The following is a short story of sorts. I have a handful that explore different aspects of the premise that I may write if I feel so inclined.

"... and there it is. What do you think?" he concluded.

I look up, for a second, and watched the cieling fan at work. Around and around it goes. I glance out the window. A brunette is walking a young boy. I don't know where they're going, but they're going somewhere. They're also coming from somewhere that they will be back again at some point or another. I find myself looking everywhere except at the man that generously bought me this beer in a well-intentioned, if futile, effort to bring me back into the fold.

"Matt," I explained, "I appreciate all of the looking into this that you've done. I really do. I'm flattered that I came to mind for this... project."

For a second, I forget that there isn't anyone within hearing range. I don't know if I would have said anything indicative of the conversation at hand, but it's always best to cover your tracks so that they don't know who you are. Not that they'd care, but once upon a time they might have and the old habits die hard.

"Just think it over. That's all I'm asking."

"I don't need to think it over. Look, you don't need me. If you bring Hardwick on board, he might bring the liabilities down a little bit. He even has more experience than I do."

He pauses for a moment and even looks at the cieling fan behind me for a moment. "I don't need Hardwick. Yes, he's been at this a while, but he spent four years as an apprentice. With the exception of Muldrake, he's never hung out with the big boys."

Apprentice. I like that. I can't remember what I used to call them in public.

As we shake hands and part ways, I feel a little bit bad for Matt. He obviously went to a lot of trouble to ease my worries. The truth is that despite my mere thirty-two years on this planet, I'm too old for that. It's amazing how much older a wife and a child make you.

I walk down Curtis Street and wave at Jeffrey, who is collecting the tokens at the Curtis stop today. I have about fifteen or so more blocks to walk. It's funny how slow everything moves these days. Well, how slow I move. One foot in front of the other, then the other in front of the first. Repeat process. No leaping tall buildings on a single bound.

Despite complaining about how long the walk was taking a minute ago, I audibly complain that I'm there already the second that I reach the doorway to the bank. There was a time when I would have just spun around the block a few times just to give myself something to do. When my life moved faster, that is.

The security guard is busy flirting with a couple of attractive young ladies. He probably weighs in excess of three-hundred pounds. His face has some sort of lesion on the top of his left cheek. Yet the two attractive young ladies can't seem to get enough of it. Something isn't right about that. Noticing things that aren't right is an old habit. My wife calls it paranoia. I call it experience. Not useful experience anymore, I suppose.

As I might have figured, the bank is pretty busy. I should have gone before my meeting with Matt so that I could take care of my business here before everyone is getting off of work. I should have just mailed it in, but I know that as I get accustomed to my new life I need to get used to the little things like walking to the bank, one foot after the other.

The line almost goes to the end of the velvet rope, but I take my spot and wait. Waiting is another thing I've had to learn. I console myself with the thought that I don't really have anywhere that I need to be. Another adjustment.

The first sound I hear is the distinctive chink of a gun hitting the floor. The thud is unmistakably that of a man's head doing the same. Why didn't I hear the gun go off? Even with a silencer, I should have heard something. Almost everyone around me is thrown in to panic. I simply turn around to assess the situation. There are three of them. As they direct us all to the wall, I start watching them to gauge their strongest and weakest link. Without even having to scan the room I count the number of hostages: thirteen against the wall and six behind the register.

One by one, they start collecting whatever we have on us. There's truly no need for them to yell like they are. All that does is raise adrenalyn levels and increase the odds of something unfortunate happening. It's funny that given our experience I sometimes think that we would be more successful at their job than they are. As they collect from the person on the end, I notice that he doesn't look familiar to me. I'm almost certain that he was not here a minute ago. I count the hostages again and we're down to twelve. In my mind, I try to figure out who is missing. The girls. The girls talking to the security guard. Where did they go? They were in on it. I knew something was odd about that.

First I chastise myself for not following up on what I had noticed before on the guard and the two women. Then I chastise myself for chastising myself. All I saw was two overly flirtatious girls hitting on an ugly guard. There was no way for me to know what was going to happen. I can't be expected to do that anymore. I shouldn't even be counting hostages. Yet, if there were thirteen before and two are gone, then there must be a new one among us. I look again at the man that I didn't recognize before.

Sure enough, his tie is powder blue. Why does he do that? I kept telling him that it'll get him killed. He calls it his trademark, I call it a bullseye.

Knowing that Bradley has taken his place among the hostages, I'm not surprised in the least when the window shatters and the rest of them enter. The team's leader almost immediately goes after the strongest link. I look over and see Bradley scratching his head and most likely whispering into a microphone.

I'm not sure who any of them are. If they're anything like me, they've got newspaper clippings all over their wall. When I first started out, I didn't miss a single one. Sometimes I wonder how much of it was ego. None of them may have known who John Blake was, but they sure knew my alter ego. Yet here I am, out of the business only a year, and ironically the only one I recognize is the shape-shifter.

When the leader keeps looking at me, I realize that it's Hudson. His new black getup threw me off. A lot of them seemed to be going with black before my exodus. It helps bump up merchandising sales, I'm told. I look at the others and can't help but notice how young they all seem. Hudson's liability insurance rates must cost a fortune. Lucky for him, I guess, he has one.

I've never watched us from this angle - from the sidelines. From the broken window to the apprehension of the would-be robbers, it all seems to happen so fast. Even to me, it's fast. The costumes look a lot funnier from this vintage. The grandstanding is a tad more apparent.

Even though the bad guys are caught, the police take a statement from each and every one of us and request that we don't leave. Marie is going to be pissed that I'm even late getting home on my day off work. She probably thinks I'm still with Matt. While the police take their statements, I wait patiently and worry about Marie and little Drew.

"I half expected you to spring in to action."

"Oh, hey," I reply. For a moment I'm worried about the possible attention, but I realize that Bradley never gave himself up as a member of Hudson's new motley crew.

"How's the wife?" he asks.

"She's doing well. I actually came here from sharing a drink with Matt," I replied, changing the subject.

"Matt Mitchell?"

"Yeah."

"Glad we got here before they did. So what are you doing here?"

"Just cashing my measley paycheck and figuring out how I'm going to tell Marie I couldn't get the money to go shopping like I'd promised," I answer. I try to make it sound like small talk in case anyone can hear us.

"You know, if money is an issue for you right now, we should really talk."

"Not the kind of work I'm looking for, I'm afraid."

"Damn. We need some more experienced people. The liabilities are killing us right now."

"I'll bet."

"Damn insurance companies. Damn lawyers."

When I finally make my statement and they let me go, I try to think of how I'm going to explain to Marie that I couldn't cash the check to go grocery shopping like I'd promised. When I turn the corner and no one is watching, I look up the Chenevert Building beside me and ponder cheating. Just once. Just so I can look down on the city again from its tallest buildings. Instead, I continue walking home one foot after the other.

"I can't go back, Matt," I explained a couple of hours ago. "Even if I wanted to - and I don't - I sold my name and rights to that kid in California."

"Look John, I've already got a couple of graphic artists lined up for a new look. We can toss around new names. You didn't sign a non-disclosure agreement so you can just re-enter the scene and people will know who you used to be."

"I promised Marie. I have to be there for Drew."

"You can be there for your boy. We calk work all that out. I know that you're collecting tokens for bus fare. That's not a career, John. I've talked to our agent. He's sure that within months we can have action figures out on the market. Hell, the money you'll save us on liability alone gives us room to make you a guaranteed minimum of more than you're making now. Even if you can't use your old name, we can play up your history."

"That's just it, it's my history."

"Look, John. It comes down to this. We need you. This city needs you. You can help everyone including youself... and there it is, what do you think?"

Other than the paycheck thing, everything turned out alright. Hudson, Bradley, and the kids took care of it all without me. I'm sure Matt will find someone else to help train and supervise his bunch. As important as we think we are - as important as I thought I was - life goes on with me.

When I get back to our apartment, Marie runs up to me in tears. "Oh, thank God," she tells me as she buries her head in my shoulder. "I heard about the robbery. I was scared to death that something happened to you."

At the end of the evening, I walk in and look on our newborn baby. When he starts crying, I pick him up and hold him as we look out the window. We live on the eighth floor and from a certain slant I can see the street below. It's not the top of the Chenevert Building, but it'll do.

Up there, life goes on without me. Down here, it doesn't.

Dear Son,

We haven’t met and it’s unfortunately become apparent that we never will. Let me introduce myself: I am your mother’s ex-husband and your father. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to be there for you as much as we both might have liked and circumstance prevents us from doing so.

I’ll never forget the day that I found out about you. It was five days after your mother had kicked me out. It’s about the only thing I remember from the otherwise alcohol and drug-induced haze. I was a time bomb waiting to explode. It was amazing that I had survived so much booze, so many injections, and all of those pills. I’m certain that if it had lasted another week, I wouldn't be here writing this letter.

When they told me I was going to be a father, it didn't hit me until the next day. I started thinking about my father, and how he was never there for me. Perhaps if he had been, things would have turned out differently. I must confess that I have never handled responsibility responsibly. But until you, I had never had so much riding on me. Instead of a woman’s happiness, or an employer’s bottom line, I was responsible for another human life. That was when I decided that I would be the father to you that my father never was to me.

Understandably, your mother didn’t see it that way. I had burned that bridge and was no longer welcome in her, or your, life. To be fair, she was well justified. She'd given me two dozen more chances than I deserved and I squandered them all. As far as she was concerned, I was not to be anywhere near you. The judge agreed. Not that I blame her or that I would have done anything differently if I were in her shoes. I was, sadly, not a very good man.

My youth was spent in and out of juvenile hall. I smoked my first cigarette at eleven, my first joint at 13, and took my first dose of acid before I could legally drive. Not that the law stopped me from driving of course. I was addicted to at least four different substances by the time I hit twenty-one. Your mother, God bless her, tried. I, of course, in my arrogance and self-centeredness, pushed her away every chance she gave me to.

She lived in constant fear of me. I let it happen. I wanted her to fear me. The final straw was when I brought out the gun, I suppose. I don’t know why I did it. I loved your mother. I still do. But there was so much anger and hatred. I wish I was strong enough to defeat it, but obviously I wasn’t.

I don’t know what happened, but when I found out I was going to be a father, suddenly all the hatred seems so empty and pointless. I finally had something to live for. I only wish I was able to convince your mother that I had changed. I tried, but it was undermined by the smell of alcohol on my shirt that I couldn't afford to get washed. I told her that I would prove that I’ve changed and I’ve been working to that end ever since.

I haven’t touched any of the drugs in years. I don’t even drink socially anymore. Twelve steps and twenty-eight days and I was a new man. Without those things eating away at me, suddenly everything seemed so much easier. I was showing up to work on time. They even gave me a promotion.

I have tried to atone for the sins I’ve committed. I’ve volunteered at church (I’m attending church!) and helped build homes for Habitat for Humanity. I also visit prisons through the church, trying to reach out to other souls who, like me, are trying to find their way free from the mist.

Two years ago I met someone. She is a public school teacher and a saint of a human being. We get along together very well. I don’t need her to fear me to feel big - just being around her does that. She has a daughter a couple years older than you. Sometimes I dream that your family and my family are in the park together, and all my sins have been forgotten.

Unfortunately, sometimes our past catches up with us long after we think we’ve escaped. About a year ago I coughed up blood for the first time. The doctors explained it to me but when the medical mumbo-jumbo becomes English, it says that I’m dying. They’re going to open me up tomorrow, but the chances are strong that I won’t survive the surgery. In fact, if you’ve gotten this letter, it means that I didn’t.

Your mother, out of her love for you, granted me my last wish.

Sometimes I think about who I was before you came along. I was going full-speed ahead into self-destruction. I couldn’t possibly have survived as long as I did if it hadn’t been for you. Over the years, I’ve started living for the first time. I can see the beautiful world around me unfiltered by the narcotics and hatred that so jaded my view before. I have become someone. I have actually enjoyed life. I have even become a family man, even if you couldn’t be a part of that family.

I’m not afraid to die. I have sinned and the Devil must be paid his due. I am only sorry that I couldn’t have been there for you like I would have liked. I am sorry that you, too, suffered from my actions. I owe you so much. These past ten years have been by far the best of my life, and you gave them to me. Furthermore, when I meet God I will see him as a redeemed man and not the sinner who would have met him a decade ago.

Thank you, Son, for putting ten years onto my life and salvation into my soul.

Love,
Dad

[Written in March 2001]