Election Year Blues: please, please, for the love of God, leave me alone!

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Superman balks at being asked to save the cheerleader

He’s the man of steel. The protector of the people. He’s able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. But that kind of activity level makes a man value his sleep, so when the call to duty comes in the form of a whisper in the wee hours of morning, Superman thinks twice about answering the call.

(You will need to have seen an episode of--or a commercial for--NBC's "Heroes" to understand this.)

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“Save the cheerleader.”

Superman rolls over and swats at the air. Damn mosquitos. You’d think the Super Apartment would be pest free, but no.

“Save the cheerleader. Save the world.”

Now he’s awake—barely. The world needs saving? “What is it?” he asks the air around him, not knowing who’s called for help. “Is it Lex? Godzilla? Eminem?” Where is that voice coming from?

“Save the cheerleader,” the whisper repeats.

Superman is getting worried now. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that meatball sub right before bed. “Who’s talking? Where are you?” he asks, getting out of bed to turn on the light. Nobody’s there.

“Save the cheerleader. Save the world.”

“Can you give me a little more information?” Superman asks the air. “What cheerleader? Where? How does she affect the rest of the world?”

Silence. Maybe he’s imagining it. After all—meatball sub.

“Listen, buddy,” he says, irritated. “I get maybe four hours of sleep a night. People are constantly calling for help—and it’s not like I mind. Hey, it’s my job, right? But I’m not psychic. I typically get a phone call or someone at the door, and usually a general address. The disembodied voice is new for me. So, fine, you don’t want to show yourself. Can I at least get some Yahoo driving directions or something? Or a name? How about a name?”

“Claire,” the whisper relents.

“Claire,” Superman repeats. “Claire the cheerleader.” He sighs. “God, I hate cheerleaders.”

“Save the cheerleader,” the voice repeats.

“Yeah, yeah,” Superman says, his voice rising. “I heard you the first several times. Now where is this cheerleader, and what do I save her from? And if you say I need to take her to the prom or some crap like that, I will hunt down your pitiful little voice and beat the crap out of you.”

There’s a slight croak when the voice comes back, a little softer this time. “Save the cheerleader?”

“Listen here, Mister Invisible. I’m a busy man. A busy man who, as previously mentioned, has limited time to sleep. It’s not that I don’t care about this cheerleader—whoever she is—but I can hardly just fly around aimlessly looking for a cheerleader in trouble. Because, honestly, I’ve never met a cheerleader who wasn’t in trouble. Usually with math…” He runs his hands through his already-disheveled hair. “So what you’re gonna need to do is—are you listening?”

“Yes,” the whisper replies softly. Well, obviously “softly,” since it’s a whisper.

“I’m getting in the shower, because, thanks to you, I’m awake now. I’m gonna put on my tights and have a piece of toast. And by the time I’m done with my toast, I want to see something in writing on the hall table—see the hall table over there?” he says, gesturing through the doorway.

“Yeah.”

“A piece of paper on that hall table that tells me where or how to find this cheerleader, and just what her particular damage is. Because this vague whispering crap is not the way I operate, see? I need to know where, who, what, how, or be able to Google it. Got it?”

“Fine,” the whisper says dejectedly, though a little louder.

“Good,” Superman says with a curt nod. “Now, to recap: shower, tights, toast, instructions. Hall table. We clear?”

“But what if it’s too late?” the voice whines.

Superman stops moving toward the bathroom and throws up his hands. “Dude, have you seen none of my movies?”

Silence.

“Look, if something happens to this cheerleader while I’m in the shower, I’ll just take a little trip around the world backwards until it un-happens, and we’re all set. But I’m not going out there without my shower and my toast, so untwist your knickers and start writing me a little note, huh?” He stalks back toward the bathroom, muttering, “Damn civilians.”

In the foyer, a pen floats through the air. A piece of paper flutters to the hall table, and the pen starts to write.

Superman rinses and repeats.

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this article by April Palleria, 2006