To Grandpa
We had a superhero, but we no longer do.
Before he came, there was trouble: bodies with oozing wounds found down darkened alleys; vaults and safes opened by the fidgety fingers of cashiers and Metro Trust Credit Union tellers as warm pistols caressed their scalps; arsons, car-jackings, vandalism, and suicides became white noise. What had happened to our city? What was to blame?
In early winter, our prayers were seemingly answered. Those of us enjoying the early-bird specials at Cadaro’s Bistro on 48th had a front-row seat as a fiery ball dropped from the powdered heavens and plunged into the pavement, heat from the divot melting the surrounding snow. We looked through the thin glass, around and between the backward bubble lettering emblazoned on the restaurant window. No one knew what to do, until Reba Cadaro—the bistro’s proprietor—put on her fuzzy, knee-length pea-coat and slinked toward the door.
We followed.
We approached timidly, ice and snow crunching under our boots. From the lip of the divot, we noticed the superhero, curled up in the crater’s womb. Eventually, he stood and met our probing eyes.
“Who are you?” we asked.
He stood tall. His posture and leotards emphasized incredible physicality, as if his muscles’ muscles had muscles. With his hair slicked back and chin held high, he oscillated, projecting zero visible confusion—the antithesis of our expression.
“Who are you?” we asked again.
“I’m here to protect my fellow citizens,” he said.
We had no idea what he meant, but we would learn.
The superhero caught and jailed crooks by the dozen.
He burst into burning buildings, most notably the arson-job at 80 West Luxury Apartments where he saved the 41 of us—including 17 children—living above the eleventh floor, as well as three cats, eight dogs, and a guinea pig named King Wompa. Three hours later, he demanded a confession from the culprit and got one.
He dislodged those of us trapped in the nine-car pile-up on the Green Street Bridge, ripping through steel frames, exploded airbags, and thick plastic deathtraps to save us. He even rescued Eric Tramble, the miscreant whose selfie caused the darn thing. That brat could’ve killed somebody, yet the superhero offered him mercy, forgiveness—more than we were willing to give.
The superhero caught a jumper leaping from the Metro Plaza Tower and used super-human rhetoric to argue—without fallacy—that suicide was not the answer.
When an EF-4 tornado—the largest our city, county, and state had ever seen—spiraled about our suburban outskirts, the superhero flew fleet circles around the thick, dark funnel until its winds unwound and went limp, spilling scraps of the city to the ground.
He was always at the right place at the right time—or the wrong place, depending on your perspective.
We honored him with a parade that started at the Courthouse and snaked throughout downtown, ending at the wrought iron gates of Broad Street Park where Mayor Brighton, in a confetti-filled celebration, presented him with the metaphorical “Key to the City.” We gave him omnipresence—a license to go wherever, whenever. He was like a God.
Yet, he remained humble. In every interview for the Metro Dispatch or broadcast news, he would only say: “I’m here to protect my fellow citizens.” We made t-shirts. Bumper stickers. Posters. Placards. The sentence became part of our vernacular.
When he wasn’t saving us, we wondered how he spent his time. We hoped he stuck around, donning slacks and collared shirts and somehow contributing to our city off the clock. We looked for the muscles, for no conceivable outfit could have disguised those. We were never successful.
Eventually, our superhero eliminated worry—at least from everyday uncertainties. We emptied the part of our heads that made us lock our doors and close our windows and set our alarms and keep our guns within an arm’s reach and protect our valuables in heavy safes with carefully concocted combinations.
Things were good, until they weren’t.
Firefighters waited for the alarm’s clamor to no avail.
The only work required from our police was to jail the jailbirds our superhero dropped off and file the appropriate paperwork.
EMTs and hospital employees saw barren ERs. Sure, people got sick—our superhero couldn’t cure—but, in a world of uncertainty, accidents happened. Not anymore.
Local entertainers grumbled, too. Why pay $38.50 to see Magnificent Maxine perform illusions at Stage Left Theatre on Main and 32nd or reasonable hourly rates for Tomzo the Clown to perform at birthday parties or corporate gatherings when we had a superhero who unhinged jaws without hidden compartments and sleight of hand, a superhero who volunteered to visit schools and birthday parties and corporate seminars to inflate two-dozen balloon animals in a single breath and display feats of strength for more oohs and aahs than we ever dreamed possible?
Our children no longer wanted to be like us. They wanted to be like him.
He was everywhere. On the evening news on any network, we’d hear him say: “I’m here to protect my fellow citizens.” We in the local media grew exhausted. Day and night, reporters wrote copy and transcribed sound bites and edited film, and, when one fell asleep, their new alarm clock was a phone call from a boss with baggy eyes and a wrinkled suit who’d say, “You know what to do.”
Let’s not forget those of us in construction. The superhero clobbered through walls and windows to “save the day” and, when zooming in from the clouds, he would crash with such force that concrete and cobblestone crumbled at his feet. Crews labored night and day to fix the damages, some swinging sledgehammers or operating big, mechanical monsters while others wore bright orange vests and held whistles between chapped lips and stop signs in calloused hands, holding up lines of honking cars driven by those of us tardy for work and other obligations.
Pair these projects with fewer criminals and the corresponding financial penalties, and Mayor Brighton reluctantly passed a small but noticeable property tax hike. Some of us quit our jobs or closed our businesses. Others left. Our economy tanked.
But who were we to judge? We had every reason to be discouraged, yet we were the safest city in the world. Our children and loved ones were permanently protected. Isn’t that what mattered? Perhaps it should have been, but we couldn’t shake the way we felt.
Then, it happened.
Our powdered sky bruised and birthed superhero-less fireballs that tore our city apart, plunging into skyscrapers and toppling them like toy blocks. Thousands of us were buried underneath tons of hot rubble, and thick flames roared through our roads and alleys, turning those exposed to ash—including poor Eric Tramble who was cremated in his repaired Corolla. Such a shame. He had the brightest of futures ahead of him.
So, where was our superhero?
Sure, he dove into several flaming balls with such force that they burst before reaching us, and threw haymakers at others that sent them soaring into the bay. He did everything he could. Still, he only saved some of us. Not all of us. There was only one thing left to do: speak.
“Where were you when we needed you most?”
“Didn’t you fall from the sky, too? Did you do this to us?”
“It’s your fault our city is destroyed!”
“It’s your fault our lives are ruined!”
His response: “I’m here to protect my fellow citizens.”
“Why didn’t you protect everyone?”
“Fellow citizens? You call yourself a citizen?”
His response: nothing.
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. If he spoke, we knew what he would have said, and he knew that, no matter how super he was, we would’ve come out on top. Together, we’re unstoppable.
And we’ve proven that. We’re not done yet—far from it—but many buildings are back up and operational. Our hospitals are busy. Our police keep our streets as clean as humanly possible while firefighters receive the appreciation they rightfully deserve. What’s more exciting: our population has grown. People came to help us rebuild, and many have stayed. Joined. We are stronger than ever—not only from enduring these circumstances, but because we have returned to normalcy. We lock our doors and keep tabs on our loved ones and know that, at any minute, our early-bird specials can be interrupted by a stone’s throw and a shattered bistro window. We worry again, and we are grateful for it.
So, where is our superhero now? Honestly, we’re not sure. He may have left once we scraped off our bumper stickers and tore down our posters, but we want to believe he’s still around. We want to believe he’s traded in his leotards for ironed slacks and starched shirts tailored to his physique. We want to believe he’s now stronger than ever. Strong as everyone else in our great city. Strong as the fellow citizen he always claimed to be.
Brian Druckenmiller teaches creative writing at Spring Hill College in Mobile, Alabama. His prose can be found in Carolina Quarterly, The Orlando Sentinel, Silk Road Review, and other publications. Instagram: @bdruckenmiller
Photo by Lukas Kloeppel from Pexels