Replacement

The heavy stone door seals itself with a whomping wail, the reverberation of air causing a rattle in my bones in an honest portrayal of my current conscious state. To say I am rattled every time the most minute of notes disturbs the harrowing quiet of my solitude would be an understatement. I envision sound waves as they would appear on a computer screen: a neat line dashing undaunted through timeless margins in search of an impossible end—only to be randomly disrupted by the jagged arcs of an intrusive species. Obstacles presenting themselves in aggressive juxtaposition to my goal. I hear the enemy in the skittering legs of tiny refugees, panicked hairy creatures fleeing each corner of the room longing for some narrow darkness to swallow all proof of their existence. I know the end is at hand when footsteps, heavy and hollow bearing the weight of one bearing the world, come dragging in unannounced (by “unannounced” I obviously mean without the your typical warnings: angry creek of the stone entry, followed by the usual four-second-pause at the door as you free yourself of an illustrious cape, resolving in a more rhythmic stride to the leather loveseat at the heart of the space) and I feel all the hair on my arms bend to kiss my skin.

I’d loved to replace sound with something more pleasant.

There’s something to quiet, now that I think about it. Now that I’m here. With you.

But on those days where you come slithering in, dragging your feet like oars in an insufferable storm, you tend to startle me. You see, you have patterns. You like to get up in the morning and eat your breakfast, I suppose. You always come in looking rather well-fed if I may say so. (Images of a broad-shouldered mustang in a field all his own come to mind whenever I think this.) You stretch a bit—you know, loosen yourself up; you’re not the twenty-something-year-old you used to be when you started this madness. (I say “madness” with a sort of tongue-in-cheek wink, a sly but-we-really-get-where-he’s-coming-from kind of flippancy.)

No, now you have routines. It’s not that I knew you before—obviously not, right? Where on this cold, calculating earth could you and I have possibly met? Even though, in my heart, I feel it was inevitable. Like…how could we not? Even in this way? Even a Superhero needs someone else to step it up once in a while. I get that. Truly. But I know you now in just such a way that I’m sure I can accurately predict your past. Now, the steadiness in your rituals tells me you’ve learned to be patient with yourself. You’ve learned to harness time and make it work for you—not the other way around. I see intention in every line of your tendons. I love you for it.

You’ll never know how hard that is to come across.

It is…irreplaceable.

I wait sixty seconds (followed by two more because you’ve been tediously unpredictable these days) and then I step out into the cool air of your stone enclave of a hideout. If we want to get particular—and I’m willing to, if that is what you want—I crawl out. I crawl out of the 36” by 35” space below one of your mega-computers. It’s one of the ones housing all the wires, cables, and dangly bits for that fancy machinery. It was a little uncomfortable at first, clearly, but I did have the foresight to bring a decorative bit of ribbon with me the Second Time and was therefore able to tie the cords in an orderly fashion and make clear room for myself without any trouble.

Huh.

I guess that’s the first task I ever did for you, isn’t it? Getting a few crappy wires to untangle in the heap of wishy-washy mechanisms you know nothing about fixing. You’re good at a lot of things, Captain Big Brother, but you are not good at homemaking. And no wonder, right? Given our similar backstories….

When my limbs have fully extended, I give them an extra shake, then a bounce to make sure the blood is going the route it needs to ensure optimal survival. It was tough, at first. Contorting myself like that. It felt so much like my childhood—twisting and curling to make an ill-fitting fabric stretch over an ill-fitting physique—that I almost chickened out.

But: I replaced the thought!

I decided that sometimes climbing to higher heights means stepping outside of your comfort zone and so I chose to climb with you despite not being comfortable at all. I mean—compared to what you do—what kind of sacrifice even is this? It’s nothing in the scheme of it all. You’re much more important but it doesn’t mean I can’t learn from you. The wise get wiser by acknowledging their elders, after all. Or something like that.

Once I am alert and have sorted the kinks and burrs in my muscles, I set to work immediately.

There is so much to maintain in the lair of a beloved Superhero. Some days I just don’t know where to start. Do I start with your many notorious capes, varied in their color and composition, unique in each testament of love stated by you in a violent force of justice presented on an unsuspecting day. Here: the blue silk, woven with timbres of honey and lilac, a present from the heiress saved during an explosion aimed at wiping out, not just her, but the whole notorious line of criminals positioned in her ancestry. The Cattaneo Manner was evacuated moments before the mighty detonation, CBB the last streak of violet light to be noted before the blast. He was pure energy that day—purple, razzle-dazzle violet, explosive bursts of lavender jewels fluttering in the moonlight—and no one forgot the shock at their relief when the culprits of many of their tragedies that day stumbled onto the ash-field pavement, coughing and wheezing the proof of their persistence in this world.

Or maybe this one: the soft, veneer of purple satin. The cape I first saw you in. It wasn’t nothing, you know? The way you appeared in my life, a feeding tube dousing me with nothing but necessary nutrients despite my not knowing what the hell a feeding tube was. You were there that day, large and shining. Big and beautiful. Some days I remember the way it felt to be a victim of a crime…but other days, I remember you. Just you. You in this mauve, satin cape, looking suave and ready to date. Just kidding. I don’t want to date you. I want to help you. I want to be of service. The same way you were of service when my shrieking mother set the whole thing ablaze—drapes led to carpet, led to fabric, led to walls and windows, led to ceilings and picture frames and favorite shirts and favorite plants and beloved knickknacks and …. and…. and…It was a lot. Maybe I wouldn’t be here…if not for you.

See, now, this is something I share in common with millions of people. We love you. You are a Superhero that goes beyond Superhero measurements. You take it personally, and that is something…something I’ve never seen. Something I want to be a part of? I think. I do. I want to help you—even if it’s stupid.

I think that possibly, I’ve made a mistake. I may have hurt you with my helpful intention. You may not like that I sneak into your place of thought, planning, and worship and that I bustle around touching this and that with no regard for its history or station. I set things up so you can knock them down without ever breaking stride. And you never do break stride, do you? Not when you snatch up one of the many gadgets off your rotating silver spectacle of a tool table, never noting that they have been neatly arranged according to size and primary function. I thought you might appreciate the primary function part--you’re a very practical guy, Captain Big Brother. Not even when you come in on Friday mornings to your favorite snacks laid out before you, energy for the cruel hours you like to log watching crime all over the city and measuring which ones you’ll begin plotting Justice against next. You never bat an eye as blueberries, ripe and spilling, roll underfoot only to get crushed by an excited knee-jerk reaction to a gritty crime. You note it in your notebook and move along to something else still, a prince aware of his crown.

I decide to start with your wall of accolades, a feat of ego if one ever saw, but justified nonetheless. It is a massive bookshelf made of brass handles and sleek wooden shelves. It sits against the rough stone in glorious, refreshing contrast. On it is everything from medals, to trophies, to certificates, to merit badges, to oddly shaped objects that have been so imbued with meaning by townsfolk and historians alike that what looks like a fist-sized boulder is actually meant as an award from the gracious people of yet another city saved. Marvelous. Well, done. I meant it. This is what I think every time I wheel out the ladder you keep tucked in one of many spacious corners. I think this as I climb each rung until I’m at the very end. I start with the first one. A glass mirror with the words, In Recognition of Your Tireless Efforts -- Mayor Kim Kim -- 2018. I don’t know what the mirror’s supposed to represent, but I do enjoy the satisfying wink it gives after a good polishing.

I do this meticulously, like always. It takes a long time, but somehow, I’m happy.

I always wanted a big brother, anyone really, but specifically a big brother. The idea of someone big and strong whose job it was to protect you--even from your own parents, because that too was a battle shared by the both of you. I never wanted to be replaced--swapped out like a child’s shoe, before she and I really got to know each other. My mother got the help she needed, I heard, but she got it from someone else. Then she and that someone else learned how to be happy and they went and taught each other and then taught a new person they had made. But no one ever came back to teach me.

But the one thing I never needed teaching how to do: loving you. Appreciating you. Thanking you. Some days I fantasize about meeting you, standing next to your lengthy stature and seeing who has the longest fingers, the curliest hair. But I know that can and will likely never be. Again, I’m okay with just this. This is my humble plea, it is all I can offer to someone so glorious as you, and I’m glad you seem to appreciate it, even if you yourself don’t realize the magic around you is not self-creating.

It’s a frightening and exhilarating thing, building your own little world within the chaos of someone’s else’s. This lair, this private and cold place where you hide your best but most intense traits not ready to be perceived by others, but that you enjoy in yourself--this place was no home before. But slowly, steadily--tediously, even--I built a world for both of us. Well, the three of us, Henry included. Henry, who came weeks after me, is a fine choice of an assistant, by the way. Normally, I’d be jealous of the way he hawks your every move, predicting what you’ll need just as you reach for it. God, I am jealous! But I’m also grateful; he’s another one. A person who truly loves you in his own unique way. I can sense these things. I’ve spent my entire life searching for the meaning and proof of the thing. You’re all I’ve found.

I keep polishing, gentle circles, round and round, patiently, getting all corners. The days I do your trophy display, I expect it to take up most of my “free” time--that is, the time I’m free from my little dungeon within a dungeon. Long enough to stretch my legs, do a few chores, rummage through the many unfathomable artifacts you’ve collected in your adventures. Then it’s back into hiding I go before the balance is shifted too soon too much and the illusion bursts like a ruptured organ, splattering rude awakenings everywhere.

No, it is not easy building an entire world comprised of three people (with the occasional 4^th or 5^th but they’re only tourists) whose every function serves to fulfill one desire, just one. To make it easier on you, just a little, The Man who saved us both once. I know--I did my research on old Henry (he’s actually pretty young judging from his boyish cheeks juxtaposing a brooding brow) and I’ll have you know he’s the boy you pulled out of that falling school bus, purple rain falling behind you as you both flew away. I bet you have no idea. Clueless as you are. That’s why we’re here, Henry and I. You need to be taken care of. Henry has a lot on his plate as it is keeping an eye on your brand, health, and estate in a rapid-fire circular sequence. You never care for yourself; you just obsess, obsess, obsess over these criminals!

It’s not healthy to obsess, you know. It’s a trait you should think of replacing.

Anywho, this is a delicate ecosystem we inhabit, the three of us; one false move and it’s all over. I think, if you really think about it, we all want the same things. Right? I understand you may not be able to see that through the shock and terror of finding a stranger living in your personal space, and so I keep a distance. It’s for the best. I get it. Truly.

Some time passes and I’m done. Satisfied, I carry the ladder back. I am right in the middle of the room to the side of the stone entry (mere feet from my lovely hidey space that I long to crawl back into and escape this potential hell awaiting me) when you walk in. Both of you.

Henry wears a well-tailored brown suit and dress shoes. His glasses sit on the bridge of his thin nose as he takes your cape while you talk strategy.

“By the way, thank you, friend,” you say humbly, surprisingly.

“Sir?” Henry.

“For the work you do around the lair. It’s been really lovely since you came.”

“...Sir?”

I clench my teeth. I’m frozen with my arms extended in silent supplication to my hiding spot.

“You know--the cleaning, the snacks, the attention to detail. I don’t say it often but it really does help. I want you to know that. Whoever you hire, don’t replace them.”

“I...”

The organ pumps and pumps viciously, threatening explosion and the release of those nasty rude awakenings I mentioned earlier.

“Yes, Henry?”

“I...”

And then I realize it. The sudden stillness in both of them, their backs to me. I can almost feel the hairs rising on the backs of their necks as they sense me--sense something, someone. With just a fraction of a head turn or the slightest flick of the eyes, I could be exposed to both. Everything can break and our little world, youthful and still blazing, will have been lost to the moors of biological and societally-induced fears. He will never be able to place the correct name on my love nor will he get to see it and so it will die with me and whatever happens to the shell of a person they haul out of here and label a stalker. I know this. You know. Henry knows. I am as sure of it at this moment as I am my own name.

So, why then, is Henry suddenly fixated on the laces of his leather wingtips and you so eager to make sure your coat is adjusted on its hook with the tenacity of a woodpecker, doing the same task over and over and over again.

Could it be? Could you know too? Really know what this all is? Are you truly the God-send I label you as? Do you understand everything?

I don’t give any of us the chance to ponder on our own sanity, loneliness, or inability to compromise with complicated truths. I just run as quickly as I can to my cabinet, tuck my knees under me, and close the door oh-so-gently as to not rattle the frail walls of a perfect illusion.

Like a movie resuming after the hasty mash of the “play” button, you both move along in your process, speaking of the day’s events in order of importance. I adjust the wires overhead and settle into something like a sound slumber.

I can’t be sure, but for some reason, Henry and you speak a little softer, not too loud as to disturb a resting human.

Whatever the future holds, I found safety in the notion that there will be no replacements tonight, at least.