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.