I still believe in superheroes

“Wanna go see the Superman movie?”

“Superman?” (I recognized that look. It was the same look my wife gave me the day before when I asked if she wanted to see the new – now old – Snow White movie. “Aren’t you a little old for that?”) (P.S. Don’t judge me. I like musicals … And anything with Gal Gadot in it! I would watch MSNBC if she was a host on it. Well … maybe not that extreme.)

“Yes, Superman.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got to … got to … uh …”

“It’s got Superdog in it.”

“Really?” I proceed to tell him about the preview that begins with Superman falling out of the sky, faceplanting in a mix of snow and ice. His face is scratched, cut, bloodied. A small pool of blood from his mouth has formed just below his face. He moans. Groans, then lets out a loud whistle. Off in the distance a cloud of snow kicks high into the sky. Krypto. Puppy affection. He jumps on Superman again and again – to “ows” and “stop it” – with the utmost joy and happiness. “Let’s play.”

“So …?”

“I don’t know dad. You know my job (construction). I might need to watch some paint dry.”

Like response from the other two.

“I was gonna go with mom to the grocery store and walk up every aisle looking at ‘every’ item on the shelf.” (I swear my wife does this. It’s brutal.)

“I was thinking of writing the Bible on a grain of sand.”

Figures. I’m the only one who believes in superheroes anymore. Not those. The “real” ones. 

My wife and I were up north in Elija for the Fourth of July weekend. We went for the mountains but happened to catch their parade. Among its features was a handful of men dressed in Civil War uniforms. They marched, they stopped in front of the grandstand. They raised their rifles. They shot up into the air. 21-gun salute.

At the moment of the first volley, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a man to my right nearly jump out of his lawnchair. He swiped his baseball cap off his head and began to wring it in his hands. His body twitched nervously. It screamed: Fight or flight. His wife, or girlfriend, tried to calm him down. I read her lips: “Do you need to leave?” I didn’t think he would make it through the second round. PTSD from some distant war – Vietnam if I had to guess based upon how old he looked – come back to haunt him. Superhero.

There was a knock on our door two days ago. Monica. We hadn’t seen her in over a year. “My boyfriend died. I’m back to living in the woods.” Homeless. Again. A state she has been in most of her life since being abandoned as a child. Per the norm we gave her some food and some change. 

I was reminded of the girl I met on the street in Vegas last year. Prostitute. She said nobody would hire her because of her criminal background. The only way she could get off the streets was to sell her body. 

We know. She’s a drop in the bucket. They all are. Superheroes. Every shape. Every size. Every situation. Everywhere. They’re battling cancer or some other disease or ailment. They’re fighting abuse. They’re warring against poverty. They’re combating oppression, depression, anxiety. Suicide. They’re engaged in spiritual warfare. There are demons from their past, monsters in their present, titans threatening their future.

Superheroes, the lot. Maybe include yourself and what you’re standing up to.

I still want to see the movie. I mean he is Superman. Greatest “imaginary” superhero ever. Even better now because there’s also Krypto and he is so so cute! Personality like every dog I’ve ever loved.

It’s just if I ever want to see the real deal, honest to goodness “authentic” superheroes, I know where to look.