Day 1
There are plenty of ways to be a superhero. You could be a foster parent to a needy child. You could donate blood. You could volunteer at any number of organizations that help others.
Or you can buy a cheesy $10 cape and give yourself an even cheesier superhero name. Introducing: SuperRoach! I'm going to spend the entire week wearing a superhero cape and looking for opportunities to be a superhero.
Hands down, this idea--submitted by my friend Kurt--has caused the most concern in my family. Seventeen-year-old Caitlin fears people are going to think I'm from Paula Abdul's planet. (Possibly true.) Wife Linda and 7-year-old Daniel were on-board until they saw me return from my cape-shopping trip wearing my superhero gear. And it was just a cape--no form-fitting tights. Yet.
"Oh no! Oh no--this is too weird!" Linda moaned as I walked in. Daniel added, "This embarrasses me. My dad is koo-koo!" (Definitely true.)
Still, I had my superhero moments on Day 1. Linda was reading The Time Traveler's Wife and was confused by the book's chronology. "I need your help," she called. SuperRoach to the rescue!
I played games in the backyard with Daniel and his friends--who simply rolled with it when they saw Mr. Roach wearing a cape. What do those kids' parents say about me if wearing a cape is considered normal?
Wearing the cape led me to consider other questions as well. Why don't we ever see superheroes grocery shopping? How does Superman stay so buff if we never see him working out? These questions became practical realities for me when it came time to mow the lawn in my superhero guise.
Batman, of course, has Alfred the butler to do his dirty work, but I was stuck walking the yard in a black billowing cape as cars drove by. I simply waved and kept at my superhero yard work. A neighbor mowing his lawn saw me and burst out laughing. If they're laughing at me, I imagine Robin, a grown man called The Boy Wonder, must suffer from a massive inferiority complex.
Perhaps that's the subconscious reason I didn't wear the cape when I went for my run. There's also the practical concern about getting my cape sweaty and dirty. Linda, however, now fully committed to my superhero persona--or fully committed to having me committed--called me out for not wearing it. So now I'll wear it for the rest of the week's runs.
I'm pretty sure at some point this week I'm going to wind up trying to explain SuperRoach to a local police officer. Especially if I start wearing the superhero tights.
Day 2
My past week’s challenges provided me a façade of normalcy. Going without math, soda and chips, or saying my own name can be concealed easily enough. My quirkiness didn’t physically set me apart from my fellow man.
Until I walked into my local service station for routine car maintenance with a Batman cape flapping in the breeze behind me. I stood out like a man walking the plank. Cape fear, indeed.
Now, this was hardly my first display of public idiocy. Once, at a baseball game with a group of high school friends, I inadvertently walked in the exit door of a ladies' room. Oblivious to my error, I walked into one of the stalls, finished, left the stall, washed my hands at the sink, and, looking to my left, wondered why a woman was washing her hands in the men’s room.
I exited quickly to see my friends laughing so hard I thought they’d break a rib. Or maybe I wished they would.
Anyway, at the service station, the reaction was the complete opposite. Apparently the cape either scared people—a mom kept tapping her child to keep her close—or left them cold. Let the moron be, they probably said to themselves. Don’t know for sure, the Super-Sensitive Hearing hasn’t kicked in yet.
I walked past, or talked to, five employees and then sat with six customers in the waiting room. No one reacted to the cape, or looked at me twice. Perhaps they appreciated how I’d color-coordinated it with my shirt. I picked up my keys when I was called, paid, and left. They must get superheroes every day.
Now, all of the above was written before lunch, when I went for my run. Heeding my promise to Linda, I wore the cape as I drove to a park to work on interval training at a football field. After six of a planned 16 100-yard sprints—I’ll show that “faster than a speeding bullet” Superman what serious speed is—I started my seventh. And felt like I got shot in my left leg.
I pulled up, tried to put weight on my leg, and felt fire shooting through my calf. Within seconds, one of my first thoughts was, “They're going to think I'm nuts when I show up in my cape at the hospital.”
For now, I’m icing and elevating. But SuperRoach thinks a hospital trip is needed after he picks up SuperBoy at the bus stop this afternoon.
Could it be: SuperRoach in a cast? Who will save the city now? And will anyone be able to keep a straight face when our hero’s cape gets caught in his crutches? Stay tuned!
Day 3
If Superman doesn’t go to the hospital, neither does SuperRoach! Not exactly a great reason not to have my calf injury professionally checked, but I consulted experts, including my 7-year-old, a website, and a wannabe-doctor wife.
The diagnosis: a calf muscle strain, which comes in a range of three grades, 1, 2, or 3. Since I’m spending the week living every first-grader’s dream job, I diagnosed myself with a Grade 1 strain. Plus, I remember my daughter’s Grade 3 math homework and it was way beyond my Super Skills.
So, I’m wearing a black cape indicating my superhero status, yet hobbling on crutches. My neighbor Kristen saw me stumbling toward her and said, “Oh please, how long will this last?”
“Not long, maybe a week or so until the pain lets up,” I said.
“I mean the cape,” she said. Turning toward Linda, she added, “And you have to be seen out in public with him?”
“I thought it was bad before,” Linda said.
Kids see me for the superhero I am. I asked Daniel’s young friend Emma, “What do you think of Mr. Roach when you see him in a cape?”
“Up, up, and away?”
Exactly. And that’s why, even on crutches, I was in my element while the kids played outside. BAM! I rescued a badminton birdie from dizzying heights (by knocking it from a tree branch with my crutch). KAZOOM! I saved two soccer balls lost to the wilds (of our garden). YEOW! I swooped in to aid a wounded child (from a soccer ball injury).
I don’t ask for any reward for my superhero efforts. Just knowing my work is appreciated is all that counts. “I call my dad, ‘Super Koo-Koo,’” said Daniel.
Day 4
I forgot to mention that I have two capes. I picked up my casual cape, which ties at the neck with strings, at a dollar store, then later bought my work cape, which has a more formal Velcro attachment and stiffer collar. I think it’s important for superheroes to dress appropriately for their heroic occasions.
Today, that would be a Wawa run for chips and Coke—definitely a casual cape affair. I pulled into the parking lot and saw … a police car. I was tempted to back out, but a superhero has to overcome his fears. I’ve yet to have to explain my caped crusading, so I rolled the dice one more time.
The cop appeared to be finalizing his coffee selection as I walked up to pay, certain he’d be right behind me any minute. But it didn’t happen. Instead, while trying to get out of the store quickly and discreetly, I encountered the kindest and friendliest cashier and fellow customer a guy could ever want.
Unless he’s wearing a cape and trying not to make a scene.
Apparently my cape is like Harry Potter’s Cloak of Invisibility—but my crutches shine like a teenager’s braces. “Can I help you carry this to your car?” the cashier asked. No, that’s okay, thanks. “No. Let me help you—it’ll just take a moment.”
“Here, I’ll help him—it’s no problem,” the customer behind me offered. No, I’m alright. “Really, let me carry the bag for you.” Get lost before I slam a crutch into your skull! Now let me outta here before the cop arrives to take me to Gary Busey's funny farm. If you don’t mind, pretty please.
“Jim, come here,” the cashier said, motioning to another employee. “Carry this out for him, okay?” Oh goody, her hearing matches her eyesight!
Jim, of course, couldn’t see the cape either because he asked only how I’d hurt myself and not why I looked like Eddie Munster. "How'd you hurt it?" he asked. Trying to escape Wawa before I clubbed someone, I wanted to say.
Climbing into the car, I closed the door on my cape for the third time this week. I’m not used to how the cape trails me like a dress. It also got caught in the oven yesterday when I was helping Linda with dinner. I'm pretty sure if I were a woman who wore dresses, I’d regularly wind up naked or on fire.
Day 5
For the first time all week, I was recognized for the superhero I am! I went to the library to renew two books and immediately saw a friend's father getting into his car. After a few quick pleasantries, he became the first person besides my neighbors to comment on the long, black polyester drape hanging from my neck: "So, what's with the cape?"
"Feels good to be a superhero once in a while, you know?"
He laughed knowingly--I'm sure he's wanted to wear a cape at some point--and we went our separate ways. But he knows whom to call if he's in trouble this week.
Once the Cloak of Invisibility was lifted, I was fair game for everyone. Inside the library, I greeted a neighbor working behind the desk, asking her how she was doing. A woman checking out books next to me overheard and cut in. "He's on crutches and wearing a cape and he's wondering how you're doing?" she said.
The librarian helping the woman added, "I bet you wish you could fly now, huh?"
Was Comedy Hour wrapping up at the library? Walking out, I remembered what a friend had
said to me over the phone earlier in the week. "You know, you're going to look like Homer Simpson when he wore a cape."Felt a little kicked around like Homer, too, as I walked out of the library. But you can't keep a good superhero down--I was off to do super-housework in preparation for having our neighbors over for dinner. Though I sometimes wonder when we're cleaning the house before friends arrive: Why does the place suddenly have to be spotless for friends who've been here when you could write your name in dust and it looks like a Lego factory exploded?
I think my neighbor would agree. When she walked in, she said, "I was going to shampoo my hair, and then I thought, why bother. John's going to be wearing a cape."
Days 6 & 7
Cleaning the basement Saturday afternoon, I moved a pile of kids' Halloween costumes and heard, "I'm Superman. Up, up, and away!" Hey, that's my line.
I quickly found the source--a child's battery-enabled talking Superman breastplate--and realized I had a new piece of attire for the day. A cape and a talking breastplate ... man, life's good!
I wore the combination all afternoon, tapping the device to activate the voice when I felt particularly super. Linda would roll her eyes or shoot me a look indicating she felt like tapping me upside my head.
I heard a knock at the door and figured it was one of the neighborhood kids. I was eager to show off my super outfit to someone who'd certainly appreciate it. So I was a little surprised when I opened the door to see an adult in a suit. He shot a confused look at my cape and breastplate and then said his name, followed by, "And I'm running for mayor."
I quickly took his material, thanked him, and closed the door. "What questions did you ask him?" Linda asked me later. "Did you tell him anything?" Nope. My only regret was that I forgot to tap my breastplate. What could he have possibly said in reply to "I'm Superman. Up, up, and away!"
The breastplate started getting uncomfortable so I had to stop wearing it by dinnertime. It's almost as if it wasn't designed to be worn by an adult.
By late Sunday, my $3 cape was showing that it wasn't meant to be worn by an adult all week either. The cape's ends were frayed and I'd already almost tripped myself on one of the loose strings.
In the pantheon of caped superheroes, I'm afraid I'm not up to Superman standards. My calf muscle strain, my crutches, the fact that I kept closing the car door on my cape, and almost tripping over it as well, unfortunately throws me into sidekick status.
I'd like to think I'm better than Underdog and Count Chocula, but much worse than Superman, Batman, and Captain Marvel. Hmmm, I was eager to be a superhero, and seemed up to the job, but wasn't a star. If you recall, the Wonder Twins had a sidekick, a caped monkey who kept tripping on his own tail. I think that'd be me: I'm Gleek!
No comments:
Post a Comment