The Superhero’s Apprentice
“Out, spot!” Naomi stood in the bathroom wearing a pink apron and a pair of rubber gloves. She held a sponge in her hand and rubbed it across the stubborn brown stain on the bathroom floor by the toilet. Not quite what I imagined when I became CEO.
Dolly Parton began singing, “9 to 5.”
Naomi fished her cell phone out of her jeans’ right pocket.
“Hey, CEO,” Carmela’s voice boomed.
“Carmela.”
“Ah, you remember me. I was thinking we could get together tonight. You could leave the kids with Dave.”
“How about tomorrow? Zolgron wants us to watch a TV special.”
“What? I’m talking about going to the shooting range, getting our nails done, and going to Cheesecake Factory. You sure you’d rather stay home with E.T. and watch CNN?”
Not in the least. “He asks so little of us. When he does make a request, I feel obligated.”
“How’s next Tuesday? Will that work with your corporate schedule?”
Naomi swallowed. “Truth be told, the corporate schedule is taking up far less time than I thought it would. I only spent five hours on it last week.”
“Wow! What’s that all about?”
“Other than the insurance company, all Dave has agreed to do is a few youth group and school appearances, and the Extreme Home Makeover show in two weeks.”
“He’ll have fun with that.”
“Yeah, they’re going to let him do the demolition. He and Zolgron have been debating on whether to just vaporize the house or blow it up first and then vaporize it.”
“So what are you doing today?”
“I’ve been cleaning the bathroom for the last hour and spent the hour before that on our bedroom. Since Dave is busy as Powerhouse again, the house has been getting let go.” Naomi’s lip quivered. “He’d have been done in half an hour, but I’ve been working on these two spots for the last hour.”
“Honey, why are you torturing yourself like this?”
Naomi tightened her jaw. “How would you feel if you couldn’t keep your house as clean as your husband could?”
“That’s different. My guy can’t simply imagine everything clean.”
“Even before he got his powers back, Dave kept the house very neat.”
“So? He worked as a janitor for a decade. Give yourself a break. Now does Tuesday sound okay?”
“Yeah, that sounds great.”
“Good. Oh, keep Lena from the processing department in your prayers. She’s getting laid off along with half of her staff.”
Naomi gasped and covered her mouth with her free hand. “Why?”
“Why else? They’re being replaced by Robolawyers. If things go well with that, word is that all those jobs will be gone next year.”
Why had Zolgron introduced alien technology to the open market? He should’ve kept his big gray nose out of humans’ affairs. “I’ll remember her.”
“Cool. I’ll see you on Sunday and then we’ll get together on Tuesday.”
Naomi hit the red button on her cell phone, pocketed it, and returned to scrubbing the spot. Carmela was right. Someone with superpowers could get the house spotless.
Good thing she could get superpowers.
Naomi marched into her bedroom and reached under the bed. A metal box with a handprint shape on it rested there.
There were nine back ups of the source of Dave’s powers. She’d only borrow one. No harm done. She pressed her hand on to the mold. It flashed red and the box opened. She pulled out one of the metal cylinders.
Naomi stared at the plain metal cylinder the size of a thick wrist bangle. Should she really do this? She glanced at the rubber gloves on her hands and the spot on her jeans where bleach had splashed.
Being the CEO of Powerhouse Incorporated should come with some benefits. She took off her shirt and slid the cylinder over her hand. It grew to fit around her, so she pushed it up until it came to a rest on her upper arm.
An electric shock shot through her body.
She convulsed until she collapsed precariously on the edge of the bed and rolled off onto the floor, the waves of agony increasing by the second. The blankets fell down after her.
It surely shouldn’t hurt this bad. God help me, this is gonna kill me.
Naomi screamed as the world disappeared in a flash of light.
Major Speed lay in his hospital bed. Another disgusting talk show filled the rectangular, flat television screen. Was this what people did in the future? Cheat on their spouses and cut off their body parts? Whatever had happened to Art Linkletter interviewing cute kids?
His torturer strode in and placed a cup of coffee on the nightstand. She ripped open his shirt and held the hot cup over his chest.
What he wouldn’t do to have a drink of that. Instead he was going to wear it.
She tipped the cup sure enough.
Steaming brown liquid landed an inch from his shirt.
The satanic noise of screaming people being tortured blared from beneath the baggy shirt of the grotesquely masculine pagan woman. She pulled out a black rectangular plastic thingy barely bigger than a box of matches. It was in a leather case with an emblem of an upside-down pentagram inside a circle. “What do you want?”
After a pause, she screeched. “Are you kidding? Forget this job, I am so totally going!” She laughed. “I’ll get Cindy to watch Grandpa Asparagus. She needs a job and my employer will never know the difference. I’ll be there in thirty-six hours guaranteed.”
The crazy pagan woman pocketed the plastic thingy she’d been talking to as if it was a person, bent over Major Speed, and kissed him with her big black lips. “Wait until you get a load of my cousin. She’s truly evil. You’ll be begging for me back.”
Major Speed gagged and winced. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
Powerhouse landed the green, 1995 Honda Acura in the parking lot of the hospital. He visualized a wheelchair into existence and helped the woman with medium length brown hair, glasses, and a very big belly into the chair.
The passenger door opened and out stepped a guy with bleached blonde hair down to the middle of his back. “We appreciate this, Powerhouse.”
Powerhouse nodded. “I was glad to help, citizen. For future reference, please don’t call the Powerhouse Family Insurance Company’s sales line when you need help. Call the police first. If they can’t get there, then email me, and I’ll get it on my cell phone.”
“Sorry, we just saw the phone number on a billboard.”
“Understandable. Powerhouse away!” He flew up into the air.
Man, this whole insurance company thing was really creating confusion. It definitely beat having to follow Robolawyer’s rules, though.
He flew past the billboard for Chateau de Capitaine France. Beside it was the actual restaurant.
At least he wasn’t the only superhero who was a corporate brand name.
Across the street from the restaurant, a man’s voice cried, “Help!”
Powerhouse zoomed down to the street. “What’s wrong, citizen?”
The pudgy, dark-haired man extended three pieces of paper. “Since you were available, I thought you could process my accident insurance claim.”
Powerhouse gritted his teeth. “Contact Powerhouse Family Insurance, please.”
“So you don’t stand by your product?”
“Citizen, if you had a George Foreman grill and it broke, would you expect George Foreman to fix it?”
“If he was handy.” The citizen wrinkled his forehead. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I’d offer to mail the claim for you, but there’s a risk I could need to go into a burning building on a real emergency first and it could get destroyed.”
The citizen snorted and rolled his eyes. “That’s insurance companies for you. Always finding another way to rip people off.”
A female voice screamed from inside the Chateau de Capitaine France.
Powerhouse smiled. “Someone’s in trouble.”
The citizen glared. “Yeah, you. I’ll write my congressman about this.”
“Glad you’re civically minded. Powerhouse away!” He zoomed through the air, across the street, and into the restaurant’s lobby. A man in a ski mask was backing toward him from a crying a cashier and carrying a bag of money. All over the restaurant, people in nice party clothes were kissing the floor.
Couldn’t have any of them alerting the criminal to his presence. He put his index finger to his lips and crept forward on tip toe.
A service door burst open. Out of it leapt a man in a black batsuit that was missing its ears and the bat emblem. Batman Wannabe jumped on the criminal and punched the criminal in the face. Both fell.
The criminal’s gun hand flailed about.
Powerhouse ran over and squeezed his arm. “Drop it!”
The criminal released the gun and it clanked to the ground.
Batman Wannabe hopped to his feet and yanked the thief up.
The patrons stood and applauded.
What was going on? Powerhouse rubbed his forehead.
The criminal scowled at Batman Wannabe. “Captain, this guy you hired to play Powerhouse squeezes too hard.”
“Zis is no actor,” Batman Wannabe said. “Mesdames, Messieurs, zis is ze real Powerhouse.”
Everyone clapped even louder.
What? Powerhouse gaped. Was this all a show?
Batman Wannabe shook Powerhouse’s hand. “It is so great to see you again, mon ami, oui?”
“Same to you, my friend.” Powerhouse blinked. “Who are you?”
“You have not seen me in my new costume? For shame.”
Powerhouse took a closer look at the earless batsuit. The chest sported vertical dark gray, white, and gray stripes. On the left shoulder was a tiny flag of France. Oh duh. “Captain France!”
“But of course.” Captain France beamed. “With my new costume, no one will ever mistake me for Captain America.”
Yeah, but they may wonder why Bruce Wayne is speaking with a French accent.
Captain France spun toward the staff. “Mesdames, Messieurs, I hope you have enjoyed today’s exhibition. Tomorrow at noon, Captain France shall face another villain.” He turned to Powerhouse. “Come. Enjoy some fine French hospitality and we’ll talk.”
Powerhouse rubbed his stomach. “I am a little hungry.” He looked over at the fake criminal. “Will you be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll put some heat on it.” The actor shrugged. “I just hope I’m ready for tonight’s performance of The Importance of Being Ernest.”
“Oh, so they’re making another sequel to Ernest Goes to Camp? Neat.”
The actor stared at him cross-eyed and shrugged.
Captain France led Powerhouse over to a corner table draped with a white table cloth. It had white plates with Captain France’s face on them.
Powerhouse bit his lip. “Sorry. I came because the cashier screamed.”
“She was zat loud? I must have a word with Monsieur Alberi.” Captain France frowned. He pointed at a middle aged man wearing a beret and a blue, white, and red unitard and waggled a finger.
Alberi slunk over, his shoulders hunched. Captain France leaned in close to the waiter. “Did you let ze cashier know about ze exercise?”
“No, Monsieur Capitan.” Alberi shook his head. “I decided she would provide a more realistic performance if she were unaware it was staged.”
“You are a waiter, not a director, non? Next time, everyone knows. Poor Mademoiselle. She must be so frightened. I’ll talk to her after lunch.” Captain France glanced back to Powerhouse. “What will you have?”
Powerhouse stared at the menu. “I didn’t bring cash and I don’t have a credit card.”
Captain France waved it aside. “Compliments of ze house.”
“Does it have to be on the menu?”
“Name any French dish and we can make it.”
“Okay, then I’ll have French fries, please.”
“French fries?” Captain France blinked. “Of all ze fine French cuisine you could try on ze house, you want to order common steak frites?”
“No, I just want French fries.”
Alberi gaped at him bug-eyed and glanced at Captain France. “Monsieur Capitaine?”
Captain France said something to Alberi in French.
The waiter nodded, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed.
Captain France sighed. “I hope Pierre will understand.”
Pierre? “Are all French Chefs named Pierre?”
“But of course, it’s in ze union rules.” Captain France snorted and rolled his eyes for some strange reason. He added to the waiter, “Make ze frites our appetizer and skip ze fish course. We’ll have Coq au vin for our main course, with regular house salads to follow.”
“At once.” The waiter marched off toward the kitchen.
Captain France sighed. “I’d hoped to see you while I was visiting Seattle. I’ve heard of your good work here. I salute you. You’ve gone beyond merely beating ze bad guys to building a better Seattle. I wish you much success.”
“Thanks, but I’ve had a lot of help.”
“Ze people of Seattle love and trust you. Zat’s why you can do zis, and why I couldn’t do something like zis in Paris, non?”
“But aren’t you France’s national hero?”
“While I’m possessed with great powers, I’ve not used zem much. I rarely fought ze major criminals. Even ze minor ones I’ve avoided fighting when it interfered with my love life. So I’ve developed a reputation as how would you say—”
“A big, selfish jerk?”
“Quite so.”
Alberi came out with a plate of thick French fries marinated in a clear red sauce and set it in the middle of the table. “The main course will be out shortly.”
Powerhouse nodded. “Gracias.”
The waiter blinked. “You mean mercy, Monsieur?”
Huh? “Why would I beg for mercy?”
Alberi grumbled something to Captain France and marched away.
“What did he say?”
“El bourre le crane.” Captain France flinched. “It was a rude way of saying you’re ignorant of our language and customs. Pardon him and bon appetit.”
“Sure.” Powerhouse took a bite. The fries’ marinade was sweet. “Mm, these are wonderful. My compliments to Pierre.”
Captain France smiled. “I’m glad you like it. To return to our sheep, did I ever tell you about my comic book?”
“Nope.” Powerhouse shoveled three fries in his mouth. “Cool, though. Where can I buy it?”
“Perhaps eBay. It was canceled after only two issues.”
“Why?”
“My character focused on avoiding conflict and understanding criminals rather zan on fighting zem. Zis did not help my public image, oui?”
“So they thought you were a wimpy, selfish jerk.”
Captain France sighed. “You have such a way of putting zings, mon ami. You’ve shown me ze key to making a better world is earning ze people’s love and trust. Ze only way someone will listen when a man speaks for peace is if he is a great warrior. Now, it is too late. I wish I could be to my people what you are to Seattle.”
“Why not? You’ve got powers. You can always start doing superhero things. I remember when we fought in Megalopolis. You did fine.”
The waiter brought out to them chicken with mushrooms in some kind of clear red sauce. “Your coq au vin, monsieurs.”
“Mercy.” Captain France cleared his throat and glanced to Powerhouse. “What we did together in Megalopolis is top secret. My reputation in France is so poor, if I try to help a stranded motorist, zey will ask me to call ze auto club. I’m a joke. Ze restaurant does not help. It would be like Captain Crunch trying to fight crime.”
“You won’t be fighting crime in a posh restaurant.”
“True, but if I’m going to fight crime, I need to recover my reputation.”
Powerhouse chewed on some fries and began to cut his chicken. “I’ve got it. You can have a guest appearance in my comic book. They can write a story with you being the type of hero you want to be.”
Captain France grinned. “Mon ami, you would do zis for me?”
“If you want to be a real hero, I should help.”
“Mercy—I mean zank you. Is zere anything I can do for you?”
“There is one thing.” Powerhouse took a deep breath. “Could I have more fries?”
Captain France smiled and waved the waiter over.
Naomi’s head ached. She rubbed her temples and sat up on the carpet of her bedroom floor. Never try that again.
She leaned on the bed, pulled herself up, and stumbled into the master bathroom. Who was that woman in the mirror with red, puffy eyes? She opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen, poured two pills in the palm of her hand, and washed the pills down with a glass of water.
The world spun a little. She grabbed the counter and held on. After an eternity, the world came to a stop. The pain began to dissipate in her head.
I wonder if I have the powers? She walked over to the stubborn spot. She imagined the spot gone.
It disappeared.
Yes, it’d worked. Naomi ran back into her bedroom, dashed through the living room, and headed to the boy’s room off of the kitchen. She opened the door. Toys and clothes were strewn around everywhere and the beds were unmade. She sniffed. Ew. Had something died in here? She imagined the room clean, the trash thrown out and everything in its place.
The room instantly changed.
She flinched. She shouldn’t do this. The boys needed to learn how to keep their room clean. She wasn’t going to go to college with them and poof their dorm clean. She stared around at the room. Nor could she claim she’d spent hours cleaning up this mess. She bit her lip. It’d be honest to give them a stern lecture telling them that if they let their rooms get to be a big mess it could take hours to clean.
She plodded back into the living room and laid down on the couch. She visualized the closet door opening and the vacuum cleaner rolling out and plugging in. They obeyed her at almost the same instant. The vacuum turned itself on and moved across the floor. The vacuum rolled past the end table without going under it.
“You missed a spot.” Naomi pointed at the end table.
The vacuum spun around and ran under the table. Naomi imagined the furniture all suspended in air, allowing the vacuum to go under them. She soared up to the ceiling.
Better jump off this flying couch before I break something.
She jumped and landed on the ground. Piles of coins, silverware, pop cans, old mail, and action figures lay under the furniture. She imagined them sorting themselves out into neat piles in the center of the room with a plastic bag for each pile.
Ha. Dave hadn’t cleaned under the furniture since Bush was president.
Beaming, she made the trash bags float into the living room.
The vacuum cleaner resumed its work and went over the entire living room a half dozen times.
Once it was done, the vacuum cleaner wrapped up its cord and put itself in the closet. A small patch of carpet looked faded and dirty. She imagined it clean like the patches around it and lowered the furniture back to the floor.
Time to dust. The duster flew around the living room cleaning the table top and the entertainment center. She settled on the love seat, put her feet up, and kicked off her shoes. Now, this was cleaning.
She glanced at the oak entertainer center and picked out their copy of Fantasia among their DVD collection. She giggled. “I know where Mickey made his mistake. Only have one cleaning instrument working at a time or they’ll gang up on you.”
Ha, she was so much more verbal than the highly visual Dave. Bet she could super-imagine in words. It’d be so much easier that way. “Television and DVD player, turn yourselves on. DVD player open. Star Trek: The Next Generation Season 3 set open your case and Disc 2 fly into the DVD player.”
They obeyed.
The distinguished head of Jean Luc Picard appeared on the screen.
Guess she should take the spare cylinder off her arm. She bit her lip. Getting it on hadn’t been fun. She’d leave it.
Who knew? It might come in handy.