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I.
Nothing is my fault and I should not be blamed for anything
that happens anywhere
in the world even if I am involved
to some degree on some level.
I’m like Dilbert
in the comic strip, despising everything
the boss
has to say, wanting to poke him
in the eye
with a pencil when he rambles on about his bratty kids,
his new boat, or how cute
Pookie was trying to order French fries
but said Frank fires .
I almost fell over
it was so incredibly funny.
This is just one reason why
I would be the worst super hero
imaginable—uncaring,
disinterested, lazy, saving only beautiful women
who would then reward me with pretty feminine favors.
Maybe I would fly around at night or swing from my string
of web, peek into their windows,
watching them undress with my x-ray vision
or maybe with a little persuasion
I could fly them a mile up into the sky—Hey, would you like
to join the Super Man Club.
I am the superhero anti-hero, using my powers
for my personal gratification.
Just because
I have super powers doesn’t mean I have to be super good
or ethical or honorable. There’s no guarantee
when these things are handed out. I’m just a man,
ordinary in most ways who would be a fantastic
anarchist if the job paid more. Perhaps I meant to say anti-Christ.
Either way, I’m not much of a role model
or Super Hero but I could be
if there was more in it for me.
What I can do
to outrage you? I never promised I’d be a really good boy.
I’m just a man with super-powered ideas. Look away
and do not criticize me or judge me for what I have just done
or will do, but try to understand me. Even though
I have said and done horrible things,
you should forgive me
for being the anti-super hero and blame yourself
because you were the one watching
and listening,
because without an audience,
I am nothing—
just an out-of-work super hero
without much possibility for success
or earning potential. Yeah, I used to be diligent,
rescuing all sorts of strangers from situations
of peril,
but I never got squat—hardly
a thank you, not even a kiss on my super cheek.
Then I got sued
because I didn’t rescue some guy
quickly enough. Why should I have to
put up with paying malpractice insurance?
That’s when I said to Hell with it
and quit!
Now, it’s just me
and in my Super—Man—Feeling—Good—Super—Suit
ready to break down barriers
between me
and that beautiful woman standing in line at the bank.
II.
I let it all go
a few years ago, standing in the hall,
trapped and listening to my boss’s worn-out stories
about his fabulous life.
I was leaning against the wall
ready to Velcro his mouth shut, but really hoping
someone would go postal
or maybe (God-willing) the front of the building would fall off
and take me down thirty stories with it
down
to the very
bottom where I would jump to my feet
protected by my a super-hero suit,
unscathed,
dusting off the rubble of my bad attitude,
my piss-poor outlook on all things that I don’t give a shit about (EVERYTHING)
and then I’d walk away
across the street to Starbucks
and order a venti caramel macchiato,
and while everyone was running around in a frenzy
trying to figure out what to do next,
I’d sit outside
under an awing in a chair sipping my hot drink
and think about finishing my Ph.D. in personal relations.
But nothing is my fault
and I cannot take responsibility
for anything that happens anywhere in the world
even if the governor calls saying he’s in desperate need.
Let him jump!
I have absolved myself,
stated my declaration
that nothing, no matter how God-awful or even good,
is a result of my actions. I have no guilt
for anything that happens, did happen, or will happen
in the future because I am now invisible, shielded
by my super suit of invisibility.
Upon my declaration,
the world opened up into a vista of clarity, like The Gong Show
gong bonging in the background
when we finally figured it out
that Chuck Barris couldn’t possibly be a C.I.A. hit man. . . a moment
of clarity, that there is a disguise
behind everything,
behind every Super Hero
that we have had the wool
pulled so tightly over our eyes
that everything is the responsibility
of someone else other than me.
Look at me—what
have I done? — nothing
beyond driving to the same crummy job
every day for fifty weeks a year, filling up
the gas tank twice a week to make certain that everyone
in America can own a television, a car,
health care, designer jeans, Viagra,
or any number of contemporary freedoms
reserved just for them 200 years ago in the Bill of Rights
just like the designers of the Constitution thought it should be—a right to this,
a right to that as long as you get everything
you believe you deserve.
I want to do my new job
from home but the boss refuses to allow anyone
to telecommute so now my gas bill digs in to my vacation plans,
so each week, in secret
and anonymously,
I post a Top Ten List on the bulletin board
then the boss rolls into my office to complain
and I act concerned when he asks if I have any idea
who’s behind this
horrible prank.
None whatsoever.
He steams over to the receptionist’s desk
then his secretary. But, no,
they are confused, too. His secretary
is so sour
if you say hello to her in the hall
she claims you tried groping her. Super heroes don’t grope.
They just grab what they want.
At least in this fantasy.
III.
Someone knows who’s doing this, my boss yells.
Are any of them true? I ask. He frowns at me. Just asking.
The next day I post another list.
The #1 Reason Most People Think Mr. F. is a Jerk
Compensating for his high school diploma he wears college logos
on all his shirts, talks about this school and that school as though
the mere mention of their hallowed ground makes flunking out
a rite of passage, soon to be overcome with an honorary doctorate
from a third-rate institution.
Maybe it’s the janitor, I suggest. You yelled at him
one day because you didn’t like the color of the trash bags.
Remember?
You’re the only one I can confide in he tells me.
I think my wife is somehow trying to drive me over the edge.
We’re not doing well. All she does is spend,
spend,
spend.
Take her on a world cruise for a few months. I’ll run the company
while you are away. Make her the center of your life. Stop
screwing your secretary.
You know about that?
Business Strategy if Mr. F. was a Caveman
1. Stalk saber-tooth
2. Sneak up and hit Saber-tooth with fist
3. Return next month, use big rock or sharp stick this time—
grip tightly with three remaining fingers
and good arm
One week, there was no list, just an enlarged Christmas photo
of his wife gushing over the new H.R. guy, her left breast
falling out of her dress.
Top Complaints in the Mr. F’s World (too many to list)
1. No one understands me
2. Death and famine (my eventual death and my craving for Big Macs)
3. Nothing else matters, only me, me, me
Who do you think doesn’t like me, he asked?
It’s inconceivable. Everyone loves you.
“Who are you?” he scribbles
in red marker across the board. Show your face, coward!
Next week early one morning, I post:
Top Worst Way to Die
1. Listening to Mr. F’s Stories
Are my stories that boring?
No. I think you should tell more
in the daily meetings, maybe
spend sixty to seventy percent
of the time telling stories.
They’re very funny. Tell us
about your weekend, spice
it up a little, exaggerate
if need be. But, no, we love
your stories. Include some famous people,
drop names.
After a long holiday weekend when his wife was out of town
with her girl friends, he yanked a posting off the board
early Tuesday morning.
Boss very angry,
he called me into his office.
This has gone too far, he says shaking the list
above his head.
Mr. F’s Fantasy Sex List (who he thinks about when lovey-doveying his wife)
(list not in order)
Christina Ricci
Rebecca Pidgeon
Parker Posey
Halle Berry
Ann Curry
Lee Ann Rimes
Star Jones
Jewell
Beyonce
Faith Hill
Shania Twain
The Scooby Doo Girl
Reese Witherspoon
Meg Ryan
Katherine Heigl
Hillary Duff
Josey & the Pussycats (all at the same time)
Natalie Cole
Heidi Klum
Cat Woman
Pee Wee Herman
Vanessa Williams
Zsa Zsa Gabor
Mae West as an old broad
Daisy Duke
Thelma on Good Times
Kirstie Alley
Doris Day
Annette Funicello
Tuesday Weld
Gidgit
Lilly Munster
Tootie on Facts of Life
The doctor lady on Scrubs
Jennifer Tilly
Meg Tilly
Tilly Olsen
The Olsen Twins
Dolly Parton
Madeline Albright
Ginger and Mary Ann, the Professor, too
Angelina Jolie
(actual list has about 2500)
You know people. Can you secretly investigate this
for me—find out
who this is?
Here’s two thousand dollars—go
buy some spy equipment.
I WANT SOME ANSWERS.
I may need more if it’s to be done right.
Okay, just find out who it is.
Now I will set a trap
for the bean counter
in payroll
who refused to cover some of my expenses
on the Chicago trip,
ask him to pin a company picnic notice to the bulletin,
make it look like he posted the Top 5 List
of Names for Mr. F. if he was a Super Hero
- Super Cheap-O Greasy I Need to Wash My Hair-Man
- Don’t Know Grammar-Man
- Pear-shaped Body-Man
- Super Duper My Wife’s Sleeping with Everyone-Man
- Two Kids in Rehab-Man
What about David Letterman? And the addiction I have to sarcasm
which is not much of a Super Hero trait?
My obsession with lists is his fault—
it’s like Letterman stopped off at the house one night,
pretending to be the tooth fairy,
silvery tutu,
leotards,
receding hairline,
truck stop gap between his teeth,
but instead of leaving a few dollars under my pillow,
he whispered in my ear
a thousand new lists for the boss.
Being a Super hero bites! Especially if you cannot tell anyone,
like the girl in accounting
who is so good with numbers I bet she never bounces a check.
I do not feel anything like guilt
for anything
that ever went wrong in the world
for some poor ghetto slob
or some Superman-needing woman
who I don’t want to rescue
from the grips of a bad guy
tugging on her purse. Why should I
when the accounting girl thinks I have no life
outside the office? What’s the use
because they will forgive the bad guy for everything he does
and let him go just a few days after I wrestled him
to the ground after robbing a bank or mugging a bum.
I capture him—then some stupid
bastard lets him go. In America, they’ll forgive
you for everything—being poor,
getting fired, being lazy,
for being stupid, for dropping out
of school at any level,
going bankrupt,
making a mess of your life—they will forgive you
for anything
except the Cardinal Sin of Being Successful.
The accounting girl doesn’t know
I sit at home all alone
just waiting for the stupid super phone to ring.
Night after night
no one calls except the mayor or the governor
ringing me up on the glowing red phone, never a woman,
never the accounting girl dropping a dime to ask
how I am, what am I doing this weekend, maybe
we could get together—do you like spiders and snakes?
She’s probably out with friends at a fancy restaurant
figuring out the tip to the exact penny.
IV.
I want to learn Spanish and flee to Mexico
then Bolivia and become a bandit
like Paul Newman and Robert Redford,
using my super powers to rob banks and outrun
the Almogavares, and I want to ride a bicycle
with Katherine Ross on the handlebars, laughing
and her thinking, “I’ve got to dump those other bums
and run off with this guy, this Super Man
of the 21st Century.”
I can’t sing worth a flip, bellowing
like a moose who’s fallen
through thin ice, but if Katy-girl asked me,
I’d sing “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head”
everyday and I’d be there
anytime she needed to be rescued.
If there were no laws
I wouldn’t have to stop people from doing whatever
it is they are doing wrong, from the mistakes
they keep making to make their life miserable,
and maybe
I wouldn’t be in trouble
at work for posting notes
on the bulletin board
and no one wouldn’t think I’m a troubled bad boy
when what I really need is a hug
from a tree hugging Al Gore-voting,
Birkenstock-wearing
accounting number-crunching girl
standing in my kitchen
in her flowered panties
and bra
who does not want any commitment,
whatsoever,
someone who just wants me
several times a week
to toss her on the bed
and smooch all over her.
I’m not perfect,
and sometimes my super powers
can’t evade the radar of being a jerk
but after this long
of sweating long hours of busting down brick walls
to save a scared dog, I have some pretty magnificent scars,
but like all super-superheroes, we are really never injured,
no gunshot wounds, no knife slashes on my arm,
no conks on the head that actually hurt – the only thing
that gets to a superhero is heartbreak.
I don’t need guns
and bullets or a fancy super-cool car
and girls in silver britches hanging off my shoulder
nibbling on my earlobe saying lovey-dovey
dreamy-eyed things like “Double-O Seven, you’re so naughty”
because one morning
while standing in line at Starbucks,
the accounting girl walked in
and I said hello
and she said hello
back to me and we sat there
until lunch time talking
and being late for work
and when the boss got angry
she lied
and said we had a power meeting
to discuss budgetary cuts
and paradigm shifts
in an ever-expanding economy.
She said
my Top Ten Lists were hilarious
and that everyone loved them
because they were so true.
The number-crunching girl was glad I was not fired.
There was a $200 office pool to guess who the culprit was,
but no one picked me. My number-crunching cutie-pie
Super Girl thought it was Ray Ray in R&D.
You could be a spy, she said, you are so coy and sneaky.
How much can you bench press?
V.
I can lift the world upon my shoulders and it hold there
if I chose,
and on a good day
I see myself with a mission, a journey,
and maybe I’m not the super hero
I always dreamed I would be,
and maybe I’m not the kind of guy who can make a woman’s body hum
but there are days
when I fly off in secret
to rescue
what needs rescuing, a cat in a tree,
unclogging the sink,
or pumping the tires on a bicycle,
not like the old days
of chasing down a speeding car
out of control or saving an ocean-liner
in a hurricane—me, being in complete control of the world.
Isn’t being in control
the goal we strive for now
and just waking up without the bill collectors calling
and perhaps having more than $92.10 in the bank
on October 10, 2007. . .
because, really, what kind of job
can a Super Hero expect to have?
There’s no dignity
waiting tables or pumping gas, not for a Super Hero,
and I can’t pound a gavel in a court room,
write copy for the Chicago Tribune
or cut someone’s liver
out of their body. No. A Super Man is never satisfied
with just the ordinary. That’s the truth,
and my fallacy is. . . I have to show the world
every day that I am not ordinary. My best days are in front of me
with super-husband skills
needed around the house to kill the bug,
unscrew a jar lid,
stop the toilet from dripping,
change the oil,
or put batteries in a light-saber
so it buzzes like a bug zapper in warp drive.
But I have discovered. . . there are times
when being a Super Man is just reading The Bernstein Bears
and not wondering where my number-crunching wife is
and if she’s really where she says
and not in the arms of an anti-hero kind of bad guy
putting pressure on my life
with my wife’s affections being divided,
my love life whacked down the center with a machete
and rolling off the cutting board like a head of red cabbage
splitting open.
Maybe I’m not the man who can save the world,
protect it from the evil
lurking, like my former boss,
who sold the company
and ran off with his secretary to Costa Rica to sit on his millions,
forgetting all the jobs that transferred to New Jersey, the lives
disrupted, the friends
never to be seen again.
Everyone looks at me
for the answers
and thinks, wow, he is such a super-awesome guy,
fast,
funny,
strong
able to leap tall
women,
able to satisfy
horny housewives in a single bound,
but really, that’s not who I am. There is a veil
of super gossamer to this hero
who doesn’t have to be
the super-duperist guy in the world, just good enough
to get the job done, just good enough to be the hero
in my own house.
Everyone needs answers, even this guy
who just wants a normal life
with my children snuggling up to me while watching The Crocodile Hunter
or Barney and Thelma Lou sitting on the porch swing
as Sheriff Taylor sings, “I got a line and you got a pole, let’s go fishing
in the crawdad hole, honey, oh yeah, babe.”
Or, maybe it can be as simple as when my son and I
are walking the dog
and he says, “Dad,
I think Superman would be better
if he was the Man of Reinforced Plexiglas.”
Or, “I just flew in from Metropolis
and man,
are my arms tired.”
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