BJ and The Mrs.

It is often said that “behind every great man stands an even greater woman.” Although this is a true statement, it is rarely discussed that many times, every fantastic woman has an incredible man for backup. That lucky guy is me. I’m the backup. Or sidekick, if you will. I never planned on being a superhero or even one’s second in command; the entire situation fell into my lap one day. I was going to be a psychiatrist, stockbroker, or something important that makes a butt load of money. But it seemed that there was another plan awaiting me. One that doesn’t pay nearly as much as one would think. Not that I’m complaining. Oh, the times we used to have.

In the 90s, The Mrs. and I ruled the Metro. Not only were we at every hot party, but we were also usually the best dressed. Everyone either loved or hated us. Or loved to hate us. We were the “it couple.” All of the populace wanted to be in our day planner. Not only were we saving the world, but we were on top of it.

We were at a party full of burgeoning superheroes the night we met. I knew who she was, as you couldn’t miss her posters all over town, but I tried to keep it cool, chatting with the other guest while sneaking glances at her across the room. After becoming bored with talking to the girl with the mohawk about how many piercings she had, I announced, “Who wants to drink whiskey with me?” I felt like an embarrassed child who had accidentally passed gas in class as I watched the room fall silent, and everyone just stared in my direction as if I’d asked them to attend the next NKOTB concert. I swore that I heard crickets chirping in the distance. Finally, a voice spoke up to save my embarrassment. It was her! She had an impish grin on her face as she confidently stated, “I’ll accept that challenge.” This was it. I was going to drink with the one and only “The Mrs.” Little old Bartholomew James, rubbing shoulders with Metro royalty.

After that, it all just happened. We were inseparable. Going in, I had no idea what being known as a superhero would entail. But within days, my face was on the cover of every tabloid in town as The Mrs.’s new partner. Wherever we would go, flash bulbs and inane questions about our sex life followed. Save a baby in an ape’s habitat at the zoo; the cameras were there. Pick up some street meat after a long night at the club, and they were there too. It got to the point where I was checking my shower for hidden cameras before unrobing. We were THAT kind of famous. Well, at least she was, which in proximity, made me quite popular as well.

As I said, The Mrs. was a household name before we crossed paths, so she was used to this life. And It’s not that she did anything mind-blowing, or anything, not like the superheroes that we were used to in the press. She couldn’t make herself invisible or blow things up. Nothing awesome like that; she was just there to help. A tired woman looked in a seemingly empty pantry, worried about what to feed her kids because she didn’t have the energy to go to the store; there she was, whipping up a casserole to feed them all while the mom took a well-deserved nap. A bride is hysterical because none of her plans for her dream wedding are working out; she’d appear right next to them feverously on the phone, fixing the problems one by one. A little boy falls off his bike; there she is with disinfectant and a bandage. It was all really just mother-type stuff, you know? That’s where she excelled. All those homemaker things you don’t think too much about until it’s so bad you are having a breakdown. Before you could say, “Let’s order pizza,” she handled your problem with a smile and a kind word of encouragement.

Except for dirty dishes. Boy, does The Mrs. hate doing dishes. I have seen her set homes on fire and then quickly rebuild them better than they were previously. Then she would go to her shed and hand-make a new set of china for the family to use daily. All to avoid washing a single dish. You know those rooms where you can pay to break dishes and whatnot without cleaning up or buying new dishware? Yeah, The Mrs. invented that when her collection of saved dirty dishes from the past started to grow bigger than our lair.

I guess all this domestic stuff was how she earned the name “The Mrs.” She spent her days flitting around helping people with household catastrophes. In the thick of it, posters were all over the Metro of her looking gorgeous with a caption that read, “The Mrs: She’ll save your life, kiss your boo-boos, and still have dinner prepared.” That still makes me chuckle every time I pass it, framed in our living room. I hope she gave her publicist a raise for that one.

And I was there for all of it. Well, most of it. A man can only be involved in so many sewing circles, you know? I’d fix the bike while she handled the scrape, baste the chicken while she worked on the sides, or kill the spider that had everyone up on the furniture. We were a team. The calls for help kept coming, and we were there to answer.

In an effort to keep our clients calm while she went about her business, I would try to talk to them to distract them. “Tell me, what is it that you do?” I’d ask. Usually, they would reply with whatever they did to pay the bills. To which I would reply, “No, I asked what you DO?” Before they even had a chance to answer, The Mrs. was done, and with a poof, we were gone. Leaving them problem free, but with a lot to think about.

At first, I loved all the attention. In the limelight, I was truly in my element. I’d be right next to The Mrs. in every photo, smiling from ear to ear. After too many times of hearing me being referred to as Bartholomew or BJ, the press even gave me my own name. They called me “Blew Jay” because to hear the stories, I seemed to ask difficult questions and then blow away as if on the wings of a bird. Headlines would read, “Who is our happy homemaker's new beau?” Or “The Domestic Duo are at it again, saving a broken heirloom from incineration.” One even said, “The Mrs. pregnant with BJ’s love child!” They all assumed that we were a couple because we were always together. I guess it didn’t help that most quotes they would get from me were something to the effect of “I’m just here to help The Mrs.” We would laugh at the end of the day as we read of our speculated antics over dinner and a movie on the couch. And though I admit that we had our share of dalliances, we realized quickly that we were much better off as friends. Our relationship was so much more than you could put a label on. It was almost as if the universe had put us together for a specific purpose. Saving the world, one household at a time.

A few years went by, and suddenly the headlines were not so glowing when it came to me. Instead of discussing all the good things I had helped with, they would be filled with veiled remarks that I was more of a villain than a hero. Things like “Blew Jay: The Master of Distraction; where is he trying to mislead YOU?” Or “His disappearing smoke gave my child asthma.” Even some as simple as “I hate him because he made me think.” It really hurt my feelings. I was just trying to help if and where I could. But they wanted to paint me to be something malicious and evil. And how is making people think a bad thing, anyway?

The Mrs. kept on as if nothing was wrong, repeatedly assuring me that it would all blow over; and then laughing at her own joke. During our adventures, people would scream and throw things at me until I almost completely stopped joining her on her excursions, be it at home or the newest club in town. I think she felt kind of abandoned. But so did I. I couldn’t believe she would let people talk about me like that after all I had done for her.

This led to quite a rift between us for the first time. Tensions were so high that we began getting into huge screaming matches the few times we actually ever ventured out of the lair together. Photographers no longer wanted pictures of me with her, and if they did, I would hide my face in fear of what lies the next morning’s headline would proclaim. Finally, fed up, I gave The Mrs. an ultimatum. It was either them or me. As I solemnly moved into a one-bedroom apartment across town, the headlines announced, “The Mrs. to Finally Divorce BJ the Beast.”

Years went by before we even spoke again. She was still in the spotlight, so I knew which areas to avoid an accidental run-in. She continued being her. I continued being me. Just this time, we did it separately. She was right; all the hoopla against me did finally die down. Eventually, I just became known as “BJ, a cool guy to have a conversation with.” And I was fine with that. I still helped out when I could; the Metro has an incredible insect problem. But nothing like things were in our heyday. Mostly, I just kept to myself, only cursing the fact that I now had to make my own meals occasionally.

Then Harry Cane invaded our beloved city. And he was strong, as strong of a villain as I had ever gone up against. Everyone was helping. Superheroes were flying in from all over to help us slay this giant. I looked over after picking up a bystander that had been knocked down by the gale-force winds caused by the evil-doer's big entrance, and there she was, cleaning a blood stain out of a gentleman's suit. We stared at each other for a minute, not knowing what to say.

“Look, I went to high school with this guy. If we are going to defeat him, we will have to do it together. As a team, like we used to,” I started.

“Okay,” she agreed, shaking my outstretched hand. “But to be honest, I’m at a loss. And kind of scared,” she admitted, still holding onto my hand.

We held hands in silence for what felt like an eternity, trying to devise a plan while the chaos swirled around us. Finally, I had an idea. I explained that I remembered that Harry Cane was deathly allergic to sesame seeds because we’d had the same lunch period in 10th grade. In no time, Mrs. Them whipped up a batch of her famous red pepper hummus. “But how will we get him to eat it?” She asked a valid question.

I thought for a second and replied, “You let me worry about that.” I tried to be reassuring while grabbing the bowl of mushed chickpea goodness. “Hey, Cane!” I yelled, turning towards my tormenter.

“Well, if it isn’t little BJ?” Harry taunted me from above.

“Remember all those times you gave me wedgies in chemistry class?” I dangled the bait as Harry Cane began to laugh to the point of guffaw. While his mouth was open, I thought of every time he’d even stuffed me in a locker or done something equally as humiliating and chucked that bowl right into the enemy's mouth. He was so busy laughing that he barely noticed as it slipped down his throat. Seconds later, he stopped laughing and began to choke. He stumbled around, gasping for air and taking down buildings. Then he began to swell up like a balloon. He kept getting bigger and bigger. And wreaking havoc in his wake. Shielding The Mrs. with my body, I was beginning to think that we had made a huge mistake. Until...BOOM, he popped. Just like that, he would hurt no one ever again.

“Well, we did it,” she said sheepishly as the dust settled in our hair.

“We sure did,” I replied, unsure of what was next. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” I said, unsure if that was the right thing to do.

“Yeah. See ya,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment while we went our separate ways.

The next few years were nice. Not like they were in the past, but enjoyable nonetheless. We were no longer avoiding each other, so we would run into each other at all kinds of fancy shindigs around town. We even did jobs together on occasion for old times' sake. Or she’d give me a referral if she ran across a problem she couldn’t fix, and vice versa. We had a pleasant, although not nearly as intimate, relationship.

Then her mentor passed away. Big G. The man practically raised her. It was all over the news, and my heart broke her. I knew she was sitting in the lair, bawling her eyes out, surrounded by her minions, tripping all over themselves with how they could help her. She didn’t need me. But I wanted to be there. I wanted to be there for her. She was my best friend, and she was hurting.

My prediction was correct, mostly. She was in the lair with all the minions and such. They brought her cocktails, rubbed her back, and vacuumed her floor. Anything they could do to make her feel better. But nothing worked. She just sat there, staring at the wall in silence. When she could muster up the energy to speak, all she said was, “Call BJ.”

“I just walked in,” I replied, overhearing what she had said. Shooing away her entourage, I sat beside her with my hand on her leg. We didn’t have to talk, I knew what she was thinking. I always did. So we just sat there for a while in silence while her head swirled with all the thoughts of things that she should have told the big man.

“He knew,” I whispered, turning in for a hug. As she cried into my shoulder, I held her reassuringly. At that point, we both knew that we were back together as a team. We were partners in life again. BJ and The Mrs forever. “I’m still not doing all your jobs with you, though. That sidekick thing is way behind me.” I was only half joking.

Eventually, she got sick of all the glitz and glamor of celebrity, so she retired as well. We settled down in the suburbs with her ACTUAL husband. She continued to make dinner. I continued to cause trouble in a somewhat helpful way. And the husband, well, he would just sit back and laugh at our antics. The peace we’d helped so many others attempt to achieve was finally ours as a family.

There is not much left of the glory that was once Blew Jay. Every once in a while, I will go into a bar for a few. As I know that I am finishing my last beer, I will start a very loud discussion with the guy next to me about whatever happens to be controversial at the time. As I watch everyone start to loudly scream their differing opinions at each other, I smile, remembering the good old days. Then I leave money on the bar and quietly slip out before anyone notices. I then head home to the dinner that I am sure The Mrs. has prepared, content with the fact that I’ve still got it.

“I’m sorry,” Blew Jay shook his head slowly, coming out of the fog of memories. “What was your question?”

“What was it really like to work with The Mrs? And are you sad that there are no chances for a reunion now that she has passed away?” the reporter repeated.

“No need for a reunion, I was with her until her dying day, and she will always be with me in my heart,” the sadness broke him quickly out of his nostalgia-induced contentment. “How was it? It was incredible. It was the time of our lives,” BJ whispered, wiping a tear before it could fall. “Get that stupid thing out of my face, I told you, no pictures.” And with a poof, he was gone.