No Signal

The city is burning tonight. 100 degrees at 4pm, now a suffocating 94 at 10. From my perch on the fire escape three stories above Manic Street I can see shiny couples listlessly strolling hand in hand through the streets in see through tank tops, a horde of boys unsuccessfully trying to crack a fire hydrant, and a grouping of red glowing dots like marijuana fire flies.

My glass Coke bottle and I are competing to see who can sweat more. I take a quick swig, then scan the sky again. No signal, no lightning bolt, no glimpse of him. That light hasn’t burned since the night of my birthday, and I’m not a patient guy.

“Out here again?” a voice from behind me says. I look over my shoulder to see my mother’s head and shoulders poking through the small window. She’s in her bathrobe and pink bonnet, sleep already creeping in behind her big brown eyes. “I think I’ve seen you out here every night this week.”

She knows why I’m out here. The information she shared with me a month ago was the first domino in a chain reaction that put me on the trail of a man who cannot be easily found.

“Yeah, well, it’s cooler than inside,” I say with a forced chuckle. I tip the bottle in her direction. “Want a sip?”

“Are you kidding, Mikey? The caffeine would keep me up half the night. I remember being your age when I could just eat and drink whatever I wanted without a care in the world.” She stands on her tiptoes to poke her head out the window a little farther, and cranes her neck to scan the sky. All light pollution and low flying planes. “You know, there’s only so much to see out here. Maybe go see Vanessa or something.”

I hadn’t seen Vanessa in a few weeks. My phone is full of texts from her, but I can’t seem to focus on anything lately.

“Yeah, maybe I will. We’ll see. I think I’m going to stay out here a little longer.”

She tries to hide a sigh, but I hear it. I hear everything.

“Well, don’t stay up too late, baby.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Kisses,” she says with a smirk, prompting me to return the smirk and crane my head down to her cheek.

“Goodnight, Mom,” I say.

She pulls her head from the window and shuffles in the direction of her bedroom. I’ll give her fifteen minutes, then head to the bridge.

It’s truly amazing to think just how much my life changed in the three weeks since my mother sat me down and gave me the strangest 18th birthday present a guy could ask for. We had just gotten back from a dinner my family threw for me. I was about to change clothes quick, then meet up with Vanessa and some friends in the village for a less family friendly birthday celebration when she walked up to me and said she had something she needed to talk about. Have those words ever preceded good news? We sat on the couch, our knees practically touching. She had a somber look on her face that I hadn’t seen from her in a long time, if ever. My mother mastered the art of keeping things upbeat even when - maybe especially when - things were tough. Single mom skills, I guess, and she made an art of it. But the mask slid off a little that night.

“Mikey,” she said. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a very long time. And I hope you can keep an open mind about why I haven’t told you sooner.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s about your dad.”

I remember my heart instantly speeding up when she said those words. I had no dad as far as I was concerned. I was always told that he walked out on my mom when she pregnant, never to be seen again, and that was perfectly fine with me. The woman sitting across from me was my mom AND dad, and I never felt like I was missing anything.

“Oh Jesus,” I said. “What? I turn 18 and he’s magically back in the picture?” I asked.

Her mouth opened and closed without anything coming out. She was clearly struggling with how to tell me what was on her mind.

“He never really left the picture,” she said. “Not really. You see, your dad, well… he didn’t actually know about you. I, uh, I sort kept you a secret from him.”

Without even thinking about it, I stood up. “Wait, what? What do you mean you kept me a secret from him?”

“Mikey, please. I was just doing what I thought was best. He was not the kind of man who could have a wife and a son like a lot of other men. And I was one of the few people who really knew that about him. Please sit down and let me finish.”

I took a second to regain my composure and then sat back down. With tears in her eyes, she took my hands in hers and continued.

“Listen…we met at my job the summer I was 21. I was the receptionist and he was the package delivery guy. He came in every day around 1 to pick up packages, and we started talking. He was the most amazing man I ever met. Electric, charming, so handsome and fit. You’re old enough to know how it goes. One thing led to another and we were inseparable that summer. He shared some things with me that he had never shared with anyone, and I did my best to do the same for him. But the things he shared with me were big, and were hard to wrap my brain around, so at the end of the summer when I found out I was pregnant with you, I ended things with your dad. I told him I needed to move upstate and help out my aunt for awhile. Which is true. I did do that. But he didn’t know that really I was the one who needed help. He didn’t know that I was pregnant.”

“Jesus, mom! This is insane. I can’t believe this.” I stood up again and started pacing around the living room. “I remember living upstate. But we came back here when I was young, right? You told me I was about five. Or is that a lie too?”

“No, that’s all true. We moved back here because I wanted you to go to school in the city. This city is our home.”

“So wait…my dad is here still? Just walking around the streets with no idea that I exist?”

“I haven’t seen him since the night before I moved upstate.”

“Are you sure he still lives here.”

“Um…yes, I’m sure.”

“So who is he? Who’s my dad? At least tell me that.”

Her shaky hand raised up and with her index finger pointed out the kitchen window. I turned to look, not quite understanding, then walked slowly to the window. I pulled up the blinds and looked out on the fire escape, half expecting a man to be waiting out there for me. But instead there was nothing.

“Look up,” she told me.

So I did, and saw the familiar blue spotlight illuminating the sky with the image of a lightning bolt.

I turned to my mother. “Wait, you’re saying that my father is …”

“Yes. Your father is the Brilliant Bolt.”

Half Man, Half Electricity, 100% my father, apparently. After a few days of utter shock, I started to process this new information. Having spent most of my life in this city, the Brilliant Bolt was a staple of my childhood. The Christmas I was eight, the only thing I asked my mom for was the 12 inch Brilliant Bolt action figure with the fully articulated limbs and the light up Power Rope accessory. In those formative pre-teen years I followed his crime fighting career like other kids followed their favorite baseball players. I vividly remember trying to stay up late enough to watch the 10 o’clock news to see if the Bolt stopped another bank robbery, or ended a car chase, or rescued a family from a burning building. I even had the cover of the Post on my wall from the morning after the Bolt figured out how to pull that weird bright pink alien substance from the Mayor’s brain. Little did I know that the man whose action figure I slept next to every night until I was eleven was the man I wished was reading me bedtime stories.

No one could ever figure out where his secret hideout was, but I found a Reddit thread from someone saying they saw him standing on the third rail at the Metro and Arena subway stop late one night a couple years ago, then running off into the dark tunnels. So either he’s a mole person, or his secret hideout is somewhere in the subway tunnels. Three days ago, I checked out the entrance point mentioned in the thread but couldn’t make heads or tails of the winding tracks within. And my flashlight suspiciously stopped working, which I took as a sign that it was time to stop looking for him, and have him look for me.

I finish my Coke, then climb back in the window. I can hear my mother snoring over her white noise machine as I pass by her bedroom door. I change from my shorts and sweaty t-shirt into a brightly colored outfit and then uber downtown to the bridge.

As I walk up the pedestrian path I call 911 on my phone. “Yeah, hi, there’s a guy on the Jerome Street bridge. I think he’s gonna jump. He’s wearing a bright pink shirt and white basketball shorts. He’s saying something about wanting to talk to the Brilliant Bolt. I’m not sure what that means. Anyway, just letting you guys know. Thanks, bye.”

I carefully climb up onto the railing of the bridge, my right hand clinging desperately to the sandstone support structure next to me. The Montgomery River is nothing more than a black sheet 100 feet beneath me. It would feel like concrete if I fell in from this height, but I don’t intend to fall in. I intend to be rescued.

I keep my eyes on the sky, waiting to see the lightning bolt projected onto the clouds. Nothing.

Five long minutes later, I hear the doppler effect of police sirens tearing through the soupy air and parking on the bridge. Two cops pull up and locate me quickly, I presume due to my clothing choices. Both get out of their cars and slowly approach me.

The first cop says, “Sir, I’m going to need you to come down from there. I understand you may be in distress, but it’s a lot safer for all of us if you hop down.”

The sky is still empty. “I’m not talking to you. I’ll only talk to the Brilliant Bolt.”

“Well, he’s not here, Sir. But we are. Please come down so we can talk more safely.”

“Brilliant Bolt or nobody. If he comes here I’ll get down.”

The second cop comes up to the first cop and they whisper to each other. After about thirty seconds, the first cop says, “Um, Sir, we don’t usually involve the Bolt in these kinds of emergencies. He’s usually only called in when there’s violent crime, or the chance of a lot of collateral damage, or, like, a cataclysmic event that he can handle in ways we can’t. Typically we would just handle this situation - your situation - ourselves.”

“Well, that, kind of makes sense, I guess. But make an exception here. I’ve had an awful last few weeks and I really need to talk to the Brilliant Bolt. Or, I’m going to jump. Ok?”

The two cops talk privately again, then the second one says something into the radio on his shoulder. About three minutes later I hear more sirens and another cop car speeds up. The driver steps out, gets a debrief from the other two cops, then walks right up to me. “You should come down, Sir.”

“I’m guessing the Brilliant Bolt isn’t in the back of that car,” I say disappointedly.

“Well, I don’t know if the other guys told you or not but we wouldn’t typically involve the Brilliant Bolt in a situation like this. You know, he’s a bit older now, and we don’t want to wear him out. We usually save him for …”

“Violent crime, collateral damages, cataclysms, yeah got it. Fuck this then.”

I start to climb down, but my foot slips out from under me and I fall backwards off the bridge. The new cop tries to reach out for me but there’s just too much distance between us. I grasp at nothing but hot air and fall backwards into the void. My view as I fall is the empty sky; no stars, no meteors, no signal. I close my eyes and wait for an impact that never comes. I hear a whoosh that gets closer and closer, and then I’m plucked from the air by a large man wearing yellow and black and swinging from an electrified rope in his hand. I open my eyes just enough to be able to look up and see his stubbled chin poking out from under the mask. He’s so focused as he manipulates the electric rope from the underside of the bridge, to a passing ferry, to a street light, then disconnecting it completely and landing us safely by a tennis court in Dobbs Park. He places me on the ground and looks down at me. He’s taller than me, but not by a lot. Our bodies are similar. Lithe, but powerful.

“Are you ok, kid?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ok.”

“Good,” he says, then just stands there staring at me.

A group of people from the row houses by the park are running towards us, all yelling the Brilliant Bolt’s name. He looks up to the bridge, presumably plotting his exit. I’ve envisioned this moment for weeks now, finally standing in front of him, finally able to be in the presence of my newfound father. I had fantasized a thousand different versions of how I would tell him that he was my father, but the only words that come out of my mouth are, “What’s your real name?”

He chuckles a hearty, deep laugh. “I’ll bet you can guess it if you think hard enough.”

“Michael?” I ask, hopefully.

He nods. “There’s something else you can call me if you feel comfortable.”

“Maybe one day.”

“I’ll take that.” The crowd of fans are getting closer. He walks up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“A little advice. Stop looking to the sky all the time, and keep your eyes straight ahead.” The electric rope in his other hand turns bright yellow, casting sparks as he shoots it straight up towards the underside of the bridge. “And for the love of god,” he says with a smirk as the rope begins to pull him up, “…text Vanessa back.”