“Thomas Thomas Virginia Woolfman Woman.”
“Now with extra extra superpowers.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“Didn’t he die of tuberculosis?”
“Not him. I mean that kid.”
“Didn’t he turn out to have a superpower?”
“Yeah. He could hang pictures perfectly straight on any wall. He never needed a level.”
“I thought he tried to destroy the world.”
“Yeah, that’s right. He was calling himself something weird. Fast Kid with Secret Money. Something like that.”
“What about you?”
She said, “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“Keeping an eye on this place. They don’t pay much, but it’s easy money. I had another job, but it didn’t work out. A place down off I-40. They had a stage, put on shows. Nothing too gross. So me and Kath, remember how she could make herself glow, we were making some extra cash two nights a week. They’d turn down the lights and she’d come out onstage with no clothes on and she’d be all lit up from inside. It was real pretty. And when it was my turn, guys could pay extra money to come and lie on the stage. Do you remember that hat, my favorite hat? The oatmeal-colored one with the pom-poms and the knitted ears?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, they kept it cold in there. I think so that we’d have perky tits when we came out onstage. So we’d move around with a bit more rah-rah. But I wore the hat. I got management to let me wear the hat, because I don’t float real well when my ears get cold.”
“I gave you that hat,” he said.
“I loved that hat. So I’d be wearing the hat and this dress — something modest, girl next door — and come out onstage and hover a foot above their faces. So they could see I wasn’t wearing any underwear.”
He was smiling. “Saving the world by taking off your underwear, Bunnatine?”
“Shut up. I’d look down and see them lying there on the stage like I’d frozen them.” Zap. “They weren’t supposed to touch me. Just look. I always felt a million miles above them. Like I was a bird.” A plane. “All I had to do was scissor my legs, kick a little, just lift up my hem a little. Do twirls. Smile. They’d just lie there and breathe hard like they were doing all the work. And when the music stopped, I’d float offstage again. But then Kath left for Atlantic City to go sing in a cabaret show. And then some asshole got frisky. Some college kid. He grabbed my ankle and I kicked him in the head. So now I’m back at the restaurant with Mom.”
He said, “How come you never did that for me, Bunnatine? Float like that?”
She shrugged. “It’s different with you,” she said, as if it were. But of course it wasn’t. Why should it be?
“Come on, Bunnatine,” he said. “Show me your stuff.”
She stood up, shimmied her underwear down to her ankles with an expert wriggle. All part of the show. “Close your eyes for a sec.”
“No way.”
“Close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open them.”
He closed his eyes and she took a breath, let herself float up. She could only get about two feet off the ground before that old invisible hand yanked her down again, held her tethered just above the ground. She used to cry about that. Now she just thought it was funny. She let her underwear dangle off her big toe. Dropped it on his face. “Okay, baby. You can open your eyes.”
His eyes were open. She ignored him, hummed a bit. Why oh why oh why can’t I. Held out her dress at the hem so that she could look down the neckline and see the ground, see him looking back up.
“Shit, Bunnatine,” he said. “Wish I’d brought a camera.”
She thought of all those girls on the sidewalk. “No touching,” she said, and touched herself.
He grabbed her ankle and yanked. Yanked her all the way down. Stuck his head up inside her dress, and his other hand. Grabbed a breast and then her shoulder so that she fell down on top of him, knocked the wind out of her. His mouth propping her up, her knees just above the ground, cheek banged down on the bone of his hip. It was like a game of Twister, there was something Parker Brothers about his new outfit. There was a gusset in his outfit, so he could stop and use the bathroom, she guessed, when he was out fighting crime. Not get caught with his pants down. His busy, busy hand was down there, undoing the Velcro. The other hand was still wrapped around her ankle. His face was scratchy. Bam, pow. Her toes curled.
He said up into her dress, “Bunnatine. Bunnatine.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Biscuit,” she said.
She said, “There was a tabloid reporter around, wanting to hear stories.”
He said, “If I ever read about you and me, Bunnatine, I’ll come back and make you sorry. I’m saying that for your own good. Do something like that, and they’ll come after you. They’ll use you against me.”
“So how do you know they don’t know already? Whoever they are?”
“I’d know,” he said. “I can smell those creeps from a mile away.”
She got up to pee. She said, “I wouldn’t do anything like that anyway.” She thought about his parents and felt bad. She shouldn’t have said anything about the reporter. Weasel-y guy. Staring at her tits when she brought him coffee.
She was squatting behind a tree when she saw the yearlings. Two of them. They were trying so hard to be invisible. Just dap pled spots hanging in the air. They were watching her like they’d never seen anything so fucked up. Like the end of the world. They took off when she stood up. “That’s right,” she said. “Get the hell away. Tell anybody about this and I’ll kick your sorry Bambi asses.”
She said, “Okay. So I’ve been wondering about this whole costume thing. Your new outfit. I wasn’t going to say anything, but it’s driving me nuts. What’s with all these crazy stripes and the embroidery?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I like the lightning bolt. And the tower. And the frogs. It’s psychedelic, Biscuit. Can you please explain why y’all wear such stupid outfits? Promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“They aren’t stupid.”
“Yes, they are. Tights are stupid. It’s like you’re showing off. Look how big my dick is.”
“Tights are comfortable. They allow freedom of movement. They’re machine washable.” He began to say something else, then stopped. Grinned. Said, almost reluctantly, “Sometimes you hear stories about some asshole stuffing his tights.”
She started to giggle. Giggling gave her the hiccups. He whacked her on the back.
She said, “Ever forget to run a load of laundry? Have to fight crime when you ought to be doing your laundry instead?”
He said, “Better than a suit and tie, Bunnatine. You can get a sewing machine and go to town, dee eye why, but who has the time? It’s all about advertising. Looking big and bold. But you don’t want to be too designer. Too Nike or Adidas. So last year I needed a new outfit, asked around, and found this women’s cooperative down on a remote beach in Costa Rica. They’ve got an arrangement with a charity here in the States. Collection points in forty major cities where you drop off bathing suits and leotards and bike shorts, and then everything goes down to Costa Rica. There’s a beach house some big-shot rock star donated to them. A big glass and concrete slab and the tide goes in and out right under the glass floor. I went for a personal fitting. These women are real artists, talented people, super creative. They’re all unwed mothers, too. They bring their kids to work and the kids are running around everywhere and they’re all wearing these really great superhero costumes. They do work for anybody. Even pro wrestlers. Villains. Crime lords, politicians. Good guys and bad guys. Sometimes you’ll be fighting somebody, this real asshole, and you’ll both be getting winded, and then you start noticing his outfit and he’s looking, too, and then you’re both wondering if you got your outfits at this same place. And you feel like you ought to stop and say something nice about what they’re wearing. How you both think it’s so great that these women can support their families like this.”