Meanwhile, Our Hero scratches a nagging itch on his forearm as he scans the crowd for a brunette girl in a black coat with red gloves, hat, and scarf.  He does not see her, so he reviews the plan, as delivered by his mother. Upon finding the brunette, he will introduce himself, take her to a moderately expensive restaurant—preferably American cuisine—ask her about her desire to become a real estate agent, and talk about his quest to find a full time job. After dinner, dessert and coffee, he will walk her home.  If the night has gone well, then he will suggest getting together again, and under absolutely no circumstances will he reveal that he is Mr. Justice. “Don’t even mention Mr. Justice,” Our Hero’s mother had said to him earlier that evening, “if she brings it up, you’ve never heard of him. As far as you and this young lady are concerned, he doesn’t exist.”  She had forced her way into Our Hero’s apartment that afternoon to assist him as he prepared for the date, although her assistance seemed to consist primarily of harsh looks and loud criticisms of his life choices. “Ever since you showed up on the news, I have to spend half the day lying to my friends about you.”  Our Hero’s mother held her hand over her heart in pretend surprise and said, “Oh, no, my Dennis is far to busy to run around the city in long johns. Yes, the man on the news did look an awful lot like him.  It is quite the coincidence.” She removed her hand and placed it firmly on her hip, striking a darker and much more terrifying version of the pose Our Hero sometimes holds when he must appear formidable.  “It takes all of my charm to convince them that I didn’t raise a crazy person. If Deb Rogowski’s daughter comes home from dinner with stories of you talking about masked crime fighters, then it’s only a matter of time before Deb tells the rest of the girls and they all think that I’m a liar and the mother of a complete lunatic and then I would have no choice but to die of embarrassment. One minute and I would be fine and healthy and the next, I’m on the floor of the kitchen struck down by humiliation. And you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?” She waited, glaring at Our Hero, until he admitted that, no, he probably did want his mother to succumb to a shame induced death. “That’s a good boy,” she said, smiling, though her hands had not left her hips, “now what are you going to wear?”

“My suit,” Our Hero replied, directing the words more towards his feet than his mother.

“That thing? Dennis, it’s nearly two sizes two big for you.”

“Yes, but it conceals,” Our Hero paused. Even though his mother had previously uncovered his secret identity, he was still wary about discussing the specifics crime fighting activities. The less she knew, he had decided, the safer for both of them.

“Oh, your not planning on wearing that silly costume, are you?”

Our Hero began to say, “The city might need me,” but his mother had already begun wailing, “You haven’t been listening to me! That must be it! Otherwise, the only other explanation is that you actually want me to die of shame.” She began to pace around Our Hero’s living room, alternating between throwing her hands in the air and rubbing her temples. “Why would you wish that kind of thing on your own mother? I treated you well as a child.  I gave you everything you wanted and now you try to shame me into the grave.” She stopped and faced Our Hero, “What if I spoiled you?” She returned to her pacing. “Did I give too much?  All those comic books! Had I known they would lead to this, I never would have bought them. They just seemed so innocent at the time.”

“I won’t wear my uniform tonight!” Our Hero shouts, louder than he had intended.

Our Hero’s mother smiled and said, “There, I knew I raised you well.” She marched over to a pair of canvas tote bags she had set by the door when she entered the apartment and took out   a white button down shirt and a dark gray sweater that Our Hero correctly guessed would be very itchy. “Now,” she said, offering the clothing to him, “Why don’t you try these on?”

Our Hero took the items and retreated to his bedroom to change.  He thought about wearing his costume in spite of his promise to his mother, but this plan was thwarted by his mother’s uncanny ability to find clothes cut so close to Our Hero’s physique that one might suspect she had them tailored.

When Our Hero emerged from his room, his mother said, “Now don’t you look handsome?”  She had placed a chair in front of the apartment door and settled down with a crossword puzzle. She remained there, occasionally asking Our Hero for help with the puzzle, until it was time for him to leave to meet his date. Then she returned the chair to its original position and stood next to the door until Our Hero stepped over the threshold. She followed him out of the apartment, closing the door behind her, and onto the street. Apparently confident that Our Hero would not rush back into the apartment and don his costume the moment she drove away, she said, “Now have a good time, and call me tomorrow to tell me how it went.” Then she turned her head to the side and tilted her cheek towards Our Hero, indicating that he should kiss it.

Our Hero kissed her cheek and said, “I will,” before turning and walking the fifteen blocks—Our Hero’s mother had also banned him from driving the Justice Car, even though Our Hero would never consider driving the Justice Car in civilian attire—to the designated meeting point, where he continues to wait for his date.  He looks at his watch. She is fifteen minutes late. By the slack standards of the city, she is still technically on time, as one never knows what surprises traffic and public transportation hold for one’s journey. Our Hero scans the crowd around him again and thinks for a moment that he has spotted her when he sees a young woman wearing the coat, hat, scarf and gloves his mother had described. Our Hero looks down for a moment and prepares to greet the woman, quickly deciding that he would use “hello” instead of “hi” or “hey.”  He thinks about saying, “greetings,” but remembers that “greetings” was Mr. Justice’s preferred salutation and that might upset his mother. Hello it would be. With the correct opening line selected, Our Hero looks up in time to see the woman turn to the right and begin to walk away. Startled by this sudden change in direction, Our Hero studies the woman more closely, and notices that he had failed to notice her hair color when he first saw her. The woman he saw is blonde and therefore not the one he is looking for. If he were on duty, this would be a major mistake. Clothes can be changed easily, but hair color requires more work and is therefore more important. Thankfully, he is not on duty, which means Our Hero can let the mistake pass.

Our Hero scans the crowd again, checks his watch and begins to wonder how long he should wait.

Meanwhile, Our Hero strolls among the summer tourists who have come wearing bright, ill-fitting clothing and bearing expensive cameras to explore the city’s rich heritage. The fathers and mothers pose their children with actors dressed in period clothing and take pictures.  The children, for the most part, smile obediently, although some scowl and demand to know when they can go home, or to the gift shop.  Our Hero smiles as he passes the good children and frowns at those who are recalcitrant. Perhaps, if trouble should arise, he will only save the good children as a reward for their behavior.  Our hero dismisses the idea immediately. It is not his place, he tells himself, to decide who is worthy of saving. If there is a need and it is within his power, he will save all children, although he might scold the petulant ones after the danger has ended.  Our Hero, satisfied with his plan straightens his posture and puffs out his chest, before turning onto a narrow cobble stone street that leads to a civil war memorial.

When he is halfway down the street, he hears someone calling to him from behind.  “Excuse me,” a male voice says, “Sir, excuse me.” Our Hero turns around and sees a middle-aged man dressed in khaki shorts and green polo shirt. He is sweating rather heavily and his face is red.  Our Hero wonders if this man is suffering from some kind of cardiac distress, and chastises himself for not reviewing his CPR and first aid training materials before leaving the house. He tries to remember the basics as he sprints towards the man.  There was a song, he had read, that provided the perfect rhythm for chest compressions.  Our Hero remembers it was a disco song, a hit. “Dancing Queen?” No, he remembers that the title was appropriate given the circumstance in which one would be performing CPR. “I Will Survive?” Again, no, why would the one performing CPR worry about his own survival? Our Hero furrows his brow. He must remember the song soon.  He will reach the man in a few short steps at which time he will be too busy assessing the situation to sort through the greatest hits of the disco era.

As Our Hero comes to a stop, the man inhales deeply and holds it for a couple of seconds before exhaling through slightly pursed lips, as if he were extinguishing the candles on a birthday cake. The vast majority of air hits Our Hero in the face.  He can tell that the man has recently consumed a hot dog, or possibly a bologna sandwich and topped with onions.  Our Hero takes a step back and is momentarily disoriented.

“So you noticed me?” The man says, his breathing now stable.  “I’ve been chasing you two blocks!”

“I see,” Our Hero says calmly though he finds the discovery of a gap in his constant, all encompassing vigilance disturbing. Had this distressed citizen not been ambulatory, he might not have ever come into Our Hero’s awareness. For the second time in as many minutes Our Hero has found a lapse in his preparedness. He makes a note to undertake vigorous training as soon as he returns to his apartment.  In the meantime, he has a citizen to assist.

“How may I be of assistance?” Our Hero asks.

“Assistance!” The man laughs as he shakes his head, “God, you’re in character and everything. I knew this place had period actors, but I haven’t heard anything about heroes. So, which one are you?”

“Which what?”

“Which Hero?” The man shouts with a level of excitement that makes Our Hero smile. “You must be one of the new ones.  I’d recognize you if you were one of the classics.”

“I’m Mr. Justice,” Our Hero says as he places his fists on his hips and raises his chin.  While he holds the pose, he thinks, this man knows of other heroes?

“Fantastic,” says the man, mimicking Our Hero’s stance momentarily, still laughing a little. “Hey, if it’s not too much trouble, could you take a picture with my family?”

Our Hero ponders this request. It would throw off the timing of his rounds, and would be a breach of protocol, but this man had run for two blocks, potentially risking his life for a snapshot. Providing one was the least that Our Hero could do.  Also, it would give Our Hero an opportunity to learn more of these other heroes.  “I would be honored sir,” he says while bowing slightly.

“Great,” the man says, “They’re over by the statue of Washington.” He turns and begins walking back towards his family.  Our Hero follows after him for a few strides before catching up.  “My name is George, by the way,” says the man, while offering a sweaty hand to Our Hero.

“A pleasure meeting you,” Our Hero says shaking the man’s hand, thankful that he chose to wear the Gauntlets of Justice despite the warm weather.  Then, thinking of no other way to broach the subject, says, “You know of other heroes?”

“Oh sure,” says George, “I used to be a real comic fan.  When I was a kid, I used to spend hours in my room reading comics.”

“Ah,” Our Hero says, somewhat disappointed, though part of him remembers his own days spent in his room with comic books, “So did I.”

“I tried to get my son into them,” George says, apparently not hearing Our Hero, “but he’s only interested in video games and truly terrible music, but maybe if he meets a real super hero, he’ll change his mind. Maybe I can pick up a few of your books for the ride home to get him started. So what are you, Marvel or DC?”

“Neither, I’m a real hero.”

“Oh, I gotcha. Gotta stay in character.” George winks. “I’ll play along. I’m sure they’ll know at the comic shop anyway.”

Our Hero prepares to correct George again, but before he can speak, George suddenly runs over to a scowling woman and a boy who looks to be about twelve. Our Hero deduces, correctly, that these are the rest of George’s family.  The woman brightens up a little after George speaks to her and gestures toward Our Hero.  The boy, however, rolls his eyes and sinks into a deep slouch. George leads them both over to Our Hero. “Eileen, Peter,” He says, “This is Mr. Justice.”

“Nice to meet you,” Eileen says before smiling wide and saying, “Mr. Justice.” Peter grunts something that might have been “hey.”  George produces a camera from one of his pockets and begins giving directions.  First, he has Our Hero pose by himself, then with Eileen, then Peter, then both Eileen and Peter, then, after switching camera operators, with George, then George and Peter, then, after another Camera switch, George and Eileen.  Finally, George asks a passing stranger to take a picture of Our Hero George, Eileen and Peter all at once. After instructing the stranger to take one more for good measure, George retrieves his camera and places it back in his pocket. Our Hero relaxes his pose and rubs his cheeks, which have become sore from smiling.

“Thank you very much, “ Says George before taking Our Hero’s hand and placing a folded twenty-dollar bill in it.

Our Hero looks down at the bill and then attempts to give it back. “Sir, I cannot accept this.”

“Of course you can! It’s the least I can do,” George says as he backs away.

“But a hero does not seek financial rewards for his deeds.”

“Right, right, character, I get it.” George takes another step back before turning away. As he walks away with his family, he calls back over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Our Hero turns the folded bill over in his hand a couple of times before tucking it into one of his gauntlets.  He decides that he will donate the money to a worthy cause, something that supports public safety, once he has finished his patrol.  Perhaps he will spend some of it on a beverage of some sort.  He has walked quite far for such a warm day and proper hydration is, after all, very important. He resumes his patrol, half jogging to make up for lost time.  As he reaches the spot where George first caught his attention, he suddenly remembers the song for CPR. “Of course!” he says aloud, “Stayin’ Alive!”  A few pedestrians glance his way, but Our Hero does not notice.

Meanwhile, Our Hero eagerly awaits the start of the Eleven o’clock news. A reporter interviewed him while he collected Junior Justice Squad, pledge cards from elementary students after a successful assembly and told Our Hero that the piece would probably run during the eleven o’clock news on Thursday. It occurs to Our Hero that he would like to share the viewing of this broadcast with his family. He contemplates calling his mother. It would be a breach in security, but she would enjoy seeing her son on television, especially since the reason for being on the news is so noble. Thinking about this makes Our Hero momentarily feel bad for the mothers whose sons only appear on television in mug shots or grainy security camera footage. Our Hero has never thought about the families of criminals before. He realizes that this is just one more crime villains commit, upsetting their mothers. Unless of course, the criminals are children of criminals, in which case the criminals have probably made their mothers proud and the real crime was the failure of the city’s child protective services. Our Hero makes a mental note to add, “protect the children of criminals from their villainous parents” to his super hero code and to send the Pager of Justice number to the head of protective services in the morning. Normally, Our Hero would take action immediately, but the eleven o’clock news has begun and Our Hero does not want to miss himself. He has completely forgotten about calling his mother.

Our Hero sits through the top stories. He is not one of them, but Our Hero understands that the building of a new stadium, and the decision to widen a major roadway into the city are both very important issues as they will both create jobs and increase the quality of life for all the city’s citizens. Still, he would have liked to have been the top story. Perhaps if he had had an opportunity to apprehend a purse-snatcher, or a bank robber before the interview, he would have made the top stories. He decides to expand his patrol route to include more banks.

The eleven o’clock anchors continue to deliver the news. From the top stories, they move on to weather, then sports, followed by a recap of the top stories, then a recap of the weather. Finally, the male anchor looks directly into the camera and says, “Did you know that this city has its own superhero? Coming up after the break, we’ll meet Mr. Justice on this week’s weird and wacky news.”
Our Hero turns off the television. He watches his reflection in the now dark screen. His stomach sinks a little before he is able to regain his heroic composure. Surely the reporter merely misunderstood Our Hero’s role in the city’s fight for justice. Why did he not wait until he had apprehended a criminal before talking to the press? He decides to forgive the station for their error, but resolves to give no further interviews, at least not until he’s been awarded some kind of medal for bravery or given the key to the city. Surely that would prevent him from being mentioned on news of the strange.

Content with his new public relations policy, Our Hero rises from his chair and prepares for bed. He has just hung his costume in the back of his closet when here hears the phone ring in his kitchen. He sprints down the hall and reaches the phone just before the end of the third ring.

“Hello,” Our Hero says.

“Donald?” The Caller says. It is Our Hero’s mother. She does not sound pleased. “Donald, why were you on the news parading around in your pajamas?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says in attempt to protect his identity.

“You don’t think I’d recognize you behind some silly mask? For the love of God, you’ve got your father’s nose. What do you think you’re doing, running around, telling people you’re a super hero? People will think you’re a crazy person.”

Our Hero remains silent. He has learned never to battle his mother. As far as he can tell, she has no weaknesses.

“It’s like you want me to die of embarrassment. Why can’t you just get go to law school like your brother?”

“It’s not my calling.”

“Just what is your calling?”

“To protect the innocent,” Our Hero says, as he instinctively places his fists on his hips and strikes his hero pose.

“Oh for the love,” Our Hero’s mother continues to berate him for sometime, leaving only space for Our Hero to say, “yes,” “no,” “I understand,” and “of course not.” Eventually, she makes Our Hero promise to give up his duties. “And throw out that ridiculous costume,” she says before hanging up.

“I will first thing in the morning,” Our Hero manages to say before he hears the click of the phone line disconnecting. He places the receiver back in its cradle and exhales. He has lied to his mother, which disturbs Our Hero. In the back of his head he can feel a pulsing knot of guilt. He sits down at the kitchen table with a dull pencil and a scrap of paper and begins sketching designs for new masks since it has become necessary for him to hide more of his face.

Meanwhile, Our Hero learns of a four-alarm fire downtown. He bursts out of his basement apartment and ascends the stairs two at a time to street level. Once he is outside, he sprints down the block towards the Taurus wagon that serves as his latest Justice Car. As he reaches the end of he block, he discovers with great, full throat tightening, horror that some villain has booted the Justice Car. Once again, his arch nemesis at the municipal parking authority, has attempted to keep Our Hero from his heroic duties, but this attack will fail, for Our Hero has mastered public transportation. He sprints back to his apartment and grabs a handful of change. He pauses as he realizes that his costume has no pockets and he will need to have his hands free in order to save the residents of the burning building. “Pockets!” Our Hero shouts, still clutching the change, “I must have pockets!” An idea pops into Our Hero’s head. He runs to his bedroom, drops to floor and feels around under his bed until he finds a bright green fanny pack Our Hero’s mother gave him as a birthday present. He stows the handful of change in the fanny back before he clips it around his waist.

For the second time tonight, Our Hero bursts out of his apartment and ascends the stairs to the street, but instead of dashing to the justice car, he sprints to the bus stop and waits thirty minutes for the next bus. When it arrives, Our Hero leaps on board, drops change from the fanny pack into the fare collector and tells the bus driver, “You must hurry! I’m needed at the fire!”

The bus driver rolls his eyes and says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Your city will be grateful.”

The other passengers do not sit near Our Hero. They glance over their shoulders, but turn away quickly when Our Hero smiles and waves to them. He assumes it is because they are bashful. A mother and her son get on he bus at the 23rd street stop. They sit down in the row in front of Our Hero. After the bus pulls away the boy turns around and asks, “Are you a real superhero?” His mother tells the boy to leave Our Hero alone.

“It’s fine mam,” Our Hero says to the mother, “he’s just curious.” To the boy he says, “Yes, I am a real superhero. I’m Mr. Justice.”

“How come I’ve never heard of you?”

“I’m sure you have. I’m the city’s most famous crime fighter.”

“No,” the boy says, “I would remember that. I remember everything. Are you sure you’re a real super hero?”

“I assure you that I am.”

“If you’re a superhero, why are you riding the bus?”

Our Hero blushes as he tries to think of a response. “That’s enough,” The boys mother says, “leave the man alone.”

The boy turned around and whispered loud enough for Our Hero to hear, “I don’t think he’s a real superhero.”

Our Hero steps off the bus three blocks from the fire and runs the remaining distance. By the time he arrives, the fire fighters have extinguished the blaze and are busy packing up their trucks. No one appears to have been hurt.

Meanwhile, Our Hero bids good evening to a group of police officers before he lifts a length of yellow tape strung in front of a redbrick townhouse and ducks under it. One of the officers, a young man with a crew cut and shoulders Our Hero considers especially broad slips under the tape and maneuvers around Our Hero. He holds one hand up and says, “You can’t be in here.”

Our Hero smiles, this must be a new officer. “I assure you that I can.”

“Sir, you need to be on the other side of the tape.” The officer says.

Our Hero fights back the urge to laugh. The other officers must be using this officer’s inexperience to play a joke on him. Normally Our Hero would play along, but there is a crime to be solved. “It appears that your superiors have not told you about me. I’m Mr. Justice, guardian of the city. I’m here to lend my assistance in solving this mystery and it will be very difficult for me to proceed with my investigation from out there. I really do need to be on this side of the tape.”

A second officer has crossed the tape and now also stands between Our Hero and the crime scene. This one is older, and heavier. “What mystery?” The older officer says, “This was a suicide.” The officer makes a fake with his thumb and forefingers and points it at his temple. He imitates the sound of a bullet firing and jerks his hand back from his head. Our Hero finds this distasteful.

“Have you considered the possibility that this was meant to look like a suicide and the victim was actually murdered?” Our Hero asks.

The two officers exchange glances. The older one laughs. The younger one speaks up again, “Sir, this is the last time I’m going to ask, please exit the area.”

“I really should investigate. If this was not a suicide then we could be giving the murder time to escape, or possibly kill again.” Our Hero steps around the officers and sprints towards the house. He hears the footsteps of the officers behind him. The younger one catches him at the top step. Before Our Hero realizes what is happening, the younger officer pins Our Hero to the wall just to the left of the front door and twists his arm up behind his back. A second later, both of Our Hero’s wrists are cuffed together. “Officer,” he says, “you’ve made a mistake, we’re both defenders of justice.” The young Officer says nothing as he leads Our Hero down the steps.

“I’ll take him,” the older officer says once they are all on the other side of the police tape. He grips Our Hero firmly around the bicep and leads him to a patrol car. “So you’re the guy whose been writing those letters to the chief. Mr. Justice, right?” He says to Our Hero, as they walk.

“Yes, I am Mr. Justice.” Our Hero says. His wrists begin to ache in the handcuffs.

The officer laughed. “You know, we occasionally hear from guys like you. Nothing ever seems to come of it. We figure it’s just some guy playing a joke, or just a nut, you know, but you, man, I’ve never come across a guy like you before. I mean, you’ve got the get up with the mask and everything.”

“The mask is necessary,” Our Hero says, “to protect my identity.”

This makes the officer nearly double over with laughter. The officer’s laugh is high and piercing. It reminds Our Hero of hiccups. “To protect your identity,” the officer says while wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, “that’s a good one, really.” He is still chuckling when he opens the door of his patrol car. Our Hero climbs into the car and positions himself in the center. While he still believes the officers are mistaken, he knows that he must not be seen actively resisting arrest. The arrest will be sorted out once he reaches the station. There he will speak to the Chief, who will insist that Our Hero be freed. The chief will also chastise the officers for arresting Our Hero and for laughing at the offer of his assistance. Our Hero will watch this calmly. Perhaps he will fold his arms across his chest and look severe. He will let the chief lecture his men, but he will stop the lecture just before it reaches talk of disciplinary action. No, after the mention of disciplinary action. That would seem more heroic. He will stop the chief, forgive the officers and praise them for their caution.

The officer sits in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. He looks over his shoulder at Our Hero and says, “Just incase you’re wondering, I’m not taking you in. I figure, you didn’t do any harm and if I take you in, it means extra paperwork for me and to be honest, I was kind of hoping to get home before the wife gets a headache, if you know what I mean.”

As the car pulls forward, Our Hero begins to fear that he has fallen into some kind of trap. His wrists now hurt more than before, one arm has fallen asleep, and his nose itches. This officer could be a henchman for some villain who has learned of Our Hero and wishes to dispose of him before he can establish himself as the city’s protector. “Where are you taking me?” Our Hero asks.

“I figured I’d give you a ride home, that is, if it wouldn’t be a breach of security.”

“It would if I couldn’t trust you,” Our Hero now recognizes the officer as a potential ally, a source of information inside the police force. He had assumed that this would be some one higher in rank, but a patrol officer has his benefits. He is closer to the people of the city. He might learn of crimes faster than the chief, which mean he could summon Our Hero with greater speed. Also, they could more easily meet outside of the police station to exchange information, which would be more convenient for both parties. Our Hero will use this ride home as a test of sorts. He directs the officer to an address near his apartment. He will monitor this location over the next few weeks. If there is no suspicious activity, he will know he has friends on the force.

On the drive over, the police officer introduces himself as Albert, Al to friends and family. He tells Our Hero about his apartment, wife, plans for retirement, and general disdain for the current generation of youth. Our Hero listens politely. He too is concerned about the city’s youth, although he does not share the officer’s bleak view of their future prospects. When he shares this opinion, the officer snorts and shakes his head.

At their destination, the officer helps the Our Hero out of the car and removes the handcuffs. Our Hero shakes out his shoulders, rubs his wrists and finally scratches his nose.

“You seem like a good egg,” the officer says, “that’s why I’m doing this, but you can’t go running into crime scenes. You want to help us out, keep an eye out for trouble. Give us a call if you see anything. You can keep the costume if you like, but leave the police work to us.”

“You will find that I can be of much more use to you,” Our Hero grasps for evidence to support this claim, “I am not bound by the need for warrants. I can gather evidence that you cannot.”

“We’re not interested in that kind of law enforcement. I’ll admit that there have been times I figured it would have been easier just to drag a perp behind a dumpster and beat him senseless, and I know a few detectives who couldn’t get a warrant even though they knew they’d find something, but we got these rules, you know. We gotta follow them, and we can’t just let you break them.”

“I understand,” Our Hero says, thinking he and the officer have reached some kind of agreement. Of course the chief would not contact the hero openly. How could he? Even though fights for justice, he works outside the law. The police must not be seen condoning this kind of behavior.

You have a goodnight then,” the officer says before he drives away.

Our Hero returns to the crime scene several hours later to conduct his investigation. The police have gone, but the front door and first floor windows are all locked and he has no means of ascending to the second floor.

Meanwhile, Our Hero adjusts his tie as he waits to meet with a recruiter in the city’s third largest temp placement firm. He has discovered that crime fighting is a truly thankless job, monetarily speaking. Being on patrol means he must work shorter shifts at the restaurant where he is a waiter and the expenses add up. In the past month alone he has needed to purchase a new car, two dozen cans of matte black spray paint, rope, a tazer, handcuffs (Our Hero still wonders why he could only find handcuffs covered in pink and white fur), boots, and spandex. He saved some money by sewing the costume himself. At the time, he chose to take on the tailoring as a security precaution. After all, what tailor could he trust with his secret identity? Now, he congratulates himself for having keen, costume related financial foresight, but he cannot hide from his ever mounting debt.

Our Hero knows this all to well. A new villain, Jeff the Collector has surfaced to confound Our Hero. During dinner, early in the morning, in the middle of training, no time seems off-limits to the Collector. He hounds are hero day and night, and worse, he can connect the Justice Car to Our Hero’s secret identity. He threatens the retirement of Our Hero’s mother during nearly every call. Our Hero of course warns the collector to leave his family alone, but the collector is unmoved. Just last week the collector’s intransigence forced Our Hero to scream into the phone, “How do I defeat you?” Even this failed to disturb the collector. He replied calmly, “Just pay what you owe.” Our Hero slammed down the phone before booting up the laptop of justice and prepared his resume.

The recruiter calls Our Hero into her office. She wears a bright red blouse and glasses that remind Our Hero of his grandmother. She is younger than Our Hero expected, much younger. Our Hero estimates that she is his age, if not a little younger. Instantly, Our Hero’s pulse quickens and his skin begins to itch under his suit and costume. Sweat begins to emerge at the top of his brow and under his arms, he tries to keep composure. Hero’s should not sweat and when they do, it must be ignored.

“So,” says the recruiter, “what kind of work are you looking for.”

“I’d like to do good work,” Our Hero replies, “something that helps my fellow man.”

“Non-profit work then,” She says while gazing at Our Hero over the rims of her glasses. The look makes Our Hero nervous; he makes a mental note to learn the technique for interrogations.

“Oh, no,” he says, “I’d like to be paid for my work. I was thinking of something at a newspaper, maybe for the crime section.”

“I’m afraid that we don’t handle positions in journalism.”

“I see. Well how about at a laboratory? Preferably one that specializes in non-lethal weapons development.”

The recruiter picks up Our Hero’s resume and scans it, shaking her head as she reads. “You don’t have a background in science.”

“I took chemistry and biology in college.”

“Yes, I can see that, but you majored in interdisciplinary studies.”
Our Hero nods, he is proud of his degree. The recruiter apparently has failed to see the value of a well-rounded education. “Why don’t we talk about your skills. What would make you a valuable addition to a company you might work for?”

Our Hero straightens his back and leans forward a little. He has prepared a response to this question. He practiced it in the mirror before leaving the house. “I have an acute sense of perception.” The recruiter lifts one eyebrow, but says nothing. “You see, I never miss the finest detail. Nothing gets past me. This could be especially helpful in a business where the smallest mistake could cost millions, if not billions of dollars.”
“Anything else?”

“Yes, I am a very fast learner. I completed Master Al’s DVD Six Week Kung-Fu Boot Camp in four weeks. A full two weeks ahead of the program’s advertised schedule.”

The recruiter turns Our Hero’s resume over and places it on the desk. She interlaces her fingers and sets her hands on top of the resume, “I’m sorry Mr. Kemp, but I do not believe we will be able to find you suitable employment.”

“I see,” Our Hero rises to leave, “Thank you for your time.” He walks to the door and is about to open it when a thought occurs to Our Hero. He turns back to the recruiter and says, “Since we are no longer engaged in a business relationship, would you like to join me for coffee some time?”

The recruiter smiles at out hero and holds up her left hand. Our Hero notices the diamond ring decorating her rind finger.

“Oh,” Our Hero says, “my apologies.”

“Acute perceptions?” The recruiter smirks, which makes Our Hero feel as if he has been suddenly deflated.

He forces himself to straighten his posture and hold up his chin. “Yes, even the smallest detail. Congratulations.”

After leaving the temporary placement firm, Our Hero walks down the street in search of a coffee shop. He has two more interviews in the afternoon.

Meanwhile Our Hero composes another letter to the Chief of Police. “Dear Chief Rexler,” he writes, “I am writing once again to ask that you inform your officers of the proper use of the Pager of Justice number. Twice last month I was summoned late at night only to find that I was paged by an inebriated rookie officer at the request of an equally inebriated superior. In both instances, the officers requested I drive them to their homes. On the second occasion, one officer soiled himself, and consequently the backseat of the Justice Car.”

Our Hero stretches and rereads the paragraph. It is satisfactory. Our Hero decides to reward himself for producing and excellent paragraph with a snack. He rises to seek nourishment. In his kitchen he finds a few spoonfuls of peanut butter at the bottom of the jar and the heals of a loaf of white bread. Our Hero chastises himself for not having more heroically nutritious foods on hand. He makes a note on the shopping list he has stuck to the fridge with a limited edition, Mr. Justice Official, Magnet of Justice to buy carrots and apples. He crosses off snack cakes and fish sticks before returning his attention to preparing his sandwich only to discover that he has no clean knives. He finds a dirty knife, still partially encrusted with the leftover peanut butter of a previously consumed sandwich. Our Hero coats the blade with lemon scented anti-bacterial soap and scrapes away the dried food with the scruffy side of his sponge. When the blade is cleaned to Our Hero’s standards, he wipes it dry on his pants leg and makes the sandwich.

The sandwich pleases Our Hero, but soon he realizes that the mass of bread and peanut butter in his mouth is resisting his efforts to swallow. It threatens to choke him. “Not this time, peanut butter,” Our Hero mumbles through the remains of the sandwich. He leaps to the refrigerator and rips open the door. He reaches for the almost empty two litter cola bottle on the bottom shelf and drinks it. The cola has gone flat, but it manages to wash the peanut butter away with it. Our Hero tosses the now empty bottle in the trash, closes the refrigerator door and ads milk to the shopping list.

With his hunger now defeated, Our Hero returns to his computer and continues the letter. “While this behavior is not becoming of an officer in any circumstance, its turpitude is exacerbated by the fact that the officers tied up a valuable resource of the city. Please inform the officers that while I am happy to assist them occasionally in non-emergency situations, the justice car is not a taxi service. I think it is best that all officers have access to the pager of justice’s number as this would allow them to inform me of potentially life threatening situations faster, but if the abuse continues, then I will have no choice but to get a new number for the Pager of Justice which I would only share with you and your second in command. This measure would be unfortunate since it would invariably cost extra time and possibly lives. Sincerely, Mr. Justice.”

Our Hero reads over his the letter. It pleases him, but he realizes that it might be too harshly worded. He adds a post script, “It occurs to me that you might interpret this letter as a desire to be less involved with the maintenance of peace and order in this fair city. I assure you that this is not the case. In fact I wish to be more involved. This letter is meant only to ensure that my services will be put to the best use.” He reads over the letter one more time and prints it and places it in the envelope he has already addressed to the Chief of Police. He sticks it to the refrigerator under the shopping list so he will remember to send it in the morning. On the shopping list below milk, he writes, “Stamps.”

Meanwhile, Our Hero passes his keys to the bartender and assures her, that he can handle one more rusty nail. He sweats under his costume and the lumpy over sized business suit he wears to conceal it. The pager of justice buzzes in his pocket. A call to action? Maybe an all points bulletin? Our Hero pulls the pager from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and nearly drops it when the pager buzzes a second time. He squints at the pager, moving it closer to his face and then farther away until he finds the spot where the dual images he sees of his right hand holding the black pager come together and snap into one. The screen flashes seven letters, “LOWBATT” and shuts off.

Our Hero recognizes the crisis, but keeps a level, heroic head. He reaches into his inside jacket pocket once more and removes the spare double A battery of justice. With a well practiced flick of his thumb, he opens the battery cover and pops out the old double A battery of justice. It bounces off his thigh and rolls across the bar floor. Our Hero ignores it and focuses on inserting the new battery. Lives may be at stake. He closes the battery cover of justice and presses the power button. The screen blinks on, 0 new messages.

The bartender returns with Our Hero’s rusty nail. As she’s extending her arm to set the drink on the bar, he looks up at her and says, “Did you know that I used to be a super hero?”

“Okay,” she says as she retracts the drink, “I think you’ve had enough.