Chapter 14: Going Shopping

By a/k/a Simon
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Ryan was turning Megan’s Subaru Impreza onto the highway heading south. The surprising thing about this scenario wasn’t just that Ryan was behind the wheel, but that Megan wasn’t even in the car at all.

Greta, Megan, and Eddie had gathered in the living room, Greta plotting out what needed to be done with the house to accommodate the guests from the funeral. She’d decided that the dining room table should be moved to the garage to make room for the expected horde. While she rambled on, mostly to herself, Ryan came home from his hockey game. He was back long enough to quickly shower and change before heading out to his SUV again. Two minutes later he returned, spewing obscenities.

In the time it had taken to wash up, the left front tire had completely deflated. Ryan didn’t have a spare. He also didn’t have a ride to the mall to buy a dress shirt for the wake and funeral.

Although she knew better, Greta suggested Ryan take Megan’s car. Instantly Megan flashed back to the three cars that she knew of that Ryan had totaled over the years; a Mustang 5.0, a Camaro, and a Honda CRX, in that order. She had no desire to add her car to that list, especially with neither of her parents currently able to buy a replacement for yet another of Ryan’s screw-ups.

Greta tried every pleading eye expression she could conjure, but it did nothing to sway Megan’s decision. Ultimately it came down to a lot of yelling from Ryan and a promise from Eddie that he would go with her brother and make sure the car was taken well care of. With a sense of dread, and mounting exhaustion, Megan relented, watching her car back out of the driveway as if she were saying good bye to it forever.

What Eddie failed to mention was his true reason for going along with Ryan. He had a phone call to make.


To describe Ryan’s driving style as aggressive would be an understatement. When he was behind the wheel he owned the road. If he had super powers, Eddie thought, Ryan’s would be to telepathically project a warning to move out of the way for all other motorists. Every stop came breakneck, jerking, and at the last possible instant before the light, line, or sign. Once it was all clear, or the light changed, his foot hit the floor and the automobile jumped forward, pressing its occupants against their seats. Eddie wondered how many G’s Ryan generated upon acceleration. Corners were taken fast and sharp, more often than not only centimeters away from hitting the curb, the back end on the verge of fishtailing with every turn. With knuckles whitened from holding the door handle for added safety, Eddie imagined the stupidity of surviving a career fighting supervillains as a hero surrounded by nuclear fire, only to die in a fiery wreck, his body surrounded by mangled metal.

On the highway, Ryan swerved irresponsibly past and between any car slower than his, which was almost all of them. A man in his thirties, with dark glasses, driving a Mitsubishi 3000GT pulled alongside Ryan in the Subaru. He directed a head nod, that Ryan returned. They both downshifted, hit the gas, and the cars jumped forward. Eddie watched as the tachometer needle entered the red zone, Ryan shifted, the needle went down, and started back toward the red again. Ryan’s lower lip curled into his mouth, his teeth biting into the rosy flesh. He had the same taunting grin on his face as the first time Eddie had met him, when Ryan called him a spic. But there was a determination and concentration in his eyes that Eddie had never seen there before. This was Ryan trying, caring about the outcome of something. It would be interesting to see such persistence applied to something less frivolous.

There was never any doubt of the outcome of the race. Ryan knew he was going to lose. With maybe a better driver the Subaru might have given the Mitsubishi at least some contest. As it was, the other driver was just toying with Ryan, admiring the guts it took to challenge him in the first place. Two miles in they approached a notorious hot zone for patrolling police. The Mitsubishi driver put an end to things, shifted gears one last time, and blasted off down the road, leaving Ryan to decelerate quickly or risk crashing into the rear end of a tractor trailer.


Another mile after the end of the race they past a shopping center to their right. “Is that where we’re going?” Eddie asked, reading the sign of the West Putnam Galleria.

“Are you fucking serious?” Ryan asked, as if it was the most absurd question he’d ever heard. “That’s the ghetto mall. Nothing but black kids and spics in there.”

There was the word again. Not that racism was a new concept to him, but it still infuriated him to be confronted so casually by it. He moved his leg and was reminded of the business card in his pocket. One phone call and he could be back in a position of power. What would Ryan do then? Would he risk a confrontation with a man who could reduce him to a cinder by continuing to employ his close-minded vocabulary? Somehow Eddie doubted it. With powers the tables would be turned.

But that wasn’t the case. Eddie had never been in a real fight. Ryan had and, to hear Megan tell it, it was his preferred means of settling arguments. Experience was on the Kroeger brother’s side.

Still, Eddie remembered Greta’s words at the cemetery, telling him to speak up when someone in the family bothered him. “Just because Latinos and black people go there makes it ghetto?” Eddie asked with cautious indignation.

Ryan squinted his face. “Those fucking people trash everything they have. They live like pigs and they expect everyone else to do the same. I went to school with this one kid…smelled, he was grubby, had this layer of dirt all over him. We used to joke and say we didn’t know if he was Mexican or just never took a bath.” Ahead, on the other side of the highway, they passed another shopping center, the ‘Victory Gate Mall’. Ryan pointed to it. “This is where we’re going. Nice new stores, clean food court, you don’t spend the whole time checking to make sure your wallet isn’t gone. The people who really live in town shop at the mall. The galleria is for all the freakin’ Ricans from the next city over.” The highway had become the new ‘other side of the tracks’.

A turnaround at the next exit, a quick backtrack down the other side of the highway, and they were parking the car at the Victory Gate Mall. Near their space was the entrance to a Sears department store. Ryan decided to buy a repair kit for his tire first, getting the dirty work out of the way before trying on dress shirts. After the purchase they rode the escalator up to the mall level and headed toward the exit. To get out they passed through the men’s department, displays of dress shirts on either side of them. When Eddie asked why he didn’t buy a shirt there Ryan snobbishly informed him that Sears was for auto parts and tools, only the welfare kids wore clothes from there. Macy’s was at the other end of the mall, near the food court.

Exiting the Sears, Eddie was confronted by a neon cacophony of commercialism. Dim, nutrient-sucking florescent lights lined the ceiling, occasionally interrupted by ineffectual skylight windows. Abstract shapes made from wood, plastic, and metal, painted in primary colors hung overhead, decorating the air with the suggestion of art. To the right, entryways of varying sizes, glaring signs mounted just above, announced specialized t-shirts, coffee, cards, candy, and generic gifts. On the left, similar openings offered books, video games, toys, and pets. Through the center, kiosks sold magazines and provided discount ear piercing with the purchase of two pairs of earrings. The oxygen was stale and noticeably laced with Freon from being repeatedly air-conditioned. A throng of people, all shapes and sizes, though mostly uniform in skin color, generated a grating hum as they wandered in and out of the stores or milled about with each other.

It was a Saturday night and, more than anything, the mall was packed with bored teenagers, would-be consumers who spent nothing but time at the shopping center. They moved slower than the other shoppers, taking more time to see and be seen, stopping for long conversations about nothing. From time to time one would bump into or run past an adult. The adult’s chiding would be met with a round of immature insults before the teen wandered away, owning the place like Ryan owned the highway. There were malls in Washington. Eddie was glad that he had never shopped at them.


Walking by the Old Time Brownie Shop, Ryan bumped into someone he knew. He was a tall man, maybe a few years older than Ryan, rugged, if not a bit hardened in appearance. There was a thickness to him that suggested menace. The way Ryan talked to him, Eddie wondered if this was the man who forced Megan to load Ryan’s plants into his truck all those years ago. The thought of it made him anxious. A wrong word from this man could trigger Eddie’s attack reflex. But, if he would have trouble getting into an altercation with Ryan, this other man would surely make painful work of him.

The two friends were laughing over some lame private joke when something caught Ryan’s attention. “Oh, now would you look at this,” he said, lazily pointing a thumb toward two black teenage boys on the opposite side of the walkway. “It’s fuckin’ September and the homeboys are already dressing like the Michelin Man.”
Both boys had on unusually heavy jackets considering the warm weather, large, puffy Nylon stitched to look like wide horizontal bands around their bodies. “Sambos gotta hide their Ninas somewhere,” the friend said with a smirk.

“How do you know they’ve got guns on them?” Eddie asked, agitated.
“I tell you what, Office Poncherelli,” the friend suggested, “why don’t you go over there and find out. Consider it your civic duty, protecting the innocent and all.”

“I’m not going over there to start trouble with anyone.”

“They’re the ones starting trouble,” Ryan told him, “coming over to our mall.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Yo, dawg! Ya’ll belong back on the West Side,” making a ‘W’ out of each hand and waving them toward the black boys. The shorter of the two boys got angry and took a step toward Ryan before the other boy stopped him. They walked off with only one look back, their posture changed, more militant.

Ryan and his friend had a good laugh, shook hands, and parted ways. Eddie followed Ryan in restrained silence, his blood nearing its boiling point.


Macy’s took up four floors and the southern end of the Victory Gate Mall. From the mall entrance you could go down to the basement, where the discounted merchandise was. As Ryan flipped through the racks of marked down shirts, Eddie wondered what the point of shopping at Macy’s was if Ryan was going to spend as much on an irregular there as a shirt in perfect condition would cost at Sears. He didn’t bother to ask.

“Hey, let me ask you a question,” Ryan said, not waiting for permission. “Now that you’re not part of the tights brigade anymore…”

“I never wore tights,” Eddie corrected. “I wore a modified jumpsuit made from similar material as they use in the space program. It was thin, light, and black, but it was definitely not spandex.”

“Whatever,” Ryan dismissed. “So anyway, now that you’re not doing the super thing, how you making any money? I heard Greta say something about your parents being dead, so it’s not like you can go to them for cash. You must’ve had something stashed away.”

Eddie stopped listening with the callous mention of his deceased parents. He cast an aggravated look at the floor, obscured behind a tall rack of navy blue windbreakers.

“Seriously,” Ryan started again. “What, did you pocket a few coins after beating the snot out of some super king or something? Walk off with a pile of jewels when you busted an intergalactic conqueror?”

He was still hesitant to answer, but the look on Ryan’s face almost seemed genuine. “Do you really want to know?” he asked. Ryan shrugged, which meant yes. “The science lab that trained me is giving me compensation until I find a regular means of employment.”

“Workman’s comp?” Ryan said, perking up, bouncing his head and giving a down-turned smile of approval. “That’s some sweet business. Wouldn’t mind getting my hands on some of that kind of cash myself. Put my back out or something.”

“Like you did with the leaves?” Eddie asked, cynically.

“What?” Ryan was caught off guard, needing a minute to page through his book of deceptions and bogus excuses. “Oh yeah, when I was raking those leaves. Still hurts like a son of a bitch when I get out of bed in the morning. Too bad I didn’t have it happen while I was on the job.”

You’d have to have a job first, Eddie thought to himself.


Outside the department store was the food court. McDonald’s, Orange Julius, China Wok, Arby’s, Haagen Daz, Pizza Hut, the mall offered every kind of instant food imaginable, all within steps of each other. They formed a half circle, tables and chairs in a wide, open pavilion area with walk-up service counters lining the periphery.

“You got a dollar?” Ryan asked. “I wanna get a soda over at Sbarro’s.” He held out his hand in blatant expectation.

Eddie reached into his pocket for cash. From the wad of assorted pocket items he produced he handed Ryan a folded dollar bill. Before he stuffed the pile back into his pants he noticed the business card that had consumed his thoughts since Canton’s Market. He scanned the area and saw a bay of pay phones in one corner, to the left of a Taco Bell. “I’m going to be over there,” he told Ryan, pointing to the phones. Ryan walked away, giving no indication whether he had heard him or not.

Picking up the receiver, Eddie held the business card in his other hand as he dialed a series of numbers. The phone rang once, twice. On the third ring someone picked up. “Waverly Dry Cleaners,” the voice on the other end said.

“Hello. I have a uniform that I need cleaned,” Eddie said.
“What kind of uniform?” the woman’s voice asked.
“Tights and a cape,” Eddie told her.
“We only do those uniforms on certain days. When would you like to bring it in?”
“Judgement Day.”
“Thank you, sir.” The phone clicked. There was a short pause and then it started ringing again, the tone different than a regular phone, more electronic sounding. A computerized voice asked for a request code. Eddie punched in another series of numbers. One more ring, and then…

“Cannon,” a damaged, male voice announced. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Hey Sam, it’s Eddie Sanchez. I’m at the mall.” Eddie was letting the man know he was in a public place and would have to be careful how he chose his words.

“Understood.” Sam Cannon was an operative with a government agency so secret that it didn’t even have a clever acronym. A good number of those in the superhero community knew about the agency and had regular contact with it’s agents, but no one had ever been to any offices or knew anything more than a phone number, the special conversation to get past the answering service, and a numeric code to reach a specific operative. It was all very hush hush, the organization’s agenda a mystery. The one thing that those in the know could say for certain was that, if one of these ultra-secret agents gave you their number, you could get the answers to any questions you had.

“I talked to a guy named Roland Balthasar today,” Eddie informed him. “The guy said he could help me get my job back.”

“Scientist?” Cannon asked. He knew about Eddie losing his powers.

“That’s what he claims, but I’ve never heard of him. Thought maybe you knew him.”

“I don’t know him yet, but I will. You got a number you can be reached at?”

“Not really.” Eddie didn’t want him calling the Kroeger house and risk Megan overhearing the conversation or anything else that might be suspicious.

“Not a problem,” Cannon assured him. “You’ll hear from me.” The line went dead.

“You done?” Ryan asked, coming up behind Eddie. “It’s almost eight and the place is going to be packed with kids soon.”


The girl was barely eighteen. She had on tight shorts, a clinging spaghetti-strap tank top, and platform sandals. Her bronze skin and dark, wavy hair were very obviously a product of her Latino ancestry, though her facial features were less distinct, more of the ambiguous smoothness of other backgrounds in her bloodline. She walked with assertiveness, not a casual loiterer, but someone with a specific shopping goal in mind.

Ryan saw her approach as they walked through the crossroads at the center of the mall. Between the legs of the statue representing the Victory Gate he could see her rounding the circular display and heading in his direction. His grin widened as she neared. He pursed his lips around the straw of his soda, sending kissing gestures in her direction. “Mamasita!” he called out once she was less than ten feet away. With a slight, disgusted shake of her head she looked away, hoping a lack of eye contact would discourage him. “Baby, you are spicy like salsa.” As she walked within reach, Ryan grabbed her by the forearm. “Come on J-Lo, gimme some of that Latino heat.”

“Enough!” Eddie grabbed Ryan’s wrist and forced him to release the girl. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to the girl, who was more concerned with getting away than responding.

“Hey man, what the fuck?” Ryan was incensed. He shoved Eddie backward with his one free hand. Eddie shoved back, the top of the beverage cup popping off, brown cola splashing onto Ryan’s t-shirt. Ryan looked down at the mess, his arms spread in sticky shock, his lower lip hung slack. He lifted his head, tunnel vision in his stare. His breathing got heavy, his shoulders huffing up and down like a train engine coming to speed. He threw the cup into the nearby flower bed, clenching and unclenching his fists to stretch out the joints of his fingers. With each breath that passed, Eddie knew the fight was drawing closer.

“Alright guys, break it up.” A heavyset man stepped between the two, raising his arms and then using them to spread the two men apart.

“Stay out of it,” Ryan advised. “This is none of your business.”

“I’m making it my business,” the man said, pointing to the badge on his blue blazer that Eddie finally noticed said ‘SafetyZone Security’. “If you two don’t cool it, right now, I’m going to…”

He never got to finish his sentence. His words trailed off as he stopped looking back and forth from Ryan to Eddie. Instead, his eyes fixated overhead, to the news kiosk flying through the air. In the next instant all three were ducking down, as the stand crashed into the Victory Gate statue, smashing it to pieces.

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