even he stops short of thinking he knows how.
He makes the usual perfect landing in Kona, and we head off to play golf with an American crew we met a month ago. I play like I fly (by myself, not in the plane). I think I'm pointed in the right direction, but every shot is in the trees or in the water. I lose $50, four balls, and the honor of Mountain Pacific Airlines. Captain Amos threatens to make me run home behind the aircraft. I would, except that I'm sure I would dent the plane.
Chapter 6
On a "normal" night in Hawai'i, I wait until after midnight to head out for my running track, but it's only 11:30 and I can't wait any longer. I close my eyes, listen to my breathing, find my inner hand, grab the light, speak my magic word, and let the feeling come. It starts in my middle and spreads through every inch of me, warm and strong and stuff I can't possibly name. Some nights I think about abandoning the run to sit on the bed and jus
t turn the power on and off all night.
Running clothes on, I look through the peeper in the door to make sure no one is out in the hall to see the other me leaving my room, and hit the road. Ali'i Drive winds along the coast, dark houses full of sleeping people on both sides, short glimpses of the dark ocean, waves crashing noisily against the rocks. It's me and an occasional mongoose or squirrel (not moose and squirrel), until I get to the empty shopping center, and then up the hill.
The hill and the stop light have become the pathway to my power. Something about climbing that giant hill, the ocean endless behind me, then having the light turn green at the top. Probably another stupid light trick playing with my head, but it's there just the same. Only tonight I know not to turn right.
In the comics, Spiderman gets these wavy lines over his head, but that doesn't mean he knows what's going on, just that something bad is. I have no wavy lines, but I know. No right turn. There's a point on a hill a hundred yards or so down the road where something bad is happening.
The light turns green and I cross the highway. A small two lane road winds up from there into a residential neighborhood of kinda dumpy houses on nice size lots. I cut right 10 feet in, onto the dirt of someone's backyard, through a hole in their fence.
Fog Bastards 1 Intention Page 6