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

  The Midlife Crisis of

  COMMANDER

  INVINCIBLE

  YELLOW SHOE FICTION

  Michael Griffith, Series Editor

  The Midlife Crisis of

  COMMANDER

  INVINCIBLE

  A NOVEL

  NEIL CONNELLY

  LOUISIANA STATE UNIVERSITY PRESS

  BATON ROUGE

  Published with the assistance of the Borne Fund

  Published by Louisiana State University Press

  Copyright © 2013 by Louisiana State University Press

  All rights reserved

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Louisiana State University Press Paperback Original

  First printing

  Designer: Barbara Neely Bourgoyne

  Typefaces: Calluna, text; Franklin Gothic Demi Freehand, display

  Printer and binder: McNaughton and Gunn, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Connelly, Neil O.

  The midlife crisis of Commander Invincible : a novel / Neil Connelly.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-8071-5317-8 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-8071-5318-5 (pdf) — ISBN 978-0-8071-5319-2 (epub) — ISBN 978-0-8071-5320-8 (mobi) 1. Superheroes—Fiction. 2. Vigilantes—Fiction. 3. Midlife crisis—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.O546M53 2013

  813'.6—dc23

  2013012567

  The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

  For Chris N.,

  truest of friends in the darkest of hours

  The Midlife Crisis of

  COMMANDER

  INVINCIBLE

  ONE

  Masks like Me. Noble Intentions. What the People Wanted to Believe.

  A Missing Star. The Thing about a Falling Baby.

  The Nothing That Can’t Wait. Code 26.

  I’m flying high over this city that was supposed to be mine. Once, the mere sight of my black and bronze cape fluttering above would’ve stopped traffic, spun the heads of all the stunned citizens. Nowadays, even if I streak through Center Circle at rush hour, I’m lucky if a half-dozen tourists snap cellphone photos. So I spare myself the indifference and stay above the neon glow, up here among the low-floating clouds and the blinking tips of skyscraper antennae. On a moonless evening like tonight, I doubt any civilians can even see me in the darkened sky, and that suits me fine. Tonight, I’m just not feeling like much of a superhero.

  Two miles ahead, straight across the west river, a cone of light shines from a hovering police helicopter. I cruise in the general direction, over a Cuban American Pride street fair and past a church spire. As I near the water, I can tell the trouble’s in Washington Park, and I try to tune in my ultrahearing to learn more. Above the whirling blades, I can’t figure out the nature of the emergency, and I’m legally obliged to keep my distance. There was a time when I would’ve automatically assisted, when helping peace officers was a matter of honor and duty, a knee-jerk instinct. But with the agreement the unions signed back in ’98, masks like me aren’t supposed to interfere in police affairs unless officially requested. They have a form that requires two signatures. So I hang suspended over the rippling river and glance down at my Danger Ring, hoping for it to glow with the promise of certain purpose. It remains dull. In the center of my chest, the dying thing grows a bit more.

  The only real action I’ve had tonight, the only distraction I’ve been able to find since flying away from the HALO, involved a fire on the East Side. I crashed feet first through the window of a burning two-story on South Holland and plucked free a family of four. Safe on the street outside, behind the fire engines, the woman planted a kiss on the dusty cheek of my bronze mask. The man gave me a dirty look and pulled his wife back into his arms. Their two kids, a girl and a boy with blankets tossed over their shoulders, stared at me wide-eyed. I hacked a few times from all the smoke I’d sucked in, and one of the firefighters offered me some oxygen. I waved the plastic mask away and said, “Give it to them.”

  “We’re OK,” the wife said.

  The pure oxygen was good, and when I sat on the curb I no longer felt dizzy.

  “What’s wrong with Mr. Magnificent?” the boy asked.

  “That’s not him,” his sister said. “He’s one of the other ones.”

  “Oh,” the boy said.

  Sheila always used to tell me I should try to be more upbeat, that it’s all about positive attitude.

  I leave the helicopter behind and follow the river south. Since my surgery, flying puts a hell of a strain on my lower back, but the brace Dr. Hippocrates gave me looks like a girdle. I refuse to wear it out of principle. I just take my time, slow floating under the Continental Bridge, over the docks of Irishtown, finally easing myself onto the top of a tenement on 36th. I can’t explain why, but spots like these are where I feel right lately. Out-of-the-way places where I’m alone and no one expects anything of me and I can keep an eye out for some small good to do. I stand on the northwest corner and look down on all the normal people, ten stories below. They hustle along the sidewalk, wait for a break in traffic to cross. I focus on a couple walking arm in arm and imagine them smiling. Once, my ultravision could’ve confirmed this, but now it comes and goes. I wonder where the couple is heading and hope it is home to bed. I hope they make love that wakes the neighbors.

  I fold my hands behind my back and roll my knuckles into the knotted muscle on either side of the base of my spine. I think about the empty pill bottle in my shaving kit back in the HALO and Dr. Hippocrates’s lecture about chemical dependency. Despite my lingering pain, he refused to refill the prescription. Some nights after my shift, I can convince Debbie to give me a back massage, something that takes the edge off. I picture her, probably just finishing Nate’s nightly bath. I wonder if she’s still angry. If my quarters were empty—as they were for almost a decade—I might call it an early night. But if I come in now, before my watch has ended, she’ll know something is wrong. Being a good wife, she’ll ask me. I hate to lie, and I can’t think of how to tell Debbie the truth.

  Another copter, this one carrying the KQEP Action News crew, clatters north toward the river. Back in the late ’80s, when Sheila anchored the evening edition for QEP, they usually opened with some story trumpeting the team’s exploits. It was always “Guardians Save City from Ferocious Five” or “Atlantean Plot to Flood City Thwarted by Guardians.” Sure, some part of it was fueled by Sheila’s feelings for me, the budding romance between an energetic reporter and a mysterious new hero on the scene. But more, the coverage was a sign of the times. We were what the people wanted to believe in. Infallible heroes with miraculous powers and noble intentions. Two decades later those days seem like a hallucination cooked up by Duchess Dreamo. Sheila left Kingdom Town years ago. The truly dangerous supervillains have all been rounded up, or they’ve disappeared so deep nobody thinks about them anymore. As for the press coverage, a few weeks, Hal Hightower at KQEP did an exposé on Gypsy’s most recent attempt at rehab. This one is court ordered.

  The copter disappears, and I’m so itchy for action that I consider risking a jurisdictional violation and following it, but I know nothing sinister is happening back in that park. Nothing sinister happens anymore. Probably some drug punk on the run or a gang fight. I’ve got nothing against helping out with everyday crimes. I’m not above that. But frankly the cops, who went on strike to force those
concessions about noninterference, don’t want our help, and usually they don’t need it. There was a time when every day brought some threat that could only be handled by me and the other Guardians. What I wouldn’t give for a Communist scientist with a stolen nuclear sub, a mutated rhino on the loose, a rampaging robot to smash to bits. I’d die for a baby falling from the sky. I’m not proud of this, but on the verge of my fortieth birthday, I’m coming to know just who I am. The thing about a falling baby is that you don’t have to call a committee meeting or deliberate the moral implications or question the long-term consequences of your actions. A wailing infant plummets from a high-rise balcony—you catch it. A rogue state’s nuclear missile streaks toward your hometown—you knock it into outer space. A prehistoric two-headed creature that sank an oil platform lurches from the choppy North Atlantic with twin jaws snapping—you kill the bitch.

  But things just aren’t like they used to be. It seems there are no more monsters, no more damsels in distress, no more falling babies. Nobody needs me to save them.

  I step back from the edge and walk the perimeter of the rooftop just to keep my legs from getting stiff. More and more, they fall asleep when I’m in flight for too long, something that often makes for tricky landings. I rub at my neck and wish there were a way to get some coffee. My shift lasts three more hours, and without something to wake me up, I’ll never make it through this night. The familiar pain at the base of my skull grows sharper. Even worse, I feel the edge of that craving coming up on me. As I’ve learned to do more and more often lately, I push the pain and the hunger away. I’m a better man than that.

  As unheroic as it seems, I’m considering curling up in a corner and just resting my eyes for a few minutes. I’ve found the cape makes a decent blanket. But then I hear scuffling over the side, down below in the alley. I peer into the blackness, barely able to detect movement, then step off the ledge and let my body descend.

  What I find, as my feet settle to the cracked asphalt, is a white-haired man standing in an industrial dumpster, hip deep in debris. The Majestic, an ancient movie house, is being gutted. The man uses his arms as rakes and flails garbage everywhere. “Seventeen seventy-six,” he says, bent over. “That was a big year in the history of history.”

  I clear my throat, and he looks over his shoulder. We make eye contact, and he straightens, then comes to the side of the dumpster and drapes one arm on it like it’s the top of a neighbor’s fence. “I was born in Opelika, Alabama,” he tells me.

  I nod and say, “Good evening. I am Commander Invincible.”

  “Dressed in that getup, you best be somebody.”

  “I’d like to help you,” I offer. “Why don’t we head over to the shelter on 8th Avenue? They’ll have some warm food.”

  “Sally never has pepper. And I’m not going anywhere on a date with you.”

  “I won’t hurt you,” I say. “I’m a hero.”

  “I know what you are. Could be I’m nuts, but I’m far from stupid. You the one shoots laser beams out your fingertips?”

  I shake my head. “I’m Commander Invincible—the Undefeatable Man.”

  His other arm comes up from his side, and he spikes a brick at my face. It breaks in two across my forehead, and one piece drops on my foot. I curse and wipe the dust from my eyes. The man shrugs and says, “Just confirming your credentials. Sorry about Sparkplug.”

  “Me too,” I say. Twelve years, and total strangers still apologize.

  In my prime, I’d have dodged that damn brick. Or caught it barehanded. Despite my fancy name, I feel pain more and more every day, and it’s been a decade since I could instantly heal any wound. So now, in addition to my back killing me, my head throbs. I could use a cold beer, a handful of ibuprofen, and Debbie’s magic massage. Of course what I really need is a good bit stronger, but I made my wife a promise. Good men keep their promises.

  “Look,” I say, “just come on and sign in at the shelter. It’s not smart to be out on the street.”

  “You want to play Good Samaritan, help me find my goddamn star.”

  I glance up, but the clouds and city lights blot out the constellations.

  “My star,” he shouts. “The one that hung on my dressing room door. They had it in a glass case in the lobby, kept it all these years as a memento. I’m sure it’s in here somewhere, and I want it.”

  “You used to be an actor?” I ask.

  “I’m still an actor,” he says. “I’m between engagements. But it just so happens that I once did four years here at the Majestic as King Lear. Standing room only. Long before your time.”

  The theater being demolished showed movies, but it’s an old building, a place that could have once housed plays, I suppose. I try to calculate the possibility that this man is telling the truth. He senses this and says, “I don’t especially give a rat’s fuck if you believe me or not. My life doesn’t depend on what others think.”

  This line rattles me, but I don’t linger on it. “You shouldn’t be out here,” I tell him. “It’s not safe on the streets.”

  “It’s safe for me,” he says. “Nobody wants to fuck with a crazy man. You haven’t learned that yet?”

  I’m bothered by this imparted wisdom more than anything, and suddenly I’m not at all sure what I’m dealing with here. I wish Gypsy were with me so she could read his mind and confirm his story. Then the man says, “Hey, your ring’s going off.”

  The Danger Ring flashes red on my hand. I tap the inside with my thumb and raise it to my face. My best friend Ecklar’s voice crackles through the static. “This is HALO Command. What’s your status?”

  “I’m peachy keen. You got something for me?”

  “Negativo,” he says. “The board is clear. Just checking in.” Ecklar’s only three feet tall, which he tells me is about average for the planet Andromeda. On that world, he has seventeen children and three wives, each of whom has at least one other husband. He was a physicist there, working on a way to end his civilization’s war with the planet Malkovia, until an interstellar vortex experiment went wrong and threw him halfway across the galaxy.

  “Nothing happening here,” I tell him.

  The white-haired actor says, “That’s nice.”

  “No offense,” I say. Then I cup the ring as if King Lear won’t hear and ask, “Any chance Deb’s in central control?”

  Ecklar clears his throat. “No. Deb’s not here. She’s got Nate downstairs, I guess. I can patch you through.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “It’s nothing that can’t wait. Over and out.” I squeeze the ring, effectively hanging up. At the end of the alley, car horns blare, and a woman curses.

  “What’s the nothing?” the old actor asks.

  I turn his way.

  “The nothing that can’t wait.”

  “The nothing is nothing,” I say. “None of your business.”

  “All right by me. But I’ll bet it’s not nothing to Deb. If you can’t talk about it, try roses. My Gloria always liked pink ones, before they bloomed, when the buds were all tight and waiting.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll think about it. I hope you find your star.”

  “Whatever,” he says. “Hope and a dollar will get you four quarters and a broken heart.”

  I’ve had enough of this back-alley mystic, so I say, “Take care,” and cruise into the night, cutting against traffic on 39th.

  While I was getting ready for my shift tonight, Deb and I had another blowout, this time in front of Nate. I said things no four-year-old should have to hear. I want to apologize for the fight. I want to tell her how I rescued that family from the fire on South Holland and hear her say, “Good job.” I want to tell my wife that everything will be OK.

  But I know that these would be half-truths, and knowing this makes me feel the weight of that dying thing in my gut, and the pain in my skull spikes. I crave escape, even a temporary one. I head for the presidential district, to get away from the life I lead.

  During my second year a
s a Guardian, before Ecklar joined the team, I charged ahead of Titan and the others into the underground lair of Professor Parallax. I hadn’t yet learned that whoever goes first usually falls into the diabolical trap. I flew down a long hallway, dodging death rays and spinning metal disks, then burst into his laboratory, crashing headlong into a computer bank. When I recovered, I saw not one Professor Parallax but two dozen. Simultaneously, they all pointed my way and yelled, “Destroy him!”

  They scattered for various control panels, there was a flash of white light, and I was gone. He hadn’t killed me, of course. Despite what happened to Sparkplug, killing’s always been against the rules. Instead, I’d been warped into an alternate dimension, Earth 1.2. In that reality, I was leader of the Guardians, Sheila and I never got divorced, and we had three girls. Deb was part of the team, and she and Sheila were best friends, like sisters. That Vincent Shepherd—who had a mustache—put me in contact with his reality’s Brainbuster, who jury-rigged a device she thought would realign my molecules and shift me back to my rightful place in the infinite multiverse. But the gizmo wasn’t entirely reliable, and it took me weeks of bouncing from Earth to Earth until I finally homed in on the world I’d left behind. Sometimes it feels like I never got it right.

  The taxis flow beneath me on 39th, and I have the sense that I’m swimming upstream. If I were merely out to stop a crime, I could have my choice now on any block. Prostitutes gather on the corner at Hoover. Three hoodlums linger in the shadows by an ATM. But I’m on the prowl now for a very particular kind of criminal. Over on Eisenhower Avenue, just past a row of strip clubs, I see a sedan pull up to the curb in front of a boarded-up bookstore. The make and model—too nice for this ratty neighborhood—draw my interest. I settle on the fire escape of a pulsing nightclub across the street. A man with a wool cap emerges from the alcove of the bookstore. Through the rolled-down window there is a brief conversation, and an exchange is made. The sedan pulls away, and the man returns to the darkness.