Michael Hiebert about 2,000 words

3—20771 Duncan Way

Langley, BC
V3A 9L5
home: (604) 530-7048
cel: (604) 790-0609
mythmaker@mac.com

The Old Bald Cheater

by Michael Hiebert

I sit at the only available table. Of course, it’s the wobbly one, up against

the window. Setting down my coffee, my leg bangs the glass and the greasy

homeless guy sitting on the other side turns. His girl, who looks about twelve

years old, plays guitar beside him. Her hair looks like corn stalks, and, given its

green color, I think it’s on purpose. At least the glass buffers her singing. On my

way in, I thought someone was choking a walrus, but it turned out to be the chick

with the green locks and eyebrow piercings serenading Forty-second Street.

There’s a little mutt sitting between them. I can’t see him from here, but he looked
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up at me and whined when I passed, pleading to be rescued. I paused at the hat full

of loose change sitting beside his margarine dish of kibble and said, “Sorry pup, it's

not enough.” Stupid fucking dog.

My head throbs. Squeezing my thumb and finger into my temples, I sustain

pressure until the pain returns to being tolerable. I unclip my fanny pack from my

waist and drop it onto the table, completely forgetting about the unbalanced legs.
Coffee sloshes over the side of my cup, running through the grooves of graffiti

carved into the Arborite top before dripping into my lap. The coffee’s barely

lukewarm, and I am torn between being happy I wasn’t burnt or being pissed off at

paying four bucks for cold coffee.

I unzip my bag and remove a pill bottle, making a mental note that the

baggie of crystalmeth beneath it is still there. I pop four of the pills in my mouth,

chasing them with tepid coffee and I nearly gag. I forgot the fucking sugar.

Slinging the sugar bowl from across the table, I drag it back. My hand

shakes as I lift the ceramic top and take out four cubes. Holding them above my

cup, I drop them one by one. With each plop, I quietly sing the words to the most

ironic song ever written: “Happy – birthday – to – me”.

I stir, watching the girl at the counter hand a cup to a customer. He

turns and I instantly recognize him from the Old Days and, like everybody I run

into, he’s aged far better than me. Other than the grey hair, he looks exactly as he

did twenty years ago. Just like back then, seeing him makes me want to puke.

He searches for somewhere to sit and I turn my head, avoiding eye contact.

Not that I need to. Time spent the last twenty years chasing me through the sewers
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and beating the shit out of me with the ugly stick. Even I don't even recognize me

anymore.

Pain erupts behind my eyes, and I know he’s on his way over. I twist the

cap onto the pill bottle and shove it back into the fanny pack, zipping it shut as he

sets his cup down across from me. I take a deep breath and wonder why God hates

me so much.
“Petey!” He grips my hand, shaking it so hard he pulls me to my feet.

“How the hell are you?” His arms lock me in a bear hug and I expect my bones to

shatter. Unfortunately, they don't.

“Hi Clarke,” I say, and we sit. His gorilla-like forearm causes another table

wobble but somehow he manages to lift both our cups before they spill.

He places some folded napkins under the table’s broken leg, and tries to

wobble the top. It doesn’t. “That’s better,” he grins. I want to knock out every

one of his pearly white teeth with a goddamn hammer.

“You a cop now?” I ask, nodding at his uniform.

He pulls the jacket so I can read the patch. “Port Authority. How about

you? Still at the Bugle?”

I nod. “I’m a sucker for abuse.”

He sips his drink, leaving whipped cream on his lip. I don’t tell him. I drink

mine and wince.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“You’d think at these prices it’d at least be fucking hot.”

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“Allow me.” Red beams of energy shoot out his eyes, focusing on my

coffee until it begins to steam. What a jerk.

“Dude, please don't. I'll end up with inoperable brain cancer or something

fucked up like that.”

He laughs.

“I'm serious. You don’t know. Look what happened to Reed and Ben!”
Both of us instinctively glance out the window in the direction of the Baxter

Building, but it’s too dark to see past Sid and Nancy.

Clarke frowns. “Did you go to the funeral?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t really know them that well.” It’s a lie.

“And are Sue and Johnny-?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I sigh, lifting my cup to my lips. “But probably soon. Fucking

cosmic radiation.”

My eyes fall to the tabletop. Nobody’s safe from the big C. My hand

shakes and I put down my cup. Clarke raises a questioning eyebrow.

“It's nothing.” I say, my gaze drifting to my fanny pack before I can stop

myself.

His eyes follow and, of course, I know what's coming. “That cocaine?”

I shake my head. “Speed. Wish I could afford coke.”

He sighs. “What happened to you? Was it Gwen?”

“Nothing fucking happened to me. Life’s a big pile of shit and you deal

with it. I don’t need to explain anything to you, Mr. Port Authority. A bit of a step

down from ‘Man of Steel’, don't you think?”

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I expect him to leave, but he doesn't even seem angry. We both watch a

woman pushing a shopping cart full of bottles and cans stop and pat the homeless

dog on the head. She pulls something from her pocket and feeds it to him. I try

not to guess what.

Clarke returns to the conversation. “Maybe it is a step down, I dunno.

Better money and security, though.”

“Don’t even start. Between my shrink and my – um – medication, I'm

lucky to make rent. Retirement?” I laugh and another surge of pain blasts my skull.

Of course, nothing gets by wonder boy. “You okay?”

“I get bad headaches. It's this fucking city. So much crime the,” I point to

my forehead, “thing never stops.”

“Thing?”

“You know.” I hold my open palms on either side of my face and shake

them theatrically. “My Spidey-Sense.” Sounds just as stupid any way I say it.

He frowns. No super fucking sense of humor, that’s for sure. “You alright

otherwise?” he asks. “Still going out?”

I laugh. “No. Gave that up long ago, like everyone else.”

He stares.

“What?”

“You still wear the suit?”

I look down. You can’t tell, but he’s right. It is under my clothes like it

always is because without the suit there is no me. Without Spiderman, I’m just one

more fucking loser who pissed and snorted away fifty years of his life.
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“Do you have any concept of privacy?” I ask.

“Sorry, it’s what I do at work. Hard to break the habit.”

This makes me laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“I guess I just expected it would be the 'stronger than a locomotive' or 'faster

than a speeding bullet' powers that brought in the big bucks. Not the x-ray vision.”
“Nah technology’s made me obsolete. Mankind has all the speed and

strength it needs. But no x-ray vision - yet.” He checks his watch.

“Somewhere you need to be?” Strangely, I want the answer to be no.

“Gotta pick up Lois. She’s at work.”

So they’re still together. Probably happy as fucking clams, too. “Where

does she work?”

“Still at the Planet. She enjoys it.”

I didn’t know those two words, “enjoy” and “work”, could be used

together. “It’s gotta beat working for Jamieson.” I almost add, “the shit eating

goose fucker” but hold back, thinking I might sound unbalanced. Instead I ask,

“Run into anyone else lately?”

“Had a JLA reunion last year. Oh, and Diana’s article,” he winks, “but that

was a while ago.”

“Oh yes, I didn’t miss that. Wonder Woman can tie me up with her golden

lariat anytime she likes!” I don’t mention that her centerfold from that issue of

Playboy still hangs beside my bed.

“JLA reunion?” I finish my coffee and ask, “How’s Bruce doing?”

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“He wasn't there. He bought an island somewhere and just shipped out.

Sold the mansion - Batcave and all.”

“IRS trouble?” Many super heroes and villains were plagued by tax

problems once the NSA managed to uncover everyone’s secret identities. Failure

to disclose assets landed a lot of them in prison - the Kingpin’s currently doing

twenty years.
Clarke shakes his head. “No, the rich ones like him and Tony Stark had

accountants. Did you hear about Bruce Banner? He's on trial in LA - road rage.”

“No shit.” I try to picture the Hulk driving. I can’t.

“Guy behind him wouldn’t stop honking and doc just snapped. Next thing

you know cars and trucks are flying everywhere.” Clarke checks the time again.

“Anyway, Petey, I gotta go.”

We stand and shake hands.

“Hey,” I say, “Wish me happy birthday.”

He smiles, “Really? Happy birthday! How old?”

“The big five-oh.”

“Listen, why don't I grab Lois and we’ll take you out for drinks? She’d love

to see you again.”

“I already have plans,” I say. “But next time for sure. I’ll keep in touch.”

We both know I won’t.

He grips my shoulders and grows serious. “Take care of yourself, kiddo.

Seriously. The world isn't your fault.” For the second time tonight he makes me

think of Gwen, goddamn him.

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After wishing me another happy birthday, he leaves the shop, giving a final

wave through the window when he stops to put money in the dog's hat.

Grabbing my fanny pack, I go into the shitter, lock the door and remove the

baggie of jib. I dump some onto the counter and, taking my transit pass from my

pocket, use it to crush the crystals into a rail. Bending over, I snort the line and

stand up. The eyes of Peter Parker in the mirror meet with mine, and he follows as
I slowly undo my top shirt buttons and reveal the worn red Lycra with the black

spider. The drugs start working and I sing, almost in a whisper: “Spiderman,

Spiderman, friendly neighborhood Spiderman.”

Collecting my crap off the counter, I continue the tune as I button back up

and leave the can. The words about being strong with radioactive blood make me

think of Reed, Sue, Johnny and Ben - every member of the Fantastic Four - either

dead or dying from cancer. Walking onto the street, I smell the dank repulsive

odor of my home city and suddenly wish I had told Clarke the real reason why I

missed the funeral. Maybe talking about it would have helped.

My fingers touch my hand where that fucking spider bit me. Eventually, I

convince myself that the lump hasn’t grown since breakfast and I move on,

thankful that the girl is smoking a cigarette instead of playing guitar as I pass.

A block later, I turn down a darker, but no less familiar, street. A woman

leans against a brick wall. The thick nipples of her hefty breasts poke through the

fabric of her shirt.

“Looking for company?” she asks.

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Her black flowing hair and red lips remind me of the centerfold by my bed,

and the thought cinches the deal. We hold hands, walk to my apartment, and I hum

happy birthday as I unlock my door.

In my room, I pay her and watch her undress to a pink thong. She lies back

on my mattress, cupping her hands around those magnificent jugs.

“By the way, I'm Alexis,” she says, licking her lips. Her right hand slides
down her stomach and into her panties. “What's your name?”

I unbutton my shirt. “Spiderman.”

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