The costume is an art.  It tells people who you are; who you really are, apart from secret identities and day jobs. Of all the things you thought a hero might be, fashion designer never crossed your mind. I think sometimes the costume speaks just as loud as the actions a hero performs. The actions are pretty important, don’t get me wrong, but the costume can sure skew perception.

Black means you have some dark flaw, a cape means you’re an arrogant ass, a full face mask means you're a maniac.  Essentially, we're all no better than vapid high schoolers obsessed with self-image.  But it is an art.

People don't realize that we have to buy the same clothes available to everyone else.  We just have to make them extraordinary, and we have to do it ourselves.  It's tough work.  And there's no special badge we flash to be taken to the super special underground textile engineer.  Or should I say, The Seamstress.  What a hero that would be.

When I started out, I spent a long time saving things from trees.  When people tell the story, it's always a cat.  I think the whole practice started in the south.  Cats matter more; they're living things.  And people would say puppies if they could, but puppies don't often climb trees.  

I'm not the kissing babies type.  Maybe I'm the one climbing the ladder because I'm just not scared to fall.

If you want big stories you have to do big story things.  There are only so many cat-and-tree incidents that a paper can write about.  But I guess if you do it for the paper, you're in the wrong business.  I never liked finance anyway.

One time, I was sitting at the little corner bistro with those grilled fourteen cheese sandwiches, and the tv was switched to the news. They were showing videos of some crash, or explosion or something; whoever was piloting the helicopter didn’t understand that he could get a better view if he was outside the column of smoke. I waited for the halting closed captioning to catch up. While the anchors grinned at some cat video, and while I began to resent cats, the captioning read that a devastating plane crash burned just outside the city.

I sloshed the rest of my coffee down my throat before pocketing my sandwich. Fourteen cheeses didn't come out cheap and I'd be damned if I waited in that kind of line to leave it all on the table. My scalding esophagus made it hard to convince myself it was better than the scratchy feeling of eating the money itself. I'm sure my intestines wouldn't appreciate exact change as much as I did.

I flew down the highway, passing at least one cop. I think I went fast enough by him that he gave up the chase before it started. I respected his ability to prioritize. The smoke appeared to my left, but I had to give up on my Garmin because it refused to let me know where I could go unless it was in the loop too. There was likely a more direct route, but at least I didn't have to make any U-turns.

When I got to the site, there were more cops, so I played it cool. I could see the firefighters were making slow work of the wreckage. They were at that point of having to consider endangering their lives and making heavy decisions. Heroism stuff.

The plane had been split in two, lying a good distance apart, but close enough to be considered a single disaster area. One part had the majority of the passengers, and other was about to explode. One of the options weighed a lot more so I went for it. I hadn't gotten to eat my sandwich yet.

And it turned out that the other part did explode. The entire field shook and everyone dropped to their knees. I found myself clutching my pocket.

As I worked through the main part of the cabin I was thankful for that boost of caffeine, throat be damned. I liked it when things worked out.

My story was in the paper, but I didn't know it until the next day when I caught my name in print before it drained into the sewer.

I took a few weeks off after that. I tried some painting, ate some tacos, caught up on my cartoons. It was a good vacation, and I deserved it.

Eventually I found my way back to the bistro and read about a robbery in progress down the street. I was blessed with convenience. It was even a nice day so I drove with the windows down. Garmin took me to a bank where I rolled my eyes. Haven't they figured out a better system for this? And by 'they' I meant either the burglars, who always get caught and the banks, which always get robbed.

But when I stepped out of the car, there was a guy. A guy in charge. And in costume. Just taking charge. So I approached him.

He turned to face me with broad shoulders and smug look.  “Stop right there, Villain.”  

I did stop. There was no humor in his eyes. I turned slowly to the gathering crowd, all looking to the guy in expectation. All I got were nervous glances, like I was that spider crawling up the wall you can't help but keep an eye on.  If it gets any closer, suddenly it's filled with malicious intent.  

And then it did fill me with malicious intent.  I balled a fist imagining the feeling of his trachea.  I imagined the shooting pain on my knuckles as they connected with his jaw.  He had a strong jaw; it would hurt like hell, but it would be worth it.  I instead watched the tips of my shoes wiggle, like they were going to tell me something.  I wished they would.  

“Why did you do it?”

“You might have to help me out...”

“You let my brother die in that plane crash. Why didn't you take the time to save those people?”

I was hungry.  And there are no corner bistros sitting in the cemetery.  “Because I have the guts to.” I said it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Probably because it is.

“You do it because you can?” He’s twisting my words to make them fit the right way in his brain. Small brains require Tetris, apparently. “You have to understand how sick you are inside. That makes you a villain.”

Inside? “I do it because I have the guts to take responsibility for the aftermath. I'm feeling pretty jilted, here. I saved lives, and you're jilting me. You're defining me as a villain when I saved lives. You're telling me it's wrong.”

“Villains are the ones who always come out of sad stories, man.”

“Heroes have sad stories too. The difference is whether it happened to you or someone you love. A hero wants to save people from the loss the hero has suffered. The villain hurts people to make them feel the pain they have suffered.”

I crossed my arms in a dramatic way. If he didn't get the hint, I was about to start tapping my foot. “The difference depends on how you deal with the consequences of whatever happened. It’s on you.”

“Tell me, what’s your story?”

Are we gonna talk all friggin’ day? “My story is that I tried to do something good and then I was told to stop. You took away the moral code of a man who doesn’t have anything else to hold on to.”

“You think I made you be a villain?”

“I think I was given a gift. I felt like I owed something to the Great Giver of Gifts.”

“What’s your gift?” He leaned closer to me. His eyebrows were so high on his forehead, they practically met his hairline. Honestly it was off-putting, but I thought the jealousy sort of suited him.

“I like to climb ladders. Stand stoically on precarious ledges. Get in fights with jerks. Or conversations.”

“Your gift is that you’re suicidal? I’m telling you, you need help.”

“Hey, I’m a damn happy guy. If I die, who’s left to do that #^&^? And if I die, I did good anyway.”

“You’re fearless.” That jealous face still made me happy.

“Better yet, I’m feelingless.”

He stood there pondering the meaning of life for a while.

“Hey, you know, you need someone to chase, I need an adrenaline rush. We can help each other out.”

“What does that mean?”

For the love o’—. “These folks need a show. You gonna avenge your brother or what?”

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