A large parking lot was visible through the windows of a trendy neighborhood’s casual Japanese restaurant. This same block sports a high-end Japanese bistro, a total dive bar, an upscale happy hour place, a Mexican cantina, a Polynesian bar with umbrella drinks, a couple of shops, and a Cross Fit/Boot Camp on the corner; although not quite as common as Starbucks, there are way more kettle balls in windows than ever before. Not that patrons of most of these establishments will ever make their way 30 feet to the open air fitness space, and not that the ones who are actually coming just for Cross Fit really want to walk past all these bars, through the gauntlet of cigarette-smoking customers temporarily banished to the sidewalk.
These were my Saturday night musings as my husband and I walked along, looking for someplace new for dinner. He had mistakenly misread the clock, and we hurried ourselves out the door for a 7:25 pm movie, convinced we only had an hour for dinner, when in fact we had two hours. So we went to the impossible-to-park neighborhood figuring we finally had enough time to circle around a few times and find a spot, then stroll to whatever combination of menus and ambience looked promising.
We found a great place, new for me, but reminiscent of many a dinner my husband had enjoyed there in a former lifetime. We were served slowly, and we had the time for it, a rare combination; the food was better than I’d expected, and although we weren’t at our conversational best, I didn’t care. I was having an affair with an exquisitely prepared dish so much better than the menu listing suggested (Sautéed wild mushrooms on polenta cake with shaved Pecorino cheese), that our stalled, overly tired selves from a moment before were forgotten. Every bite infused a morsel of date night romance that both of us were too tired to have mustered before the dish arrived on the table.
The evening was taking a turn for the better, and on our way back to the car, we passed again the bevy of dives, shops, casual and fine eateries, the tobacco-infested hipsters and the disheveled homeless and the springtime tourists, until my eye caught what would be the total prize for this night. He was in the parking lot visible through the glass-enclosed picnic tables of the casual Japanese eatery; the lot was lower, as the street we were on was on a bit of a hill, so we were looking directly across and down, and there, like a toy figure on a stage, was Superman. He had blue tights, the body-fitting suit, the slicked-up, shiny hair, the S on his chest. He was standing at the back of a motor home, an old motor home, with visible rust and the chunky geometric lines of vehicles that were replaced long ago with sleek curves. No speeding bullet, this thing.
I was transfixed. This is the middle of May, so a Halloween costume was out. Was he starting his day or ending it? Was he for hire for a party? This was not the kind of neighborhood where folks would bring youngsters to a restaurant for a birthday party for kids. Was he a stripper? Did his body suit conceal a simple string or Velcro tab he could pull that would reveal a Super String?
As I continued to watch, my sense of him began to shift. The thing was, he didn’t look very, well, super. Maybe it was because the backdrop was the old motor home, and that he opened the passenger door to sit down and take something off, his Super Booties, I guess. He looked so small in the perspective of distance and height; a mere marionette with a string cut so that his Super Head drooped on his Super Chest. He wasn’t flying, wasn’t saving anyone from evil, and all around him were empty cars, neatly aligned in their rows. No damsels in distress, no villains. No one else in costume, assuming we circumvent the postmodern argument that humans dress in socially-constructed costumes every day. We are certainly living in a jumbled and confused metropolis, so the setting is perfect. I just don’t think this particular Superman is what we need.
Even though that guy had the tights and body suit, my guy is a much better Superman. He is strong and brave and clever and muscular and chivalrous and would look good in tights again (I haven’t seen a picture, but he loves the story of his one-time college Halloween ballerina costume, complete with tiara). He will never make me live in a motor home, not even a shiny new one. When we are in our groove, it seems as if he has traveled light years to find me.
Date night was definitely picking up.
“Thanks, Superman,” I said to both of them, in a voice so quiet only Super Hearing could hear.
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