"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
Nanny O’Brien’s was busy for a Monday night. In the pub the tables were mostly full and only one seat remained free at the bar. For the majority of patrons the attraction was a Washington Redskins game on the season opener of Monday Night Football. The team had had a decent enough pre-season to draw a sizeable crowd to the tiny bar in the Cleveland Park neighborhood of the nation’s capital. They weren’t undefeated, but they’d made some good lineup choices, acquired some choice picks and anything could happen. It was a rebuilding year and everyone was interested to see how the new team took shape.
Jeff Malmot sat at the bar next to the only empty stool. He was saving it for his friend, who was already ten minutes late. But that’s the way it was these days. Until recently his friend had always been on time, traffic, crowds, and other pedantic obstacles not an issue in his life. Nor were they in Jeff’s. That’s the way it was being a superhero.
The door opened and Eddie Sanchez hurried through, hunched over, burying his chin in the collar of his jacket. He stood near the entrance and looked around. Spotting his friend he stepped up to the bar and took the seat next to Jeff.
“Damn it’s cold out,” Eddie said, rubbing his hands together for the warmth of friction.
“It’s seventy degrees, man,” Jeff pointed out, motioning to the bartender for service.
“You’re talking to a guy who’s used to having his normal body temperature around one thirty.” Eddie adjusted himself onto the stool, leaving his jacket on. “I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like once we get into winter.”
“Maybe you should retire to Florida,” Jeff joked. “Although you don’t strike me as looking too good in pastel.”
The bartender came over and stood before them, awaiting their order. “I’ll have a Guiness and how about a shot of Jack,” Jeff said. The bartender looked at Eddie who didn’t know how to respond. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “What’s good?”
Jeff smiled at the naivete of his friend. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot. So then let’s start you with a shot of Jack as well, and then a Bass. Sound good?” Eddie shrugged in deference and the order was placed.
“It still shocks me that you’ve never had a drink before,” Jeff said in disbelief.
Eddie sat there, holding his hands up to the tiny votive candle on the bar, hoping to finally get warm. “I had a sip of beer once when I was about sixteen,” he revealed. “But my physiology isn’t affected by alcohol. So there really wasn’t much point to spending the extra money when soda or juice tasted better.”
“Wasn’t affected,” Jeff corrected.
Eddie’s spirit sunk a degree. “Right. Wasn’t affected.” Jeff recognized the error of his haste to correct. “Sorry,” he offered. The bartender set the drinks down and asked if they wanted to start a tab. Jeff nodded. Then he turned to Eddie and raised his shot glass. “Okay, whatever. The shit affects you now and so we’re going to enjoy it. Cheers.”
Their glasses clinked together and Jeff downed the shot in one easy motion. Eddie looked at the brown liquid and hesitated. “Don’t think about it,” Jeff instructed. “Just gulp it down.” Eddie closed his eyes and poured the shot into his mouth. It was almost more than he could fit and it sat there on his tongue for a long moment. Then he swallowed it in two takes. Instantly his eyes opened and his nose scrunched up. He stuck out his tongue and lapped at the air, hoping for a more pleasant flavor to come along and erase the experience of the liquor.
“First time is always the worst,” Jeff said, emphasizing the double entendre of his statement like the joke was original. “It’ll get better as the night goes on. Drink up.”
Over the next half-hour Eddie toyed with his beer. The bottle and its contents were cold and just touching the glass caused shivers throughout his upper body. They watched the game, the Redskins pulling ahead of the 49ers by two touchdowns and a safety. The crowd was happy with how things were going. All except Eddie.
At forty-five minutes Jeff got up to use the bathroom and returned three minutes later. On his approach he saw his friend hunched over, staring at the beer bottle but not touching it. He knew what Eddie was thinking and had decided not to bring it up. But looking at him he knew that his friend wasn’t going to be distracted by any bottled release or gridiron game of chess. Jeff spotted a free table, picked up his drink and jacket from the back of his chair, and tugged on Eddie’s sleeve to let him know they were moving.
“So, tell me how it went,” he said, easing onto the bench. “You’re face is pretty red, like you’re sunburned.”
“The tests,” Eddie said. “I’m told it’s like spending a week in a tanning bed. The actual radiation output is minimal, but the energy they’re using still gives me a little more color than I’m used to.” “Did they say when they’d have everything analyzed?”
“Tonight.”
“And you’re not sitting by the phone waiting?”
“I couldn’t do it. I needed to get out and find some distraction.
It might not seem like it, the way I’ve been acting, but I’m actually glad you called.”
Jeff tilted his beer in informal toast, “glad to be of service.” Turning his eyes back to the television mounted over the bar, Jeff saw a new player on the field. Only this one wasn’t wearing a uniform. Instead his wiry frame was clad in dark red-tinted leather with a tail extruding from behind and a helmet with giant red horns jutting out, forming smooth ninety-degree angles. The villain, whom both recognized as Diablo, road an energy creature that vaguely resembled a bull in form and greatly surpassed a bull in destructive power.
The teams of players scattered as man and beast tore up the field, jumping in and out of the stands, terrorizing those in attendance. His agenda was unclear, but the calamity was terribly apparent. Jeff’s expression turned gravely serious as he stood up like a reflex. The Redskins were playing at home and he could be at the stadium in a matter of minutes. His mission was clear. And then he remembered Eddie.
“Uh, Eddie,” he stammered. “I…”
“Go,” Eddie said, knowing the feeling Jeff was experiencing, envying that rush that comes just prior to battle.
Jeff grinned bittersweet. He grabbed his jacket and dashed for the door.
Eddie stayed in his seat, curious to see how it all turned out. Four minutes after Jeff left the bar his alter ego, Liquix, arrived at the scene. As Liquix he coated himself in a thin, yet impenetrable metal body shell. He could also expand and manipulate the metal to form simple weapons or to launch himself into the air. In the overall scheme of things they were minor, brutish powers. But, in the right hands, they were no less effective than the more heavy hitters. Liquix was a pro and Diablo didn’t run with his bull for very long. Eddie watched the whole thing on television. But by the time Liquix changed back to Jeff Malmot and returned to Nanny O’Brien’s, Eddie was gone.
“…it’s Doctor Friedkin…Eddie, I’m sorry. The results came back and they weren’t what we hoped. Now, this doesn’t mean…” Click.
He couldn’t listen to any more.
When he walked in the apartment was dark, the only light the hopeful blinking of the answering machine in the corner. All it took was the first ‘sorry’ for Eddie to hear all he wanted. That was it. The powers were gone and he would have to deal with it.
In his hand was a brown paper bag with his purchase from the liquor store down the street. It was the only thing he could think to do. For the first time in his life alcohol was affecting him, a hollow trade for powers that once let him hover hundreds of feet above the ground. But if this was the exchange then he might as well make the most of it.
Eddie pulled the new bottle of Jack Daniels out of the bag and broke the seal. He sniffed the contents, the same ghastly stench as his drink at the bar. Lifting the bottle to his mouth he paused and decided. If he were going to become a drunk, then he would be a civilized drunk. At least to begin with.
From the cupboard he got a small glass tumbler. Not a shot glass, but it would serve just as well. At the dining table he poured the alcohol halfway up the inside walls of the glass. One career had ended and now it was on to the next.
He lifted the glass to his eye level and stopped. Was this truly the future? Was this all it had in store for him? Was the greatest achievement he was capable of now getting to the bottom of a bottle?
His eyes welled up. Sorrow consumed him as he stared at his possible liquid destiny. His brow furrowed. He raised his other hand and saw that it trembled. Wiping the forming tears from his eyes he felt his open hand becoming a fist. So tight was the fist that the skin on the back of his hand stretched to reveal the criss-cross of blue veins, fresh wounds from the testing equipment reopening, lines of blood running across flesh. Sorrow turned to rage. With nowhere else to focus it, every drop of festering anger closed in on one small glass.
Eddie’s entire body quaked with fury. The idea of drowning his pity in a bottle so incensed him that, with all that his strength could forge, he threw the glass aimlessly, savagely across the room. It was a pointless act, but all he could think to do.
Alcohol arched out from the sudden motion. Before the whiskey was even halfway to the floor the glass struck the bookcase on the far wall of the adjoining living room. As it shattered the chain reaction sent other objects flying. The bookcase was devoted to memories and memorabilia. It was all that Eddie had left and he’d been trying to ignore it since his powers first disappeared. These were things that had become his past. And now they were broken by his present.
While shattered remembrances lay on the floor Eddie wept. The tears came hard and faster than his mind could keep up. Emotion had overwhelmed thought, the effort of allowing it and wrangling it was draining to his already weary existence. But he permitted the sobbing to continue, if for no other reason than he didn’t know what else to do.
As the tears subsided he was once again confronted with the hopeless prospect of the future.
He decided it would be best to sleep on things and maybe the rest would come with some options. The mess could wait until the morning as well.
Walking to his bedroom Eddie was stopped in his tracks by one of the fallen memories. At his feet was a picture frame, the glass cracked from where the tumbler had struck it. Break lines crept out from a central point like a chaotic spider web. In the clearer area of the picture was Eddie, a shot taken six years ago. At the epicenter of the cracks, beneath the ravaged glass, was his wife…his estranged wife. Suddenly tomorrow’s course had some bearing.
