In a Superperson World #4- A Diary

April 15th, 2035
My Apartment, Mid-City


Dear Diary,

My dad used to say, once I start paying taxes, I'd be considered an adult. He failed to mention, after I got my first job junior year of high school, it only applied after I got married and moved next door, preferably.
But under his roof, I'd always be his baby girl.

My mom once said being an adult meant accepting all trivial things and all big things thrown at you, and managing them.
From:
bills
not running out of toilet paper
insurance
getting along with your coworkers
-to bigger things-
going to work despite heartbreak
paying rent (or your bookie) on time
avoiding a SPEZ (SuperPerson Engagement Zone)
and remembering your mothers birthday.


I lived on my own at 22. A bachelor degree of what-the-fuck-does-it-matter, crisp in my hand.  I said sayonara to my parents and the coffee shop (my first gig in high school). Hopped on a bus and went.
More than sure- I didn't think I wouldn't be fine. 
I moved from this crazy place and straight into the arms of it's sister city. A slightly different rhythm of crazy, but played with all the same instruments.

A lot of things pop up when the nest is behind you. Like all the additional costs. The stuff you didn't realize wasn't a given.
Like a trash can, or dish soap. A mattress that doesn't smell like a locker room floor drain.
There are many eternally internal debates too.
Whether packing the hangers is worth the hassle versus buying new ones. Do I reeeeaaally need a bath mat? Will my new roommate get offended if I spray the roaches in the kitchen as, every night, he turns into a large dung beetle?

All these get sorted eventually. It might take a few paychecks... A couple years even... But it gets there. As long as you can find the job to get said paychecks. Which is a whole other maze of banal crap in a new city. And the degrees we thrashed around for, amounts to, about as much as the toe-fungus mattress.
So then there's the cost of not working.

From there, rent. Bills. Groceries (sometimes I resent not being one of those osmosis people. Eating is so damned expensive.). I'd pay for this and that, on time mostly. Hold down a job until the place got slammed into/blown up/burnt down/swallowed into the earth. You know, the usual. Go out with coworkers. Friends. Do all those things my parents said made me an adult (I've started to notice they're all money related).

The freedom is great. Sometimes I'd trip and fall. My parents helped me out occasionally- as long as I promised to Skype with them.


Five year ago, I was shuffling papers around my ugly-ass beige desk. Sunset long over. There were fireworks in the distance (it was a munitions plant exploding). I was the last one in the office. Well, there was Fred the Janitor too. We chatted a bit. Watched some kids play tag around the sky-scrappers. The LED-GLO in the soles of their kicks illuminated neon trails behind them. It wasn't a bad night.

But I didn't feel like much of an adult.

I was wearing a pencil skirt and a button up blouse. Reasonably heightened heels. Eggplant purple hair tamed into a bun.
I looked professional.
I looked like an adult.
It all fit better now- compared to when I burrowed into my moms closet and played dress up.

But I still felt like that kid, hoping to play the part.
I wonder if other grown-ups are the same.

So five years ago, I took all the money I saved. Shipped my shit back home. Quit the office. Hopped on a bus and went.
Then I hopped on a plane.
Then off a plane.
There was also a train... Somewhere in there.
And before I could catch up, I was in Europe. Greece, to be precise.

There was Ouzo. Lamb roasted in drum barrels, buried in the sand of newly formed beaches. A cute fisherman named Paulo who could speak to starfish (apparently they didn't have a lot to say). And a whole group of minstrel-like locals, who played like Metallica was going out of style. Not in this century.

Once a month, I'd ring my parents, to let them know I was safe, well-fed and not doing anything they wouldn't do. I crossed my fingers for that part.


A few months later, I met a crew of crazy mutant kids, just graduated from University. They were fun.
Traveled with them to Spain. We ran from mechanical bulls through the crowded, cheering and drunk streets of Pamplona. One of them, girl named Jezzi, turned a bull's horns into baloney right before it gored her. Instead, she was only head butted with a lunch meat. Michael jumped onto the back of one, in the middle of the mob. We didn't see Michael again until Paris.

In 2022, the mutant spider(s) responsible for Spiderman and his silk (see what I did there?)and escaped the laboratory... again. This time, making it all the way to the docks and up a lee-way line. They sailed across the Atlantic. Eventually disembarking in the port of Marseille-Fos, France.
No one's sure exactly what happened next but... well, let's just say, they got big. Like, size of a car, big. I'll save the history lesson for another time, but the long and short is they took over the Eiffel Tower... and somehow the dome of Saint Peters Basilica in Roma.

They've calmed down quite a bit since then. The french airlift cattle near a woven funnel "entrance" once a month. In exchange, they don't eat the citizenry.
Everyone wins.

So, of course, it's become a tourist attraction. And a popular dungeon crawl, for those adrenaline junkies. Not recommended. Or legal. 

It was here we ended up-
Wearing specialized head lamps in the middle of the night; a tour guide holding a boomstick like a magic wand. We crouched through eerily white, gauzier tunnels, covered in cooking spray so we wouldn't stick to anything. Phones on silent, flash turned off.
Every hush of wind.
Every swaying strand.
Every skitter.
Every echo of tapping.
We were paranoid beyond our wits. Our imaginations proving far more monstrous.

It was mostly safe. A week after feeding, the spiders hibernate into a food coma.
Still. What a rush!
Exiting through the sewers, giggling like school children. The tour ended at a pub, with a pitcher for all. We cheered to our guides health.

An automated voice message had flashed up on my phone during the crawl. I shut it off. Probably a computer asking me to vote for that floating bald guy again.
My phone disappeared at the bar.
For about a month.
I let it go. All the pictures were saved in the cloud. I'd download them when I got back.
We kept traveling. All the way up, to yodeling with sheep farmers at the tip of Scotland.
Then, through the workings of a karma, my phone found me. With the message waiting to be heard.


My parents should have added, 'Get to the shelter quickly, as to avoid the tip of the Space Needle, flung, far from across town.' to the list of adultification. I'd have appreciated it.


My key still opened the door.
Everything looked the same, but fake.
The scuffs on the wall from Mr. Johnson's bike tires. The frosting stains on the floor from when mom dropped dads birthday cake. The coffee, feet and oil stains of everyday life. Even the smells, made the hallways familiar.
A recognition of time passed. Silly little memories created. The proof of a home.
Gone.

A condolence wreathe of lilies decayed, liquified and matted onto the counter. A note from PepsiCo stuck out awkwardly from the feted floral foam.
There were frames on the walls, but no pictures. A couch, but no cushions. Toilet paper, but no trash can. The bedrooms looked ready for a photo shoot, except for a fine layer of settled dust. 

And that was that.
I bought hangers and a bathroom rug.
Got a job as a barista at the coffee shop again.
On a walk, met the owner of Bunsen and Beaker. We talked about Paris. And from there... you know the rest.


Funny... I never wondered if I was an adult again...


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

Snipet of Constance: Ch.4- Blazing Along the Watery Trail

   In lieu of another 'Contemplation of a Fat Girl' this week, I have been working on the story I've been creating. This is a bit from the latest chapter of Constance. Sorry it's not perfect, I haven't gone over it a dozen times yet, but as I am also not perfect... You get the drift, right?  

 ...

          “Would ya look at that.” She smiled. “Day’s almost over with nothin’ major.”

            The words exited her mouth accompanied by a low rumble. They looked around to see if it was something inside the shop causing it. There wasn’t. The sound was getting closer and louder. Joanne tapped her foot against the floor; she could feel the vibrations running through the wood counter top under her fingers. She pursed her lips. Of course, nothing about this week was going smoothly. Yes, more people where bound to come in, but her windows were beginning to rattle and that annoyed her. Joanne’s ears perked; the distinguished sound of revving engines became more apparent. Sam could tell something had suddenly clicked in her mind. She gave a wicked grin, reached under the counter and pulled out a shotgun. Sam took a concerned step back. The devilish look reached her eyes, shimmering brightly. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder.

            “No worries sugar. Just going ta teach some old dogs a new trick.”

            She walked out the door and into the middle of the road. Sam followed her, but she motioned for him to stay on the sidewalk with Constance who sat in front of a stoic Pravar, posing with a drawn bow and arrow facing the ceiling. In his Native American garb and wood paint, Pravar reminded Sam of the character on the wrapper of a tootsie pop. If the wrapper had that character on it, he used get another tootsie pop for free; but that was a long time ago and no longer applied. Sam and Constance covered their ears, the rumbling of the engines becoming deafening. Over the hill and past a small cloud of dirt, a gang of motorcycles poured into the Hollow. The muscular man at the head of the pack, leading them, wore a black leather bandana over his head with matching knuckle gloves and a tight leather coat with short fringe up the arms, leather chaps covered his faded blue jeans. Black goggles and a black and blue bandana covered his nose and mouth, giving him an intentional air of foreboding. His chopper was elegantly curved but simple, painted raven black and dark silver with streaks of deep green flowing down the sides, the stainless steel frame blued. The seventeen others riding behind him were all clad in leather, each of their cycles equally customized. They slowed their pace as they came upon Joanne. She raised the 12 gauge at an angle in the air, bracing the butt against her hip. She waited until they got closer.

            “And fire.” Sam heard Constance say, ears still covered.

            Boom!

            The sounds reverberated through the Hollow. The group stopped instantly in the middle of the road and shut off their motors.

            The leader sat and looked at the woman who now had the shotgun slung over her shoulder, one hip jutted out to the side, her stance wide. Joanne stared them down with a sense of expectancy. The leader kicked out his stand, dismounted, and began walking towards her slowly.

            The men behind him tensed.

            “You,” she started as he came closer, “Should know better by now... Dan.”

            A light, exuberant laughter came from behind the bandana of the doomish looking man. He threw his head back and gave a whoop. With a couple giant strides, he pulled down the cloth over his mouth, grabbed Joanne around the waist and picked her up with a slight twist. She giggled and wrapped her spare arm around his neck, snagging his goggles off his head. His pale green eyes were lost in his smile as he kissed her roughly before twirling her around, the shot gun lodged awkwardly between them. They laughed like foolish children. Constance sighed happily and leaned over to rest her head on Sam’s shoulder who watched them nonplussed.

            “I love it when Dan comes into town. He puts Joanne in such a good mood” she looked up at Pravar.

            He gave her a wink before returning to his pose.

            Dan turned and waved for his friends to park their bikes, the tension from the moment before gone.

            She looked behind him and nodded to the two men who rode to the flank of Dan.

            “Jeremy. Dave.” She nodded at them with a bemused smile. They placed their goggles on the top of their helmets.

            “Good to see you again Joanne.” They said in unison before walking their bikes off the road.

            “Y’all ‘re the loudest bunch.” Joanne chided Dan.

            He smiled, his pearly white teeth flashing in the sun. He set her down, arms still around her.

            “I just wanted you to know I was here” He teased, giving her one last kiss on the forehead before returning to move his bike from the middle of the road.

            “An’ now so does everyone in’na state.” She shot back.

             Joanne gave a contented sigh and walked back into the Mercantile.

            “All right all right.” She waved a dismissive hand at the group on the sidewalk, although she couldn’t hide her smile. “Fun’s over, back ta work.”

            Constance grinned at her and with assistance from Sam, got up and went back into the Lodge. Sam followed Joanne who was already placing the gun back in its spot. She glanced up at Sam.

            “Sorry if I startled ya sugar. Normally don’t pull this out ‘cept for when Aire drags a couple coyot’s in from the desert.”

            Sam shook his head.

            “It’s all right.” He replied.

            “If ya don’t mind helpin’ these gentlemen out. They’re a harmless group, won’t bite.” She said with a slight smile.

            “Well I might.” Dan interjected, striding through the door. “But only her.” He grinned.

            The others filed into the shop behind him, several whispering quick apologies for the noise and paying their respects to Joanne as they walked by.

            “And how’s my favorite cowgirl been?” Dan asked, leaning on the counter. Having taken off his leather bandana, his sandy blonde bangs swept in front of his eyes.

            Joanne propped herself up against counter behind her.

            “Been dandy.” She replied with a warm smile, “What brings you boys out here? Already that time a’ year?”

            Dan nodded.

            “That it is. Annual run for the club. We got some great weather for it too. It was barely misting when we left Berkley.”

            Some of the guys hooted in agreement.

            As Joanne and Dan bantered, Sam looked at the motley crew. He noticed some were the quintessential ideal of what one would suspect a biker to look like- tattoos covering their arms, wind burnt faces and long unruly beards- however others looked like they could be perfectly at home on Wall Street, trading fortunes and eating caviar off the slender belly of a human sushi bar.   

            “It’s rare for someone to be here that I don’t know.” Dan looked was looking at Sam. “New resident?”

            “Ah, this one’s a bit stranded until we find ‘im a safe way home.” Said Joanne, an apologetic look in her eye.

            “Oh? How’d you get stuck here? Not that there isn’t any place better to be stuck in.” Dan asked Sam giving a quick wink to Joanne, Sam drawing his attentions to the conversation after directing one burly man to the swirly straws.

            “It’s a long story.” Sam sighed.

            Dan chuckled. “Aren’t they always?”

            Sam nodded.

            “The long short of it,” Joanne interrupted, “is Sam here needs a ride back ta school in Los Angeles.”

            Sam nodded again.

            “Before Rose figures out I didn’t make it back to the dorms and alerts the National Guard.” He said with a wince. She’d probably try it too, he thought

            “Dorms?” Dan raised an eyebrow, looking Sam up and down. “Isn’t there an age limit?”

            He looked at Joanne. She put up a hand with a slight shake of her head; as always, she’d tell him later.

            Sam gave him an odd look, not understanding what he meant. ‘I’m only 19’, he thought. Joanne gave Sam a quick smile and asked him to ring up the sales of a couple of Dan’s friends as the others still milled about.

            Joanne and Dan talked in lowered voices for a moment down the counter, Joanne quickly recounting what she knew and the how and why Sam was currently stuck there.

            “Oh, I see.” He said. “Well Sam, I’ll tell you what. My friends and I are riding to Corpus Christy in Texas. I’m heading back here after that. If you haven’t found a ride in three days, I’ll check your friend’s machine. If I can’t make it work, I’ll take you home myself. Might not be optimal, but it’s better that nothing.”

            “Thanks, but there’s no need to take me home yourself.” Sam started.

            “It’s not a bother.” Dan interjected, “I have to head back in that direction eventually anyways.”

            “I’m sure yer students are happy ta get rid of ya.” Joanne teased.

            “Nonsense! I’m have an awesome class! And they have a teacher who rocks. It all works out in the end.” Dan laughed.

            At Sam’s quizzical look, Joanne added.

            “Dan here is a tenured professor of Cultural Anthropology at Berkley.”

            Dan puffed out his chest in jest.

            “A rockin’ professor.” He insisted. ”I had them put it on my doctorate even.”

            Joanne rolled her eyes. “Yeah yeah.”