Everyone Likes to Feel Useful

Andrew Salomon

The studio audience cheers and applauds.

A warm glow suffuses my body. I blush, feeling relieved that my mask hides this from the

fans who have packed into the studio and the many thousands – perhaps even millions – who are

watching at home. It gets you every time, the public adoration. Some superheroes might be

indifferent to it, but I’m definitely not one of them.

Sharon turns away from the camera and leans in closer to me. ‘Well, Courage, it’s only

been a couple of weeks since we last had you on the show, but I think it’s safe to say that you’ve

been missed.’ I give a slow, and what I hope comes across as a humble, nod. ‘It’s just good to be

able to be of service to the people of our city again, Sharon.’

The prime-time host motions to the spatters of dried mud streaked across the chest and

arms of my tight-fitting, friendly blue and yellow superhero suit. The spatters add a sense of

honest manliness to the spandex that I hope will show up well under the studio’s bright lights.

‘And you certainly were today,’ she says. ‘Let’s have a look.’

We turn our chairs toward the enormous screen behind us. The news clip starts off with an

aerial shot of Constitution Hill: the greenery on one side of the hill has been replaced with a

wrinkled brown mass. The news helicopter’s shadow glides over broken tree branches and

boulders embedded in the muddy soil. On the lower slope of the hill, the landslide has been

halted by an irregular line of rectangles. The helicopter hovers for a few moments above the

rectangles, revealing them to be a long row of outsized dumpsters, filled with building rubble

and standing end to end to form a retaining wall. The camera pans a short distance down the hill

from the row of dumpsters to show a suburb of orderly houses with neat lawns, and then zooms

in to show children playing in a front yard.

Sharon turns back to the studio audience. ‘According to onlookers, the landslide started

without any warning at around five o’clock this afternoon. The advance of earth and rocks was

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held back for a few minutes by the Douglas-firs trees growing along the top half of Constitution

Hill. Those few minutes gave Courage the time to save the suburb of Meryvale from complete

destruction.’

She looks at me with an air of condolence. ‘Such a pity our camera crew did not get there

earlier to catch you in action.’

I hold my hands up and shake my head. ‘Seeing those homes and the families in them safe

is the only important thing.’

‘Was it difficult? It looked terribly dangerous.’

‘Not really, Sharon.’ I run my hand over my chest. ‘I think the hardest part is going to be

getting this mud out of my suit.’

Sharon grins and the audience laughs.

‘How on earth did you ever think of using those dumpsters to stop the landslide?’

‘In a situation like that you don’t have much time to think, you just use whatever is at hand.

It’s a good thing that new mall development at the western foot of the hill uses a lot of

dumpsters. They’re not all that heavy, so I could sprint while carrying two at a time, one in each

hand. Fortunately, it worked.’

‘I’d say.’ Sharon leans back in her chair, signaling a change in topic. ’Now, the city is

abuzz with speculation about this latest supervillain – Daunt. We haven’t had a new villain on

the scene for quite some time and I’m sure everyone would like to know if the two of you have

ever met.’

‘I haven’t yet had the displeasure. He seems to have a knack for carrying out his nefarious

acts when I am not in the vicinity.’

‘Well, that might be a good thing, Courage. He certainly gave Guardian a terrible beating

last week when he tried to foil Daunt’s diamond robbery downtown. Apparently the doctors are

not sure when, if ever, he will come out of his coma. Let’s take a look at our exclusive footage.’

We turn as the screen behind us jumps to life once more, this time with wobbly footage of

two masked figures trading punches between sparkling heaps of broken glass and mangled cars.

One is wearing a black suit with flame patterns running up his back, the other looks suitably

heroic in white and gold.

Sharon puts her hand to her mouth, almost covering the mike on her lapel. ‘Here it comes,’

she says, her breath little more than a whisper.

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The figure in black ducks under an ill-timed left hook and delivers one humdinger of an

uppercut to his adversary’s jaw. Guardian lifts a few feet off the ground before falling into a

crumpled heap in the street.

A collective Aah escapes from the audience.

The camera zooms in on the broken figure, surrounded by twinkling glass. His white and

gold cape has twisted over his head, covering him like an expensive shroud. Then the picture

zooms out to show Daunt striding towards the camera. The shakiness of the scene increases as a

large, black-gloved hand reaches out and the picture goes blank.

‘Thank goodness he only crushed the lens,’ Sharon whispers, while in rapt attention to the

screen. Then she notices the audience and hastily adds, ‘And did not harm our brave Channel

Eight cameraman.’

I nod in agreement. ‘That is indeed fortunate.’

Sharon pauses for dramatic effect before asking: ‘Have you been to visit your fallen ally at

City General?’

Why do people always assume that the good guys get along?

‘I haven’t had the chance yet, but my thoughts are with him, as well as my wishes for a full

and speedy recovery.’

This is a good opportunity for Sharon to look solemn. ‘As are ours.’

The moment passes and Sharon asks with barely-contained glee in her voice. ‘So, what do

you think of your chances, should you and that villainous Daunt ever cross paths?’

‘From what I’ve heard, and from seeing the results of his fiendish actions, I’d say we’re

pretty evenly matched.’

‘Well, I know whose side the audience and I will be on,’ says Sharon.

Huge, spontaneous applause fills the studio, along with a few cries of ‘You get him,

Courage!’

‘I’m sure your heroic act today, and what happened to poor Guardian, will make those

insensitive reporters think twice before criticizing superheroes again. One even went so far as to

say that with most villains locked up, heroes are falling over each other to be the first on the

scene of natural disasters, and that they are fast becoming redundant. What would you say to

that?’

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I shift in my seat and blink a few times against the sweat under my mask. The bright studio

lights show no mercy to masked heroes.

‘I guess you could say that, Sharon, but I think I speak for all the heroes out there when I

say that we don’t dread the day when the city is safe from superhuman scoundrels.’ I pause for a

moment. ‘Although I will admit that it’s good to feel useful, to feel wanted.’

Sharon puts her hand on my knee. ‘I’m sure we will always be glad to have you around,

especially while Daunt is stalking our streets,’ she says, motioning to the now-blank screen.

She gives my knee a squeeze before shifting her hand to the microphone in her left ear. ‘Oh

dear, it seems we’ve run out of time.’

Sharon smiles at me and the turns to the audience. ‘I’d like to thank Courage for taking the

time to be with us.’

Applause and cheers again. No warm glow now, just relief and a desire to get home.

‘This is Sharon Blake wishing you a safe evening from everyone on the Channel Eight

Nightwatch team.’

I take the bus home. The studio offered to have me chauffeured, but using public transport is one

of my favorite pastimes. I ride for free; my chest swells when the driver says there is no way I

am paying for my ticket on his bus. While the bus makes its way through the quiet city streets I

sign some autographs for the driver and most of the passengers.

I get off four blocks away from my house. The passengers still on the bus wave at me as it

pulls off. I hold up a hand in farewell. Then I set off. Years ago, I worked out an elaborate route

home; ducking down alleys, doubling back and climbing up and over buildings. So far this has

worked to keep villains and overzealous fans away from my front door.

The house is dark and quiet as I enter. I switch on the hallway light and pull of the mask.

Then I go into the kitchen to make a strong cup of coffee. My naked face stares back at me from

the smoked glass of the microwave door.

I go down to the basement, where an industrial washing machine occupies one corner. It

takes some effort to peel off the muddy, sweaty suit without tearing it. The fresh scent of

washing powder escapes as I open the round glass door and toss the suit in. I measure out a

generous heap of washing powder and a full cap of fabric softener into the machine. The stone

floor is cold under my bare feet and my exposed skin is covered in goose bumps.

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A tall, reinforced steel cabinet stands against the far corner, its doors secured with a hefty

titanium lock. I search for the key in the usual secret spots but fail to find it. I grit my teeth in

frustration; those locks cost a small fortune. Not for the first time, I wish I had superhuman

memory to go with the superhuman strength. I grip the lock, close my eyes and take a deep

breath. It snaps off with one firm pull.

There are two items inside the cabinet: a cereal bowl brimming with diamonds that I still

have to convert into cash, every cent of which I will donate to charity, and a clothing item

suspended from a coat-hanger. I pull it off the hanger and hold it out in front of me. The flames

on the back of the dark suit look subdued under the gloomy basement light.

Before adding the second suit to the washing machine, I brush off some of the tiny flecks

of broken glass embedded in the fabric. I turn the machine on and watch through the circular

glass door as it starts filling up with water. My toes have gone numb on the cold floor and my

muscles start to shiver. I hardly notice this. All my attention is drawn into the machine as it fills

up entirely with water and starts to turn, the two suits entwining ever more with each revolution.

Author’s note: This was my first published story and appeared in the quarterly journal of superhuman

fiction A Thousand Faces, edited by Frank Byrns. I learned a lot writing this one, especially: if you want to

have a story published in a particular publication, give them what they want. I had initially submitted a

different story, titled Newborn, that later found a home somewhere else where it was a better fit. Frank

Byrns passed on that one, but included a note: ‘I look forward to reading your next one.’ – showing how

much a few words of encouragement from an editor can mean to an aspiring writer. Thank you, Frank.

© 2017 Andrew Salomon

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