An Adventure With POT-MAN

"You know," Kevin mused, swirling the amber liquid, "I once invented a concrete-pouring suit. I believed it could have revolutionized the construction industry."

Wayne looks up, momentarily distracted from his woes. "A concrete-pouring suit? You mean like…a wearable cement mixer?"

Kevin grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Precisely! Though the whole 'constant refilling' aspect proved…problematic. It was less 'revolution' and more 'concrete-covered disaster'." He pauses, a lightbulb seemingly flickering above his head. "But… for potholes, it might be perfect! Think of it, Wayne, you could just stroll down the street, filling holes like some kind of concrete superhero!" They both laughed, the absurdity of the image momentarily overshadowing Wayne’s pothole-related anxieties.

"Right, potholes," Wayne said, clapping Kevin on the back, "New tires are next on the agenda." He gestured towards a dented spare tire leaning against the wall. “This one’s seen better days.”

Kevin, who had thoughtfully bought him a replacement gave an look of puzzlement that went unnoticed. Kevin's basement was a bizarre juxtaposition of Star Wars figurines and automotive part graveyard.

Outside, a "Portman Family" sign (missing a crucial "r") sways in the breeze. The letter ironically oblivious to the ongoing battle against gutters, lawns, teenage vehicular aroma, and the ever-present menace of Lockport's crumbling infrastructure, as it noisily clang away. As Kevin pulled Wayne's new tire from his vehicle, a faint smell of whiskey and burnt plastic mingled with the fresh morning air, a testament to the unusual friendship of a perpetually frustrated father and his inventive, slightly-off-kilter best friend. The potholes, however, remained a challenge for another day. Finally they resort to the driveway to complete the first morning task. There they see Wayne's neighbors Richie and his wife Becca, jogging in unison. They were a blur of brightly colored athletic wear, their conversation a muffled hum that drifted on the morning air. Kevin, perched on Wayne’s porch steps with a lukewarm cup of coffee, watched them with a strangely intense gaze. He thought he had Becca's attention, a fleeting connection in his emotionally barren post-separation landscape. Becca, however, was equally nice to everyone – a trait that made her an easy target for Kevin's somewhat misguided attempts at connection.

Wayne, meanwhile, wrestling with a stubborn tire, muttering under his breath about the evils of Lockport’s pothole-ridden streets. Catching his breath, attempts to summon a brief, man-to-man exchange about the merits of different running shoes punctuated by Wayne’s grunts of exertion. Wayne nods absently, focusing more on the tire iron than the conversation.

As Richie and Becca sprint off, Kevin declares, “I gotta run, myself! Gotta grab some groceries, fix a sign and then… well, it’s a whole thing.” He mumbles (something about a rogue squirrel he needed to relocate from the attic). It was a classic Kevin sidestep – a torrent of activity designed to avoid any deeper conversation. "Call ya later," he directs to Wayne, already halfway to his beat-up Buick. The truck was full of odd shaped marble, wood and steel. Kevin runs a business that lands only a couple high paying jobs a month. The vinyl sticker attached to both sides of his hatchback read, 'Counter Intelligence'.

Wayne replies with a simple wave as he tightens the lug nuts. After a quick clean-up, he jumps back into his trusty steed and turns up the tunes. One mile into his commute, *THUD*. Another pothole. Another tire. The exact same damage as that morning. Wayne groans, the sound echoing the inner turmoil of a man who simultaneously yearns for the simple life of a father and husband. He immediately dials Kevin. “Kevin, my man! Disaster! I just busted another tire!"

Kevin just makes an exhausting exhale. Wayne spins back around and drives back toward his home, lumping and chugging.

An awkward silence fills the air.

"You hear me buddy?" Remember that suit?” Kevin, still trying to escape from his last rescue chuckled, “Dude, that was a joke.” "No, it wasn't! I’m serious! This pothole…it's a sign! A sign that… I need to use the suit!”

Wayne's noisy car, a testament to both his mechanical ineptitude and his penchant for ignoring 'check engine' lights, sputters along, the conversation a cacophony of tire woes and half-baked superhero dreams. As he nears his driveway, his eyes catch glimpse at the slightly askew "Portman Family" sign with the missing "r". Inspiration instantly strikes, a bizarre confluence of busted tires and paternal inadequacy. “I’m not just gonna use the suit, Kevin. I’m gonna be *the* Pot-Man! The protector of Lockport, vanquisher of potholes, and… and… the guy who finally fixes that damn 'r' on the family sign!”

He saw a vision: fighting evil with a super-powered plunger, while simultaneously bonding with his son over shared superhero adventures, a hero to his wife, the town? Now that was an idea. The wheels of Wayne’s imagination, much like his Sedan, were definitely spinning.

The air in Kevin’s basement hangs thick bearing the scent of sawdust, cheap whisky and regret. Empty bottles form a precarious, glittering constellation around a workbench littered with half-finished carcasses of failed inventions – a self-stirring soup ladle, a perpetual motion machine powered by hamsters (a truly tragic chapter in Kevin's life), and a device that promised to automatically fold laundry (mostly it just set things on fire). Photos of a smiling woman, now banished to a dusty corner, hint at a recent, painful separation.

Wayne Portman, sporting a slightly rumpled Star Wars t-shirt, surveys the scene with a mixture of awe and concern. "Another night, another existential crisis fueled by Jack Daniel's, Kev?" he asks, gesturing towards the bottle collection.

Kevin, a man whose hair color defies easy categorization (somewhere between faded brown and perpetually surprising ginger), shrugs. "Creativity requires lubrication, Wayne. Besides, what else am I supposed to do? Knit?"

"You could…I don't know…call your ex? Go fishing?" Wayne suggests, the latter a clear personal preference.

Kevin shudders dramatically. "Fishing is boring. I prefer contemplating the intricacies of hydraulic pressure."

Wayne sighs. "Right. Well, let's talk about that 'intricate hydraulic pressure' you promised would solve the Lockport pothole problem. The Pot-Man suit." Kevin grins, a mischievous glint in his perpetually bloodshot eyes. He gestures toward a bulky, vaguely humanoid contraption draped over a chair. That looks like a rejected stormtrooper costume had a wrestling match with a Ghostbuster. "Behold!" He helped Wayne into the suit. It was surprisingly stiff and…heavy. Very heavy. Wayne stood for a moment, then promptly falls backward, landing with a thud on the concrete floor.

"Too late to mention that part, huh?" Wayne groans, rubbing his backside.

Kevin chuckled. "Minor detail! We can make it lighter, obviously. But let's focus on aesthetics. What color should Pot-Man be? I was thinking a menacing grey?" Wayne, dusting himself off, sputters, "Grey is boring! We need something iconic! Like…bright, neon grey! And we could have a catchy jingle! 'Pot-Man, the pothole banisher!' And a logo! A stylized pot hole with a little superhero cape! And maybe a sidekick – Pot-Girl? Pot-Pup?..."

Kevin holds up his hands in protest, "Whoa, hold your horses, Wayne. These are all brilliant ideas, but you're gonna have to pay me for some of those. Plus, I don't think neon grey exists."

Wayne's enthusiasm deflates slightly. "Pay you? Yeah, of course. I just need to move some things around."

Kevin's face softens. "Alright, alright. Let's scale it back. Forget Pot-Girl, the jingle can be a simple slogan – 'Pot-Man, filling the voids.' And cheaper materials. We'll skip the neon. We can use recycled cement bags and duct tape – It'll still be effective. Potentially."

Wayne starts to leave and Kevin adds, "Don't forget about the two tires I fronted you, pal."

Wayne's smile evaporates. "Oh, right. Those. Let's just stick to the suit for now, okay?"

A few nights after many unmentionable trials and tweaking Wayne's truck (aka the Pot mobile) arrives at the Clinton Street underpass, a canyon of crumbling asphalt, awaits its saviors. Kevin Speagle, sporting a stained, ill-fitting flannel shirt (his astrological sign, inexplicably, was Capricorn), nervously checks his Buick truck’s pothole-detecting gizmo. The digital scanner beeps happily, apparently oblivious to the weight of the mission. “All systems go, Wayne,” Kevin's voice crackles through them two-way radio connected to Pot-Man’s suit.

Wayne Portman, aka Pot-Man, fidgets in his slightly-too-tight, grey suit. The “PM” logo on his chest was reassuringly intact on this beautiful, navy blue overcast night. He adjusts the cement dispenser gun strapped to his back, a weapon against the enemy: potholes. Tonight, his 40-year-old anxieties about being a good father were secondary to his larger, more pressing civic duty. “Roger that, Kevin. Just… try not to attract the attention of the Lockport PD, okay? My insurance doesn’t cover ‘cement-related incidents involving police vehicles.’”

Kevin snorted. “Relax, Wayne. I’ve got this. I even remembered to bribe the local stray cats to act as informants.”

The first operation begins with the chaotic ballet of a Buick truck dumping a hefty dose of cement into the largest pothole, followed by Pot-Man zipping around like a hyperactive grey raccoon, filling smaller craters with alarming speed.

Their communication was, as usual, a symphony of mishaps. “Kevin, I need more cement! The dispenser is… sputtering!” Wayne’s voice crackled through the radio.

“Hold your horses, Wayne! The dispersive unit is… recalibrating. It’s… uh… thinking… about it.”

Suddenly, a teenage boy, headphones askew, strolling by with his jaw dropping. “Dude… you guys are *awesome*!” he yells, before disappearing into the night.

Wayne, flustered, nearly trips over a particularly stubborn pothole. After a frantic flurry of cement-slinging and near-misses with runaway cement bombs (Kevin’s idea), the underpass looks remarkably improved.

"Done!" Wayne announces triumphantly, his voice slightly out of breath.

“Except we still have half a truckload of cement left,” Kevin points out, his voice flat. "Waste not, want not." Wayne grimaces. "Fine. But we're going to *my* street. Where my car always gets a flat, thanks to those insidious little... craters. Karma's a pothole, Kevin, but we're going to fill every one of them!"

And that they did.

Wayne crashed on his couch that late night.

The smell of brewing coffee jolted him awake. Wayne's eyelids feeling like lead weights, finally pry open. Hunches over, looking like he’d wrestled a badger and lost. He turns on the TV in hopes of masking his late night extortions with a morning news show (secretly wondering if his efforts would be validated).

"Mornin', Dad," his son Donnie mumbles, not even bothering to look up as he slams a mug down on the counter with the force of a small earthquake. "Still sleeping your life away?" asks Donnie, one that’s half-sarcastic, half-genuinely annoyed.

"Sleep is essential for optimal functioning, son," Wayne mumbles back, wincing as he sits up. his back protests with a series of satisfying pops and cracks. The news anchor is talking about something called "Pot-Man." Wayne listened intently. The anchor proceeds to explain that someone had been roaming Lockport, handing out joints. Legally, since weed became legal recently.

“Pot-Man?” Donnie snorted. “Seriously? Sounds like someone’s been watching too many superhero movies.” He switches channels, landing on a rerun of "Pawn Stars." "You may be a bigger disappointment to Mom than me."

The comment hangs heavy in the air, thick as the burnt coffee aroma.

Sally walks in, her hair a wild halo around her head. She smells of cinnamon and something vaguely floral. "Wayne, darling," she chirped. "Shower. Now. You smell like a week-old trout." She didn’t need to mention the trout; since he hadn't gone fishing in a while.

Donnie, meanwhile, was already launching into a diatribe about his Father's general lack of contribution to the household. Wayne tries to explain that he has been running around and doing things that his Mother had asked him to do.

He but he just rolled his eyes. “Later, loser,” he mutters, grabbing his keys and practically sprinting out the door. His new driver’s license puffs out his front pocket like he had actually won something important.

Once he was gone, Sally and Wayne exchange a glance of unspoken understanding.

Wayne imagines, a life where he secretly fills potholes, fighting an emerging mouse infestation, desperately trying to connect with his son, and desperately trying to avoid creating more chaos. He sighs to himself. Sometimes, the only thing that makes sense is taking a shower. Wayne internally admits that being a dad is harder than wrestling a greased piglet in a hurricane. Especially when the kid has a ferret with a penchant for escaping and a mouth like a sewer grate. Donnie, outside gearing to peel out of the driveway in his newly acquired chariot – a beat-up Honda Civic that looked like it'd lost a fight with a combine harvester. His latest verbal assaults involve creative insults and a deeply offensive comments (Wayne knowing that his own anger manifests from fact that someone is out there using his vigilante name).

Sally looks at her husband and conveys, "Pedro got loose again yesterday."

Wayne reacts like a superhero emerging from a manhole – albeit a slightly clumsy one. He practically flies out of his house, grabbing Donnie's driver side door before it could even whisper "freedom."

"Donnie," Wayne booms, his voice echoing frustration of a thousand bungled pothole repairs, "If you talk to me like that again, that car will be wearing more rust than paint. And if that ferret escapes again, he's gonna be learning to live in a slightly less luxurious environment – like, say, the great outdoors."

Donnie's jaw drops. He looks like he's just been informed that the Earth was actually actually flat.

The usual dad-rant wasn't cutting it for Wayne; Feeling that he must up the ante to "threat level: ferret eviction."

"Okay, Dad," he mumbles, his eyes wide. "I... I get it." Feeling like a cross between a disappointed jock and a slightly unhinged McDonald's employee.

Wayne imagines the ferret sticking its head out the window, giving him a knowing wink, as Donnie drives away.

Richie Silva like a calm essence saunters over, with a sunny smile plastered on his face. "Harsh, Wayne," he chuckled, shaking his head.

"It's not your business, Richie," Wayne snaps, instantly regretting it. He already was feeling guilty.

Richie smiles, that infuriatingly calm smile. "Look, my Jenny had a rebellious phase," referring to his daughter, the ridiculously pretty honor student. "Becca and I, we dealt with it. With some tools of kindness and communication."

"Kindness?" Wayne scoffs. "Communication didn't stop the ferret from staging a prison break. Kindness didn't fill potholes."

Richie shrugs. "Potholes? Wayne, all I am saying is that sometimes, a little understanding does the trick." He smiles as he jogs off into the suburban void.

Wayne returns to the kitchen and catches Sally for a kiss as she is gathering her purse and keys to leave for work.

She reminds him of the list of chores that remain to be completed and how happy she will be when they are finished. He smiled and waved her off as he closed the door, he simultaneously texts Kevin that he is looking forward to the night out.

The moon hung like a forgotten pizza roll in the inky sky as Wayne, wrestled his bulky suit into place. His perpetually bewildered sidekick, fiddles with a flask hidden beneath his oversized cardigan.

"This new batch of whiskey," Kevin mumbles, "is...experiential." He takes a surreptitious swig. Experiential, indeed, it was about to become.

Wayne, ever the clumsy hero, tripping over his own feet, sending a cloud of cement dust puffing from his backpack. "Remind me again why we're doing this at 2 AM, Kev?"

Kevin, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses, points a shaky finger at a particularly egregious pothole. "Civic duty, Wayne! Plus, the night offers optimal… uh… pothole-filling conditions. Less traffic." He conveniently omits the part about escaping his impending loneliness and the fact that he desperately needs to test his latest invention – a pothole-filling attachment for his Buick, disguised as a rather futuristic-looking toolbox.

Static fills the airwaves as Wayne, his voice a muffled rumble within his helmet, declares, "Pot-Man to Buick-Mobile: Objective located. Commence… the solidification process."

Kevin, his movements as clumsy and ungainly as a newborn elk attempting a ballet, triggers the device. No controlled jet of concrete follows; instead, a furious eruption of the material overwhelms the pothole, consuming half the roadway and encasing Kevin's already battered Buick in a monstrous, stony avalanche.

Sirens wail.

"Uh oh," Kevin muttered, his eyes widening. His "experiential" whiskey had clearly dulled his already poor driving skills. "This is… less than optimal."

Wayne, a panicked blur of gray fabric and cement, scrambles off the scene waddling as police lights bathing the surroundings in an unsettling blue glow. He leaves the Pot-Man suit abandoned in a bush, its "PM" logo looking decidedly pathetic next to the arresting chaos. The whole scene reminded him of a particularly bad attempt at a fishing trip. From a safe distance, Wayne watches as the officers, their faces illuminated by the flashing lights, gave Kevin the full “you’re-going-to-jail-and-we’re-going-to-take-pictures-of-your-disgrace” treatment. He listens to Kevin’s increasingly desperate pleas for leniency, sprinkled with surprisingly accurate facts about the tensile strength of various concrete mixes.

The police officer placing Kevin in handcuffs, looks at the road and then the truck and back to Kevin. Shaking his head and bereding, "You know that concrete and asphalt don't do well together, it makes the roads worse moron. My brother works for the City. You need permits and unauthorized repairs are going to cost you some money in fines, but drinking and driving too?!" He reads Kevin his rights and places him in the vehicle before spinning off.

Wayne sulks as he cowers to himself hiding in the bushes. A tear runs down his cheek. 'I have to get my buddy out of jail. I just wanted to do something special. Something people could be proud of.'