The blind man leapt in front of a truck in front of a laboratory causing the truck to careen into the building, spilling toxic sludge on the driver, the blind man, two scientists and four guinea pigs, all of whom in turn become mutants. Some would join the forces of good and become heroes, others would side with evil; a few would spend the rest of their days walking the fine line between. Twenty issues later we would find out that the scientists were really amoebic aliens stuffed into robots wrapped in human suits, which were made out of polyester and synthetic skin. It was all rather complicated, too much so for anyone but a child.
Billy had them all memorized, he skipped through the story and went straight to the back of the book where the ads were. They were all scams, he knew that. Despite his father's warnings he had found himself twice before saving box tops and quarters, sending them to New Jersey, and eagerly waiting 8 - 10 weeks. Eventually he would learn that the AUTHENTIC SORCERER'S HANDBOOK AND MAGICK KIT!!! was nothing more than a box of cards and a trick booklet, and that the BONA FIDE X-RAY GOGGLES, SEE THROUGH WALLS, CLOTHES, EVEN LEAD! were nothing more than colored plastics, that could offer him no more information than the encyclopedia could on what it was women had under their clothes that drove men crazy. He knew it was a scam now, but one ad caught his eye:
GENUINE ROCKET PACK
FLY 30 STORIES STRAIGHT UP INTO THE SKY
DAZZLE YOUR NEIGHBORS, CONFUSE NEIGHBORHOOD BIRDS,
BE . A . SUPERHERO
SEND 3 PROOFS OF PURCHASE
TO 1338 MAPLEWOOD
CLARENCE, NEW JERSEY 08896
ADDRESS ENVELOPE BUT DO NOT AFFIX POSTAGE!
Bill knew it was a scam, but the fact that he didn't understand how it would benefit anyone lent it credence. And, oh, the mystery! How would it do anyone any good if he didn't stamp it? Surely, the US government wouldn't be in cahoots with some nickel-and-dime novelty suit in the business of scamming children. They didn't even want money. He soon found himself obediently cutting up comics, addressing an envelope in his best handwriting and sneaking out of the house to mail it. Things like this couldn't wait til morning and they certainly couldn't wait for his parents' permission.
For some reason, his parents knew that if they childproofed the drawer they kept their keys in and refused to give him his own set he would not be able to get out, but never realized that he knew very well how to unlock the windows on the first floor. After his parents went to sleep, the house was his. The whole neighborhood was his, in fact. All he had to do was stay awake.
When he opened the window, he could hear a baby crying. Everything was so quiet that he could not tell if the wail was coming from the apartments next door or from right behind him, and sent shivers up his spine. He zipped up his coat; the scariest part of sneaking out wasn't the thought of getting caught. He didn't even consider it. He would have been in so much trouble for breaking so many rules, that he couldn't consider it. He wasn't supposed to leave the house after dark, he wasn't supposed to leave the house alone; he wasn't supposed to be awake after midnight (after well before that, even) and he was sure there was something else. He knew that if he was caught he was toast, but he'd gotten a little cocky about that. His parents were heavy sleepers, and his Dad snored louder than the stairs creaked, so getting caught wasn't what worried him, it was the act of stepping out of the window and into the thick black of night. He always felt like he some man, some monster, would reach out from the shadows, grab his ankle and drag him off. He closed his eye as he kicked his leg back, jabbing at the air with his toe, kicked his other leg out and dropped.
He walked through the alley. He was told never to go through the alley alone and, as if as a warning, a mangy, fat rat scurried out in front of him as soon as he stepped past the trash cans. He looked both ways, steam wafted out of manhole covers like smoke. It looked so warm, inviting even to a boy of six. He dreamed of exploring the sewers one day, and the underground city he would surely find there. There would be mutants who cracked jokes and pulled pranks on the people above, in wild lairs with stolen electricity and sunken treasure. Billy snapped himself out of his fantasy. Alleys were dangerous places, he shouldn't linger, and it was only about 30 feet to the sidewalk.
On the corner, across the street from the mailbox, there were four teenagers in black hoodies, drinking out of paper bags, and not really going anywhere. They were passing a cigar between them. He recognized one of them, the tallest one, as the guy who was always standing outside in front of Mr. Lee's store. Perhaps he was always outside, standing somewhere, with no intention of leaving. One of them who wore diamond rings (diamonds on a boy!) caught sight of him.
"What's up, Velcro?"
He looked down and crossed one shoe over the other, "Hi."
"What're you doin out, Little Man?"
"I have to mail this before morning," He said with a businesslike sense of importance.
"And what's that?"
He realized that he had the attention of the entire group and lit up, "I'm sending in these proofs of purchase and they're gonna send me a Genuine Rocket Pack!"
"A rocket pack?"
"Genuine?"
"Well, it probably won't be real, but I'm gonna try anyway, you can't get anywhere without trying." The last part was somebody else's words, advice that had been given to him. Upon saying it, he realized that he didn't like it.
"Yeah, well good luck, and if you do get that rocket pack, make sure you bring it by so Ole Mike can get a try."
"Sure thing, I'm Billy by the way, it's nice to meet you."
They gave him their names, which didn't sound like real names at all, and told him to get home before someone "did something" to him, and he trotted off with a newfound sense of pride and accomplishment.
William Jefferson Buhrle's parents named him after the president, and by the time he was six, regretted their faith in the no-longer-new leader who was bombing Afghanistan, and getting impeached (And what had Afghanistan ever done? And what exactly was an impeachment?). They were still asleep and none the wiser as Billy slipped back through the window, made him a bowl of popcorn, and turned on the TV.
TV was way more interesting at night. Sometimes he would watch the news, and sometimes Oprah, and Jerry Springer, and Sally Jesse and Rush Limbaugh and Richard Bey and Geraldo but sometimes they would show skateboarders, and surfers; sometimes they would show old movies with big rubber, fake-looking monsters like Reptillicus, and sometimes they would show cartoons that weren't supposed to be funny. These were the best. Cartoons made entirely out by computers, cartoons that had no talking, cartoons with wooden and clay puppets and slow piano music, scribbly cartoons that looked like they'd been done in pencil from countries Billy knew nothing about like Czechoslovakia. These were at the true heart of Billy's insomnia. He took out a pen and a piece of construction paper and wrote out his night's adventure, which he then hid under the bed so his parents wouldn't find it, and drifted off into sleep.
He dreamt he was a superhero that night. All of his friends were. Kim True had the body of a robot, Gregg was super strong, and Joey could turn into animals like a werewolf except anykind of animal. Billy could fly and had a million gadgets to fight crime. They all flew in to the tune of their own theme song with red-white-and-blue rainbows pluming trails beneath them. They were cartoons, like the kind Kim's older brother bought off the street in Koreatown. As they flew in, evil robots were poised atop buildings, ready to attack but they were quickly defeated and the hero's celebrated with a pizza party. Billy woke up very tired and very happy.
----
A few nights later, Billy found himself pacing the house again. He had just read an article on witchcraft in the encyclopedia that was very interesting but he didn't want to do any more reading and nothing was good on TV, just infomercials and a rerun of a basketball game he'd watched with his Dad earlier. Suddenly, there was a knock of the back door, hard and urgent, but not frantic. Three loud knocks, a minute, and three loud knocks again.
Billy froze. It was easily two and there was no one that should have been knocking on their door at that hour, especially the back door. Anyone that knew them would have known to come to the front door and ring the bell. That was the only way that his parents, who slept upstairs, like he was supposed to, would hear. Whoever it was was looking for him. He threw the covers off the couch, pulled the couch bed out and hid underneath it. Three more knocks and nothing. Billy reached up and turned up the volume on the television. One channel was selling diamonds that "look like a thousand dollars, for just a fraction of the price!", another was busy ruining a shirt that would come back from the wash with a reception like it was the second coming. Billy settled on the one where the knife cuts through pennies and lead without dulling.
He tried to calm his nerves. Whoever it was, is gone now. If it were an emergency, he would probably get help next door. Dave and Jared would hear him even if he didn't ring the bell. It was probably just some drunk. Still, Billy couldn't shake the feeling that it was for him. When the infomercial was over, and the noise had been dead for over 45 minutes, Billy decided he would have to check the door, or else not be able to sleep for the rest of the night. He grabbed a knife from the dishwasher and strafed across the kitchen, just low enough where he couldn't be seen from the outside. He wasn't sure what to do or what he would see when he got to the door. He feared some vigilant figure would be waiting for him on the other side with an even bigger knife, one that he was ready to use. By the time he got to the door, he had to nearly force his eyes open.
When he did, he saw nothing. No figure in the doorway, the yard, or the alley. A couple of birds were sitting on a tree and glanced over at him quickly and then turned away. He wasn't satisfied, he lifted the knife and jammed it into the drawer with the childproof locks, crudely jerking his hand around until the lock popped. He wondered why he hadn't tried it earlier and questioned his parents' logic in locking up the house keys but left him with full, unsupervised access to the kitchen knives that could themselves easily cut through lead and copper and perhaps even tired, clumsy boys without dulling. He chuckled to himself that, through his nervousness, that he couldn't have opened the door for the stranger even if he'd wanted to.
He unlocked the door, but before he opened it the wind picked up, shaking the screen door and blowing a sealed envelope underneath. When he opened the door, he saw that there was nothing left to see, just the envelope, addressed simply to BILLY BUHRLE with no other information. Inside was a typed letter, stating
BILLY:
RECEIPT OF PAYMENT FOR
ONE (1) GENUINE ROCKET PACK (pat. pen.)
WE APOLOGIZE THAT WE ARE UNABLE TO USE THE POST OFFICE FOR THIS PARTICULAR TRANSACTION, BUT WOULD LIKE TO INFORM YOU THAT PRODUCT WILL BE DELIVERED IN THE SAME MANNER AS LETTER. IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO INTERCEPT PRODUCT, REFUNDS WILL NOT BE PROVIDED. THANK YOU.
-ED
For the next few weeks Billy could not sleep (how could anyone?), his grades took a dive and he became extremely nervous and fidgety, darting his head towards the back door whenever there was a noise, refusing to go to baseball practice, out to dinner, or even to the arcade and refused to give any explanation. He couldn't tell his parents, he thought. He was in too deep. Besides, it was way more fun this way.
As luck would have it, on the second week, Billy contracted chicken pox. He would no longer have to go to school, no longer be expected to go out for fun, and his previous odd behavior could all be explained by the slow onset of the uncomfortable sickness. All he had to do was lie on the couch bed all day with his TV and his comic books in the den by the kitchen and try not to move too far if he could help it. Usually, children act quite terribly when they have the chicken pox, especially at Billy's age. Billy, on the other hand, was an angel, and his parents remarked at what a wonderful child they had. How sweet and innocent. He even did the homework his cousin brought over for him. How well they must have raised him.
It was while he was sick that the package came. He wasn't really that sick anymore, but he was trying to stretch it as long as it would take. For a couple days now, he had lain in bed all day and bounced off the walls all night, once his parents went to sleep. He was doing jumping jacks in front of the TV when he heard the knock. One. Two. Three. This time he ran to the door, jimmied open the drawer, grabbed the keys, and flung the door open, ready to meet his odd courier, to toast him and tip him a dollar even, but when he opened the door all there was, was a package, wrapped in brown paper, that looked a little too small for a rocket pack. His eyes were already welling up with tears, anticipating the disappointment he thought he was ready for, but when unwrapped, the package was indeed impressive. Perhaps... and that's all he was willing to think, lest he get his hopes up again.
The rocket pack consisted of two iron cones, with pliable aluminumlike straps, and a small folded piece of paper with these instructions:
REACH BEHIND BOOSTERS
1. PULL DOWN CAPE-FLAP
-FAILURE TO PULL DOWN FLAP MAY RESULT IN SERIOUS PAIN AND INJURY TO THE USER
2. STRAP SELF IN
3. PULL CHORD
-DO NOT PULL CHORD UNLESS YOU ARE OUTSIDE. DO NOT PULL WHILE YOU ARE STANDING UNDER TREES, AWNINGS, BRIDGES, ETC. DO NOT PULL IF YOU ARE NOT PREPARED TO USE PRODUCT. DO NOT PULL IF YOU ARE NOT WEARING A HELMET.
4. THE GENUINE ROCKET PACK! HAS ONLY TWO SPEEDS: ON AND OFF. IF YOU’RE INEXPERIENCED WITH THE DELICATE ART OF TEMPERED ACCELERATION AND DECELERATION, IT WOULD BE WISE TO FASHION YOURSELF A PARACHUTE BEFORE THE FIRST LAUNCH
5.. RUNS ON ONE (1) LITRE OF DIESEL FUEL UNTIL FUEL IS ENTIRELY USED UP. AS THERE IS NO METER OR GUAGE IT WOULD BE BEST TO ACCLIMATE YOURSELF TO ITS TYPICAL FUEL USUAGE.
That was it. Billy ran outdoors, and strapped himself in. He reached behind him and felt a little cloth tab. He pulled it to his tailbone and looked up. The moon was like a big target that night, daring him on to adventure. Without thinking about anything at all, Billy pulled the string. Immediately, there was a sharp pain, somewhere he couldn't identify, somewhere around where the head meets the neck that wrenched his eyes closed. His stomach sunk and he felt himself vomiting. He closed his eyes as tight as he could and when he opened them they were cold. He blinked and looked around and saw nothing, then down; the ground was much further away from him than he'd thought, and seemed to be moving farther. In the many dreams he had had about flying it had never felt like this, He was always aimed towards something, not backing away from it. Perhaps if he looked up at the sky above him, it would feel right, like the flying he was used to.
Unfortunately, real flying is far different than dream flying. Billy craned his neck and lifted his chin and immediately succumbed to an overwhelming sense of vertigo. Things started to spin and he wasn’t sure which direction he was facing anymore. There were rooftops organized like patchwork at first, then trees which were at first the size of fists and then much bigger, infinitely so. He was making a nosedive. He arched his spine and curved his legs and felt himself right a bit, passing over the tops of garages, where he saw all the lost treasures they held: Frisbees, kites, bird’s nests. If he gathered them all up, he would have proof of where he was, but how to stop?
He thought of the instructions on the piece of paper, something about acceleration and deceleration. Since it had only two speeds and had been accelerating steadily since he pulled the chord, he would have to pull it again to decelerate. Both jets shut off immediately, and he again felt the cold wind on his back, which had been warmed to discomfort by the heat of the jets. He could only enjoy it for a second though, before he crashed into his parents’ garage, scraping his chest on the tar and slamming his head on the TV antenna. He could feel his nose begin to bleed and could sense the sun coming out. His parents would be awake soon, and their chicken pocked son would be stuck on the garage.
Billy had an idea, again thinking about acceleration and deceleration. He jumped off the roof straight as a board with fingers on both hands crossed, and pulled the chord, over and over again. First he’d go up, and then down, then up, and then down. Gradually getting closer and closer to the ground, albeit in rough jerks that made him nauseous.
When his mother came to check on him, his blanket was tucked to his eyes. Underneath it, his clothes and face were caked with blood. At his feet, near an empty bottle of juice was a still warm genuine rocket pack. Alice put her hand on her son’s forehead. His fever dissipated, but there was something else.
“Honey, you’ve got a nasty bump on your head.”
“Yeah, I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and I bumped my head in the dark.”
“Aw. Poor thing.”
“Mom? I think I’d like to go to school tomorrow.”
Later that night, he checked the fuel tank. It was half full. He had been out about two hours, he figured. He would take it out for an hour and a half tonight.
The fly went a lot smoother tonight. He went over the lake, which looked black, like a bottomless pit looking to swallow him up below. He spat in it, and it didn’t even splash. The beach glowed under halogen. The manmade dunes took on hues of yellow and green. There were people out, even at three, and four in the morning. Old men, with their old dogs at their feet, slept under the trees with hats pulled over their eyes; college students, dressed in pajamas and gym shoes strolled aimlessly along the bike path. None of them noticed him, as little kids are invisible to most people.
Soon he learned to pump his own gas, much to the bewilderment of the men who worked the late shift at Citgo. Each night he would go farther than the last, perching himself atop church steeples next to the gargoyles, he would swoop into cemeteries and zoos to tease the dogs and bears, he found the city to be littered with alleyways decorated with 50-foot-tall murals of jazz musicians and revolutionaries, tucked away side streets where rusty old tanks stood as war memorials, and little shanty towns of homeless people that were not much different than how he’d imagined the secret communities of sewer people. The sheets of paper soon overwhelmed the space under his bed, where he also hid his rockets. He was always tired and always happy. His seventh birthday came and went and he didn’t ask for anything. Even his parents almost missed it.
He was so happy, and so overwhelmed by his happiness…he was destined to ruin it. It was in his nature as a child. He decided to tell his parents what he’d been doing.
“Mom , I want you to know something.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been leaving the house to go on adventures.”
“What? When?”
“When you and Dad are asleep.”
“What,” her voice lost its chipper tone.
“All over the city, you should see some of the things I’ve seen.”
“William, if you’re telling the truth and I find out you’ve been leaving this house at night, oooh I don’t even know what I’ll do! Do you know how dangerous these streets are?”
“Yes, I do, but I’m not taking the streets.”
“What?”
“I’m flying.”
“What?”
“I bought a GENUINE rocket backpack from one of those ads in the back of my comics and I’ve been flying all over the city. I’ve seen tanks, and opossums, and street fights,”
“Oh, I see.” The warmth returned to his mother’s voice.
“Really, I have.”
“Okay, I’m gonna make some tea and you can tell me all about it,” she was talking in one of those amused voices he noticed adults use when they’re lying just a little. He had not yet learned the word condescending yet, but that's what it was.
“Nevermind.”
Billy shuffled to his room, slamming the door behind him, sad that she didn’t believe him. He pulled out one of the drawers under his bed, pulled it all the way out, reached in and grabbed his papers.
March 21st. It takes 21 minutes to fly to the point in the lake where you can’t see the city.
June 13th. Ole Mike is the only person who has seen me fly. He has a lot of gold teeth when he smiles. He is my best friend.
June 19th. Flew to the top of a church with a big golden dome. Caught a pigeon. Pet it for an hour and let it go.
April 1st. Someone lit a building on fire. Across the street I saw the firemen put it out. They saved a cat and a girl, then the news came. Happy April Fool’s Day. This really happened.
He crumpled them all up and shoved them under the bed, yanking out his rocket pack. He strapped it across his chest and found that it was snug. I must have grown. He reached behind him and pulled down the cape, which had turned from a silver sheet of metal so pliable that it may have been fabric, to a rock hard ore that scratched his back up if he pulled it down too hard. He opened the window, jumped out, and pulled the chord.
The engines roared to life and in a second’s time he was flung over the apartment building next door. His eyes had to adjust, as he’d never tried to fly during the day before.
The son was starting to set out West and he wanted to watch it. It was cold out, but he was sweating. He flew west to the park that was also a forest. A little wooden wigwam village dedicated to the Iroquois trail it was built on. Frost had already covered the little wooden towers. He needed to get closer to the sky. He wanted t be enveloped in its scarlet hue. He flew further and further up until all he could see was red in every direction, he spun around flew in somersaults and loop-de-loops. He didn’t care who saw him. This was a special day. He outlasted the sun’s time in the sky, and tipped an imaginary hat to the man in the moon. He counted stars and attempted writing his name in the sky, but the rockets produced no exhaust so he just made himself dizzy, like he had been that first night when he crashed into the garage, and just like he had that night he started to fall. He tilted his head up and curved his spine but it was no use. It took him a second to realize that the he had forgotten to refill the gas and had lingered for too long in the sky.
He plummeted, with his eyes closed, listening to himself pray. His body convulsed in shock as he hit the water. The water was cold and brackish, green and semi frozen, but it did well to break his fall. When he emerged, he was shivering. His teeth chattered. The park was empty. He wondered how long he’d been flying, when he remembered that the park had been empty since he had got there. It was winter and even the ducks that had occupied the lagoon he’d just crawled out of had left for warmer climates.
He walked home, shivering and chattering the whole way. He had never walked so long in his life. His wet thighs rubbed together and burned after just a mile and there were still two or three to go. The further he got, the more lights were extinguished, first from the stores and Laundromats, then the restaurants, and finally from the windows of houses and apartment building. The moon loomed large in the middle of the sky, mocking him, and somewhere a baby was crying.
With about a mile to go, he saw a group of men in black hoodies, standing around a fire hydrant and sharing a cigar.
“Yo Velcro! You’re all wet!”
“Yeah, what happened to you, Little Man?”
“You gotta stop sneaking out at night.”
“Damn, look at that funky backpack!”
They all started laughing and his eyes welled up. Switch, the one who called him Velcro, walked up to him, knelt down and whispered, “How far do you live from here?”
His eyes poured as he sobbed out a, “F-f-five blocks.”
“You need a ride Velcro?”
“Y-y-yes, Sir.”
“Okay. Kay guys, I’ma get this little guy home I’ll be right back. In the car, Switch took off his hoodie and gave it to the boy, “Not that you wanna hear it but you’re gonna get a nasty cold.”
“I know.”
“And probly a beat down.”
“I know.”
“I’ma let you off at this corner here, okay? Parents don’t really want to see their kids getting out of my car, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Cool.”
When he got home his parents were waiting for him. His mother’s eyes were puffy and red, and his father’s voice was hoarse. His mother held him tight while his father paced the room yelling. He ripped the rocket pack out of his son’s hands and they watched as he grabbed a hammer, took the pack outside, and smashed it unrecognizable. Billy was grounded for a month, which didn’t seem that bad. He snuck out the next day to check the garbage but it had already been picked up.
Billy and his parents tried to contact the company hat sent him the “toy”. Billy was hoping for a replacement. His parents were threatening legal action. Billy sent in dozens of envelopes with three proofs-of-purchase, six proofs-of-purchase, fifteen-proofs-of-purchase, one and five and ten and twenty dollars even. Some had postage and some didn’t; some were returned and some weren’t. At the same time his parents sent out dozens of subpoenas. It was no use, the lawyers told them. There was no such town and there was no such zip code. In fact, in the eyes of the law and the United States patent office there was no such thing as a Genuine Rocket Pack.
Billy missed his adventures, and was sullen for months to come. When his eighth birthday rolled around, he asked for an unclipped copy of the first issue of his favorite comic, which had skyrocketed in price and his parents still didn’t understand the story. When he got it his face lit up. He read it with renewed passion. The black-and-white panels seemed all the more gritty and dynamic. The twists and turns had him wide eyed and when it was over…the last page. He didn’t want to rush it. He prepared himself for an onslaught of frauds and schemes. OFFICIAL FART GUM, HAVE YOUR FRIENDS IN STITCHES! ORIGINAL HELICOPTER BEANIE! CAN IT FLY? CERTIFIED POTATO GUN! MAKE YOUR FRIENDS REACH FOR THE SKY!
He laughed as he read through them all, biting his lip, crossing fingers and toes as he turned the last page. It had to be there. He’d just messed up the address, that’s all. But when he opened his eyes, it wasn’t there. He read and reread and it just wasn’t there. In its place was an ad for SURE-ENOUGH JOE SHAMPOO! TURN YOUR SISTER’S HAIR BLUE! He thought about getting it, for old times, but just sighed and put down the comic, carefully placing it behind the drawer, with the details of his adventures.
A few weeks later, Billy sat on the floor of the den eating popcorn with extra butter. It was some cartoon where a dimwitted coyote was trying to fight a windmill, but it was hard to tell why. There was a knock on the door. Three hard knocks, in a row. Billy leapt up, spilling popcorn all over the floor and ran to the door. Before he could reach for his key, an envelope slid into the kitchen.
It was addressed BILLY BUHRLE with nothing else.
WE’RE SORRY TO INFORM YOU THAT PRODUCT HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED FOR THE TIME BEING. WE WILL KEEP YOUR NAME IN OUR DATABASE FOR SUCH A TIME WHEN PRODUCT IS AVAILABLE AGAIN. MAKE SURE YOU STOP BY OUR FACTORY IF YOU EVER FIND YOURSELF IN CLARENCE, NEW JERSEY FOR A COMPLIMENTARY TOUR. WE LOOK FORWARD TO MEETING YOU.
-ED.
