On our way out, Geist picks up Sheba and says his goodbyes. If you’ve never seen a grown man in a superhero outfit baby talking to a cat, it’s a sight I highly recommend you avoid at all costs.
We get into the car, a nineties model Toyota, and Geist puts the stun baton on the back floor, explaining that he only wears it on patrol. It lands on top of a copy of the City Pages, a local publication. A dramatic picture of Geist graces its cover.
“Good photo,” I say.
“Yeah, they did a story on me a while back. I carry that around and use it as an ID sometimes, so people know I’m not just some weirdo.”
“So—car get good mileage?” I ask, my lack of interviewing experience deciding to kick in.
“Yeah, it’s okay. It’s Suze’s. I’d like to have a green truck, that’d be pretty cool. But then on the other hand, people would be like, ‘Hey, there’s Geist in the green truck.’ It’s identifiable. That’s why using my girlfriend’s car is good, because it blends in.”
“Uh huh.”
“I think we’ll go by the children’s home first. I have some comic books and Pokémon cards to drop off. I’ve been there a few times before, so they mostly know me there.”
“Did you buy the comics with the Geist fund?”
“No, I got the guy at my comic book store to donate them. It was kinda funny…. I went in there all dressed as Geist, and told the guy who I was and what I did, and asked if he’d be willing to donate something for the sick kids. He said he could give me all the leftovers from Free Comic Book Day, and I thought that was really cool.”
“Yeah.”
“But when I thanked him and left, he was like, ‘Bye, Reggie!’”
“Heh. That sucks.”
“Yeah, I guess I’d underestimated people’s ability to recognize my voice.”
“You should try growling like Christian Bale does in Batman. That seems to work.”
11:15 A.M.—MCDONALD’S PARKING LOT
“Oh, up here, there’s usually a homeless guy,” Geist says, as we’re nearing the children’s home. “I have some bags of nonperishable food items in my trunk I keep to give out. It’s all flip-top, pull-tab-type stuff that you can open without a can opener.”
“That’s good thinking,” I say as we pull into a McDonald’s parking lot. I look across the street and see an old woman holding a sign that says Please Help.
“Oh, it’s a woman today. It’s usually a guy,” Geist says, as he gets one of the food parcels from the trunk. As we approach the woman, a car pulls over and a college-age girl gets out, runs across the street, and gives the old woman (hereinafter called Gerty, because that’s shorter and easier than saying “the homeless woman” every time she’s referenced) some cash.
“Do you have a rubber band?” Gerty asks the girl as we reach them.
“Do you want my ribbon?” the girl answers, reaching up to remove her headband.
“Noooo,” Gerty says, “I say, ‘I need prayers, money, and a rubber band today!’”
“Awww.”
“By the way, thank you for helping,” Geist says to the girl. “My name’s Geist and I’m a real-life superhero.”
“Awww.”
“And I’m standing behind you to help!”
“Awww. Thank you!”
Geist hands Gerty the bag o’ food before launching into what I will, from now on, refer to as the “Spiel.”
“Hi, my name’s Geist, and I’m a real-life superhero. I’m a crazy guy in a costume who puts on a suit and tries to do something good. There are about two hundred of us in the U.S., and we all just try to do something to make things better. Here’s my card.”
Gerty looks at the bag. “What is it?”
“It’s all kindsa food—”
“It’s not gonna ruin out here, is it?”
“No, everything’s snap top,” Geist assures her. “On the back of my card are numbers of some places locally that can help—”
“I’m from Arkansas.”
“Okay. Well, you got the Interfaith Hospitality Network, the Salvation Army—”
“Yeah.”
“—social services, stuff like that—”
“I’m supposed to go back Monday.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah. Hey, and you know what? Read the scriptures…. I’m askin’, I’m not stealin’. Know what I’m sayin’? People come by here and laugh, and I think, ‘I wish they’d pray instead of laugh, but you know—’”
“Well, I wish you the best of luck. And look at those numbers on back,” Geist says, and we start to make our exit/escape.
“You look cool,” Gerty says, calling after Geist.
“Thank you!”
“You do too!” she adds, talking to me.
“Thank you!”
“I think you need orange like him!”
“Like him?” I ask, pointing to Geist and wondering if she has some rare form of color blindness.
“Yeah, but orange!”
“Oh, Okay!”
“You don’t have a rubber band do you?” she yells. We’re at the corner, and I’m mashing the crosswalk button somewhat desperately.
“No, ma’am!” I call back.
“Thank you for the stuff!” she yells as the walk light begins to flash. Geist and I quickly cross the street and get into his car.
“That was kinda cool,” I say, and as I say it, I realize I’m being sincere. Despite almost getting into a never-ending conversation about the scriptural significance of rubber bands, it felt pretty good to help somebody out.
11:25 A.M.—CHILDREN’S HOME
The local children’s home is the kind of generic red brick and white-trimmed building that has become synonymous with suburban critical care. We park, Geist grabs his comics and a photo album full of Pokémon cards, and as we reach the building, a grandfatherly man in jeans and a T-shirt buzzes us in.
“Hi!” the old man says, seemingly taking
