Joseph Is Falling

Enzo nodded. Yes. Enzo was the super villain. Enzo could do anything she wanted. Enzo liked that idea. She pointed her clickster at Zap, who was juggling Auntie Apple’s Caramels behind the bakery counter, and extended the lead three clicks.

“Pow,” she whispered.

But he looked up and caught her mid-Pow. Zap had a sixth sense when it came to Enzo.

“What do you think you’re doing with that clickster, Monster Miss?”

Enzo gazed at Zap with narrowed eyes. Joseph could see her shift into victim-of-interrogation mode. She was sitting on a wooden chair in a black room. A spotlight was shining into her eyes and her hands were tied behind her back. She had been without food, water, or sleep for days. Men she couldn’t see were sitting behind a desk she couldn’t see and they might ask her any question they wanted but she, Enzo, would never reveal her secrets.

“I said, what do you think you’re doing with that clickster?”

Zap’s voice was quiet. An outsider to the bakery might think that he was making a simple inquiry, or trying to soothe an upset child. Suddenly Enzo sat up straight.

“Paralyzing you!”

Enzo had now become a courageous sufferer who would gladly die for her bravery. She might reveal her secret power but only on her own terms. The information would not be dragged out of her; she would admit it freely, knowing the consequences.

“All of me?” Zap said. “Or just my head?”

No response. The clickster held steady. Point. Point. Point.

“Pow,” Enzo said.

She swiveled in her seat. Her back was straight and her shoulders high. Her eyes were still narrowed. The battle was joined.

But Zap ignored her. He plucked up another caramel and began juggling, now four at once, oblivious to the fact that Enzo had just paralyzed him.

Joseph was scrubbing the bakery tabletops, rolling from table to table with his sponge and a small bucket of soapy water wedged between his side and the arm of his wheelchair. The sponge was blue and rectangular and fit the palm of his hand. His hand was soapy and slippery. The bakery was becoming visibly cleaner as he worked.

“So Joseph,” Zap said. “I’m thinking of giving up on my superhero book idea.”

As long as Joseph had known him, which had been three months now, ever since Joseph had moved from upstate New York to Minneapolis, Zap had been planning to write the great American graphic novel. Enzo would never admit it, but Joseph knew that it was Zap’s Great American Graphic novel that had given her the jones for a super power of her own.

“Why?” Joseph said.

“Number one, I can’t come up with a superhero.”

Zap began juggling faster, tossing each third caramel higher than the others.

“Number two, I can’t draw worth shit. Number three, I can’t write worth shit. Basically, I got nothing going for me.”

“That’s true,” Enzo whispered.

“You’re good at juggling,” Joseph said.

“A good juggler does not a superhero make.”

“That’s true, too,” Enzo whispered.

“Where is the superhero?” Zap said. “That is my question.”

Enzo laughed, a nasty laugh.

Zap ignored her. Joseph kept scrubbing the tables. They were sticky in the Minneapolis humidity, and they would not be less sticky once he was finished scrubbing, but he kept on scrubbing anyway. Zap plucked up the broom and headed out to sweep the sidewalk. Joseph’s cleaning jag had infected him. Enzo scowled and extended the lead on her clickster. Click. Click. Click.