COURTESY BILL AND SYLVIA MCMULLENOne Tough Mother
After Tuffy died, my grandmother married Al, a World War II veteran. This alone makes him a hero in my book, and it should make him one in yours as well, unless you’re some kinda pinko comm’nist sympathizer or something.
My dad was in the navy during Vietnam and then served as a police officer, earning two gold stars on the big heroism wall chart for those of you keeping score at home. My grandfather Tuffy was a rough and tough man in addition to being a hero of one stripe or another, as were my dad and other grandfather. I mean, Tuffy’s been dead for fifty years, but he’s probably still tougher than you.
PHOTO COURTESY BILL AND SYLVIA MCMULLEN
Then came me. My apple fell a ways from the tree. In fact, the tree is on a steep hill, and my apple fell, rolled down, and landed in a creek that carried it off to be eaten eventually by beavers somewhere downstream.
As a child, for instance, I threatened to call Child Protective Services because I didn’t want to help my dad with a roofing job. As a teenager, I skipped out on athletics to compete for awards for drawing pictures and decorating cakes (I don’t want to brag, but I was the first person to win two first-place ribbons at one Faith Baptist Church youth group bake off). As an adult, I have avoided sports, hard work, confrontation, and community service like they’re the four horsemen. Combine the social compassion of Marie Antoinette with the “Okay! Okay! I give up!” of the rest of France, and you’ll have a good handle on my disposition.
The worst of it is my self-centeredness. I don’t mean in a vain, preening-in-the-mirror kinda way, but in an “I’d reeeeally like to go down to the mission today and help them serve lunch, but I’m really tired/my back hurts/there’s a new episode of Batman: The Animated Series on this morning” kinda way. I know, deep down, that I should volunteer; it’s just that, like a lot of people, I get so caught up in what’s going on in my tiny corner of the world that I get lost in it. That’s not who I want to be for my son. The Biscuit deserves better than that, and I’m going to give it to him. Daddy’s going to be a superhero. All that stands in my way is being a morbidly obese, out of shape, lazy, inveterate coward with a trick knee.
I know, however, I can overcome all that through hard work and determination. Maybe. To help me out and provide inspiration, maybe I’ll even pay a visit to some of the already established superheroes to see what they’re all about and learn how they work.
I’m sure I can do this. For once in my life, I’m going to finish something.
Or at least make a valiant effort.
Or at least make a half-assed effort and church it up enough to seem valiant. I haven’t decided yet.
Don’t rush me. Flipper’s on.
CHAPTER 2
COWBOY SECRET SPACE DETECTIVE: GEIST
Cowboy secret space detective true love
Super villain two-in-one
The bad guys have taken over Washington
Don’t be scared cause I’m prepared
There’s an emergency but I’m ready
Cause fortunately I’m a super hero too
I got super powers just like you
—Ookla the Mok, “Superpowers”
Before I fully committed to transforming myself into a real-life superhero, I decided to try to meet a few, talk to them, find out what the life’s like. I made contact with a number of what seemed to be the more established RLSHs, and, after some consideration, chose Geist, a green-clad do-gooder from Minnesota, to be my first superhero playdate. Not only had he shown the most openness with me in our previous communications, but his focus was as much or more on charitable work as crime-fighting, which is the kind of hero I think I’d like to be.
Geist responded to my request for a simple interview by offering to spend an entire Saturday with me, taking me along on charity missions during the day and a crime patrol that night. I recently took him up on this offer, making the fifteen-hour drive from Dallas, Texas, to the Minneapolis, Minnesota, area to meet with Reginald “No, Of Course This Isn’t My Real Name” Rausch, aka Geist.
PHOTO COURTESY OF GEIST
The drive itself was a beat down. Traveling up I-35 from Texas to Minnesota is like being in a sensory deprivation tank that’s moving eighty miles an hour. My notes from the drive:
Oklahoma
Brown.
Flat.
Kansas
Green.
Flat.
Nice rest stations.
Iowa
Barn.
Silo.
Barn.
Barn.
Silo.
Barn.
Silo.
Holy crap, another barn.
Minnesota
Green.
Slightly undulating.
The worst part of the drive was that all the nothing gave my mind plenty of downtime to go where it wanted, and I usually don’t like where that leaves me. I tend to focus on the negatives in my life, and thoughts of bills; of home repairs that we desperately need but just can’t afford; and of how much I was missing Wife and Biscuit assaulted me the entire time.
Finally, mercifully, I reached Geist’s stomping grounds of Rochester, home of the Mayo Clinic. It was 9 p.m., and I’d been on the road since six o’clock that morning. I pulled off the interstate and, eyes bleeding, turned into my hotel’s parking lot. My first thought after having to cruise around the lot four or five times before finding a spot was, Gee, this place is a lot sketchier in person than on its website. What the hell is going on that this place is full up?
I checked in with a desk clerk who looked like the lead singer for Flock of Seagulls after being victimized by a drive-by face piercer. He asked whether I was there for the Jehovah’s Witness convention, which explained the parking situation. My first response to his question was to worry about hearing polite yet insistent knocks on my door throughout the night and tripping over stacks of The Watchtower left outside my door. Then I decided that, as far as these things go, sharing a hotel with a few dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses is probably better than a biker convention or a dozen soccer teams in town for the under-sixteen state championship.
I
