Superman doesn't live here
Travis didn't usually remember his dreams, other than the one with the fist coming at his face. But there was one other exception, borne of childhood dreams that never quite went away. It came up again - he'd seen a couple of kids arguing over who got to play Superman. It came up often, in a real neighborhood, with fences and ovens and real beds and kids who had their own rooms. Everyone wanted to be Superman.
He was five years old. He could still see. He had found an old scrap towel someone had thrown away. It was moth eaten, stained with who knows what, and smelled funny, but he didn't mind, it was a cape. It wasn't like the blankets at home. Those were threadbare and poorly spun, but worth more than gold to people who were without heat as often as with heat during New York winters. He'd tried to borrow one of those blankets once, to be his cape - it didn't go well. But this was his, and it was his cape. He could be Superman.
Anywhere else, someone might have argued with him, or joined in the game. Not there. Even the boys his own age laughed at him, mocked him, told him the words that would always come just before he woke up. "Man, Superman don't live here."
No one in Travis' hood wanted to be Superman. That was somewhere else, that wasn't real. They mostly dreamed of being Frank. Frank lived there, but he wore suits. No one touched Frank's car. He didn't even lock it, almost like daring someone. No one ever touched it. Superman's enemies came back time and time again, everyone knew that. A couple people mouthed off to Frank - no one ever heard from them again. Who wanted to leap tall buildings when you could buy and sell everyone in it, or so people said. And that, that was power.
Travis remembered those words. And he always dreamed that that could fix everything. That if Superman, who could do anything, just lived a few doors down, then he'd understand. Then maybe the water would keep running. Maybe it would be ok for the police to come now and then. Maybe the garbage would be picked up every week and everything wouldn't smell like urine and rot. And maybe the jokes would stop about how ambulances who came to the hood didn't even bother to carry medicine, they just brought bodybags.
Maybe something would be fixed, and stay fixed. People would have something and someone to look up to who wore red and blue, and a cape, instead of $400 shoes and suits that could feed a family for a month. People would want something better, or at least want something, other than to drink the pain away. The fights in the alleyways would have to stop, he was sure of that. Superman would fix that. And the sirens wouldn't always be in the distance. His mother and oldest sister could get jobs, real jobs, where they could go out after seven at night and get home safely. Even a little bit of that super breath could get rid of the needles and broken glass from the play areas, and he'd probably never again trip over someone who'd frozen to death in January, like he'd done that one time on his way to school.
Surely, if Superman really knew what was happening, something would change. Other heroes might come down and deal with the thieves and the pimps and the gang bangers instead of living in their space station, waiting for Brainiac or Doomsday.
When he put on the dirty, hole-ridden old towel, that was what he dreamed, what he hoped. Not that he could move the moon or fight off giant robots. That the people, the person, even, who could do anything, could fix something, and then it would stay fixed. That if people had faith in Superman, instead of drug dealing, suit-wearing Frank, that there might be hope for something better.
A couple older boys had stolen the towel, played keep away until they got bored, and just beat him up instead. And that's the way it was.
Because Superman didn't live there.
He was five years old. He could still see. He had found an old scrap towel someone had thrown away. It was moth eaten, stained with who knows what, and smelled funny, but he didn't mind, it was a cape. It wasn't like the blankets at home. Those were threadbare and poorly spun, but worth more than gold to people who were without heat as often as with heat during New York winters. He'd tried to borrow one of those blankets once, to be his cape - it didn't go well. But this was his, and it was his cape. He could be Superman.
Anywhere else, someone might have argued with him, or joined in the game. Not there. Even the boys his own age laughed at him, mocked him, told him the words that would always come just before he woke up. "Man, Superman don't live here."
No one in Travis' hood wanted to be Superman. That was somewhere else, that wasn't real. They mostly dreamed of being Frank. Frank lived there, but he wore suits. No one touched Frank's car. He didn't even lock it, almost like daring someone. No one ever touched it. Superman's enemies came back time and time again, everyone knew that. A couple people mouthed off to Frank - no one ever heard from them again. Who wanted to leap tall buildings when you could buy and sell everyone in it, or so people said. And that, that was power.
Travis remembered those words. And he always dreamed that that could fix everything. That if Superman, who could do anything, just lived a few doors down, then he'd understand. Then maybe the water would keep running. Maybe it would be ok for the police to come now and then. Maybe the garbage would be picked up every week and everything wouldn't smell like urine and rot. And maybe the jokes would stop about how ambulances who came to the hood didn't even bother to carry medicine, they just brought bodybags.
Maybe something would be fixed, and stay fixed. People would have something and someone to look up to who wore red and blue, and a cape, instead of $400 shoes and suits that could feed a family for a month. People would want something better, or at least want something, other than to drink the pain away. The fights in the alleyways would have to stop, he was sure of that. Superman would fix that. And the sirens wouldn't always be in the distance. His mother and oldest sister could get jobs, real jobs, where they could go out after seven at night and get home safely. Even a little bit of that super breath could get rid of the needles and broken glass from the play areas, and he'd probably never again trip over someone who'd frozen to death in January, like he'd done that one time on his way to school.
Surely, if Superman really knew what was happening, something would change. Other heroes might come down and deal with the thieves and the pimps and the gang bangers instead of living in their space station, waiting for Brainiac or Doomsday.
When he put on the dirty, hole-ridden old towel, that was what he dreamed, what he hoped. Not that he could move the moon or fight off giant robots. That the people, the person, even, who could do anything, could fix something, and then it would stay fixed. That if people had faith in Superman, instead of drug dealing, suit-wearing Frank, that there might be hope for something better.
A couple older boys had stolen the towel, played keep away until they got bored, and just beat him up instead. And that's the way it was.
Because Superman didn't live there.