The Girl with Two Left Breasts

Kewl Kryptonian

179 Kewl Kryptonian It seems that Superman has fallen on hard times. His former fastidious appearance—the sleek tubular gloss of the blue and red uniform, the optical insurgency of pumpkin yellow as cubic backdrop for the bold insignia, the calf-high boots benignly suggestive of Schutzstaffel footwear—had once spawned imitative modes of dress among an adoring populace, once inspired fashion designers to christen the ’80s as “the decade of imperial primary colors.” Now, twenty years later, his uniform bears unmistakable signs of neglect. His once-beloved cape, impervious to puncture or penetration, flaunts an indiscretion of suspicious stains, vaguely masturbatory splotches, insomniac Magic Marker scribblings: a soiled tablecloth covering the furniture of deflated expectations. The blue body stocking has lost its elastic cling; the external red trunks, once outlining the promising bulge of indefatigable genitalia, is a sagging diaper that seems weighted with excreta. This is the least of it. His hair, previously molded by Brillantine into a wetblackboard pompadour of ebony highlights, treble clef of a solitary lock scrolling down his forehead, seems a nest for the birds of his twig-frail thoughts, while his left eye strobes a stubborn tic. 180 The Girl with Two Left Breasts On Lois Lane’s advice, Superman is receiving treatment from an eminent psychotherapist who has written a book Nurturing the Inner Superhero that has risen to the top of the New York Times Bestseller List and hosts a popular weekly radio talk show called “Doctor Dave.” Doctor Dave has prescribed Superman Wellbutrin for depression. Superman gazes wistfully, with lackluster eyes, out the window of the doctor’s thirtieth-floor office suite into skies that had once been his trampoline, his boundless blue playground. “How’s the Wellbutrin working?” Superman points silently to an unsightly rash that stretches in a sickle-shaped sweep from the edge of his bushy right eyebrow to the dimpled cleft of his prominent pale chin. Doctor Dave frowns in concern. “You’re exhibiting symptoms of systemic oversaturation. Ten thousand milligrams of the drug taken twice a day is apparently too much. Dosage levels are difficult to calibrate due to your many metabolic anomalies. Why do you think you’re depressed?” the doctor asks. “People,” Superman answers, idly scratching the rash, “don’t seem to appreciate me anymore. Something has happened.” “It must be difficult for someone with your abilities to find meaningful challenges. Why not fly to the nether regions of the universe? There must be wonderful things there. I’ve often wondered,” the doctor muses, “what’s on the other side of the universe.” “Nothing,” Superman yawns finally. “More and more and more universe.” 4 The Daily Planet, once a beacon setting standards of journalistic integrity, has long since been shredded by hostile corporate takeovers into an insipid salad of supermarket tabloid publications . Over the years, Jimmy Olsen has clawed his way up and through the editorial echelons, leaving his cub reporter D. V. Glenn 181 status far behind; as a majority stockholder he now controls the myriad tentacles of the operation as President and Chief Executive Officer. Whatever earnestness he once possessed has been supplanted by shrewdness, cynicism. His face, though still boyish, now suggests something vaguely sinister. It is this shrewdness that alerts him to Clark Kent’s habit of disappearing during times when other reporters are on the telephone, frantically gathering information in the face of some crisis in progress. It was that shrewdness that led him to follow Clark one afternoon as he ducked into the men’s room on the fifth floor of the Daily Planet roped off for renovations. Accustomed to the pristine executive lavatory next to his palatial office, the newspaper magnate winced at the close bladdery stench that greeted him when he opened the door to the bathroom Clark furtively slipped into. He was shocked to see the reporter donning his uniform, windmilling arms a watercolor smear as the reporter transformed himself into the Man of Steel. Jimmy Olsen—assigned the moniker “J.O.” by a retinue of sycophants—had produced his Diamond Crypto Smartphone with the built-in camera, tiny shutter like fingers snapping at a discothèque. “I should have known. Your mysterious disappearances, your exclusive photos of Superman. Though I never suspected as much, it now makes perfect sense: Your guise of Clark Kent the nerd covers up for Superman’s deep-seated sense of powerlessness .” He slipped the diamond-studded...