The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel

Chapter Two

14 TWO Positive Outcomes and Minimal Exposure. The Practice of Active Listening. Fight the Good Fight. Doing the Lord’s Work. An Object of Pity. z As I head toward Little Germany, I try to clear my mind in anticipation of the emergency. But I can’t shake what happened in the warehouse, the things I did and the things I was about to do. And strangely, something still bothers me about King Lear and his lost star. Like me, that guy is clearly past his prime. Assuming his story is true, though, at least he had his season in the sun. This is one of the things keeping me awake lately, one of the reasons I only feel at home on rooftops, one of the things I can’t explain to Debbie or Ecklar or even Sheila. It’s not like I’m upset about being a has-been. I’m not a has-been. I’m a never-was. At twenty, twentyfive , everybody knew I was destined to be one of the greats, a Titan or a Paragon or a Sergeant Superior. Even Gypsy would emerge from her room in those doped-up prophetic trances and give me one of her deep, knowing looks. Lately, though, with my fortieth birthday bearing down on me, I’ve been wondering more and more just what she saw in that goddamn crystal ball. I descend through the clouds near the Chili’s, and nothing seems out of order. Clyde steps out from behind a minivan in the parking lot. I’m 15 thankful he’s dressed as a normal citizen, not in that gaudy All-Star costume , a bright yellow bodysuit that makes him look like a freaking figure skater. Subtle as always, he waves an arm over his head to get my attention . I land back behind the kitchen, and he joins me. “What’s the situation?” I ask. He tosses me a backpack. “Get changed, quick as you can. The Mad Mongol’s in the bar, doing shots and making threats. We want to take him out quietly.” Mongol’s a bona fide bad guy, one strong enough that I can unload on him without holding back, so this news makes me a bit giddy. A good fight is just the medicine I need. But when I scan around for a little privacy, there’s just a thin line of trees between us and an adjoining mall parking lot. So I back in close to the building by the grease dumpster and start stripping. Clyde says, “We go in as civilians, get close as we can, then I’ll start an argument, and you take him out. I’ll maintain the perimeter. You think you can handle him?” I’m bent over, just stepping out of my leggings. “It’s Mad Mongol, not King Chaos.” “Don’t get all defensive. I’m just asking.” The door next to me opens and spills out light and the clatter of dishes. A thin waiter steps out, sees Clyde, checks out my boxers, and says, “Sorry, guys. Just getting my smoke break.” He closes the door. Clyde shakes his head like it’s my fault. From the backpack, I pull out a flannel shirt, something with black and red squares. “Is my cover a lumberjack ? Where the hell did you find this?” “Just come on,” he says. “The situation could be deteriorating.” I follow Clyde, who I’ve never gotten used to taking orders from. He’s not a terrible guy, just part of the new guard. He joined the Guardians with Bigfoot and Ice Queen at the same time Debbie came on board, during a big shake-up about five years ago. Titan had retired, Menagerie had checked out, and Gypsy just couldn’t hold it together anymore. On top of all that, Sparkplug’s seat at the Guardian power table had remained empty for almost a decade. So the team needed some new blood. And 16 I’m OK with that. Change is inevitable. It’s just that this younger generation has their own way of doing things. Like this. Way back when, Titan and I would’ve dropped through the ceiling, scooped up the Mongol, and dumped his drunk ass in the river. Case closed. Now, between lawsuits, federal regulations, insurance liability, and bad PR, everything’s got to be low-key. On the rare occasions when...