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***
-Thank you, Benjamin.
A firm handshake ended the first meeting and introduction between my dad and Uncle Parker. Both men were classic hard workers, struggling to take care of their families, so they hit it off easily.
In fact, it went much smoother and many times easier than I had imagined. Of course, they promised to give us a good beating, but only after the "battle" wounds had healed.
Peter's aunt screamed when the poor woman saw us both covered in blood on her doorstep. I thought Kondratius was going to have a fit when her nephew, shy and scratching his poor head, came to embrace her.
It was lucky that Uncle Ben was home and was able to calm the woman down quickly, taking care of our ailments himself. He smirked as he adjusted his glasses that were slipping down his nose and said in a calm, businesslike tone of voice that it was wrong to do that, and that any fight was really a loss if it couldn't be settled with words.
I probably would have agreed with him as an adult, but as a battered teenager who was currently having a split eyebrow stitched up..... To put it mildly, I had a different opinion. And there was no hope for Peter at all. His uncle was an unquestionable authority, so he just kept quiet, hiding his eyes in shame and showing his remorse.
Benjamin Parker was a charming man who easily gained our trust by simply talking to us as equals. A pretty simple psychological move when dealing with rambunctious teenagers, and given the way we looked, you couldn't call us anything else.
He didn't ask any questions, didn't try to find out our names or any details, just made sure the fight was avoidable a few times, and then calmly called my father and explained the situation.
I stayed at the Parkers' house until nightfall, and only when my dad could get off shift did I leave the hospitable place, where I was generously fed some kind of Jewish lasagne.
Aunt May called it a pasta kugel, but I knew it was lasagne. Mum had made it a couple of times when they gave out bonuses at work. Peter's family's a little too international. The pasta is Italian, the name is Jewish, the food is American, and Benjamin's accent is British.
When I smiled, remembering the evening at the Parkers', I got a symbolic slap on the wrist. And though Uncle Ben determined that I didn't have a concussion, but it was better not to worry my head, that's why Daddy held back, though it was obvious from his face that the man had a serious confrontation of epic proportions going on in his soul, in the style of Lord of the Rings. Where in the form of Gandalf is conscience and concern for his son, and for the demon of shadow and flame rage at this very son.
-Stop smiling, or do you think that's the end of it?
-Come on, Dad," I smiled nonchalantly, not realising how big the sword of Damocles was hanging over me, "we beat them up and survived. Justice was served, only a small spark can create a flame and today that flame burned.... Ow.
-You will rub this nonsense into your mother, - smiling viciously and not even hiding his evil intentions, father gripped the steering wheel of the car tighter, -I'll give you up at once, I'll tell you everything down to the last detail. Then I'll listen to your bullshit about the city of lust, justice and other shit.
-Oh, yeah.
-Yes, yes, - sinking into his dreams, Daddy was already at home, imagining how charged and satisfied with the excruciation and torture of his mother will return to the bedroom at night, - I'll take a beer and I won't even turn on the TV. I'll be a part of it, so to speak.
-Heel.
-Say it, say it. It'll give you more evidence in court.
-It's not a fair trial.
-Welcome to the real world.
-Well, if you turn me in, I'll turn you in.
-Heh-heh, try it, -while not knowing about the problems, my father because of his fantasies apparently forgot whose son I am, -It'll be even interesting.
-Yeah, I'll tell you where I learnt to fight.
The car swerved on the road, flashing its headlights dangerously. There was a tense silence. Under the pressure of the atmosphere, I felt the stirring desire again. Noir colours encompassed the interior of the car as I myself relaxed back in the seat.
All that was missing was some appropriate music, like The Valentine Six or something.
-Okay, you'll explain everything to your mother.
Victory! Daddy gave in so as not to cause unnecessary conflict in the house. Besides, I wasn't known for frequent fights, of course, but not as many as the others, so I had a good chance of getting away with it. Plus, I stood up for a friend, so I held all the cards.
-It's in little things like this that you realise that law and justice left this town a long time ago...
-I should have taken you to that doctor when you were a kid.
-What?
-Nothing, son.
We continued to drive in silence, enjoying the pleasant company of the New York streets. The lights were slowly going out in the houses and the rare night residents were crawling out of their half-empty flats, going to work, hoping to get through another day and just treading on inertia.
Leaning my aching head against the cool glass, I stared into these dark stone labyrinths, melancholy.
Did my purpose make sense? Why did I want to become a superhero, to fight evil? After all, just now we passed a few passersby who were brazenly breaking the law, disregarding any decency.
Drug dealers, pickpockets, pimps and the like. They were all there now, just open the car door and plunge into this world, whether you wanted to or not.
Thousands of questions were piercing my head, preventing me from relaxing and sleeping, so to speak, to prepare for coming home, because the boring part, which always follows after a fight, has just begun and ahead of me awaited "unique" days of recovery, silent censure, minor punishments and additional work around the house.
-Class...
-Hey, how's it going in there? Did it get worse? If so, don't be silent. Ben could be wrong.
-No, no. -No. I'm fine, I'm just thinking.
-What's that about?
-What's the point of being a hero if there's evil everywhere? -What's the point of being a hero?
-Oh, you're doing it again, aren't you?
I didn't say anything, because for most people in the city today, the greatest hero is Captain America, who died in a massive war fifty years ago. His image was used all the time in films, cartoons, commercials and other crap. His statues were in museums, and parades often featured a float with Steve Rogers at the head. But he was dead, a beautiful dead hero that the world didn't need now.
People had not yet learnt the horrors of encounters with mutants, aliens and the rampage of all sorts of freaks in costumes, as if from the pictures of books about the future.
Now everyone was worried about petrol prices, what China was doing, where to buy real vegetables and how to fuck the tax office. That's why my superhero games were seen more like a child's bliss, stupid and pointless.
-But today you were a hero, helping a friend. -You were a hero.
My father suddenly spoke, snapping me out of my trance, forcing me to turn my head to him incredulously. The man was slumped in the seat, holding the steering wheel with one hand while he flicked ash from his cigarette out the window with the other.He was looking at the passers-by thoughtfully, choosing his words, and it felt good that he was not mocking me, but trying to cheer me up as best he could.
-How could he not, he taught me... -How could he not?
-Well, yeah. Indeed," he changed his leading hand and dropped the cigarette butt into the ashtray, not wanting to shit in the street once again, and then gently rubbed me on the head, clucking and marvelling at the abundance of wounds and bruises, "you had it coming. Did they win? Did justice prevail?
-Huh, how could it be otherwise?
It's a bit of a relief. Maybe it was the child's body, but a few simple words were more relief than all the arguments and facts I could offer in my own head.
***
Mary Sullivan looked at her battered but satisfied son and rested her head against the doorjamb, sighing heavily, trying to chase away the residue of anxiety and anger that had mingled into a rattling mixture.
Fixing a strand of hair, she fumbled in her left pocket, trying to find the packet of cigarettes she hadn't smoked since Sean was born.
-Shit, I need a drink... Tea, yeah, right, hot tea.
Cursing the Americans' bad habit of chugging cold and sweet drinks, the young mother fondly remembered her own child's fondness for normal beverages.
"If only Simon would stop drinking litres of beer, life would be good."
Grumbling at her husband's passionate love of alcohol, the excited woman made her way to the kitchen, beginning the small ritual of making a delicious and fragrant tea. A small teapot was pulled from the top shelf for the sake of such an endeavour, and from a far corner of the kitchen shelf she pulled out a small box the size of her fist.
Carefully and reverently Mary fiddled with the brew, paying no attention to anything around her, completely absorbed in her meditative state, until a strong man's arms encircled her waist, pressing her frail body against her husband's broad chest.
-Oh, Simon," she slapped the head of the family on the arm, hiding her smile behind a contrived anger, but she made no attempt to break free, surrendering to the warmth of the man she loved, "you scared me, you old fool.
-Not so old," the man smiled ear to ear, furrowing his brows amusedly, and rubbed his nose against the back of his wife's head, "I can even prove it.
-Oh, I don't have time for this right now.
-Well, it's worth a try," he grinned awkwardly, taking a seat next to her, and pulled a couple of cups from the shelves, "pour me a cup.
-Wow, tea before bed. Simon Sullivan, are you ill? Or am I waiting for God to come to earth soon?
-Don't be sarcastic, Mary, just have a cup. -No. And if you're not used to it, I'll have a couple of drops for bedtime.
-Yeah, you wish. I'm upset, not out of my mind.
-Another shot in the milk.
Having exchanged smiles, releasing the last remnants of stress, the couple settled down at the kitchen table, slowly sipping fragrant tea, whose smell permeated the whole flat and even crawled a little to the neighbours.
-Great tea...
-Thank you.
-Are you all right? - Putting his arm around his wife's palm, Simon leaned closer, letting Mary's head rest against his shoulder, "You don't look okay.
-Your compliments are awful.
-Well, we're married. -Well, we're married.
-Durak," Mary hid her smile behind her mug and set it aside, drumming her fingers on the table, "what should we do? Maybe we should-
-Nothing.
-What do you mean, nothing?
The conflict that had begun to brew was nipped in the bud. Simon held his wife tight, not letting her escape.
-He's growing up, and if you mess with him now, you'll only make it worse. -You mean you're suggesting that I do something about it.
-So you're saying we should just leave it alone? -You're not saying that.
-Pfft, I didn't say that," Simon changed his tone quickly, sensing his disgruntled wife's eyes on him, "but you're the one who doesn't have to do anything, he's the one who might take it personally.
-How would you know?
-I've been a pugnacious little shit myself.
-Our son is not an arsehole!
-Well, I mean," the bear-like man scratched the back of his head awkwardly, blushing embarrassedly, "of course he's not an asshole. But he's a boy, and they need to fight to release the built up in them-
-Don't elaborate.
-That's what I'm saying. You don't need to get involved. I'll take care of it myself.
-How's that?
-I'll give you a belt when he's well again, of course. -And how?
Mary, satisfied with the answer, settled back on her husband's shoulder, thoughtfully rubbing his large palm with her fingers.
-Will it help? He won't fight anymore?
-No, not really. But he will know that it is not allowed to do so and punishment will follow ...
-Then he'll hide it from us. -Yeah.
-Yeah. -To do it without evidence, with a Jewish kid.
-Oh, so they're Jewish?
-I guess, at least they look a lot alike, but Ben seems like a normal bloke.
-I hope so.
The conversation went on for a long time. Two worried parents discussed every little detail of their offspring's behaviour, his environment, dreams and habits. In the cosy darkness of the kitchen they did not notice how the door to the boy's bedroom closed quietly, satisfied with what they had heard.***
From the day that my faithful comrade-in-arms and I had rid the vicious city of the next scourge that was about to grow into a tumour, Parker and I had been preparing together to become the defenders of New York.
Obstacles came our way. Villains were lining up to take on our invincible duo. Hundreds of criminals of all stripes tried to profit from us, to throw us off the path, or simply to end our journey that had just begun.
Terrible monsters crossed space and time, only to perish and fall from the blows of our punishing fists.
They were beckoned by the scent of victory, that vile, luscious odour of true heroes, of men who defend justice.
They came at us from every crevice, burying the dirty streets of New York under their bodies.
Their hatred, their rage. They unleashed all their power on us only to die in despair and--
-plus the modifier, plus the enhancement bonus, and your stats-- Well, well, well, well. Ten against twenty-two. You couldn't dodge, Sean, plus the difference between the scores is more than ten, so you get a critical hit," the tantalising thump of the dice rang through the room, "you die.
-Damn it!
Sitting back on the pillows to the gleeful laughter of Peter and a couple of our classmates, I squirmed, making ridiculous noises like I was being devoured by a fireball.
-Well, that's it, that's it. Since the guardian of justice is dead, your team is left without a tank.....
-He's quite the tank. What kind of paladin is he that fights with improvised objects and fists?
-No, no! Shut up!
-Paladin of Justice!
-It's too late, he's at it again. -No!
Breaking into the conversation, I began furiously proving to the other guys about all the advantages of a real paladin, who does not need a sword to fight evil. And to all the silly claims about other weapons, shields, armour, and all that other nonsense, I responded by standing in a pathetic Rorschach stance, with my hands in my pockets and peering out from under my furrowed brows.
That was how we'd spent the last few weeks, because right after our triumphant return, when most of the school had somehow found out what had happened, they'd instantly stopped bullying Peter, thinking he was a real psychopath. Maybe it was me, though.
Right after school, Ben, the good-natured uncle, or his fidgety wife, would pick us up from school and take us to his house, where they would keep an eye on us until my dad came to pick me up after his shift.
I spent almost every day, not counting my Thai boxing classes, at the Parkers' house, and my dad would pay them a little extra for food, because despite my small stature, I could eat for three, happily stuffing myself with anything that didn't hurt my body too much. To the delight of the other inhabitants of this cosy little house. Aunt May was more delighted, of course, that she had turned my mouth into a food chopper, where she happily threw any of her culinary masterpieces, both successful and not so successful.
Not knowing what to do in the silence of the hospitable dwelling, we had to try many things, from banal books to pranks on the phone, which, however, turned out to increase the punishment for another month.
It was then, walking down the corridor of the school with Parker, that I heard the familiar words from a bunch of nerds sitting on a bench.
Board games! It was perfect. Unfortunately, neither Peter nor I had the money to buy everything we needed to play dnD, but our new friends were happy to let us into their circle on the promise that they'd fit in if the bullies were bothering them.
Fat Korean Ned and his best friend, equally large, Billy, were an odd couple. Despite their resemblance, Ned lived up to the stereotype of Asians, learning easily and flicking university assignments in a heartbeat. But despite his large build, Ned was a weak kid, barely able to hold five kilos in his hands.
At the same time, his mate was the epitome of the saying, "You've got the strength, you don't need the brains."
-I'm Billy.
That's what I'm talking about. Rain Man.
That's how we spent our free hours, sometimes until the night, conquering dungeons, killing monsters or arguing about the merits of certain characters.
***
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