Tales of a PunkyAmerica

I wake up, or rather, come to, shuffling along a wet, dingy street far below the ‘L’, no memory of how I got here and no cell phone in my pocket. By the light fog and grey glow I figure it must be 5 am-ish. My head throbs to the beat of alcohol. Tiny shards of rain water against my cheek threaten worse to come. What the hell am I doing here? I have no recall. How much did I drink, and where?

 

Wits, must gather them, and I search the wet landscape for clues or rescue. I need my phone, where’s my phone? Tripping over a sidewalk crack triggers a vague memory of flying through the air, and of sharp, electric jolts from my knuckles to my elbow. I look down at my right fist. It’s scraped and bloody. Rain delivers on its threat, cold and cutting.

 

What’s this, at the end of the block? A phone booth, for Chrissakes. You don’t see many of these any more, and just in the nick of time, this one. The last phone booth in the world.

 

I’m two lurches away from shelter, drawing in like a moth to a hot flame, when a sudden overhead swoosh spins me around and knocks me down hard on my ass. In front of me a bouncing, oof-ing tangle of turqoise and red cloth, some muffled curses, a crash, silence.

 

Aw, crap. Not another one. I hate these guys.

 

Superman bounces up stiff and erect, and throws out a muddy glad hand. “Hey, pal, dollar for the phone?” he says, in a voice rough with booze and mace. “Lost my cell. National emergency.” I find eight quarters in my pocket and hand him four. He sprints into the phone booth without another word, sliding shut the panel door behind him.

 

Son of a bitch. I shuffle up to the booth, trying to squeeze out of the rain a little. He’s in there jabbing furiously at the keypad. After a long silence I hear, “Honey, I’m sorry. I screwed up. I was out saving the world, and I forgot our plans.” Another long pause, then a shift in tone. “Hey, it’s not easy being Superman.”

 

I see the side of his face through the plexiglass. Redshot eyes, stubbly chin, stains of blood and tobacco. His brow furrows darkly as he cocks his head to the side, now sneering, pissed off.

 

“Listen here, Lois, that’s not fair. I’m a busy, busy guy.  And I don’t think I like you prying into my business.”

 

One thing about Lois, she has balls. Her response crackles out of the mouthpiece as sharply as the rain against my neck, and I can almost predict every word before she says it.

 

“You’re not Superman. You’re just a super-boy with superhero plans. You might be saving the world, but you’re losing me.”

 

Just then Superman notices me eavesdropping, and flashes me a malevolent glare. Jerks open the door as if he’s about to kick my ass, but freezes, staring at me with those laser beam eyes, phone in hand, Ms. Lane on the other end waiting for a response. The rain stops suddenly. The silence grows thick with coiled tension. My head hurts. I don’t wanna fight this asshole, I just want to go home.

 

“That’s it!” he barks, slamming the handset onto the cradle, his face twisting like a pit bull’s as he pushes roughly past me, “I’m outa here!” Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a train, he leaps like lightning through the foggy grey. In a second he’s gone, leaving behind a trail of blaring car alarms. Jeez, I hate these guys.

 

I shake my head clear. I’m remembering now, it’s all coming back, same as it ever was. Car alarms, police sirens, the burning fire of whiskey down my throat. I step into the booth and fumble my four quarters into the slot, one at a time, clink, clink, clink, clink. Dial my home number, and pre-empt her first words, like I have so many times before, with, “Honey, it’s Superman, I fucked up. I didn’t make it home again. I was out saving the world, and I forgot our plans.”

 

Silence in the earpiece, but the rain is back, rat-a-tat-tatting against the roof of the phone booth. I spy another poor Super-schlub staggering out of the morning fog toward the Last Phone Booth in the World. I slam shut the panel door behind me and turn my back to the day.

 

“Look, Lois, I’m a busy guy. You gotta cut me some slack. It’s not easy being Superman.”

 

Some more dead air, then a quiet, “We can always talk about it. Come home and we’ll talk about it.”

 

I swear I get a whiff of kryptonite, right through the phone. Where’s Superman when you need him? Behind me, a tentative knocking on the plexiglass.