Via Pixabay
It all started
when I got my cape stuck in the revolving doors at the Spandex Shopping Center
in Randomville. At that point, I was already running late. All the super suits
in my size had been sold out, and I’d needed to wait behind a line of
indecisive shoppers just to place an order with a very grumpy saleslady. Then
I’d needed to get my coffee fix, but the Java Junction was swarmed with rabid,
flying termites when I got there. Obviously I’d had to save the day. Despite my
best efforts, however, the termites had still ruined all the caffeinated
drinks, so I was grumpy when the revolving doors decided to clash with me.
There I was, a
semi-super hero with a penchant for rescuing confused baristas and lost
poodles, struggling as my flowing blue cape (the one with the little sailboats
on it—my other one was at the drycleaners) became trapped in the iron jaws of
that infernal swinging contraption. I’m certain those things are specifically
designed to murder people, since they spend all day swallowing customers whole
and then spitting them out with lighter wallets and heavier bills. Clearly, I
did not have the patience for this death machine.
I reached for
my purse, ready to pull out my hand-dandy destroyo-matic, designed to demolish
public menaces like obnoxiously ugly fountains, disgusting health-food drinks,
and yes, revolving doors. (It said so on the label.) But then I realized I’d
used it the other day on an extremely irritated yak. So, there I was, facing
imminent destruction, staring into the cold maw of doom, moments away from
being sucked into and pulverized by the inner workings of the door.
Like a puppy
with a chew toy, it dragged me in circles, round and round, while all the
semi-super villains I’d ever defeated gathered to press their grubby,
money-laundering hands to the windows. After all, they were there to witness my
downfall. Seizing the opportunity, hot dog carts and ice cream stands began to
pop up out of nowhere, and it became rather a festive occasion as the villains
stuffed their faces and toasted my demise with fizzy drinks. Off in the
distance, a Yorkshire terrier whimpered at the dreadful spectacle, and a few
pigeons hid their heads in shame. But there was no one, in that whole wide
world, willing to come to my rescue.
Any moment now,
and I would be just a memory, only a grease stain on the pavement—nothing more
than a tragic legend and a painful warning. Mind
the revolving doors.
As my elbows
skidded across the ground, the events of my life zipped through my mind faster
than really fast lightning, each more heart-wrenching than the last. It’s funny
how the mind slows down when death speeds up. I saw it all like it was
happening for the first time—the day I’d mistaken my hamster for my hairbrush
and ended up with sawdust in my luxurious mane. The day I’d strangled an
anaconda with my bare hands (don’t listen to the reporters when they claim I
was wearing gloves). The time I’d spilled radioactive Kool-Aid on my favorite
pair of stretchy super-pants—while I was wearing them. The time I’d saved
Randomville from the threat of tourists by relocating all its historical sites
to the middle of the nearest ocean.
Oh, I’d done so
many things, had so many adventures. And yet I’d lived so little, and it seemed
so wrong that there would be no more shenanigans, no more escapades to record
in my soon-to-be-famous biography. No longer would I troll the streets,
rescuing poor innocent civilians from terrors they’d never even known existed.
As I made my
final rounds through the revolving doors—and likewise through my
memory—becoming more and more entangled in my cape and in my sorrow, I pondered
my existence and the meaning of my short stay on this planet.
Had I saved
enough babies from over-affectionate relatives? Had I stolen enough ice cream
cones from the rich to give to the poor? Had I donated enough used bubble gum
to the needy? Had I told enough corny jokes, made enough of a fool of myself?
Would it matter, in the end, if I could fit fifty-seven marshmallows in my
mouth at one time? By doing so, I had proved myself irredeemably dangerous. But
how much would that matter when it was all over?
With me gone,
who would feed Killer (my pet sheep) or Cuddles (my pet wolverine) or Fido (my
black mamba)? Who would see to it that the sign announcing my secret hideout
would remain well-painted and unobscured by shrubbery? Who would continue my
life’s work?
Who would care?
I was almost
running out of questions by that time, so it was rather convenient when the
store manager finally got around to switching off the revolving door.
Fortunately, the only confirmed casualties that day were my cape and my pride
(and possibly an ant or two), as well as my reputation. But there are worse
battles to fight, and when they come, I will be ready.
