It’s after midnight when he finally gets home. Again. He throws his overcoat over the back of the worn couch and turns on the television. While he waits for the ancient tube to warm to life he pours himself a drink — three inches of Jack Daniels in a rocks glass without the rocks.
The glass is half-empty by the time the picture stops wavering and settles into focus.
He’s tuned to the late news — murder, rape, rising health-care costs and unemployment, government scandal. Nothing new. And, as usual these days, nothing about him.
He foiled a bank robbery and half a dozen muggings tonight. Averted near disaster when a commuter train jumped its tracks over the business district during rush hour. He even directed traffic for twenty minutes when a cabbie took a corner too close and tore out the switching box.
No one cares anymore.
He turns the TV off when the news ends and a Gilligan’s Island rerun comes on. He pours himself another drink and sits alone in the darkness.
Not even the train made the news. And he knows there won’t be anything about him in the paper tomorrow unless he writes it himself — and even then, his editor will probably reject it.
He doesn’t know why he even bothers anymore. His work is completely unappreciated, and it makes no difference anyway — most of the criminals he nabs either plea-bargain their way right back onto the streets or get out in no time at all because of overcrowding in the prisons.
He works almost eighty hours a week at the paper but still barely manages to make ends meet. Then he gives the rest of his time absolutely free to city, state, and country. He has no friends, no hobbies, no life. On a good night he gets four hours of sleep, and he feels like shit.
And he’s started swearing now, like everyone else in this city. And drinking, he reminds himself. His parents would be ashamed.
He thinks again about giving up on the big city and returning to his middle-American hometown roots, but that’s even more depressing than what he has now. What would he do there — become the world’s strongest, fastest, most powerful green grocer?
He snorts at that thought and gulps down the rest of his JD. The walls are closing in on him; the shabby efficiency apartment is depressing enough when he’s sober. He needs to escape.
He walks to the window and opens it. The cold night air, fresh from the harbor but still carrying the stench of the city, clears his head some, but unfortunately not entirely. He strips off his clothes and climbs onto the window sill, clad only in his blue union suit. Sitting there forty stories above the city streets, he takes a deep breath and leaps into the dark and anonymous night.
The red cape unfurls behind him, and soon he is soaring high above the city — high enough that the screams and shots and sirens no longer reach even his super-acute ears.
Sobriety returns with the fresh air, bringing with it a special clarity of insight. From up here, the city is beautiful again, the way he first saw it so very long ago — a dense galaxy of sparkling lights, thinning toward the edges where shimmering ribbons of superhighway gain dominance.
This is how it should be, he realizes. Not the dirty, stinking, traffic-snarled, smog-clouded, crime-ridden reality of close up. Distance is the key. He needs distance.
And just like that, as he wafts far out above the harbor, he knows what he will do — what he must do.
His resolve still stands strong when he reaches the apartment again. The rent is paid through the end of the month; he has almost three weeks to change his mind. He tucks a few small personal objects into the hidden pockets of his cape. He calls the paper and leaves his resignation in his editor’s voice-mail. Almost as an afterthought, he leaves a similar message for the mayor. It’s not entirely polite.
When he hangs up, the reality of what he’s doing hits him. There is a small quavering deep in his stomach, but he has burned his bridges. He closes the window and turns out the lights and leaves, locking the door behind him.
Downstairs, he leaves a note in his box asking the mailman to hold his mail.
And then he is gone — up, up and away.
#
He flies south at a leisurely pace, enjoying his flight for the first time in many long years. The world spins away below him, until the Atlantic reclaims the land, and he turns due east.
Halfway across the ocean he sees the green flash of sunrise. As he flies into the growing dawn, he feels the stress that has grown through the last twenty years trailing away, spilling out behind him like a contrail in the wake of his new-found freedom. By the time Africa grows up along the horizon, the trail has faded away along with all connection to his former life.
He is over Africa now, and he slows his flight further as he searches for the right spot. He has not been here for many years, and is appalled by how much the jungle has shrunk.
His ears locate his destination before his eyes do — that yell is unmistakable. He swoops down through the lush greenery and alights easily on the narrow boardwalk running around the outside of the tree-perched hut.
Before he can announce himself he hears a rustling behind him. He turns and sees a well-muscled, deeply-tanned man with long dark hair swinging recklessly toward him on the end of a thick vine. The man is clad only in a ragged leather loin-cloth; he carries a large knife at his waist and he is grinning.
The swinging man releases his hold on the vine and somersaults onto the boardwalk, landing in a three-point crouch. The savage stands tall and thrusts out his powerful chest, pounding his fists a few times against his pectorals for good measure.
“It is good to see you in jungle again, my friend. For too many seasons I not see you.” The jungle savage advances toward him, hand extended.
He ignores the hand. “Cut the crap, John,” he says wearily. “You have any of that rancid jungle-juice around? I need a drink.”
#
They sit high in the treetops, passing a gourd of fermented coconut milk back and forth. The sun is hot, and he leans back to let it fall full on his face. A river winds away below them, the very life of the jungle. He can see a leopard relaxing along the bank, casually hidden in the sun-dappled foliage. Unseen birds raise their voices in a cacophony all around them. The air is clean and fecund — alive.
“So, you’re packing it in?”
He nods, still gazing down at the glinting, rippled surface of the great river.
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I mean, we’re pretty isolated out here, but I do hear rumors every now and then from the others, and it’s been pretty apparent to everyone that you’ve been nearing burn-out.”
Again he nods, slowly and thoughtfully. He holds out his hand and John passes him the gourd.
“So what’s next?”
He shrugs and looks at his friend. Though heavily scarred by the savage nature of life in the jungle, there is a vibrancy about the man he has never seen in any city-dweller.
“I don’t know, John. I really don’t. This has all been really sudden. I need to think things over for a while. Would it be okay if I stayed here for a while?”
John smiles and spreads his arms wide. “My jungle is your jungle.”
“Good. Thanks, pal.” He leans back against the trunk and enjoys the sun and fresh air. He has been up all night, and he is exhausted. He closes his eyes and sleeps.
#
Morning sunlight filters lazily through the trees, cascading down through leaves and branches and fronds to wake him gently. He is stiff from sleeping on the ground, but refreshed. He feels not only well-rested, but for the first time that he can remember, calm and happy. Here in the jungle, away from the world and people and crime, he is contented. All of mankind once lived in such a state of grace; how has it possibly gone from that to the sorry state it’s in now?
The yell drifts down from above, stirring the many unseen voices of the jungle to response. He stands just as his friend drops out of the trees to land beside him.
“And how did our newest resident sleep?” John asks heartily. “Did you enjoy your first night in the jungle?”
He stretches and yawns, filling ample lungs with healthy, sweet-smelling air. He smiles.
“I feel great,” he tells his friend. “I really do — better than I ever felt in that damn —” He checks what has become a habit; there is no need for profanity here in paradise. “In the city. I think I’m going to like it here.”
John claps him on the back and laughs. “Good. Then let’s gather up some breakfast and go hang out by the river while we eat. I’ll show you how to make a hammock so you don’t have to sleep on the dirt anymore. I’ve got some business to take care of after that, but later on I’ll show you around some so you can decide where you want to build your hut.”
“Sounds good.”
John yells again, pounding on his chest for good measure. He grins and does the same, and they set off together for the river.
#
He is enjoying a lazy afternoon swim in clear, pure water when he hears that yell again. This time, though, it is different — this time, it is not a cry of exuberance. It holds now a note of anger; it is a cry of challenge. Lifting up out of the river, he flies in the direction of the disturbance.
He alights on a high branch and watches the scene unfold below him. Another Great White Hunter has violated the sanctity of the jungle in search of the elephants’ graveyard or the fabulous treasure of the lost city of Ookul-ta or God knows what.
He has seen this before — it is the third time it has happened in the two weeks he’s been here. The hunter stands in a clearing, superior, his rifle held at his side in a casually threatening manner. Behind him stand a dozen natives, their middles swathed in ridiculous-looking diaper-like arrangements that match their turbans. They are prodding with spears four bound and sullen chimpanzees. The porters are yabbering amongst themselves and pointing alternately at the hunter and at John, who confronts the hunter. A number of agitated apes are arrayed behind the savage.
He doesn’t follow the argument, but he can tell it is heated and growing ever more so. He watches carefully, ready to help if needed, but knowing that it is not his fight; this is not his domain.
He sees the hunter shift his grip on the rifle. Before he can call out a warning John has leapt. A loud crack echoes through the jungle as the rifle discharges harmlessly, and the two men fall to the ground, struggling.
He sees a flash of steel. There is a cry of pain and surprise, and John stands.
The hunter does not.
The apes begin to howl and scream, but the porters are already scattering through the jungle. John bends and cleans his knife on the hunter’s pants. The shirt is soaked a glistening red from the hunter’s opened throat. John speaks to his army — the chimps are freed, and the hunter’s body dragged away.
The jungle savage looks up through the branches and grins at him. He sits carefully and holds tightly to the branch as John deftly climbs the tree to join him.
“Took him by surprise, didn’t I?”
He nods, feeling sickness grow in the pit of his stomach. In all his years of superheroism, this is the first time he has actually seen a man killed.
John looks at his hand with distaste and wipes it on his loin-cloth, leaving there a dark stain. “I hate doing that,” he says casually, “but it’s the only way sometimes. I don’t care what anyone says about sinking to their level. You have to be absolutely ruthless — it’s the Law of the Jungle. I mean, you never let the Bad Guy get the upper hand, that’s rule one. Show the slightest hint of fear or submission and you’re dead. Better them than me, I say, right?”
He nods silently. His friend continues speaking, but he isn’t listening anymore. His own thoughts are churning too loudly.
#
He flies through the night, watching and listening. Far below he hears a cry of fear and an evil laugh. He smiles grimly and swoops down between the buildings.
The darkness of the small, filthy alley cannot fool his vision; he sees plainly the scruffy leather-clad punk holding a knife against the throat of a woman in a smart gray business suit. Swiftly and stealthily, like a jungle cat, he is upon them.
The woman stands too shocked to scream as her attacker is suddenly torn from her. The knife clatters to the cement as the mugger kicks futilely at the air and chokes against the hand that grips his throat, holding him a foot off the ground.
The woman recognizes him and smiles with relief. “Oh, thank you!” she gushes. “They said you were gone. Oh, thank you, thank you.”
She retrieves her purse and starts to run from the alley, but he grabs her arm and spins her back around. Still holding the punk helpless in the air, he steps toward the woman. She is petite; he looms over her menacingly. He leans in close and points at her, stabbing his finger to within millimeters of her nose.
“Listen, lady,” he growls. “I’ve got more important things to do than come to the rescue of imbeciles like you who are too goddamned stupid to know better than to be walking alone at night in this part of town. You understand me?”
Fear and shock return to the woman’s face. She nods dumbly.
“Good. Now get out of here. And get some pepper spray or something.”
The woman nods again and runs from the alley. He watches her go, shaking his head in annoyance, then turns to his prisoner.
“Ready for jail, shithead?” he snarls.
The youth struggles feebly. He shakes the punk roughly to subdue him, then reaches into the punk’s pockets until he finds a wallet. He takes it out and looks through it.
“What is this, about four hundred? Well, I can’t let you keep it, can I — how else am I going to get it through your fat head that crime doesn’t pay?”
He tucks the cash into a pocket in his cape and returns the empty wallet. “This should just about cover my fee.”
Grabbing the punk about the waist, he leaps into the air and flies toward the nearest precinct house. “Be sure to let all your friends know what happened to you tonight. Tell them I’m not going to put up with their bullshit anymore,” he says. “Tell them there are going to be some changes in this city.”