So there I was this morning, once again bemoaning the fact that I can't
fly.
I mean if there was anything I'd want to do that was extra special,
it would be to defy gravity and float places so I never hit traffic or ruined
the heel tabs on my Kenneth Cole knockoffs.
Think of the benefits: you're at a crowded party and stuck talking to
someone you'd rather not be talking with. You're trying to be attentive and
polite, but really. So you do that thing some people do, where you pretend
you've suddenly seen an old friend -- "Oh, my goodness, is that
Jenny?!?" -- and your conversation partner turns to look as you lift your
arm to wave. Unbeknownst to this annoying guest, lifting your arm is the best
way you know to avoid sludging through the other partygoers to get out of
listening to one more anecdote about his toe corns. Kablam! You're aloft!
Before he can turn around and wonder where you've gone, you're out the door and
on the way to Baskin Robbins for a little Gold Medal Ribbon ice cream. You
don't even have to remember where you parked the car.
Or suppose the kids get a frisbee or a hula hoop stuck in a tree. (I've seen
the hula hoop thing happen. You don't want to know how it got there, but try
not to judge.) You'd become the coolest parent on the block if you could
retrieve tree-snagged frisbees. Maybe there's a precariously swaying tree limb
hanging over your patio from your neighbor's back yard and your husband going
up a 30-foot ladder with a chainsaw makes you want to check his insurance
policy and light a few candles. Shazam! "Honey, I've got this. Just stand
back." If that's not a romance starter, I don't know what is.
But I bet there's a down side. Think of Superman, the ultimate flyer. Of
course, he was an alien, so he could defy gravity because he was from another
planet and the gravity there was presumably different. I mean, so he could lift
off, but what kept him on the ground the rest of the time? Did he just think
heavy thoughts? "Today I am totally feeling like a hippopotamus..."
Maybe he played Wagnerian opera in the mornings when he got ready for school or
later, for work.
And what about when he first started flying? Was it something he inherently
knew how to do? Or were there multiple scenes in the fourth grade where Clark
finally got multiplication and would eagerly raise his hand and...
"Oh, dear, Clark, not again," his teacher would say as she called for
the custodian the third time that month to come repair the ceiling. All of
Clark's classmates would tug him out of the rafters, wood bits and plaster dust
raining down upon their little towheads. I would bet there was an interesting
learning curve.
Later, what about all those suits left in phone booths? I used to worry
about that, watching the old episodes when I was a kid. I was that kind of kid.
What happened to his clothes after he left the phone booth on a Lois
Lane-saving mission? Maybe there was a news story, a sidebar by cub reporter
Jimmy Olsen, detailing the odd phenomenon of a lot of well-dressed hobos
stumbling around Metropolis. Maybe only the hobos that could fit 46-wide. The
citizens would see them standing on street corners, arguing: "No, I know I
look good, but I could still use your change. I'm starving here."
In some recent werewolf books I've read, organized packs keep lockers in
different cities for when their members wake up naked after an episode of
werewolfishness (not really a noun, by the way). It's part of the membership
fee: you go out running on a full moon and wake up in Kansas City or Miami or
Vancouver, and there's a U-Lock-It place with a combination only paying members
know so they can grab a pair of jeans, a nice pressed t-shirt, and some
Keds.
But Superman operated solo. He never came out of an alternate state in his
birthday suit, but he couldn't really go back to the phone booth to pick up his
trousers and tie. So what happened to his stuff? Did he have this account over
at Brooks Brothers where he'd go once a month and they'd hand him a thirty-day
supply? "Mr. Kent, the way you spill soups on things is just
unbelievable..." And he was a reporter! How much could he have possibly
earned? He wasn't independently wealthy like Batman or Iron Man. I don't ever
remember anyone handing him a check for saving the city from doom. Ever. His
credit card payments must have been enormous. I can't even imagine how the
ladies at Motor Vehicles felt about him showing up, looking all sheepish,
having "lost" his driver's license again from leaving his
wallet behind in his pants pocket.
Maybe he had a snug backpack under the cape that we never saw. It
wouldn't have been aerodynamic, but it would've solved a lot of wardrobe
problems. It wasn't as if he could call up Jimmy Olsen and say, "Buddy,
could ya go grab my things from that booth over at the corner of 72nd and
Madison? I've gotta go tangle with evil again," because he was
operating in secret. Maybe the whole operating in secret thing was part of the
problem. If people knew who he was, he could've left lockers all over the city
labeled Property of Clark (Superman) Kent, with a combination only he
knew.
Perhaps my ability to fly would have its downsides, too, even if I didn't
use it to save the world, but only to get to or out of places more easily.
Nobody would ever believe my excuse if I was late. My hair would always be
tangled. I'd have to shop for a decent cape, and you know, from the previous
blog, I'm not big on clothes shopping. I'd have to weigh these problems against
the plusses: being able to go whale-watching without the whole diesel-fumed,
"how-high-are-those-waves", 5 hours of seasickness boating
experience; or helping construction workers who were putting attenae on top of
skyscrapers to make sure they were in perfect position. Never getting lost in
the woods or in a corn maze.
I'll have to rethink this superpower thing, though. Maybe the better
superpower, for me, would be psychokinesis -- you know, making things happen
with my mind -- that way I could wash the dishes, do the laundry, write this
blog, and finish writing my novel all at the same time....
