If recollection serves, and it often doesn’t, the following was serialized last year to zero acclaim. So, thought I’d try anew. All together now. – JDW
I. – CAPTAIN INVIOLABLE
I always had a repulsive need to be something more than human. I felt very puny as a human.
I thought, ‘Fuck that. I want to be superhuman. – David Bowie
And so it came to pass, once upon a time under a dark and dreary sky all grey and shit, the old man began to get on his own nerves.
He wasn’t all that upset about getting old. Just a little disappointed about no longer being young.
That’s when he became Captain Inviolable. Crazy? Yeah, sure, you might think that. But then what you come to find out, crazy is as crazy does. And who’s to say these days? If truth is now just a matter of opinion and money is speech and corporations are people and have you seen who the hell is running for President, what’s crazy anymore. Using bullets dipped in pig’s blood against Muslim insurgents. He actually said that.
Bruce Jenner is a girl? What the hell’s going on?
Back in the early Eighties, the old man had spent an entire day with a certain Olympic gold medalist Wheaties box hero. Picked him up at PDX, drove him out to Beaverton, gave him a nice plaque and a free pair of running shoes. Spent the whole day with the guy.
A executive slot at Nike was pretty good cover a number of years. Kinda like Caitlyn’s World’s Greatest Athlete pose – now that the old man thought about it. Still hadn’t be able to bring himself to read that Vanity Fair cover story.
The old man couldn’t be crazy. “Crazy” meant you were out of your mind and he was firmly locked in. Kinda like El Chapo. Only maybe a foot taller. The old man originally thought to call himself El Alto but he only knew a couple of Mexican-Americans.
Captain Inviolable just popped out of nowhere. Which the old man thought could be one of the Captain’s superpowers. Done it to his wife this morning. The young redhead was bent over, drying her hair, power blower whirring noisily, you know how they do, anyway she lifts her head and there the old man sits quieting on the edge of the tub. A short startled shriek followed.
“My work here is done,” the old man said.
His work had just begun. So much to consider. Costume, for instance. He went with ninja slippers, LoolooLemoan yoga pants, tight turtleneck and a baklava. All black, of course, because so much of his work was at night now.
The symbol on his chest was easy.
A bright yellow field, a fangy rattlesnake coiled, ready and happy to strike. Below the rattlesnake, the words “DON’T TREAD ON ME Revolutionary sign of rebellion.
Patriotic, ambiguous and threatening. Just like me, the old man thought. But most of all, the Gadsen flag looked good and kinda badass. Also like me, the old man thought and remembered that fat guy down the street, the golfer who recycled and decorated for Easter had a bumper sticker like that on his Caddy. Might be fun to screw with him.
Now about those super powers. The old man went for a walk.
There’s the startling ability to startle people, pop up as if from nowhere. Or at least somewhere else. Loved doing that.
Invisibility for sure. Because the truth is, you’re there, maybe been there all the while but nobody actually saw you. That’s really all there is to it. Nary a glimpse.
He was already naturally stealthy.
***
II. – ALL DRESSED UP WITH NOWHERE TO GO
She thought his outfit was cute. Delusional perhaps but cute. The old man wasn’t normal, that was part of his charm. And black is slimming.
The old man’s wife was young but she had a tough job. So, she went to bed real early.
Which was good because he could not stand too much Law & Order. Especially SVU. A slew of children go missing and Benson arrests a suspected kidnapper, a ventriloquist who claims his dummy did the deeds. A psychic claims to know about a missing woman, but is really a serial rapist and murderer a skeptical Stabler discovers. How do you go to sleep to that and have sweet dreams?
He stole down the carpeted hallway, stepped over and around the colossal canine and listened for her snoring. The television was still playing: Snapped. Oh great, more drama where the wife can’t take it anymore and does away with her husband. Often an older man with money, too stupid to sign a pre-nup. She said she didn’t snore, but to him sorta sounded like snoring. If a large cat was doing it. Oh, yeah, out cold. The woman could do some sleeping, give her that.
The old man wasn’t much of a night-owl himself, to tell you the truth. But Captain Inviolable? The nocturnal sort.
He was wandering around the house quietly so not to wake the little dog, who might find disquieting the idea of a large shape casting raw shadows across the pale walls. If she did awake, either of them, he’d just flow into the Annoyed Stud Muffin and tell her he couldn’t sleep so he was practicing his tai-chi.
Which he actually was practicing. He had his own style. But you probably guessed that. The old man called it Smooth Dog. The goal is to stay limber and fluid while still being able to rip somebody’s throat out. Smooth Dog was not a defensive system, unless you count the first rule of Smooth Dog defense – Strike First.
***
Suddenly, softly, somewhere else in the dark, a voice. Scared the shit out of him.
“I can see right through your pants,” she said.
His wife had more superpowers than he did.
***
III. – THE HOSPITAL IS KILLING ME
So, the old man asked the young redhead, how was your day?
His wife had left a trail of fatigue from her car, her sigh audible to the dog inside the house. He held the door and she lifted her recently glossed lips and gave him a minty fresh kiss. She liked to arrive home that way. I’ll tell you later, she told him.
Would you like a drink? Sure would, but I’ll like to get out of these clothes first. When the old man was a young man, even just not this old, that phrase would have got his attention. But he knew this time wasn’t gonna be one of those moments when the mood hits. For either of them.
Later she told him.
You love those old Ed Sullivan shows. Well, I’m the plate spinner and I can’t ever drop a plate. Ever.
You can’t privatize and cut dozens of jobs – lose some of your best people – and increase the workload for those who remain, while suppressing wages and taking a bigger piece for yourself and expect all the work to get done. Just not going to happen. No frickin’ way. I am a hospital administrator, not a miracle worker.
Of course, things get ugly sometimes, and suddenly I’m supposed to be Siegfried & Roy.
You want to be Siegfried, the old man told her. Roy got eaten.
Another drink? I got Chinese.
***
IV. – NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH
The old man applied for a job. Not much of a job, but it came with a badge and a flashlight. And what could be better than that? A little white pick-up truck with revolving lights atop the cab. The cover of darkness.
He did not like to fill out forms. Every single question required a lie and, contrary to popular opinion, he was not much of a liar. Explained why a career in politics had proved unsustainable. The Feds had moved him four times in six years and he just couldn’t keep up. He had actually forgotten how old he was. Once you got past his height and weight, the old man was basically clueless.
He let his wife fill in the blanks. The young redhead didn’t know him from before. But she knew his current story.
Former Seal. Ph. D. from Harvard in Cunning Linguistics. A marathon runner with a 2:19:34 personal record set at Boston in 1979. Married before but didn’t like to talk about those other women. His heart didn’t know any other women before her and that was the truth. The rest was just some made-up bullshit he could no longer keep straight.
The old man didn’t want the job, he didn’t need the money and he sure as shit didn’t want to be locked in a small hut with some wanna-be cop. He wanted to drive around by himself in the dark and see what he could see. Make the neighborhood great again.
Maybe take his dog with him. Really take a bite out of crime.
***
V. – WHAT DO YOU MEAN, I DIDN’T GET THE JOB?
What do you mean, I didn’t get the job? The old man was beside himself. There were two of him there. And both of him were humiliated.
How do you get rejected for a job you are too good for and don’t really even want? What has this world come to?
Colonel D. Bob Amick was as nice as nice can be. But apparently the list of old white men with nothing better to do than raise a gate and lower a gate for eight hours was so long, you wouldn’t believe. And everybody, you can’t imagine, wanted to drive a pickup around the community all night long. Especially if the truck had a spotlight and red revolving lights on the roof.
Desperate to get out of the house and they don’t even need minimal money. That is so sad, he thought.
Colonel Amick said the old man just had to work his way up the ladder, wait for his time to come. Be patient. Nothing the Colonel can do. His hands are tied.
Which got the old man thinking. How about I really tie your hands, huh, how ’bout that. Then maybe I light your ass on fire.
***
A Friday night and the young redhead is on her second glass of wine. Another loud sigh as she vented the work week’s toxins. So, the old man asked, because that’s what he knew he should do. Anything good happen today?
Seems the wife was in the ER when a woman is rolled in through the front door from a limousine, a stretch Hummer. Wife hears about the shiny gold shoes in the hospital’s dining room. Down at the far end where the employees congregate, gossip and chow down.
Seems the lady in the stretch Hummer was suffering from an overdose of too much party. And she was wearing shiny gold shoes.
The gold shoes, his wife explained, are said to be a signal, code for ‘I’m Available.’ Available for what, the old man wondered. You know, she said. Oh, the old man said. He was a big fan of ‘you know.’ Big fan. I don’t have any gold shoes, he conceded.
Funny thing, you’ll like this, she said. The woman is Colonel Amick’s wife.
***
The Colonel agreed it was nice of the old man to donate a white pick-up truck to the force. And, of course, he could have the Monday through Thursday midnight shift on patrol. No problem.
Too much action going down on Fridays and Saturdays, too many eyes out. And Sunday was His day. Sunday, the old man liked his beer and his sports and his nap and ‘you know.’
***
VI. – IN ORDER TO BE WHO YOU ARE, PRETEND TO BE SOMETHING YOU’RE NOT
Colonel D. Bob Amick pretended to be gracious when the old man handed him the keys to the new patrol vehicle. The old man pretended to be generous.
On behalf of the Board of Directors, the Home Owners Association and the entire security team, let me say thank you and welcome aboard. The Colonel shook the old man’s hand and smiled. The smile reminded the old man of a cartoon shark. Wouldn’t want to turn his back.
The old man decided to go with a Jeep. He wanted something Nicolas Cage on steroids might drive. Something that would frighten Trump supporters as he drove around the night, exploding out of the shadows with a dark roar of shock and awe. That’s what the old man wanted. Every boy does. But you don’t get to be an old man by doing always what the boy wants. Not prudent.
So, he did the next best thing, two words: Jeep SRT8. Nearly five hundred horsepower, eight-speed automatic transmission. Added some mufflers, took out the rear seats and named it Walter White. American-made muscle.
Sometimes, in order to be who you really are, you have to pretend to be something you’re not. The next step is to actually become that person. Two words : Meryl Streep.
The old dog remained a complete K9 SWAT team, when he wasn’t napping. Not the size of the dog in the fight, the fight in the dog. Two words: Viet Cong. Rest my case.
And he was humongous. The Notorious TBG. The Black Gang is a Caucasian Ovcharka, that’s a mountain fighting dog who can take care of himself. Literally. The dog, now huge, then was just a puppy. A gift from a grateful and relieved Eastern European client. His last client, really. That anybody knew about.
Almost three feet high at the shoulders, nearly six and a half feet long from nose to tip of tail. A lean one-eighty. What they call an ‘independent thinker.’ The Black Gang is a dog of Ghor, mentioned as early as the eleventh century The Seljuk Chronicles: A remarkably fine breed of dogs in Ghor so powerful that in frame and strength every one of them is a match for a lion.’ Maybe that explains Gang’s large mane. Head like a bear with one-inch long fangs curved inward.
The old man had taken his dog to visit the old folks’ home where his sainted mother spent her last days watching Jeopardy and playing bingo and drinking Ensure. The dog filled up the mother’s studio apartment and her face filled with the brightest smile of wonder. Shortly thereafter, the Board at the old folks’ home lowered the limit of visitor’s dogs to forty pounds.
The Black Gang was the gentlest dog he’d ever had. That was part of the fun. Sure, he could go off if provoked, right through a plate glass window after an intruder. But he didn’t provoke easily. He was just scary to look at. Like having a zoo animal living right in the house. When he came running around the corner of the barn, like he thought he might have heard trouble at the front gate, had the look of a fighting bull.
But a little child could stick his arm practically down the dog’s giant muzzle. And The Gang loved Victor The Chihuahua who lived down the road.
Gang could smell trouble. The old man didn’t really have to stay too alert, he just had to keep one eye on the dog.
Nothing goes unnoticed.
***
VII. – THE HAIRY EYEBALL
The young redhead came home from work and gave the old man the hairy eyeball. Women.
She had been busting her ass all day long trying to save babies and make the world a better place and give peace a chance. The old man was home just lounging about, trying not to kill anybody. There’s a balance in life. She knew the truth about him – a lot of it anyway – and somehow hoped to tip the scales. A deli manager’s thumb.
I vacuumed the rug, the old man told his wife the moment she walked into the house. Like he was guilty, but he wasn’t. Five evenings a week, at the first smell of her, the dog showed his happiness by shimmying upside down in the middle of the living room. The old man wanted her to see the marks across the rug, like freshly-mowed field of a baseball stadium. When the dog rolled around, he left a mess of hair, outlined as if a homicide victim had just been removed from the crime scene.
Why did everything seem to come back to that. The old man caught himself. Crazy.
You look guilty, she said. Gave him a look. You caught me, the old man admitted. What did you do now? Should I be worried?
Yes, you should. I watched eight hours of college basketball today and I plan to do the same thing tomorrow.
“March Madness, baby!”
I told you, never call me, baby. Gave him a hairy eyeball and went to get out of her clothes.
The old man called after her – Kill anybody today?
Wanted to. Couple of times.
I know just how you feel, he said, and went to mix a drink.
***
VIII. – WALTER WHITE ONLY WORKS THE MIDNIGHT SHIFT
Colonel Amick had neglected to read the fine print and so he looked surprised when the old man told him Walter White only works the midnight shift. And no weekends either. Call it a ‘probationary period,’ he told him.
The old man put his costume on under a black polo and green khakis, the new uniform for the night shift. He just couldn’t handle epaulets and Bermuda shorts.
The dog arose and followed him out to the Jeep. The old man opened the rear passenger door and the dog sprung up, practically levitated and sat there just like what he was, a body guard.
Ready, the old man asked aloud. The dog looked at him as if to say ‘whatever.’ Bad to the bone.
Captain Inviolable and The Black Gang ready to make the neighborhood great again.
Top speed is thirty miles per hour, curves posted at twenty mph. The old man kept Walter White at a steady forty.
One of Captain Inviolable’s superpowers was not night vision. The street lights were more than enough, however, and he knew these local roads like the liver spots on his hands. He was learning the shadows. Look for movement. Watch the dog. Slow and roll down the back windows.
Geezus, first thing he was going to suggest was a Lawn Gnome Buy-Back. ‘To each his own’ goes only so far.
***
IX. – PUZZLING YET SOMEHOW INSIGHTFUL
The old man had a dream. Presidential candidates were calling for proactive policing in neighborhoods of angry old white men who might become radical Republican jihadists. Obviously, Dick Cheney had caused far more harm to America than Bin Laden. Clearly, Ted Cruz is scarier than ISIS. True in all of his dreams, except where he had to take a test or where he still worked for Nike, he was the hero. The old man dreamed in color with a loud soundtrack. except during the romantic parts, heavy on the British Invasion.
Make your dreams come true, the old man had always been told. He tried to think back on who might have told him that. Somebody. Anyway, accompanied by The Black Gang, he continued his surveillance.
Nothing. He was suddenly struck by the realization none of the candidates had ever served in the military. Bill Clinton lucked into a form of peace, but somehow, there’s something comforting when we decide to fight, we have a fighter in the lead.
To be honest, he was worried about leaving the young redhead, home alone unprotected. She’d make a good President, he thought. Then the old man dreamed about being the First Lady. And woke up!!!
They stopped outside one house, not far from home. Lovely older couple, she was taller and he looked like the old man’s Uncle John Moore, just lovely. But here’s what made the old man take note.
It was that kind of neighborhood. He had seen one guy polishing his mailbox. Another guy was blow-drying his Mercedes. One lady was vacuuming her graveled front yard. These two manicured their lawn by hand, squatting like Asian peasants. For hours at a time. To be honest, the old man envied their ability to squat all that time. They’d be out there when he began his six-mile workout and they’d be squatting there still, like little girls taking a pee, when he finally dragged his ass around for the last time.
Tell the truth, looked like this couple was having fun. Plucking their yard like you might floss your teeth. And they call me crazy, the old man thought. But, but, there was always this but, if that’s what floats your cabin cruiser, then fine, whatever. Knock yourself out. God bless you. Good luck. Enjoy.
He used to run over a hundred miles weekly at seven thousand feet above sea level, so he understood bizarre behavior. Who was he to judge?
Me, I’d rather read. Me, I’d rather watch sports on a big television. Me, I’d rather write friends who never think of writing me first, he thought. The old man was still too young to take a nap, but he was awfully fucking certain he could come up with something better to do than manicuring the lawn. The thought of Lucille Ball working the conveyor belt at the candy factory came to mind.
They stopped outside one house, not far from where they lived. And he stared. Even in the light of the moon and the street light, that yard did look pretty damn good. The little guy had a bad back, wore a brace, he was still out there every day except Sunday. She looked good and he looked happy. Might be something to think about. There were vacant lots look better than the old man’s lawn.
Have you ever seen a one hundred and eighty-five pound dog take his morning piss? That boy can kill a bush. So, The Black Gang relieved himself on a perfectly groomed yard and the old man felt bad about that afterwards.
The night was quiet. Not what the old man had imagined. But it was a gated fifty-five-and-older deed-restricted neighborhood, so what the hell were you expecting.
Do you see what I see, he asked the dog. The dog looked puzzled.
Schlepping uphill, some old white guy was wearing a pale wife-beater t-shirt and silver boxers. Mostly bald with a stringy ponytail. Why do they do that? Wasn’t moving fast, a filtered cigarette in one hand, half-full highball glass in the other.
The old man pulled up ahead and parked Walter White in the middle of the road. Stay, he told the dog and he knew the dog knew he meant it. Didn’t want the pale pedestrian to soil his silver boxers.
Out kinda late, the old man said, like he had just discovered a curfew.
The answer came back at him like it was polysyllabic. Wwwhhaaatttt???
I have to admit, you look just fetching in your skivvies, but what the hell do you think you are doing out here this time of night?
My doctor told me I need to get more exercise.
Puzzling yet somehow insightful.