I’m no Superman
Perhaps Freud got it wrong.
Of course, he’d never met Dustin.
Neither have you but that’s about to change. Afterwards you might sit contemplating the id, the ego, the super ego and, perhaps, the alter ego.
Out of nowhere evolution took a giant leap with Dustin. His musculature was unique. Improved. One might say super human. He had the strength of ten men. The speed of a cheetah and he could leap like a gazelle. Eyes like a hawk.
And nobody ever knew.
Dustin is seventy four now and lives alone.
When he was a child he realized quite early on that he was special. Physical activities came easy to him. Just by seeing something being done he could translated it to a form of muscle memory and repeat the act flawlessly.
But he didn’t.
Although his personality was fine events conspired to keep him somewhat isolated from the herd. In grade school he would invite friends over and they would seemingly have a good time but never accept a return engagement. The reason would have Freud doubling over with laughter.
His mother collected rude statues. In particular, anything that prominently displayed the male sex organ. They were scattered around the house and even snuck up on you at the dinner table. The salt and pepper shakers seemed innocent enough until you tipped them over to sprinkle their contents over your food. Then a big phallic and balls would pop out the side.
One of his friends actually dropped the salt shaker into his food when the little cock touched his hand. He was the same kid that pulled the string on the giant clown doll that sat square in the center of the living room, thinking perhaps that it would talk, only to see the clown drop his pants and expose his painted tackle.
By the start of high school everyone knew not to stop by his house. He was, of course, teased unmercifully but never stood up for himself despite the fact that could have easily snapped the necks of everyone in the building without breaking a sweat. He didn’t play football and he didn’t run track.
His father was a nature videographer. He was away from the house a lot documenting the beauty and savagery of life in the wild. In case you’re wondering, Dustin never caught a glimpse of his dad’s penis.
Strange that you’d be wondering that… but who am I to judge?
He remembers clearly an evening when one of his father’s videos was on TV. They sat next to each other as the screen was lit up red and orange by a wildfire. The fire was spreading rapidly and the camera was focused on a nest of baby birds that was sitting on the ground in the dry brush. The fire crept closer and closer and Dustin felt his stomach tighten. The camera panned away and when it eventually panned back the nest was black and inside sat the charred remains of the five chicks.
Dustin looked at his father and asked “Couldn’t you have saved them?”
“No” came the reply. “As a videographer I’m not there. I just document things. I can’t get involved.”
This did not sit well with Dustin. “But you were there!” he yelled.
“No son. I wasn’t.”
“Then neither am I” Dustin spat and stormed out of the room. A minute later he stormed back in, pulled the string on the top of the clowns head and then ripped off his junk. He then re-stormed out.
He went to college and got a job and started a life that in no way incorporated crime fighting or acts of heroism.
In his twenties he saw an old lady getting mugged and did nothing to help.
In his thirties he was mugged by a haggard-looking homeless man pretending to have a gun in his coat. He handed over his money and watch.
In his forties he watched his neighborhood get swallowed up in drugs and violence so he moved.
In his fifties he went to a Halloween party dressed as Superman.
In his sixties he bought his first nude porcelain figure that was anatomically correct. That was the same year his parents passed away.
Now he sits in his house and listens to the birds, his hearing is also enhanced. The birds he is listening to are miles away.
An entire life spent as Clark Kent without ever once ducking into a phone booth.
Chew on that awhile…