CHAPTER THREE

FREEDOM

Jesse’s right. The house is built into a cave. It’s not quite the mansion I had imagined, but it’s still fun to sit on a couch etched out of the cavern walls or to ride an elevator from room to room. Even in our apartment building, we weren’t allowed to ride the elevators - not unless we were in a wheel chair.  My friend Marcos once broke his leg and got to ride the elevator for two weeks. I considered busting my leg, too, just to have two weeks of elevator rides and “can I sign your cast?” and “how did that happen?”  and maybe to feel a part of the Us Tribe for awhile. However, it seemed a high price to pay for a few special privileges and so I abandoned the idea altogether.

My Aunt Debbie seems nice enough – a little shy and unsure about us, but she’s trying her best to seem nurturing. “I made a dessert,” she explains.

It’s not really a dessert; just some fruit in a fancy glass with a tiny dollop of whipped cream on the top. “This wouldn’t pass at our house for dessert,” Perla explains. Sometimes Perla says “house” instead of “apartment,” because it makes us sound more middleclass. Nobody in our apartment complex admits that we’re poor, because most of our parents work jobs and we usually have food and “poor” is for the homeless guy on Grand Avenue who shouts gigantic curses at the cars that pass by.

“Where’s the chocolate?” I ask.

“We don’t really eat like that around here,” Aunt Debbie explains.

Perla gives me the “I can’t believe the chubby kid just said that” stare.

To avoid the embarrassment, I wander over to the etched-in bookshelves.

“Hey, what’s this over here?  What do the letters stand for?”

“Well, your Uncle Carl etched those into this place way back when we were little kids. Those are his initials, CPD, Carl Peter Dunn.”

“Is that when you fell in love?”

“He did, but it would be another twenty years before he convinced me.”

“I made this our home when she finally came to her senses.  I had to clean up before she would consider me,” Uncle Carl says as he walks in.  He looks like an older, cleaner version of my dad.

I’m silent when he greets me.

“I understand. It’s probably hard to see me, since . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”

“Sure thing. Well, do you boys want to take this bad boy for a whirl,” he says holding out his keys. “It’s the Snake Wagon.”

“You mean, we can drive it?” I ask.

“Yep. Go for it.”

Jesse carefully checks each mirror as he backs out. Then, once adjusted, he slams on the gas and squeals the tires.

“Are you allowed to go this fast?” I ask him as he heads onto the shortcut past Downtown and into Old Town.

“There are no speed limits and really no age limits, either.”

We whirl past a bakery and he deliberately drives through a stack of empty cake boxes.

“Those are props.  They do it for the dramatic effect.”

Old Town resembles an all-too-perfect theme park version of a small town; a few neon lights, fifties-styled buildings and the kind of “old town” buildings that litter most suburbs and provide a place for old feel a little less obsolete.  Except here everyone looks young and most of them wear suits and fedoras.

 “The shops change from month to month,” Jesse explains.

“Why’s that?”

“They don’t want anything to look dated. So, they change the look and the name each month, always trying to keep it new and old at the same time.”

“So, the shop owners just have to change it every month whether they want to or not?”

“I guess they don’t have to do that. They just do. That’s how this place is. People like quick changes, but they like things to look like the good old days, too.”

“That’s odd. There aren’t any Wal-Marts or fast food places.”

“Wal-Mart, no, but there are stores. It’s just that they pretend to be something else. Watch, see that over there?” he points to a drive-in place.  It has large silver arches and metallic swirls around the sides. It’s built like a trapezoid with big fluorescent lights. 

“That’s your standard fast food joint; except they don’t serve hamburgers. You get stuck with a salad. And not the good kind, either. They just give you vegetables with this nasty black vinegar on top. The grocery store is disguised as a ‘farmer’s market’ when in fact no one farms at all here. The electronics store looks like a record store.”

He jumps out of the car and slams his fist into the window of a pet store.  I expect blood, but instead the puppies start licking the glass. As the storeowner shakes his fist, Jesse yells, “It’s just sugar glass.”

“What’s sugar glass?” I ask.

“Like they have in the movies.  You’ve seen it.  They make a big thick pane of fake glass and then it shatters into sugar.  It’s all over the place around here,” Jesse explains.

“What just happened, Jesse?” I ask.

“The frames are super-sturdy, but the walls are thin and they use sugar glass. When you have superheroes with intense strength, you have to build things really strong or really weak.”

“That’s bizarre.”

“Check this out,” he says and then drives toward and alley. He revs the engine then accelerates on an incline, hurling us toward a brick wall. The bricks burst into a thick powder as we hit a sudden drop into a grassy park.

“That was insane!” I yell.

“Yep. The cars are stronger here. They say that it’s part of our aptitudes. We need stronger cars, I guess.” 

“How do you know so much about this place?”

“Remember when I used to go back to Mexico to visit my dad?”

“Yeah, for months at a time.”

“Well, I was always visiting Uncle Carl.  I know this place seems bizarre, but you have more freedom than you know what to do with.”

“Is that a telephone booth right there?” I ask him.

“We have telephone booths that no one really uses, except occasionally to change in.”

“Right. Everyone has a Guide.”

“This place is strange, I know, but you get used to it.”

Jesse turns off at a bridge and then throws the car into reverse.  He accelerates quickly and attempts to jump the gap in the bridge.  Instead, we land in the pond below.  I keep expecting a cop car, but nothing happens.  

“Can you hand me my Guide?” Jesse asks.

I pass it over to him and stare at the halogens shining through the water fountains in the park.

“Uncle Carl, where were we supposed to go for lunch?” he asks.

“I’ll send you directions. It’s in Lakeside.”

“With the Outsiders?” Jesse asks.

“They’re no different from you and me,” Uncle Carl explains. “You both have spent most of your life with Outsiders. You should know better.”

 Uncle Carl greets us at the door and explains, “So, this is Bruce’s place.  He’s a good friend of ours, but most of the heroes hate him.  He has no natural aptitudes beyond a super-high intelligence, but he grew up in the Caves with other heroes.  His mom was a hero, but his dad was an Outsider.  So, he clawed his way to the top of the Superhero Challenge by developing little devices to help him along the way.”

“I’ve heard his story.  He’s a big shot in the Outside,” Jesse says.  “Remember, you dressed like him for Halloween when you were a kid,” he points to me.

“I can’t believe we get to drive cars,” I explain to Aunt Debbie.

“I think I’m going to like this place,” Perla says. The truth is that I’m not so sure.  She’s always relied on being a rule-follower. I’m curious about how she’ll handle the freedom.

“The freedom becomes a burden, Gabriel. You’ll see. It’s exciting and it’s fun, but there will be a point where the freedom is overwhelming. You can do just about anything on this island without getting in trouble,” Aunt Debbie explains.

“So, how can that possibly be a burden?”

“It’s overwhelming and tiresome,” Aunt Debbie says.

“It’s why some of the superheroes end up moving into Lakeside. Or they go to the States or to Canada, which I gather is like a cleaner version of the States, but with higher taxes and colder weather,” Uncle Carl adds.

“Sounds about right,” Jesse adds.

“Freedom is heavy,” Aunt Debbie adds. “There’s side effects you can’t predict, like the boredom . . . not little boredom. Not tedium. I mean deep boredom with life itself. Then there’s the lack of security that often comes with freedom. Rules can feel like a heavy coat and you feel relieved when the coat is gone. Yet, when the coldest of winter comes along, it has a chilling effect.”

As they continue talking about coats and freedom and rules, I notice that I am the only one of us not wearing a suit and a fedora.  Uncle Carl says they all wear tights underneath and so I begin dreading the reality to come.

*     *     *

That evening I’m alone in “my part of the cave,” a mini-apartment with a full kitchen and a bedroom. Aunt Debbie has stocked it with Outsider food, but she warns me that it will only last a week or two. Then it’s all grilled roughage and wild rice. 

I walk to the fridge and take out a can of whipped cream and spray it directly into my mouth. The white foam explodes with a sugary smoke that fills the air. I shake the can again and spray some more. It's the closest I'll get to doing drugs, but it's my first act of freedom. I'll probably go to bed at three just because I can and I'll flip through a thousand channels on the flat screen, not because I want to be entertained, but because I want to have a thousand choices at my fingertips.  Besides, the flat screens are in 3-D, so it really looks like the action is happening right here in the cave.

I stand in the cave and feel a waterfall nearby and see the words PURITY illuminated above the sky as a young family sits down before a plate of crisp vegetables.  A calm voice assures me that the Superpower can change.  We can do better than what we have if we return to our roots and restore the honor that goes beyond simply a catch phrase. 

Next I’m in a dark alley watching three criminals bludgeon someone to death with a pipe. A new voice asks, “When will we see change?  When will we find transformation? When will we recognize that the real villain is the system that turns a blind eye to restorative justice?”

“Political advertisements,” Jesse says.  “You’ll get used to all the puffed up propaganda.  The Restoration Party and their crisp, clear water and images of purity.  The Transformation Party’s violent images.  It’s the same as it was the last time I was here.”

“Who usually wins?”

“The Honor Party.  You’ll see their ads, too.  But it doesn’t matter.  When you get to do pretty much whatever you want, does it matter who’s winning in politics?”

“So, who runs the system?”

“Like I said before, the man behind the machine is Super Market.  People think I’m crazy, Gabe, but he’s the real villain.  He’s the one calling the shots.  And the man is crazy.”