Flyover City! A Novel (with Superheroes)

3. The 10 O'Clock News

I take great pride in my ability to accomplish everything I do on a daily basis in front of a TV set. I think of it as sort of a low frequency superpower, a feature-rather-than-bug from my chronic ADHD. Fold laundry, eat dinner, read, wax philosophic for the Cowtown - you name it, I can do it while a Facts of Life rerun blares in the background.

Sex? But of course! Have you ever watched amateur porn on the Internet? (Yes. Yes, you have.) Part of what makes it so hot is that it's so real. And part of what makes it so real is that, no matter what freakiness is going down in the foreground, in the background, there's always the dull glow of a TV set, tuned to something completely benign, like an episode of Two and a Half Men.

Fight with the significant other? Oh, HELL yes: the action and noise on screen tempers the argument. Paces it, even. When the commercials come on, the yelling comes to a virtual standstill, giving me a second to recharge, to plot out my next defensive position.

Last night: Gwen's sitting on the couch in my apartment. She finishes reading my donut feature and gives me the standard, non-committal "Great job, Joel." Sure, I'd like the sort of accolades that are associated with love sonnets and such, but I'm feeling pretty happy with it. And, yeah, with myself, too. It's almost like I'm a real live professional writer.

She looks all cozy, curled up in a ball, barefoot, in her Kleenex-thin tank top; finally out of that hideous sweater she always wears on "Casual Friday". I put down my beer and settle in next to her.

And then it happens: she interrupts a perfectly good, impeccably timed kiss with: "Oh, that reminds me, did you see that job listing for a corporate communications editor?"

I reel my tongue back to a position ideal for speaking. "Why? Are we going to start selling donuts?"

"Come on Joel, I'm serious. You'd get to write on a daily basis. It'd be perfect for you."

I get up to find my cigarettes.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm throwing myself off the balcony."

"You know, having a good job isn't a reason to kill yourself."

"No, but writing company wide memos about improper Internet usage? That is. Besides, I don't think they'd care much for what I have to say on the subject. 'Always remember to clear your temporary Internet files after trolling OKCupid for baby-daddies.' "

She puffs up a little, but stifles the impending sigh. "Okay, fine. Forget I even brought it up. Stay on the phones and write about donuts all you want."

"Ah ha! I thought you liked my donut feature..." That hurt. Not as much as I was about to act like it did, but still.

"Oh, no. Don't even play that card. I loved your donut feature. It was great, okay? What I'm not so crazy about is listening to you piss and moan about writing articles about doughnuts and vegan hot dogs for a dime a word."

"I thought I did pretty well with it, considering it was just about donuts..."

"Will you shut up about the donuts? All I'm saying is, you're able to freelance with your job now, I don't see why this would be any different."

"But it could be, don't you see? It totally could be. And then, sure, I've got a 'real job', but at what cost?

"Alright, stop. You have a real job. Two of them, okay? I just thought you'd maybe be interested. Forget I brought it up."

Why did I get so pissed? The truth is, I did see the posting. And that means I must have been looking, right? Maybe it was because we weren't all tangled up on my couch having sex, right then. Or the fact she's so concerned at my job prospects. Or the fact that we weren't having sex because she's so concerned with my job prospects. That's married shit, right there, and we've only been together for six months. Just forget she brought it up at all, and move on.

"Yeah, well, anyway," I say, "I'm working my way up to a really good job. I'm thinking about becoming a bike courier..."

CSI cuts to a commercial break, but it's clear from the look in her eye that an ad for Hidden Valley Ranch isn't going to slow her down. Bad form, Gwen.

"Oh. My. God. Please tell me you aren't serious."

I am serious. Totally serious. Deadly, even. "I'm not serious, okay? I'm just kidding around."

"Kyle seems like a really sweet guy. I don't get what your deal is with him."

The other night, after bowling, Gwen's friend Corrine shows up, and the two of them start going completely groupie over the guy, like he's the entire line-up of N'SYNC. Granted, Corrine reliably sets her sights on any guy within a 30 foot radius when we go out, but with Kyle, the writing's on the wall. He's not so much a human being as a recreation of Michelangelo's David, sculpted from piano-wire and rubber cement.

"It's cool, seriously. Just a joke." Gwen doesn't respond to me. The QA team calls this "passive aggressive action", and she should know better. "Look, I just don't trust the guy. He's six foot two, with a 32 inch waist, supposedly straight, but when he comes out with us, he's all coy, like he's never even talked to a girl before."

She waves my cigarette smoke away, an exaggerated pantomime just to get on my nerves. "I don't know what pisses me off more; the fact that you don't trust me, or that the real reason you get all butthurt about him is that you're afraid he's going to steal Spliff away from you."

"Forget it. I just find it interesting that nobody gets all up on his case about what he does for a living."

"'Nobody', Joel, or just me? I don't care what he does for a living. I don't have a vested interest in his future like I do yours. And as far as that's concerned - believe it or not - it's nothing to do with a job. I just want you to be happy. Kyle's not the one who's dropping hints to me about some vaguely defined future that involves you and me both, together, someday."

Ooh. Yeah, that. Guilty.

So the night goes on. She threatens to leave, going so far as to pull that godforsaken sweater back on. I demure, apologize, lay on some of my patented, self-deprecating charm, and eventually manage to work her back out of the cable-knit atrocity.

The kiss, from earlier, is reinstated. At her request, I start to tug the hideaway bed from my couch.

Suddenly, Seinfeld, Elaine, and George, sitting at the coffee shop, are rudely interrupted by a hopped-up "Special Report" news graphic. The image changes again to an "Eye in The Sky" view of a city street.

A harried reporter narrates from the bottom of the screen: "What you are currently seeing is the view above a warehouse in Boston, Massachusetts. The Agency has just issued a Crimson Alert for the entire city."

Gwen, her lips on my neck, barely acknowledges this. "You okay? You wanna watch this?"

"We're receiving information that known neohuman and escaped convict Darren Struck -who goes under the alias 'Deacon Struck' - has been caught attempting to steal unspecified equipment from an industrial laboratory."

She always says that, being from the East Coast, she saw this stuff all the time. In Connecticut. Right.

"No, no. I'm good." Hands on her ass. Very good. Why wouldn't I be?

"It's being reported that the on-duty security guard has been taken hostage. Police are currently on the scene."

Horizontal, now. More kissing. I reach for remote to turn it off...

"As I'm sure our viewers know, the Agency's Alpha Team is currently off-world. A spokesperson for The Agency says they are hard at work, looking for someone to help. It's being reported that freelance member Centrifuge may be in the Boston area..."

Centrifuge? "The Flippin' Idiot"? Against Deacon Struck? Would it be rude to just stop for a sec so I can set my TIVO?

Gwen looks up at me, pushing her hair from her face like a curtain. "It's okay. I'm sort of tired, anyway."

She's not frustrated, exactly, maybe just disappointed. Hell, I'd probably like it more if she was frustrated.

Fucking TV.