making time

Daniel R. Robichaud II and Robert Glencer

6:10 am. I woke to the chatter of Sumner City's finest. Most folks have an alarm clock radio. I have an alarm police scanner.

Friday morning found vandals defacing a statue in Berridge Park, one block from my building. No time to shower. Again, I promised myself a languorous bath on the weekend.

The concealed armor barely showed beneath my peach blouse (thanks, Dad). My wool jacket was more bulky and the ankle length skirt more limiting.

In less than five minutes, I was out the door.

As my flat-soled boots left tracks in the light dusting of snow, I chewed over distractions, particularly the day's Looming Question: Would I attend Larry's funeral that afternoon? All my excuses boiled down to "We taught at the same school, but I didn't know him."

So don't go. . .

Then, my Dad's words echoed through my mind like a ghostly voice: Teachers are like cops they stick together through the mean times.

Thanks, Dad. You never made anything easy, did you? Particularly since you had to go and get killed. . .

* * *

6:40 am. The radio report was right: that statue was in bad shape. The verdigris Civil War hero was missing his right arm.

Mine weren't the only tracks in the snow. Two pairs of footprints (and a drag line between them) wandered away. A third set belonged to a policeman lying next to a nearby bench, his face as black and blue as his uniform. He'd wake up with a headache and probably need a dentist.

I followed the drag tracks. Out the park and into the streets. Then, I heard metal on concrete and voices from a nearby alley.

One guy: "Pick it up, you sissy."

Another guy: "You pick it up, this sucker's heavy!"

No surprise, the tracks led inside.

I paused near a trashcan to observe.

A couple of hired hand types with second hand wardrobes stood holding the statue's arm. Big on muscles but little on everything else. Hair was the real difference between them: one had a ponytail, the other, a buzz cut.

A nearby manhole cover became my Frisbee.

When Ponytail shifted for a better grip, the cover crushed the bridge of his nose. His eyes rolled white jackpots, and he collapsed.

The statue's arm hit concrete with the metallic whang, as Buzz turned my way.

He gave me a look I've seen everyday - a relief plate special with a side of overconfidence. His lips curled in a lusty sneer when he said, "Sweet meat!" Then, he charged.

I met him halfway.

He followed a left punch with a right hook, and I barely evaded the combination.

Inside my head, sensei Lim Johnson clucked his tongue, chastising me for not visiting the dojo more often.

My fingers drove against Buzz's Adam's apple. Buzz's sneer disappeared in a gagging fit.

His hand vanished into his jacket. My heel pinned that arm to his chest. A hard push with my leg sent him tumbling. His head found a brick wall. A loud crack later, and he joined his buddy on the pavement.

No time to ponder why these guys dismantled a statue. The stopwatch in my head was shouting, "Keep moving. Don't be late."

In the park, the cop was coming to, so I didn't need to stop and call for more. "Thieves across the street," I said and walked away before he could see who was talking.

* * *

7:20 am. The school hallways were empty and peaceful.

First thing in the morning, the faculty lounges were the busiest places.

I arrived to find Doris Benson crying in one of the room's stiff, plastic chairs. Her glasses rested in her lap. One shivering hand brushed hair from her forehead. The other held an equally shaky mug of coffee.

"I thought I would be all right," she said, "But, God, Larry was only three years older than me.
He -" More tears.

Leland Perry thought to take the mug from Doris' hand. Dick Hart offered her the roll of toilet paper we used for Kleenex.

The others stood around, looking uncomfortable.

Dick nodded to me. I nodded back. We worked in neighboring classrooms and shared the break room between.

Leland didn't say hello, before he asked, "Are you going this afternoon, Sylvia? To Larry's…" He shrugged instead of saying funeral.

I glanced around. Dozens of eyes watched for my response.

Teachers are like cops. "I'll be there," I said.

Their eyes softened. I felt part of their world.

"Once more into the pit, kiddos," Dick said, after glancing at his watch, "Hope you've brought your waders."

From there, I went to the break room I shared with Dick Hart. While the Scantron machine corrected my students' exams, Dick eyed the results and clucked his tongue. "Looks like my theory is correct."

"What theory is that?"

"Downhill progression," he said, "Every year these kids get increasingly hopeless."

"There's always hope," I said.

He nodded and said, "There's always retirement."

* * *

8:05 am. Classes began.

I passed out the scantrons. Talked about disappointment at the class average. I had to look at the seating chart to call on the students. Six weeks into the school year, I still couldn't identify most of them.

Within twenty minutes, I caught myself sizing up the troublemakers, not concentrating on the lesson. Lackluster teaching but whip smart danger sense.

After each period ended, I sat cold and silent until the next.

When did I lose touch?

* * *

11:55 am. Lunch bell signaled the end of the half-day. Students filed out, talking about parent-teacher conferences and weekend plans.

"What are you doing, Ms. Rory?" one of them asked me. His was the last scantron I handed out, and I recalled his percentile as high nineties. Damned if I could recall his name.

"Promised myself a relaxing spa visit," I replied.

He stood for a moment, perhaps waiting for me to ask him his plans, but I didn't even think to do so until he was out the door.

* * *

12:05 pm. When I got into the break room, Dick Hart already had his jacket on.

"Another day, another donut," he said.

"Goodbye, Dick," I said, but he was gone.

The cell phone in my purse played the Carol of the Bells.

I pulled it out. Caller ID showed my lawyer.

"Hi, Amy."

I heard her smile when she said, "The end is in sight."

"Ah." It was the day to sign the final papers for the Big D and make my inability to communicate official.

David had been constantly on the go in City Hall but never as busy as me. He had tried to get me to relax and failed. Soon enough, he stopped trying. The last straw was kids. He wanted them. I didn't. Eventually, he wanted a divorce. I gave that to him, amazed how broken my heart wasn't, after almost three years together.

"2:30, right?"

"Yepper-do," she said.

"I'll be there." I hung up. Saw a message waiting.

My cousin Alice. Aunt Beth had suffered a stroke. If I could spare the time, would I stop by the hospital during visiting hours tonight? Much appreciated, b'bye.

I penciled it into my mental planner and then left to deposit my paycheck, so my rent check wouldn't bounce.

* * *

12:15 pm. En route to the credit union, a shrieking woman interrupted my attempts to find calm in the back seat of a traffic-halted cab.

"Thief!"

Through the window, I spotted an Asian girl outside of a New Age shop shouting (mostly in Mandarin, actually) and jabbing a finger down the block.

I tossed bills to the driver on my way out the cab.

The object of the screaming woman's frenzy was a man in a domino mask and unitard racing past the pedestrians and carrying a bulging black sack of loot.

He used car roofs like stepping stones to cross the street and disappeared down a subway station.

I followed and found him muscling through a crowd of commuters. Halfway down the steps, I decided to close the gap.

I leapt off the staircase, grabbed an exposed ceiling beam, and swung overhead. I would have cleared the entire group if a speeding couple hadn't zigged right into my landing zone.

It took me a second to get untangled.

Instead of boarding the train, he sped down the tunnel, moving faster than a normal person.

Luckily, I'm not normal either.

While some probably take me to be an overworked schoolmarm with some defensive skills and a death wish, I actually take after my Dad. Not quite human. Maybe more, maybe less. It depends on your way of thinking.

When I push, I can affect my own biology. Push metabolic rates one way and the end result could be boosted speed or strength. Of course, nothing's free. My power came with more than responsibility. Still, I chose to use it.

Mr. Lightfoot raced on maintenance catwalks through the tunnels, and I pursued. His familiarity with the terrain showed. I spent most of my time ducking and weaving through gloomy dimness.

Sometime later, just as he was pulling out of sight, I stepped wrong and heard a barely audible click. Training saved me.

I launched myself over the edge of the catwalk, moved fast enough to run across the arched ceiling and landed on the other side of the tunnel. I looked up at what I had barely managed to avoid. A rather large I-beam swayed on a harness of steel cables. Nasty trap. Of course, Mr. Lightfoot was gone with his booty.

As I lay there against a rusted pipe, The Agony started. Nothing's free, and this was mine.

My heart raced into the red; what felt like lightning ripped through my stomach. I curled in the dirt, unable to do much more than whine.

I fell back on training, meditation. Slow breaths slow the heart. Remembered words from sensei Johnson. Return to your serene place.

Mine was simple, natural: a brook thawed as spring freed the ground from its snowy blanket. Thin ice transformed into trickle streams. Ice crystals from pine limbs filled the air like dandelion fuzz. One branch, just inches over the brook, dipped ever so slightly as a finch alighted. The bird chirped twice, then flew heavenward, bobbing the branch into the icy water.

I opened my eyes. The pain subsided enough for me to move. I checked my watch. Damn. "Catch you next time," I silently promised.

 

* * *

12:45 pm. I made my way back to the surface. Quick return to the shop. The Mandarin girl was on the phone. I did a quick check for what was snatched.

I found the wreckage of a rather elaborate display of large crystals, most of which were gone. Above the display hung a hand written sign:

Rare Ancient Tang Dynasty
Chinese Spirit Transference Crystals
Special Sale!
Only $99 each!

Some score.

Then, I remembered where I was supposed to be going.

I had just enough time to deposit the check and still be late for my appointment with Amy.

* * *

2:55 pm. Amy glanced up, when I rushed in.

"Sorry," I said.

"The papers will get signed either way," she said. Concern made her voice maternal when she added, "You look lousy. Have you been sleeping?"

"Not much." I signed the forms without reading them or sitting down. Afterward, my goodbye was crisp, and included promises of having dinner some night. Of catching up. My mind was elsewhere, since I had to race back uptown.

* * *

4:15 pm. Winslow Brothers had a small funeral home on the Northeast side. White columns interspersed two-story windows shaped like the enormous, sad eyes of an eight-year old's puppy dog drawings. Huge windows, portals to sorrow.

Larry was here. My colleague with the sleepy eyes. The guy who always told jokes in the lounge. Who never complained all that much, who. . .

I knew so little. Why hadn't I tried to know him better?

Inside the front door, I told a man in a black suit, "I'm here for Larry Moskin's service."

He clipped his 't' and 'd' sounds when he said, "It has already started. Standing room only."

Standing room only? For a man I couldn't take three minutes to get to know better?

I found out why.

I recalled Larry mentioning a large extended family, at one point. This proved no exaggeration. In addition, most of Sumner High's faculty was in attendance. Of course, They were here, too.

Rumors around school said Larry had personal connections to The Mighty League, which prompted Dick Hart's calling him, "Super Larry."

I hadn't really believed the rumors. But seeing Them was incredible.

In their costumes, The League were seated respectfully, all staring at the oblong, oaken box.

Larry lay with his hands at his sides. His cheeks were lightly rouged. He looked alive. Ready to jump out of the casket and denounce the joke as having gone too far.

But Larry didn't get up. No joke, this time. Never again.

I felt tears on my cheeks before I realized I was crying.

Dick Hart patted me gently on my shoulder. Someone handed me a handkerchief, and I babbled my thanks, before I saw that it was another one of Them, looking at me with the calmest, coolest eyes.

The principal of our school finished whatever speech he had made with the words, ". . . and never forget," stepped away from the podium, took a seat and stared at his shoes.

One of Them approached the casket. He was dressed in the American colors, like on the News or the few occasions I'd spotted him in the sky, en route to right some injustice, while I tried playing catch-up with life.

Captain Whitlocke. People whispered his name with reverence.

He faced us. Grim. His voice cracked when he said, "Larry Moskin." He paused, glanced back at the casket, and spoke in an even, steady, stream of consciousness. That was how it seemed. Off the cuff. Unprepared. Yet, moving.

"He did not have super strength. He could not fly. He did not have any of the powers many associate with 'super' heroes. The only power he really had is one most people possess. Courage. . . " Captain Whitlocke turned to us, again.

"Courage in the face of terror. Courage few would believe themselves capable of showing." The Captain bowed his head and said, "I can only hope that I am half as brave as this man," as though it were a prayer.

"Goodbye, Super Larry," Dick Hart whispered.

I couldn't stay. It was all too much for me. I had to leave. To get away.

Too much.

* * *

5:15 pm. I stopped home to change, listened to my messages. One about parent-teacher conferences. Second was Doris crying and asking if I would attend a luncheon wake tomorrow, at her house, if I had time.

Time.

I changed and hit the street, again.

* * *

5:25 pm. In Berridge Park, that verdigris statue had drawn another loser's attention.

This guy was different than the morning's punks, but still trouble. Easily eight-feet tall. Broad shouldered. A large trench coat stretched tightly across his enormous muscles. As I watched, he hunched over the base of the statue and strained, trying to lift it.

A fool's errand, I thought. Then, the marble cracked. Wow.

I said, "You shouldn't lift with your back."

He looked at me over his collar, his eyes angry slits, but his lips split around nasty, gnashing teeth.

Trusting in my ability to adapt to situations, I stepped closer.

The Brick hefted the statue over his shoulder, then looked back at me and roared, "Buzz off lady!" His voice rumbled, like a surround sound sub-woofer cranked to "11". Then, he swung the statue like a Louisville slugger.

I could dodge baseball bats, but this?

The enormous cudgel sent me flying across the park and into unconsciousness.

I woke, groggy and in agony, but functioning. Both statue and Brick were gone. "Catch you later," but I hoped never to see him, again.

* * *

6:25 pm. The hospital waiting room for the fourth floor cardiac unit was crowded. When I got a chance to see Aunt Beth, an IV drip and electronic monitors were the only active things about her.

My extended family tried to corral me into sticking around for lousy hospital food dinner. "We'll get together later," I told them, "I promise." How many promises did I have to break before I'd stop making them?

* * *

7:05 pm. I sucked up my pride and went to the dojo. The familiar, red neon sign still read:

Lim Johnson's Kung Fu and Self-Defense

An age-yellowed flyer taped to the rusty double front doors promised "Champion quality instruction for bargain basement prices."

Bargain basement prices or not, no classes were running. How he managed to keep his business afloat was beyond me.

I found Lim mediating at the rear of the studio, legs crossed, back to the door.

"Put up your dukes, old man!"

He did not look my way. "Ah, Sylvia. It is good to see you, again."

"And you, Sensei," I bowed and paused, not knowing exactly what I wanted to say. "I. . . "

"Your chi is polluted with petty concerns."

Not petty to me, I thought.

"There is importance and beauty in smallness," he continued, "but only suffocation in pettiness. Wisdom knows the difference. It will take more than one session to correct what is wrong."

He stood. His aged Asian features glowed with friendly warmth. "You need this."

I tensed as he approached, expecting a surprise attack.

He hugged me, instead. My defenses crumbled. In seconds, I blubbered like a baby. He held me until I stopped.

"Come back to the office," he said, "I was just about to prepare tea."

"But I need - "

"What you need," he said sternly, "is someone to listen." With a wink, he added, "What I need, is to know what nine months have held for my favored student."

Had it been that long?

We shared tea. I told him everything. How my life felt on the verge of collapse. Divorce. Funeral. Teaching. Crime-fighting. I felt better after our talk, but even Lim Johnson couldn't keep the crushing world away forever.

He said, "Think on this, but do not answer, yet. I could come to your school. We could train on your lunch period."

I opened my mouth. He said, "Think, Sylvia. Do not answer."

* * *

7:45 pm. Home again. Quick shower and changed for conferences. Somehow, I also managed a quick bite to eat. A TV dinner: two spongy chicken patties, mushy carrots, and some form of fake mashed potato. Was this really any better than hospital food?

I paused at a mirror and studied my mussed, raven dark hair, my murky aqua colored eyes. . . God, what a mess. Still, I must have some prettiness because men look my way when I walk past. Then again, that's no real measure.

David told me I was beautiful, but David is gone.

I quickly ran a brush through my hair and was once again out my door.

* * *

9:45 pm. Parent teacher conferences started at eight and went as usual, until Junior Whitaker's father showed up at my desk.

Whitaker was a problem student. His father looked like trouble.

"Look, lady," Whitaker said, "My son's no honor kid, but he's not some. . . Loser."

His was the same old story: it's not the kid's fault when they screw up. Somehow the teacher is to blame. My normal response to such accusations was "I'm here to teach. Disciplining kids like yours steals time I could be using to do my job." However, this time it didn't seem worth the effort.

I sat back in my chair and let him blab until his time was up. His voice droned on the edge of my consciousness.

Then he said something odd that woke me. "If I hadn't lost my job to some human speedtrap, I wouldn't give two craps. But if my kid has to

repeat. . . "

That description. Lightfoot, the crystal scammer? Coincidence or an opportunity?

One thing I've noticed about life, sometimes the most inopportune things drop in your lap. It's as though the higher powers are testing you, to find out what you'll do with those chances. They don't arrive everyday; sometimes they come once in a lifetime.

Facing Mr. Lightfoot would be a victory. Not petty, but small. If I did that, could I sleep? Could I take a break? Have some hospital food with Aunt Beth? I needed to get my priorities straight. Maybe chasing the human speedtrap was the way to start.

"I'm sorry to hear you lost your job," I said softly, "Where did you say you worked?"

"What? I work at Markins Warehouses. On Soames and Fourth.

I -- Where are you going?"

No answer needed, I walked away.

"Hey, you can't just --"

"Oh, yes she can," Dick Hart said from the next table over. "Go get 'em kiddo."

Teachers are like cops. I wondered how much about me Dick Hart really knew. More than I thought?

* * *

10:40 pm. The windows on the Markins Warehouse were all on the second floor. I climbed up for a peek.

Mostly empty inside.

A recently excavated hole in the floor near a wall led down into darkness. To the subway tunnel, no doubt.

Lightfoot was playing cards with another familiar face. Brick, the statue batter.

"Ya know, we need another coupla guys," Brick raised two sausage fingers.

Lightfoot nodded. "That'd be a good poker game."

"Ahm not good at poker. Ah likes eucker."

Lightfoot blanched. "Eucker?"

"Yeah," Brick grimaced. "When ah wuz in the pokey for petty assault, we hadda competalition - Know what ah mean?"

" A eucker tournament?" Lightfoot was awestruck. "For cons?"

"Yeah," Brick's muscles bristled. His jaws tensed. "What 'bout it?"

I hopped down.

They turned for me so fast I thought they might break their necks. No luck...

"How'd ya find us?" Brick scowled, showing off the yellow tombstones he called teeth.

I said, "I followed your breadcrumbs."

"You don't know who you're messing with, girly." Lightfoot rose from his seat.

"Actually, I do," I said, "You're small timers. Low-powered lowlifes." I pointed to Lightfoot, first. "If you were any real threat, wouldn't The Mighty League take note? And you," I pointed toward Brick, "If you were vaguely important, don't you think Captain Whitlocke would be here? But they're not. You're losers working for a Tiddlywink boss, stealing New Age crystals and the statue of a second rate Civil War lieutenant. Think about it!" Every barb I tossed at them reflected doubly on myself. If Captain Whitlocke and The Mighty League wouldn't waste their time with these two, what kind of a loser was I, wasting my time? "Hell with it. Where's your boss?"

Lightfoot scowled, "We'll never tell. No matter how - "

"Mastermind's at da Vitaly Radio Tower," Brick said.

Lightfoot's jaw dropped. "Didn't you hear what she called us?"

"You want I should squishy her?"

Lightfoot stepped backward. "Do whatever you want. I'm gone." He ran down the hole and away. I heard familiar steel catwalks below. Oh, yeah. Subway down there.

The big lug accelerated like a semi-truck with flat tires stuck in molasses, but once he got going he'd be hard to stop.

I leapt down the hole, ran along the subway tunnel, looking across the tracks. Brick followed me.

I played carrot, staying just out of his reach, luring him on. Each pounding step he took toward me vibrated the catwalk. His fists, closer now, pounded cracks in the tunnel wall. Had I made a mistake? Could I keep this up?

"No fight back? No fun - !"

Not a funny step this time, a purposeful one. CRACK! The trap caught him square in the back.

Brick spun, spitting bloody saliva. His head slammed a hole through the tunnel wall.

"Fun… done… lady…" he rumbled then collapsed on the catwalk. The I-beam pendulum trap swayed above his prone body.

Now for the Mastermind.

* * *

12:09 AM. I stepped out of the elevator, onto the Pikel Vitaly building's rooftop. The radio tower rose like a finger.

A strange machine nestled beneath it, a leftover from a fifties' SF flick. Lots of flashing lights and oscilloscopes. The stolen "Ancient Chinese" crystals hung from the thing like ornaments.

Twenty feet overhead, the verdigris statue hung upside down, looking bizarrely like the Hanged Man tarot card. Thick cables connected statue head to machine.

As I approached, a man stood up behind the device wiping his brow with the back of his arm.

Strange looking fellow: short, bald, with a black, handlebar moustache, coke bottle glasses and a beer belly. He wore a skintight jumpsuit with a pair of embossed "M"s emblazoned on his chest over what looked to be an iron-on picture of a big brain. On his head was an aluminum foil cap adorned with still more 'Ancient Chinese' crystals.

His crown started glowing. "You can't stop me." That woke me up. He knew what I was thinking. That's when I felt his fingers, like worms, wiggling instead my brain. Not physically there, but he still browsed my thoughts like a card catalog. Just as suddenly, he stopped riffling the contents, but I still felt him up there.

I wanted to rush him and finish this business. Maybe I could get to bed before 12:30 tonight.

However, I couldn't move. His mental fingers were on some internalized stop button.

He sneered and said, "Ta-Da!" and I recognized him.

I'd seen this guy on the local cable channels. He was a stage magician, The Amazing Marty or something. Mind reading and card tricks and an unintentionally laughable performance. That he really was psychic made him a worse performer than I thought.

"I've taken over the part of your mind that controls motor functions. No more punching and kicking for you, tonight," his eyes grew eager and wide, "You know what you are, now? You're my audience." He walked toward me until his face was inches from mine. His breath stank of old cigars and years of no brushing. "Any idea what this device does? No? It amplifies power. I will be able to get inside the head of everyone in the city. When I enter their dreams,

I will become a living nightmare. This city will fear me. Even The Mighty League won't be able to oppose me." He turned worriedly side-to-side, as if unsure about this last boast.

While he chattered, I was busy trying to think of an escape. Could my training drive the wormy freak out of my head, like it did The Agony?

I focused on my good place. The snow, the stream, the trees, the branch, and the bird. Something was different. The stream began to boil,

the snow became lava, and the finch became a squawking, cackling crow.

That sick jerk was messing with my serene place!

A woman's bloated body floated face down in the boiling stream.

It's long black hair splayed out in the bubbling froth. The crow flew down, pecked at the corpse. It rolled face up. I knew that face. Me.

Focus on the training.

The scene vanished. I pictured my apartment. Imagined lying in a bubble bath. Felt warm water soothing my world-weary frame. It began to boil, but I repressed that. Breathing carried the aroma of numerous scented candles into my nose. Rotting vegetation? No. . . Candles. It was the thing

I always promised myself: a small peace worth fighting for, the prize worth winning.

My eyes flew open. His fingers were still in my brain, but I'd worked around them. I could move.

The creep, unaware I was free of his grasp, whistled a show tune as he worked on his machine. His crystal cap pulsed with a faint glow.

I pulled up from the center of my being all the power I could muster and sped at him like a cannonball. I slammed him into his machine.

Crystals sang and shattered. Mastermind shrieked as sparks and tiny eruptions demolished his machine. Mastermind slumped in the rubble.

I yanked the crystal crown off his head and smashed it against the radio tower's support beams. The fingers vanished completely; my head was mine alone.

I bound Mastermind in his cables and left him hanging beside the statue. The Fool and the Hanged Man. I wasn't sure of the official tarot implications, but it was a statement.

Half an hour later I returned home and hit the bed unable to remove my socks.

Too bad my body's exhaustion hadn't seeped into my brain, too. I lay there groaning but awake.

I considered Captain Whitlocke's words from the funeral.

I don't have super strength. I can't fly, not even in my dreams. I don't turn into liquid or living concrete or any of those other things. And courage?

I don't even know if I have that.

All I do know is I try lead my life the best I can. Yet by dividing my time so relentlessly… Am I living like I should?

Should I be doing better? Could I? Would Dad's shade let me?

* * *

6:10 am. I woke to the chatter of Sumner City's finest.

Another car stolen. Another assault, mugging, another. . .

I slapped the snooze button three times before it shut up.

For once, I slept in. I owed it to myself. Oh, and a bubble bath.

I owed me that, too.

No bubbles in the house, though. Oh, well, I could run out for some later.

Though my cranial stopwatch screamed for an explanation, and its voice sounded a lot like my Dad's, I closed my eyes and found peace. For a time.

Let the world tend itself for a day. Everyone deserves a small holiday.