On a Scale of One to Ten

In a world full of superheroes, what’s worse than having no superpower at all? Having the world’s worst superpower.

    Okay, I’ll admit, perhaps my power isn’t the absolute worst, but it certainly isn’t flashy. And nowadays, the flashier, the better.

    The Flash, with his speed.

    Wonder Woman with her Lasso of Truth and fighting skills.

    Batman with his… okay, Batman doesn’t really count, but the media is a sucker for those brooding mysterious types.

    For me, I couldn’t even get anyone to believe me until I was fourteen. My mom took me to see many therapists before that, claiming my ‘delusions’ were a product of my ‘distress’ due to my parents’ divorce. I was young with taped-up glasses, a tendency to snort when I laughed, and a slight obsession with supers, but I wasn’t stupid.

    “So, Jonathan, how’s home life with mom?” I don’t remember much of Mrs. Sweet, besides her suspicious-sounding name, the lemonwood varnish smell of her office, and the brown leather chairs that cracked when you sat in them.

    “Good,” I muttered. I never met her gaze, focusing on the nail of my right thumb which pressed against the crackling leather. Her glasses leaned just far enough down her nose for it to feel less ‘comforting local librarian’-y and more ‘condescending teacher who thinks you’ll amount to nothing’-y, and it stressed me out.

    “I heard your father moved out. Was that hard?” She smacked her glossy grape lips and smiled tightly.

“Please, he hasn’t lived in our house since I was nine. All he did was move the stuff he doesn’t need from our house to the storage locker where he keeps all his other stuff. He pays $42 a month for that thing.”

“Okay... but packing up is a very final move.”

“I guess.” My mind drifted to the lollipop I would get at the end of the visit. I figured stupid, surface-level therapy questions should be considered torture.

“And I heard you met Jessica yesterday! How was that?” Jessica was dad’s new girlfriend. Twenty years older than him and the heiress of some oil tycoon in South Africa. She was ugly as fuck.  

“Fine. She’s as ugly as she is in her pictures, but ok.”

“Jonathan!” Mrs. Sweet said, her expression flat as she furiously scribbled notes on her pad. She was just feigning shock and disapproval; I had already told her that I thought Jessica was ugly at least three times. “She may become your stepmother someday, don't say things like that. But what do you mean when you say 'ok'?”

I knew what she really meant by that question. It was a beginner’s hope that therapy would really solve issues, and I was no rookie.

“She was a 5.6, and I’m guessing the higher rating is due to her money, and probably a ruthless personality.”

“Ah…… makes sense.” Mrs. Sweet’s answered distantly, her pen scratching.

    If I was The Flash at that moment I would snatch that pad of paper from Mrs. Sweet and rip it to pieces, or if I was Wonder Woman I would break those stupid leather chairs and jump out the window, or if I was Batman I would punch Mrs. Sweet in the face.

    But I was Jonathan Corduas, so I just waited for her to speak again, picking at the decaying leather, stuck with the most boring superpower ever.

    “And so, tell me again, the numbers… appear above people's heads?”

She had asked me that so many times, I had my answer memorized. 

“Yes- a small number, about the size of an apple. Over everyone.”

“And you said I was a…”

“2.7.”

“Out of ten?”

“Yeah.”

“Right…”

Every session, twice a week, for a whopping $120 a session. Quality stuff.

    To make up for that tragic waste of time and breath, my mom would take me out after every session to do anything other than pretending to deal with my issues.

I lived in a small town just off the border of Metropolis, about an hour north of Gotham City, called Leisure Knoll. 

     Leisure Knoll had one of everything; one cinema, one park, one police office and, of course, one supermarket.

Shorebright.  

My mom made an event of going twice a month as if extreme couponing and expert cart maneuvering counted as mother-son bonding.

After that particular session I remember Mom’s Ford Cortina smelled like sharpies and lattes and the letters of the Shorebright sign hummed softly, like it always did. Ah, the comfort in familiarity.

It was packed- for some reason mid-afternoon on Wednesdays was a popular time to be at the supermarket in Leisure Knoll. Mom and I never changed our ritual though, as much as I hated large crowds. Like I said, familiarity.

My power being as useless as it is, I never really made an effort to observe the numbers of people around me. I never saw the point really, but it was hard to ignore.

The infant riding by in the stroller was a 0.75.  

Higher than other infants. Maybe she has unusually sharp teeth.

The buff looking man that carried a jug of protein powder was a 2.88, although he walked as if he was an 8- shoulders pulled taut back and aggressive eye contact.

At that point, a sea of two and threes was all I’d ever seen, the occasional four or five floating above the head of a marine or lawyer.

I had a problem with average-looking fives- those were the types to be woman-beaters or criminals. They always gave me chills.

    A similar, amplified feeling knit my nerves together as I saw, in front of Shorebright, a bench with a man.

His eyes were dark and flushed, and his cheeks were bruised and hollow. He twitched his leg and flicked me a smile.

The apple-sized seven that floated over his unruly black hair set off blaring alarms in my mind.

It took me less than a moment to spin on my heel, speed back to the car and refuse to move until my mother agreed to come back to the supermarket another day.

Later, our regularly scheduled news program of weather and confused politicking was disrupted with the glowing Shorebright sign surrounded by police cars and yellow tape.

BREAKING NEWS

    “We have breaking news tonight. Just two hours ago suspect Donald Kennedy,” The unruly man flashed on the screen, “walked into Shorebright supermarket with an automatic weapon and opened fire in a homicide-suicide plot that killed forty-seven people with nineteen injured, five in critical condition. Police are looking into all leads and more updates will be here, on News Network 41.”

As we found out later, Donald came from a neglectful household and pursued multiple women that just didn’t seem to reciprocate his feelings. His mommy didn’t love him, girls thought he was gross, and his idea of career success was assistant manager at Leisure Knoll’s only Taco Bell, a job which he lost. Blah blah blah, he was a loser and a sicko, who killed forty-seven people.

After the news broke, my mom hugged me and whispered prayers, muttering that I had the gift of protection given by God. That felt hard to believe.

    The police caught up with me and realized my situation quickly, and the news broke.

    Fourteen-Year-Old Jonathan Corduas Technically Not Responsible for Mass-Shooting but Had Plenty of Time to Save Dozens of People With His Stupid Superpower and Didn’t

That was my apex as a super- saving myself and my mommy.  

If I was The Flash, I would’ve evacuated the building before anything happened, or talked the man down and helped arrest him with badass moves as Wonder Woman.

If I was Batman, I would’ve punched him in the face.

But I’m just Jonathan Corduas, and so I did even better- I let forty-seven people die.

Mrs. Sweet told me that I couldn’t have known that he was going to kill people, that I was too young to think about such heavy things.

But I learned heavy things were carried by everybody.

-

Before she succumbed to her survivor’s guilt, my mother tried to absolve me of any responsibility from the incident.

It didn't work, and she soon joined a 'church’ (or cult), based on a man who made it up in the 60s where every member was on LSD.

It took her three years to leave me for good.

“Josiah-Nathan-Thein-Cornelius, I need to speak with you.”  

‘Josiah-Nathan-Thein-Cornelius’ was my Duwendist name; I don't know why.

I’m not sure if new names are really a part of her new religion or if my mother had just gotten so physically sick of my name after hearing it on countless fiery twitter arguments that she just made up an excuse never to say it again. Either way, I hated it.

“Mother.” I hadn’t seen her in over a week; she left and I just expected her to be back eventually. “Is it important?”

“I’m leaving with Francis-Ramey-Nate-Klein-Ignacio. For good.”

“That’s great. I hope you two have fun.”

“I’m never coming back, and I don’t want to have any contact with you.”

“I’ll remind myself to delete your number after you leave.” I could tell my indifference annoyed her. I didn’t bother to look up.

“I’m not coming back this time!”

“I believe you mother,” I said, not believing her in the slightest.

Since I was 15 and she first joined that cult of hers, she has been ‘leaving me’ at least twice a year. At first, we had a very long discussion about her leaving and I was genuinely scared- until she came back two days later saying she forgot her favorite towel and just stayed.

After that, the stretches got longer; from two days to a week to two weeks and so on. The longest was six months, but I didn't care. Her disability checks still got sent to the house, and I'd grown to hate her.

“I'm going, Jonathan. Goodbye.”

Hearing my name threw me- it sounded alien from her, disuse giving it a rusty sound.

I remember thinking she was trying to use my name against me; that she was trying to get me to give her the attention she so desperately craved. Well, I wasn’t going to fall for it.

“Alright. Bye, mom.”

In a huff, she turned sharply and stormed out.

That was the last time I ever saw her.

~

I moved to Metropolis at 21 when I was offered a reporting job after my freshman article on the impact of supers on American culture was picked up by some newspaper company.

I never actually had any interest in journalism (I, of course, had my childhood fantasies of becoming a dentist if I had the money or time to go to school for it), but who am I to refuse such an opportunity? 

The stench of controversy still clung to my name even after seven years. I could just imagine if I ever did become a dentist the reputation that would precede me.

     ‘Dr. Jonathan Corduas DDS’, the dentist that was almost charged with abetting a mass murder when he was fourteen. But bring your children!

So, journalism would do just fine. Plus the job helped pay the costs of the move, so I was a happy camper.

I quickly found my place in the office, which was in the corner, and only talked to three people in the entire city.

Marsha Williams. A blonde kleptomaniac that found great enjoyment in making others uncomfortable and disappointing her parents.

Stephen Sanger. A lanky intellectual that didn’t quite understand social cues and was unabashedly obsessed with supers.  

Lola Karnick. A short, wide-set egomaniac with some manic tendencies (she was taking meds).

Admittedly not much of a life, but what was there to do in Metropolis except be an extra in Superman’s newest heroic act, and work.

So I worked. I did overtime as if it would make my boss hate me less or really improve my life.

Even with all that time spent in the office, I still hadn’t heard of the new hire until Lola brought him up.

“Okay, so I know he has to be hot from the way Lorraine caked on the makeup today,” (Lorraine was our superior and usually dealt with PR and new hires), “But I wonder if he’ll be, like, ‘go on a first date and don’t kiss till the third date’ type of hot or like ‘don’t tell my parents because they’ll have a heart attack due to the absolute raw sex appeal’ sort of hot. I hope it’s the second.”

Lola wrote the entertainment pages, and her most popular piece was one in which she identified the reader’s perfect man based on a few broad, surface-level trivia and personal questions.  

“What do you think he is?”

“‘He’?” I asked, refusing to look up from my newest piece, which had a deadline three days out.

“The new guy. Are you even paying attention?”

“No.”

“Ugh, I forgot that you’re the only one here that actually comes in to do work.”

    “Guilty.”

    “So I’m not supposed to know this, but apparently he’s this tall hunk from some farm on the outskirts of Metropolis and he’s a real mama’s boy,” Stephen whispered.  

“I already called dibs over Marsha,” Lola asserted, and Marsha smiled knowingly.

“Oh no, you beat me to it Lols.”

    Lola was a 4.6, which was higher than the average person’s, but I figured that it had to do with her unstable personality and anger issues. Marsha, who had almost called out of work that day to sleep off the hangover that one inevitably gets from drinking alcohol faster than water, was a 1.6, and Stephen was a 2.1.     

Most of the people in the office had similar numbers, just like everyone else; the highest was a 5.1 retired karate teacher and active kickboxer one floor above.

I liked being surrounded by low numbers because there’s safe predictability in people with low levels of danger. Danger isn’t only physical, it’s emotional- it’s risky, it’s spontaneous. All crap I could deal without. 

“Oh damn,” Lola whispered salaciously, “I knew he was gonna be ‘third date kiss’ kinda hot. I’m down with that though, look at that hair, I could see myself running my fingers through that,” 

“I thought you said no touching ‘till date three,” Marsha said.

“I said I wouldn’t kiss him till then, but how could you resist that hair…”

I wasn’t tempted to look up at first, but Lola’s description had gotten me curious.

He was very tall and wearing a brown coat that fell to his knees. His black tie was creased and folded on his broad chest and his jawline seemed to curve almost at an unnaturally sharp angle, the large rectangular glasses that took up most of his face gave him a goofy boy-next-door look as if he didn’t realize how imposing his size was. His dark brown hair was immaculate, all except a single curl that rested on his forehead.  

And above his flawless hair floated an apple-sized ‘10’, that seemed to taunt me from across the room.

He made his way to the empty desk beside my frozen body in broad strides. My fingers were cold and blood rushed my ears.  

He loomed over my small body that was stuck hunched over my desk, and he held out his hand.

What should I do, I thought frantically. What can I do?

    “Nice to meet you, Jonathan,” He said, acknowledging the nameplate on my desk. “Seems like I’m your desk-neighbor. My name is Clark Kent.”

I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. The ten floated in circles, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. His eyes reminded me of ones I’ve seen only once prior, years before.

“Welcome to The Daily Planet, Clark,” Lola purred from behind me as I carefully shook his hand, silent.

~