The time I came back to myself

There once was a time that I sat down every day to reminisce about the times Leviathan and I shared. I was like Watson to his Sherlock, only you know, goofier. And then I stopped.

For a long time.

The reasons are not entirely clear to me. The story I was in the middle of is still unfinished. The tale thrilling, the drama poised at the brink of a revelation, and I walked away. I've left Leviathan and myself at the wedding reception, my cougar of an aunt keeping her beady eyes on him constantly, and Roger struggling with the copious amounts of alcohol that is ever present at receptions.

I guess the wedding isn't ready to be told and so I froze in my relating it. There are many other adventures of Roger and Samantha that need to be out in the world and I promise they will come...eventually.

The Wedding III

There was something about Aunt Greta that made me want to simultaneously vomit and get down on my knees to worship her. The woman could literally smell a scandal. When Roger went barreling into the church I think she moved faster than he did to track us down.

As she was walking over, I smiled and went to cut her off. Best to act completely natural to throw her off or maybe I shouldn't. Acting completely natural in front of Aunt Greta would be to sulk, roll my eyes at everything she says, and generally act like I'm still fourteen. That might or might not be the best way to go.

"Hey, what are you doing, Aunt Greta? I figured you would be following Nathaniel and Rachel to the reception hall."

"Oh I was just about to go, dear," she said as she craned on her toes, trying to see around me. "I just wanted to tell that lovely man you were with to save a dance for me."

Relief. This was just a cougar moment, it had nothing to do with what she had seen or rather didn't see. "He's having a spiritual experience at the moment, but I'll be sure to tell him when he's all done."

Greta frowned, but turned after murmuring that she was sure I would pass along her message. I watched her click out the big double doors and down the steps. When I was sure she wasn't doubling back I bent down and peered into the darkness beneath the choir box.

"How's your spiritual moment going?"

"You crazy girl, I nearly peed myself trying not to laugh when you said that." Roger was striding out of the shadows, smiling that politician smile. "She must think I was back there pleasuring myself."

"That wouldn't deter her. Knowing Greta, she might be coming on to you even stronger now that she knows you're a religious man."

"Still want me to go with you to the reception or would you prefer to go on your own?"

I just raised my eyebrow.

"All right," he said smiling. "Let's go to a party."

There is little about this situation that I like. Roger is unstable and has 'transformed' once today already. He has my crazy, perfect on paper aunt trying to sink her claws into him. And to top it all off, I realized I would much rather be out in my Mini-Might costume kicking some villainous ass. It was all very troubling.

We got into Roger's car. No Betsy tonight despite my trying to talk Roger into letting her out for a spin. It was for purely selfish purposes though; I wanted to show off to my family that I was friends with a really cool guy. But Betsy doesn't come out for selfish reason, only for the powers of good.

The air was getting warmer as we sped off towards the reception. It would soon be summer again. Next month it would be a year since Roger was stabbed while trying to bust drug dealers standing on a street corner. A year since we started our training, separately and yet together somehow. Even though there was no discussion, no sit down meeting that we were going to start training to being an earnest battle, that's exactly what happened. I can't tell you at what moment I finally accepted what the future held. I just knew that my perspective had shifted.

 

 

 

The Wedding II

Roger and I walked up the last few steps to the church doors. They were big heavy affairs that required both hands and a hearty huff to open. What is that all about anyway? Make it as difficult as possible for people to enter the church or to leave it?

I had my hand on Roger's elbow, gently encouraging him into the building. He stopped suddenly and looked over to his left. There, next to me, was a birdbath full of holy water (I'm not trying to be blasphemous I just really don't know what they're called, but they look like bird baths, don't they). The couple that entered in front of us had dipped their fingers in and were now making the sign of the cross on their chests. Roger and I looked at each other, questioning, trying to decide what we could do here. Luckily I heard my name called from down the aisle.

"Sam! Oh Sam. I wasn't sure if you would make it. I know how busy you city girls are!"

Dang it all. It was my aunt Greta. Greta, prefect Greta, with her perfect children, that my mother insists on bringing up in every conversation. But with the choice between letting Roger agonize over the water over suffer through a Greta attack, I'll have to take Greta.

Putting on my biggest smile, I tugged on Roger's arm, pulling him along with me down to where Greta stood. "Hello, Aunt Greta!" I hope she understood me. It's hard to talk with your teeth mashed together trying to hold an insincere smile.

"Hello, dear. I was just telling your cousin Graham that I didn't think you were going to be able to make it. What with your little store and not having a boyfriend to accompany you. Oh, but I see you managed to snag someone at the last minute. How lucky for you!"

It has to be some sort of record. Not even a one minute conversation and I already want to kill.

"Yeah lucky my best friend, Roger here had nothing else going on today. Aunt Greta this is Roger. He works for the congressman." If all else fails, deflect interest onto someone else.

"I think I remember Sam's mom mentioning you, Roger. So nice to meet you." Aunt Greta suddenly was cooing, eyeing Roger up and down, and not letting go of his hand. Full cougar mode. "Didn't you two used to date? Didn't work out though? Not surprised. I know Sam can be a bit…challenging."

My hand was hurting. It was then that I realized I was clenching my fist so hard that my fingernails were digging into my palm.

Roger flashed his best politician smile at Greta. "On the contrary, ma'am, I was the one that was a little much for Sam. She's keeps me down here on earth. Don't know what I'd do without her."

Aunt Greta's smile wavered a bit, but she stayed strong. "Isn't that just lovely? And you're still friends? That takes a special kind of man I think."

"That and a special kind of woman that makes a man want to stay friends."

"Stop, I'm overly flattered and will take full advantage." I had to end this conversation before I killed my aunt and slapped Roger. "Let's find someplace to sit down." I looked up at Roger, begging him to agree.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Greta. We will see you at the reception." I tugged on Roger's elbow as hard as I could without being conspicuous, while he insisted on being all pleasant to the horrible woman.

I located an open pew that was happily situated near the back of the crowd. I waved to my mother and her new boyfriend and smiled at my sister. It was a genuine smile. I would talk to them at the reception. My sister knew that I strongly dislike these kinds of forced family merriment extravaganzas and will join me in mocking others later. Only the few that deserve it, mind you. Most of my family are pleasant, delightfully flawed people. No more, no less than anyone else. I don't want you to get the wrong idea about my family or me for that matter. I don't take pleasure in making fun of the few members of my family that make me want to gnaw an arm off when I realize I'm related to them. It is simply a way of venting so all my limbs stay attached where they belong.

Roger looked around the church thoughtfully. Neither one of us are churchgoers and when we do step foot it one it is usually a simpler affair. Not so much stained glass, statues of saints, and ornately carved wooden pews.

"Makes me rethink my line of work," Roger whispered as he leaned his head near mine, still gawking. I looked at him.

"Sometimes the silliest things come out of your mouth."

The music cued up and everyone craned their necks to see who was walking down the aisle. The usual parade of mothers, women in their early twenties, and of course the little ring bearer running down the aisle and the flower girl dumping her basket of petals at one spot and then going to sit down with her mom. Why do brides insist on torturing children this way? Yes, I get it. It's sweet and all the adults laugh at the child's expense, but it puts an awful lot of pressure on such small people and then they'll have to hear about it for the rest of their lives too. I wouldn't want to have to hear about how I embarrassed myself at cousin Nathaniel's wedding and everyone laughed please I was so cute (pinch cheeks).

Roger and I smiled along with the rest of the crowd. The wedding march started and Rachel, my cousin's future wife, started walking down the rolled out carpet on her father's arm. My cousin was sweating at the other end, looking nervous yet beaming at the same time.

The ceremony was long and I'm not ashamed to admit that I barely listened to it. We had to get up and sing a few times, get on our knees a few more. Luckily I'm short enough and was in the back so no one really noticed my not participating. Roger was cute trying to sing along with the book open in his hands, stumbling through the more complicated hymns. And then it was done. Roger and I clapped and cheered the newly minted couple back down the aisle then waited for our turn to file out.

The receiving line at the church has to be one of the more socially awkward traditions of our culture. I understand it is a way for everyone to get their chance to congratulate the couple and their parents on a successful show, but when you don't actually know the other family that well it just plain stinks.

Roger, as always, puts me to shame in these situations. He's cheerfully shaking hands, patting the men on their backs, offering genuine congratulations all the while smiling with sincerity. Always campaigning. I gave my cousin and Rachel a hug and told them I loved them, followed by Roger shaking Nathaniel's hand to the point of over kill. A girl, probably a friend of Rachel's, handed us a small bottle of bubbles tied with ribbon, whispering how rice kills birds so they are being kinder by having bubbles instead. I smiled politely, like I'd never heard that before and went back out the large doors, which were thankfully propped open by now, to wait with everyone else.

Roger and I stood amidst the crowd next to a rowdy bunch from Nathaniel's days at school. They were whooping and hollering and being a whole lot of obnoxious, but having so much fun that I couldn't help but smile along with them. I was jostled around a bit and there was a moment when all I saw was a bunch of backs and elbow, but finally the group surged ahead and I realized that the couple must be leaving the church. I quickly opened by bottle of bubbles while trying to remain upright through the rush to get to the bride and groom, while Roger got pulled along with the college friends. They had already given up blowing bubbles and had simply decided to dump the contents on the groom primarily. Some common sense was there apparently because they were trying to avoid dumping on the bride and thereby evoking the wrath that is a bride on her wedding day.

I was watching and laughing along with everyone else, caught up in the moment when Roger got in the way. He was whooping one moment and the next his eyes were bugging out of his head. A whole bottle had gotten dumped on him by someone. I froze. Surely this was one of the exceptions. It was bubbles for crying out loud. I know it's primarily water, but other water based products don't cause him to transition. Maybe it's one of those situations. Please let it be one of those situations.

Roger bolted. He went for the church doors, knocking down a few of the guys as he went. I pushed and elbowed my way back to the top of the stairs. Pausing to look back, I saw the bride and groom get into a town car. Most of the family was still watching them with only a few looking back at the doors that Roger disappeared through. Greta was staring at me, her eyebrows raised. I turned my back on her and walked into the main part of the church looking around for Roger.

He was under the choir box taking deep breaths. "Roger?" I heard the tap tap of high heeled shoes behind me. I turned.

Greta was walking over to Roger's hiding place.

The Wedding

It was a lovely spring day. The morning air still had a bit of crisp to it, but nothing a light shawl couldn't keep at bay. Pigeons were cooing merrily while pecking at the offerings left by night's revelers. The sun was behind the church, shining through the stained glass windows. Ribbon, bows, and flowers were strewn over anything holding still. It was the kind of day that could make one want to slice her wrists.

I love my cousin Nathaniel. I really do. And I like the girl he is marrying. She's smart and beautiful and driven. I just don't know how to talk to them. They're both conservative business people who are getting married in a catholic church. I'm pretty sure they think I've suffered brain damage and am incapable of regular conversation. Then there's the rest of my family to worry about. While we would win no original awards in a dysfunctional contest there was just enough to make me dread the coming event. I needed my armor, I needed protection, I needed Leviathan.

Though I hate to admit it, I was relieved when Braylon had to cancel as my date. He had yet to meet my family and I had been sweating it. Literally. Three nights in a row I woke up in a cold sweat. My bed sheets damp from the nightmares. I would roll over to the other side of the bed, grateful that I was sleeping alone. I would be unable to remember anything about the dreams except they involved my family, things falling over, general chaos, and catching a bunch of flowers. Hence the sweating.

It took some convincing to get Roger to agree to accompany me. While we had served as each other's dates previously, it had never overflowed into our families. It was accepted amongst our colleagues that we were friends only. I'm sure there are some that assume we're sleeping together, but the jokes and innuendos had died off a couple years ago (except for Roger's fellow speech writer, Barry who doesn't know how to stop talking. He makes jokes that range from annoying to incredibly inappropriate in a formal setting. The filter between thought and mouth is totally broken. In short: he's a jackass).

Braylon cancelled after the star student at his martial arts school won a district competition and was advancing to state. The state competition happened to be the same day as the wedding. Braylon was apologetic and thought that I would like to take the opportunity to get out of going to the wedding. He was surprised that I wanted to go still, but this was my cousin. Despite not connecting with him since we've grown into adults, when we were children, we were great friends. Braylon actually accused me of not being supportive of his business by not wanting to go with him. I attempted to assure him that me wanting to be there with my family is not being unsupportive of him, but we both walked away from it upset. I don't understand his thinking on this matter and I guess he doesn't understand mine either.

When I asked Roger if he would go with me, he first asked about my family's reaction. Would they understand that we were just friends or would he have to endure questions and jokes the whole night? I told him that would most likely be the case, but he could handle it. My family is impressed by intelligence and being successful. They would probably like him, the fast rising politician, over me, the lowly bookstore owner. He paused to think for a moment and then seemed to suddenly remember that I have a boyfriend. When I told him the story of Braylon cancelling and our subsequent argument, he didn't say anything, but his mouth became a thin line of disapproval. I didn't tell him that I actually preferred him going with me rather than Braylon. It could have given him the wrong idea or a big head.

Why did I want Roger instead of Braylon? How to explain the sense of comfort Roger gives to me in awkward situations? While I'm quiet and usually need a few drinks before I'm relaxed enough to socialize with people I'm not close with, Roger is at ease around almost everyone (the only exceptions are people that he has admired from afar and then finally meets. It's actually quite sweet to see my friend who is usually so collected and cool act nervous and geek out from meeting a guy that most people don't even know exist). Roger cracks tasteful jokes, tells engaging stories that draw people in, and can be the life of a party without being obnoxious. All that plus there's no sexual pressure. Perfect wedding date.

So here we are. Walking up to the church to watch my cousin marry his girlfriend of nearly ten years, I felt Roger stiffen under my arm. I thought I was nervous until I looked up into his face. Roger looked petrified.

"You never said it was a Catholic church."

Was Roger prejudice against Catholics? The thought never occurred to me. "Yes. Michelle was raised Catholic. Is this a problem?"

"Aren't there large amounts of water throughout a Catholic church?"

Oh. "Well, I think so. This is my first time in one too. I think you're going to be okay. You're not getting baptized."

"But what about when we go in? Aren't we supposed to dip our fingers in or something?"

"I don't think they expect the non-Catholics to do the cross. If anyone says anything, just tell them you're Jewish. If all else fails: pretend. We should be all right."

Taking a deep breath, Roger and I climbed the steps into the church.

The Trip to the Museum

Roger is not a fan of the arts. Not the fine arts anyway. Comic art he's all over.

Every once in a while I'll drag him with me to the city's art museum. It's a modest affair. It's a two story building sectioned by artistic style; heavy on the impressionist and modernists. There are no haystacks by Monet, no coy-smiling ladies, and no Greek statues with missing limbs. While there are some interesting pieces, nothing that has set the art world on fire.

Though there is nothing of interest in the museum of our modest sized city, the curator managed to convince the caretakers of an art nouveau exhibit to bring their pieces here. How he managed it only I and a few privileged others know and I've been sworn to secrecy. But I don't think I'd be breaking the oath just by saying that a call girl, a man with an abnormal sexual appetite lucky enough to marry into a rich family, and a forged Alphonse Mucha piece were involved.

If you don't know what art nouveau is I suggest you google it. You know those pieces, usually with lovely women and swirly foliage all around, occasionally looking more like posters then fine art, that's art nouveau. The reason that some of them look like posters is because that's exactly what they were. A lot of art nouveau artists made their living creating advertisements for dancers, absinthe, burlesque shows, etc. Some really fabulous stuff. I could give you a brief lesson, but I'm not an art teacher and for all you know, I'd be talking out my ass more than sharing wisdom. Besides I'm not here to share Mucha or Lautrec stories, but those of my friend, Roger.

Roger reluctantly agreed to accompany me to the museum one Sunday evening. Since my store doesn't close until five and the museum closed at seven he knew he wouldn't be tortured for too terribly long. Besides, he owed me and he knew it. Roger and I work on an informal barter system. I'll go with him to things he enjoys and keep the bitching down to a minimum and he does the same for me. I went with him to a comic convention the month before. It lasted hours. Hours of Vulcan ears and chubby men in spandex (I told Roger I would refuse to go if he went in a costume of any kind). Hours standing in line to meet people just to have them sign a comic, while watching Roger stress if the autograph would add to the value or diminish its mint condition. Ten hours at a comic convention versus the two hours in the museum was not a fair trade and Roger was sweating how I was going to make him pay me back.

The sun was just setting behind us as we entered the building. The days were getting longer, but true spring was still elusive. I've never liked museum lobbies. They're noisy and crowded. People haven't gotten into proper museum mode where everyone is quiet and patient. Here they're noisy and pushy. There are coats are being taken off, bags slung across shoulders, and strollers being unfolded. People are rude: throwing elbows, stopping suddenly, and being generally obnoxious. It's the perfect environment for a pick pocket.

I saw him before Roger did. Something about it green jacket caught my eye. It was open over a yellow shirt and faded blue jeans. His dark scraggly mustache and goatee placed him about twenty, twenty two. He was leaning in close to a blonde woman with ramrod straight posture. I thought them an odd couple.

She seemed to be ignoring him, talking with other blonde women with matching purses. He seemed to be looking around the lobby for someone while one hand quickly dipped into her purse.

I nudged Roger and nodded over to the guy who was slowly moving away still looking around him. "Pick pocket."

Roger spotted him, his eyes narrow. "The guy in the yellow shirt?"

"That's the one. You'll still owe me you know."

Roger sighed, "Figures. You won't give me a reprieve if I catch the guy?" Roger was watching the pick pocket make his way to the doors of the museum. I don't think he was even blinking.

"Depends on how much style you put into it I suppose."

"You stay and enjoy the exhibit. I'll see you at your place later tonight."

"Right and let you have all the fun. Do you have your mask this time?" I swung my bag up to my chest to begin looking for the spare I started carrying with me after the last time.

I looked up triumphant, but Roger was already gone. I caught a flash of a button down shirt and pants fly to a trash can and land about two feet short. Seriously, the man as no game.

So much for my art nouveau exhibit. I followed slowly behind, pausing to pick up the discarded shirt and pants. I noticed he switched to snaps instead of buttons. Rockabilly on the weekends? They easily stowed in my bulbous shoulder bag.

Down at the bottom of the stairs, Leviathan had already caught the guy. Not the most exciting chase this time around. I realized I should have said something to the blonde woman, but she would find out soon enough when she went to make her 'donation' to the museum.

Walking heavily, in no hurry, I went down the steps watching Leviathan in his moment of glory. He was sitting on the pick pocket's back, hands on his hips, head up proudly surveying the scene around him. Museum security, one older with white hair and a slim build, the other younger but with a sizable pot belly, ran past me down the stairs. Rent-a-cops with whistles.

Leviathan stood up, placed one foot on the guy's back. "Do not fear my magnitude, fellow law enforcers! This gentleman is a pick pocket. I believe you will find a wallet belonging to a blonde female patron of the museum in his inside jacket pocket."

The mall security guys rushed over, the older one stared at Roger, pointing his whistle at him. Pot Belly was roughly turning the pick pocket over and feeling inside his jacket. He found the wallet, opened the clasp and held up a driver's license for White Hair to see.

"Looks like that woman that was freaking out inside all right," Pot Belly said, panting slightly.

"Perhaps so," White Hair's eye brows were drawn, continuing to stare at Leviathan, "I think I need to ask you some questions."

"That won't be necessary, my good man." Roger was trying to stay in the jubilant character he adopted as Leviathan, but I could tell he was starting to panic. "There are others out there who need me." Roger took his foot off of the pick pocket and bounded out of reach of White Hair. "Besides, my size is sure to attract unwanted negative attention to the museum within moments. I wish to be gone as to not adversely affect you in any way."

The two guards glanced at each other. Roger began moving away again. I started to walk in the same direction trying not to draw attention to myself.

"Now hold on! I need you to stay here, buddy!"

Leviathan began waving. "No, no. I really must be available to all who need me and my talents. Perhaps another time." With that and a slight bow, Roger turned and began bounding away down the street.

The Time Leviathan Stopped the Purse Snatcher.

Roger was wearing his Leviathan costume under his regular suit more and more often.

It was starting to be a problem. He wouldn't say anything, but when we were out he would come back from the restroom looking disgruntled. I think the bulk was not easy to manipulate when desperate. He would pull at his suit, plucking at it, scratching heavily at times. The costume must have been bunching up in places. And on occasion he appeared to be exceptional hot. Roger had always been well turned out, dapper even. More than once I saw sweat marks under his arms. Not only did he have his costume on, he was wearing heavier button down shirts so the costume couldn't be seen through the fabric.

He started to develop habits which to the uninformed appeared to be nervous ticks, but to those in the know (or rather, me) it was what happens when you're constantly on alert. Constant vigilance! He was always surveying the environment for people in need. He was no longer making eye contact or even pretending to be listening when others talked. He would suddenly jump, as if someone pinched him only to sit back down again when it turned out to be nothing. When friends of ours commented on how rude Roger had been lately, I said something to him about it.

"You do realize your completely isolating everyone around you?" I asked him one day while we were eating lunch. We were sitting outside at a small café table. Roger sat with his back to the building watching the weekend shoppers towing bags and strollers.

"Hmm?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Exactly."

"Sorry, were you saying something?" He looked at me for the first time since we sat down.

"I said you're not going to have anyone else left besides me. No one wants to be around you anymore. You've become 'that guy'"

"'That guy'. What does that mean?" He smiled, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes still flitting around.

"You're the guy that people know but no one wants to be around because he's too weird." I wrinkled my nose. "Quirky is good. Weird, not so much."

Roger actually appeared offended. "I'm not weird." Politicians don't have a sense of humor about how others perceive them.

"Really? Know anyone else like you? Not only do you have your…" I pointed at him with my fork, gesturing up and down, "Shall we say 'large issue'," the girls sitting at the table next to us turned around and eyed Roger up and down. "But you're completely antisocial anymore. That's supposed to be my role in our dynamic."

"What exactly do you suggest? I don't want to give this up, Sam."

"Are you sure? Okay, I know you've thought about it, but you can't keep this up forever, Roger. You're not a multimillionaire with a cheeky yet wise butler companion. You're a public servant with a cynical bookstore owner hanging around. You have to work."

I knew this was Roger's big dilemma. He was still struggling with how to balance it all. He was thinking about leaving his fantastic apartment in the city for a house way outside of town, out past the suburbs even, so neighbors couldn't see him coming and going in his bright orange corvette. He wasn't putting in the hours anymore that rising political stars needed to in order to make it. He nearly lost his job when he waited until the last minute to write a speech for the Congressman. He didn't finish until the Congressman was walking to the press conference. As a result, the Congressman stumbled over a few passages that should have been polished over, making headlines when he said "I believe these bright school children will make fine prostitutes for their future" instead of "fine prospects" or something. I thought it was all rather funny, but Roger not so much. The night before instead of working on the speech, he was driving around in Betsy. Going up and down the street, past the corner he had been stabbed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the kid that did it.

"I know I still have some kinks to work out, but I was given this gift for a reason. I can't just give up on it."

I took sip of my tea. "Will you at least set aside an evening next week for me? Leah invited us to a party at her place. Some fondue and wine thing. Will you come and be just Roger, just for the night?"

"I…" He stopped. He jerked out of his chair. The girls sitting behind him looked up again. One opened her mouth to speak, a coy little smile on her face.

Before she could say anything, Roger ran off.

I sat stunned for only a moment. I quickly threw money on the table, had a moment of déjà vu, and ran after him. I could see ahead of me a woman screaming, pointing after Roger who appeared to be chasing a man.

"My purse! That fucker took my purse! I have my life in there. How could someone do that?"

I stopped, grabbing her by the arms to get her attention I asked her if she was okay.

"Okay? No I'm not okay, you stupid cow! That bastard took my purse, why would I be okay." She was a peach. Not seeing any injury and she certainly wasn't acting injured, I ran after Roger again.

He was at least a block ahead of me. The sidewalk was thick with shoppers. The purse snatcher was shoving people left and right as he tried to get away. Roger was having an easier time, people seemed to be moving out of the way for him. I saw Roger grab something out of a woman's hand.

A cup.

I saw Roger lift the cup over his head, pour the contents over, and throw the cup. I reminded myself to talk to Roger about littering later.

He was nearly on top of the snatcher now. He dove at him, just managing to grab the guy around his knees. The guy stumbled forward, nearly falling on his face. He put his hands out in front of him, catching himself just in time. The guy began kicking at Roger, landing one on his jaw. I heard Roger grunt in pain. His grip loosened just enough the snatcher was able to pull his legs free.

Roger didn't stay down. He was up and after the guy again. They were coming up on the park. Taking up two city blocks, the park was adjacent to the city zoo. The White River that weaves through the city and much of the central part of the state is lined with small banks, spots for fishing, and large trees for picnicking under in the park. In the rest of the city it is blocked by concrete barriers and forced underground by development.

I had caught up a bit when the men fell, but my heeled shoes, though they looked great, were not ideal for running. Pausing to take them off my feet, I sprinted after them with a shoe in each hand and my messenger bag flapping against my bottom. I felt like such a girl. So much for my big bad martial arts lessons.

The purse snatcher was running alongside the river bank, hurdling over picnic goers and fishing poles. Roger was gaining again, but it was obvious to me even from a small distance that he was getting tired. He dived again.

This time the purse snatcher sensed Roger and turned at the last moment, taking the brunt of the dive face on. The men fell sideways, rolling down the steep, but short embankment and falling into the river.

The purse snatcher immediately gave up.

He began waving his arms, flailing about, and screaming. I slid down the embankment, seeing the purse lying at the top where the men had fallen from. Roger steered the man over towards me. I waded in, holding my arms out and was able to grasp the man's hand.

Roger called my name. I looked at him. He was making no effort to get out of the water himself. He meant to continue on down the river, until he could get out unnoticed under a bridge or something similar. And he didn't even have to say anything. He just said my name. I looked at him, saw his expression, and nodded.

Still gripping the purse snatcher tightly under his arms, I watched as Roger dipped his head under and let the current carry him down river.

 

 

The Apology

There was no way around it. Roger was crazy.

But then again, I'm not the most stable person either. Roger could have done any number of things that night. He could have called an ambulance or hauled me away in his car and taken me to the hospital to have my stomach pumped. He could have called the police. He could have walked out and left me. Or worse then any of those, he could have stayed that night watching over me, and then never talked to me ever again. He did none of those things.

He called his cousin, who's in med school. Counted the sleeping tablets left in the bottle and saw that there were quite a lot in there. So he decided that whatever was happening, while not good, could be handled. I marvel at Roger's actions. I think if I had been in his position, whether I determined it was accidental or not, I still would have gone with the hospital route.

That next morning after our talk about my actions, Roger took a nap. He had stayed up all night with me and called into the office to say he wasn't going to make it in shortly before I woke up. He slept until the early afternoon. While he was sleeping I puttered around my apartment. Amazingly I was still tired, but did not want to sleep anymore. I called Leah, my only full-time employee, to check on the store. Leah started as temporary summer help, but stayed on when her fall courses started. She gets the brunt of my flakiness being the only one I can trust to handle things if I'm not able to make it in, which although rare, does happen on occasion. She loves books almost as much as I do, is great picking out the perfect selection for customers who come in with the vaguest notion of what they're looking for, and she puts up with me calling her Summer Help.

I fed George and said hello to Stanley. I tried working on the accounting for the store again, but still couldn't concentrate. I stood in front of my book shelves trying to decide between a comfortable old favorite or an exciting new one. I ended up sitting back down empty handed.

I curled up on my favorite piece of furniture I own. Situated next to the window was my giant chair. It is the width of a chair and a half, slightly longer in the seat then a normal chair, but not quite as long a chaise. It is upholstered in a large floral print that manages to look modern instead of grandma. And I love it more then anyone should love a chair.

I felt like a wretch. My best friend was doing the only thing that he could think of to possibly save my life and what did I do? It doesn't matter that the situation wasn't as dire as it could have been, it doesn't matter that he is completely delusional. The fact of the matter was I laughed in his face. And he stayed anyway.

Roger woke up shortly after I finished lunch. I was sitting at my kitchen table and got up to get his coffee way too fast to be casual. It seemed painfully obvious to me that I was acting awkward. Hopefully Roger wouldn't notice.

"Sam, relax. I can get my own coffee." Roger was looking at me with one eyebrow raised. So, maybe it was obvious to Roger as well. "How are you feeling?" He was pouring his coffee, looking over his shoulder, his eyes showing worry, not pity. If I had seen pity in his eyes, I think I would have shut down. Everything that I had thought about while Roger was sleeping would have been gone in an instant.

Instead I took a steadying breath, "I'm sorry. Roger, I don't even know how…"

Roger held up his hand to stop me, "Don't. Sam, don't. You would have done the same for me."

"I'm not talking about that. I laughed at you. I'm sorry I laughed at you."

"Oh. That."

"I'm not sure what to think about…that. I thought about it all morning and I still don't know. Roger. Roger, look at me. Please. " He was facing the cabinets; one hand remained on the coffee pot. I waited.

Finally he turned and looked at me. "Nothing is…nothing is going to change…anything." He seemed to sag into the chair.

"That's a relief to hear. I thought that we were done. To tell the truth, I didn't know I was going to do that last night." He kind of half smiled at me. "I wasn't exactly thinking straight."

" Yeah, well. I am sorry about that too. But Roger, do you really think…I mean" I just needed to get it out. Why was it so hard? "You do know you didn't transform into anything last night, right?"

Confusion covered his face. "Of course I did." He stopped, thinking for a moment. "You were too messed up last night. You must have blocked it or are remembering wrong or something."

"No, Roger, I was really messed up last night, but I remember most of what happened, and you didn't grow into anything."

"You're just trying to be nice, being nice to the freak."

"Oh my g-…no, seriously, nothing happened!" I caught myself yelling and was surprised to find I was halfway out of my seat. I sat back down regrouping. He just wasn't listening to me at all. I would have to try to do this in a different way. How exactly do you reason with a crazy person?

The First Time

February is my worst month.

I spend many an hour not quite understanding why I feel so down, so sick though I don't have any symptoms of illness. I will stare out the window and sigh in a most dramatic fashion at least twice an hour. I will sit down to begin a task: writing, or working on the numbers for the bookstore and then my mind will wandering into nothingness, not even depressing thoughts, just boring nothingness. I begin to feel anxious even during these tasks that I normally enjoy. I spend my days exausted, but unable to sleep at night. I used to resort to a couple beers or a sleeping pill or two to help me sleep. I don't do that anymore.

When I realize that I've been behaving this way after a couple days or weeks, it will still take me a bit longer before I remember that it's February. It's what I do. Despite many people that I adore celebrating birthdays during this month it is still horrible. I detest it. Snow has been falling for months, then melting, then falling again. As a result there is a constant presence of slush. Not beautiful white snow. Just brown sludge that pretends it was once snow. The sky stays slate no matter how bright the sun shines. I'm always in a building or a vehicle. Dallying outside, admiring a snow drift does nothing for me.

This is nothing new. I've been this way since puberty. I actually have recorded proof of the decline of my senses. Middle and high school report cards show a bright student during the first two grading periods and then it seems on paper as though I've suffered brain damage for the third with a remarkable recovery for the final 9 weeks. My mother, after years of threats, groundings, and lectures, finally came to terms with the fact that my GPA was not going to reach its full potential due to this seasonal phenomenon. In fact, she recognized the pattern far before I did. How could I? My brain does not function properly during these 28 (29) days.

One such February, I almost checked out. It wasn't a conscious decision, more of an accident caused by my brain fog. I'm only reminded of this because it is currently February and I'm wishing Roger was here right now to cheer me up like he did that day.

To put it in the time line which I know has jumped all around from ten years up to two years ago: this happened after Roger told me his secret, but before the spring incident when he ran stampeding through downtown traffic and almost got himself killed.

It was a Sunday evening. My bookstore closes early on Sundays, so I was home with my cat and fish. George was curled around Stanley's bowl like usual, occasionally opening one eye to watch the fish lazily weave through his water fern. I had read somewhere that cats like companionship if their owners are gone a lot. After lengthy conversations with George on the matter, I decided that he would not want his territory usurped but wouldn't mind having someone around the house. I know a fish is an unusual choice, but it's working out remarkably well. Either that or my cat is keeping the mail order fish business thriving.

I was having a bottle of wine, and the glass would not hold still by this point, when Roger rang the buzzer downstairs. I let him up and was momentarily puzzled. Did we have plans?

"I just thought I'd come by," Roger answered my unspoken question. "Thought you might like some company."

"George is here. He's pretty good company. Doesn't say much, though." I turned and looked at my cat and was surprised to see he had two heads. "I think I need to siddown." I felt my way to the couch and sunk into the cushion.

Roger wasn't saying much. In fact I don't think he was talking at all at this point. I could feel him moving around me, shuffling the papers around on my desk, picking up things and putting them back down. I lay with my head against the arm of the couch staring at George staring at Stanley. I vaguely remember calling Roger earlier. Had I said something? I heard a rattle. Then suddenly Roger pulled me to my feet.

"Hey Sam, lets dance!"

What the.. "Are you out of your mind? I have no music playing, I'm freakin' drunk, and I feel like sleeping. I haven't been able to sleep in days and I'm finally tired." At least that's what I tried to say. I think it came out more like: "R yous outta yur min? 'S no musix. Ima frickin' drnk, and I'm sleping. I wanna slept."

Roger was having none of it. He got me slung over one arm and dragged me over to the stereo. Selecting a disc, he punched buttons until the music came on. I swear if he had picked any thing other then George Clinton I wouldn't have danced. It's impossible to not dance to P-Funk. Instead I did the white girl groove. Head down, arms bent at the elbow like I'm going to snap my fingers but don't, doing a step side to side, singing along, and getting half the words wrong. Good stuff.

I don't know what Roger was doing while I sang about dogs, but he was on the phone, talking to someone. Why did he bother coming over if he's going to talk to someone else while he was here.

I was tired from dancing and went back over to the couch. He suddenly snapped his phone closed and strode over to me.

"Sam. You want to see a trick?"

"That entirely depends. What is this wondrous trick you wish to show me?" Why is it when a person is drunk they try to talk more eloquently then they would when sober? And it just accentuates out how drunk they really are.

"I need some water." Roger went to the kitchen. I followed, curious to what he was up to. He was bent over the sink, with the water running full force. "For this I would only need a trickle, but I wanted the effect to be instantaneous. Stand back, Sam, for you do not understand the supreme power that is Leviathan!" With that he trust his hand into the stream.

Roger began to shake ever so slightly. His whole body was a trembling. His eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, his face pinched with pain. He seemed to grown taller, but when I looked down I saw he was straightening from being bent over the sink and stretching up on his toes.

He pulled his hand away from the water and bellowed, "Do no fear me, Samantha! I keep all mental faculties when I transform!"

I stared transfixed at Roger's face. Was this actually happening? Didn't he realize?

Roger looked down at me, fear was mixed with pride in his eyes. He waited, anxiety growing the longer I remained silent.

I laughed. I laughed so hard I bent over double. Tears began streaming down my face. My whole body was in on it. It was the uncontrollable laughter that once it starts it will not stop. When you try to stop it just makes you laugh harder. I knew I was hurting Roger's feelings, but I couldn't stop! I laughed until I puked. Literally.

I made it to the kitchen sink just in time. Water splashed up in my face as I vomited, Roger hadn't had a chance to turn it off yet.

Roger was muttering to himself "That wasn't quite what I was expecting, but it seems to have had its benefits. I was just trying to keep you awake, but puking actually works better."

Now I began to cry. "Oh, Roger, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. I don't know why I laughed. I really don't." I was sobbing and exhausted, I slumped down against the cabinets. I felt Roger's arms fold around me, the warmth of his chest through his shirt as he carried me to my room.

Roger didn't leave me that night or the next day. Every time I woke up he would be there, sitting in the arm chair, book in his lap, desk lamp on with his cell phone close at hand. In the morning, he made me coffee and we sat at my tiny kitchen table talking about sun-imitating lamps, St. Johns Wart, and locking up the liquor during the month of February.

We waited until that night to talk about Leviathan.

The Day I Got Caught

I had been going to the martial arts school secretly for six months before Roger finally caught me.

I wasn't trying to be sneaky, really. We were going to the same school. Classes were right after each other. We were both taking multiple sessions. There was a chance to see each other every day, some days multiple times. For weekse, I was taking pains to make sure that he never saw me. I was unable to adequately explain why, even to myself, until he reacted the way he did. That's when I realized what it was I had been trying to avoid.

After months of stealth, it had gotten to the point that I forgot I was even hiding it from him. So when I walked into the large warehouse style building that evening for my daily lesson, I smiled at Roger standing in the lobby without thinking.

"Hey Roger, your class ran late."

"Sam?" Surprise covered his face. "Did we have plans tonight?"

Senses returned. Oh shit. "Uh no. Um, I'm here because..." What other possible reason could I have for being there besides the obvious? And why didn't I take Roger's out? He practically gift wrapped it for me. But I was dressed in a stretch tank and pants, not something worn to go out to dinner. I was just going to have to be honest. Seriously, maybe this was all built up in my head and Roger won't make a big deal out of it.

"Actually I'm here for my class. Tonight is Muay Thai, I think. I'm taking like three different classes right now." I waited, looking at the floor. He wasn't saying anything. Cautiously I looked up.
Roger's face was covered with a giant grin. "You're taking classes?"

"Yeah."

"For how long"

"Not quite as long as you."

"And it isn't just because of Braylon?"

"Not entirely." Braylon, was the owner of the martial arts school. We were both from the same home town and had known each other in high school. When I decided to get Roger martial arts lessons as a gift, it never entered my mind to go anywhere else but Braylon's school to get the certificate. And we had been dating for the past four months now.

It started with phone calls, checking on Roger's ever increasing skills, but when I decided to take classes myself the phone calls didn't stop even though we saw each other every day. It wasn't long before Roger's was no longer mentioned and instead we were talking about our likes and dislikes, favorite colors (I like green, Braylon prefers black), and the best concert we ever attended (Roger and I went to this Deftones show quite a few years back. Chino was dead on, the opening bands were way beyond expectation, and we had a blast, getting sweated and stomped on in the middle of the pit. This was before Roger got his job and had to be all serious and we switched to sitting in seats instead of getting floor tickets. And Braylon saw a fantastic Jimmy Buffet show that he said changed his life. I didn't quite know how to react to that one).

One night after we had been on the phone for a good hour, Braylon finally asked the big question, "Are Roger and you, like, an item?" After assuring Braylon that while Roger was the man in my life it most certainly was not in that way, he asked me out.

"So you've been taking classes for how long exactly?" Roger pressed.

"About five months. Listen is this going to be much longer? I do have a class you know."

Still grinning, Roger gestured that I was free to pass. I went to the back to drop my bag. As I turned I saw Braylon talking to Roger, who was sitting on the benches usually warmed by parents watching their child's class.

Roger was going to stay to watch. I could feel my face start to burn. It was one thing to do the punches and kicks in front of Braylon, but it was something else entirely with Roger watching. I just knew he had the wrong idea. I mean, I wasn't taking classes so I could fight as Mini-Might. I wanted to get in shape. I wanted to impress the guy I was dating. I liked the feeling I got as I punched and kicked on the bags. It had nothing to do with Leviathan and Mini-Might.

Who was I kidding?

Not Roger, that was for sure. I was watching him out of the corner of my eye as he watched me. He knew. He had to know. He was sizing up my skill. Determining how we would work best together, he analytical mind going through different scenarios, assessing, evaluating, apraising. I was going to have to set him straight as soon as class was over. Cancel my plans with Braylon and talk to Roger. I was not doing this to fight along side him. I was only doing this to protect him. Just in case he was down and someone tried to hurt him. That's when I would come in with all my hot new skills. There was no way I was going to be standing by and watch as some thug takes a knife to him. Never again.

Now just how to convince him.

The Night Roger and I Started Talking Again. Part 2

There still in the doorway stood my ex, rain drops sparkling in his dark hair, deep eyes that gave the impression of missing nothing scanning the room. His name was Daniel and he was gorgeous. We first dated years ago for a short time. He dumped me. Without warning. Right before I started a new job. A year later he tracked me down, played with my heart some more. I stood strong that time even though it nearly broke me in two and refused him. The last time he found me he was more persistent and I caved, blissfully caved, thinking that this time we would work. Only to have my heart broken again.

Could I get out the back door? Would they let me out through the kitchen? No good, it was on the other side of the room. Maybe if I sit really still and not even blink he won't notice me. He'll walk right by me and then I can slip out the entrance.

I felt as much as I saw him slide onto the stool next to me.

"Hello, Samantha."

"Hello, Daniel," I spoke to the air in front of me. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Georgia." Was all he said. Ah, now it made sense. Georgia, my sweet, lovable, beautiful, vapid cousin. Georgia was how Daniel and I met. They had dated first, in high school. Their break-up was affable and had remained friends. On the other extreme, Daniel and mine's last break-up was ugly, grotesque even. There were a lot of tears, a lot of drunken dialing no matter how cleverly Roger tried to hide my phone, and a lot of inventive curse words, some of them I was rather proud of. Roger was there almost every night taking care of me, making sure I didn't decide to visit Daniel, just to talk, at his job, after thinking it was a good idea to start drinking at 3 in the afternoon. Letting me cry for as long as I needed to without getting all uncomfortable like most guys do when a woman cries, uncontrollably, blabbering incoherently in between big heaving sobs, with snot and mascara running down her face. Yeah...it was bad. I ruined a few of Roger's shirts those first two weeks when it was at its worst. Roger still maintains it was more like six, but he's counting the zombie weeks where I walked around, going through the motions while not really being present. I didn't cry in public those weeks so they don't count as bad.

Apparently Georgia had forgotten the promise she had made during the last family get together. We had been standing in our grandparents' kitchen and she just told me about running into Daniel again, and wasn't it the funniest thing, he asked about me. I made her swear on a copy of The Joy of Cooking that she would not tell him where I was or my phone number or anything. In hindsight I should have taken the extra few minutes to find something a little more appropriate for her to swear on, but it was an emergency and the cookbook was just sitting there.

"What do you want, Daniel?" I sighed into my beer.

"Just wanted to see my alluring bookish friend again. Is that so wrong?" I could hear the smile in his voice. Teasing playfulness inviting me in.

I sighed into my beer. How to play this one? Should I go along with his game? Quip back and forth until I can circle around and teasingly find out what he really wants. Be the Sam that he used to be attracted to or should I just be blunt?

"What the fuck do you want, Daniel?" Okay then I guess I'm going with blunt.

He finally turned to face me. I turned as well, trying to set my mouth in a hard line. I decided to hear him out, but I would not allow myself to be pulled into whatever fanciful story he was about to spin. We both opened our mouths to speak at the same time, and then I blinked and Daniel wasn't there anymore.

Daniel was on his back on the floor. Legs bent as if he were still sitting in the chair, arms protecting his face, he was staring up between his arms at the tall figure standing over him.

"Hey, Roger," I smiled at my friend. "You got here fast."

"I was just leaving the office when I got your message. Thought I swing by before heading home." Roger was staring down at Daniel like he was a pile of rubbish that had been left out for pick up too early. "Good thing I did."

I bristled a bit. What did he mean by that? I was handling myself just fine.

"You have a lot of nerve." Wait, that was my line. Why was Roger saying it? "Get out of here. Keep away from Sam." Daniel stared at Roger for a beat. Roger's face was darker then I had ever seen it before. He was not a man that got angry very often. After assessing his situation, flat on his back, no allies around to help, I could actually see Daniel mentally decide it wasn't worth it to fight back.

Daniel scrambled to his feet. He looked over at me. I guess he saw no sympathy in my face, for he simply brushed off his pants, turned, and walked out of The Moon Duck.

I smiled up at Roger, took a deep breath, and hoped he would understand every bit of it when I said, "My hero."

The Night Roger and I Started Talking Again.

It had been over a week. Over a week since Roger had endangered the lived of dozens of people, almost go himself killed, and scared me nearly to death with his carelessness. Of all the thoughtless, idiotic, just plain ignorant things to do!

I was still a tad angry.

I was also mad because I found myself thinking "if only he had remembered his umbrella" instead of "if only Roger wasn't a loony." You have to remember that this was early on. This was before I became Mini-Might. This was before the judo lessons. This was before Betsy. This was even before Roger got his first costume. Roger and I had discussed his 'power' in depth of course, but aside for the times he deliberately changed, I hadn't witnessed an accidental growth until that day a week before.

To say I was shaken would be putting it mildly. The last thing I had wanted to do was talk about it with Roger. I didn't want to tell him how upset I was, how disappointed, how scared. It didn't occur to me at the time that by not talking to him, I was telling him just that.

The night Roger and I started talking again, I was sitting in our favorite bar, belly up. The Moon Duck was all warmth and wood, soft yellow lighting and small enclosed booths. You could be in the middle of the room at a table and still feel isolated if you wanted to. On the other hand, I've never been in a bar that made me feel so welcome. The people were a mix of the day drinkers, the students, and the professionals. The only band that played there was all blues sung by a front man that knew he had what it takes to make it in our small city, but was too afraid to go any bigger.

Joplin was playing on the jukebox, beers were a buck a piece that night, and I was sitting on the left hand straight up of the U shaped bar spinning my cell phone on the shiny surface. I was trying to call Roger. I didn't like not talking to him. I figured a casual approach would be best. I'd call him and say, "Hiya Rog. The Gorgeous Blues are playing later tonight. Why don't you come out to the Moon later?" It even sounded forced in my head. For one thing I don't say Hiya. And I rarely call him Rog. Rog. It sounds like I'm horking up phlegm. On the other hand, no matter how forced it would come out, Roger would know that I was trying to make up, and he would show. Good guy that he is.

He hadn't tried to call me the whole week either. I think he was giving me my space. Letting me digest all that had occurred and decide on my own if I wanted to continue being associated with him. How stuffy did that sound? What it was really, he was letting me decide if I still wanted to be his friend. Either that or I said something really stupid that I don't remember during the drive home the other night, and he was avoiding me. I shuddered at the thought.

It had continued to rain throughout the week. Would Roger even come out if I called him. Would he chance it? He's had to have gone to work. Someone from the office would have called me, I'm his emergency contact. I could see him in my mind's eye: two umbrellas, triple layer ponchos, fisherman's galoshes up to his thighs, perhaps even those clear bonnets with little visors that old women wear. Doing everything he could to stay dry as he trudged to work. I smiled to myself. That was it. I picked up my phone and called Roger.

It went to voicemail. Of course it did.

"Hey Roger. It's Sam. I'm up at The Moon Duck. Thought you could join me for a beer or two. Well, talk to you later. Bye." I quickly pressed the button. There, it was done. I made contact. It was off me.

I knew the door opened behind me, I could feel the cool breeze against my back. I don't know why I looked back, it couldn't have been Roger yet, but I did anyway. It was like someone reached inside my chest and squeezed all the air from my lungs. My stomach jumped into my mouth. My insides were definitely betraying me.

How did he find me this time? The last time, it was my car in my last apartment's parking lot. The time before it was through the grapevine, he found out where I was living. Hadn't he put me through enough? Maybe it was a hallucination. Maybe someone slipped something in my beer when I wasn't looking. It's just someone that looks like my ex standing in the entrance of my favorite bar.

The Day Roger Forgot His Umbrella

Not surprisingly, Roger loves The Weather Channel. There's a TV in his office just for pure weather enjoyment. When most of his colleges are glued to C SPAN, Roger's tuned into Local on the 8's. Ask him what the weather is going to be a week from Tuesday and he'll give you the forecast without missing a beat. He's not a meteorologist by any means, he only repeats what the people tell him. When they're wrong, he's wrong. They say it's going to be sunny with 30% chance of precipitation and then we're hit by a thunderstorm and Roger is screwed (in his own mind of course).

This is why Roger always carries an umbrella. He switches between the stately European gentleman umbrella that doubles as a walking cane and the fold into microscopic, fit in your front pocket umbrella. It depends on what the actual forecast is and how many meetings he has in a particular day.

The day Roger forgot his umbrella, the forecast did call for rain, which makes it even more amazing that he didn't have it. He told me that it was a normal morning. His alarm went off at the regular time, his toast didn't burn, the shower ran out of hot water as he was conditioning his hair like always. He had his briefcase ready the night before and even spent the normal five minutes looking for his keys. He just failed to pick up an umbrella on his way out the door. Later that night, when he eventually made it home, he found both sitting in their normal spots to the right of the door, between the wall and sideboard.

It wasn't until lunchtime that Roger realized his mistake. He was leaving to go down to the corner deli, turned off the TV (Weather Channel, of course), checked his back pocket for his wallet, cell phone in jacket, keys in left hand, reached for his umbrella with his right...it wasn't there. But it was always there leaning against the wall. Roger told himself to take deep breaths. Maybe the weather people will be wrong, maybe it won't rain that afternoon.

He walked to the corner deli, looking at the sky every few steps, assessing the clouds like he knew what he was looking for. After successfully making it to the deli and back, freaking out inside the whole way, he arrived back at the office feeling like a champ. He had gone out without his umbrella, and survived! He felt liberated. Maybe he wouldn't need to bring his umbrella every where he went. Maybe this was the beginning of a braver man.

His new high lasted all through the afternoon and into the evening. Colleges noticed his change in attitude and commented on it to each other. Most assumed that he had some cocktails with lunch. He was feeling good, walking with a bit of a swagger. I even noticed it when I came into his office.

It was kind of a big night. We were driving up to the town where we went to school, to the restaurant that we once worked. It was a bit of a tradition for the group of us that worked there together to reunite once a year. Most of us were still friendly enough, but I didn't keep in contact with the others the way I did with Roger. Two of the other waiters had married, one had gone into the Army, most went on to various careers (architect, teacher, and I think one is a stripper though she won't admit it), and others are still working there.

We walked out the building and were okay for the first couple blocks. We were talking about the latest company to dump waste into the local lake and what the EPA was not doing and the new boots I bought. It wasn't until we were almost to Roger's building and parking garage that it started to sprinkle and then the clouds let loose such a downpour that it was impossible to believe it hadn't been raining mere minutes before.

How to even describe the look of horror on Roger's face? The man was in agony. He looked down at me for only a moment before he threw his briefcase over his head and began to run. He bolted into the street, crossing four lanes of traffic without care for the cars and trucks barreling down on him. A symphony of horns pierced the air. I ran into the street following as best as I could. One car was unable to stop all the way and hit Roger against his legs. He fell onto the hood, denting it, but to my relief got up and continued to run.

He had almost reached the sidewalk. I was only a few steps behind trying not to call his name, yelling only for him to stop. He couldn't have seen the bike rider. By this time it was raining so hard the world was gray. She didn't see him until the last possible second. He was about to step onto the sidewalk. She swerved to avoid hitting him and instead struck the curb. Tumbling heels over head, she hit the sidewalk and the blue mailbox perched on the corner. I held my breath. She got to her feet before I even passed her. Thank goodness for the bright red helmet on her head. She had a scrape down one cheek and was holding her arm, gingerly raising her shoulder as I ran by still chasing after Roger. (Don't think we just forgot all about the bike rider. There was a newspaper article, so small if we hadn't been searching the papers we would have missed it. It was barely a paragraph about the storm causing minor accidents. In one little sentence wedged between two different car accidents where no one was hurt, it mention one Barbara Coughlin who's bike was totaled when she swerved to avoid a pedestrian fleeing the rain. I happen to know that Barbara was the lucky recipient of an anonymous cashier's check that more then enough covered the cost of a new bike).

We ran until we reached the parking garage. Roger dove through the garage door. I tried to be a little more cavalier about my entrance, trying to draw as little attention as possible. I peeked my head through, looking to see if anyone was coming after us or staring at the door with too much curiosity. I drew back when I heard pounding steps coming towards us. A man with a newspaper over his head, collar up, was running by looking miserable. It made me realize that despite the spectacle that just occurred, most would assume it was someone wanting to get out of the rain and nothing more. They couldn't know what it was really about. Not a chance.

Roger was hiding behind a neighbor's mini van when I located him. His keys were at his feet. Without a word I picked them up. I rode the elevator to his floor, let myself in, and went into the bathroom. I grabbed all the towels he had. I started at the bathrobe hanging by the shower door and grabbed that as well. Carrying everything in my arms, finding my way by looking to the side, I went back down to the lobby level, took the hall to the garage, and found Roger still in the same place. I dropped the towels at his feet and speaking for the first time, told him I meet him back up in his apartment.

It was a good fifteen minutes before Roger come in. He was in his bathrobe, carrying a bundle of towels. I couldn't help but notice the outer towel was dry, everything must have been wrapped up nice and tight. I handed him a mug full of coffee that I had made while waiting. We still didn't speak.

Roger changed his clothes. I touched up my makeup with what I had in my purse and used his hairdryer. My jacket was soaked and my hose ruined, but my clothes were otherwise unharmed. We went down to his car, drove up to our college town, We still didn't speak even during the hour car ride. Roger, seeing me down a drink as soon as we got there, sipped on one gin and tonic the whole night. We had a lovely time, that I can remember.

I was nicely drunk by the time we left, so drunk I ignored everything that mattered and talked instead about the girl that I was sure was an exotic dancer, about how the one married guy grabbed my ass, and how much I did not miss working there. I passed out before we were even half way home.

And Roger and I didn't talk for over a week following the day he forgot his umbrella.

The Next Morning

It sounded dirty. In a, do I really want to know, kind of way. Leviathan? Is that what he calls his, well.

Curiosity got the better of me, "What was that you said?"

"I never told her about...my...superpower." He managed to get out. "I grow, Sam, when I come into contact with water I grow. I think I reach about ten maybe eleven feet. My head has bumps constantly. I worry about the weather all the time. It's why I always have an umbrella." That was true. He did carry an umbrella more than was customary. "It's why I got this apartment." His arms flew out addressing his large two bedroom in a high rise that I drooled over.

"It wasn't for the view like I told everyone. It has that fantastic shower with all the spray nozzles everywhere. Its so big that while I'm showering and grow, I can still get clean. And I never told her. It's a pretty big thing, not telling the woman that I love about my superpower. I guess she wasn't the only one that wasn't truthful." At this point he was near tears. He was fighting the good fight, holding them off as best he could, but whiskey will have that affect on a person, even when they haven't been so fantastically traumatized privately as well as publicly.

"What are you going on about? I've known you for years. I've never seen anything like what you're claiming. Now, how about some coffee!" I had to cringe at the false cheeriness in my voice. He'd had too much to drink. That had to be it. It was all that Marianne's fault. She drove him over the edge. I was just going to have to hurt her.

Cut her brake lines? No, too lethal. I know, I would call up her superiors at the bank and expose her inner-office relationship. Then again, chances were they already knew about it seeing as everyone in Roger's office knew not to mention the opposing party. Sugar in the gas tank? If I was going that juvenile I might as well resort to bologna on the hood. Hmm, maybe. I'd figure it out.

But presently I did what any friend would do. I ignored it as drunken lunacy and put him to bed. Forgoing the coffee, I steered him to his bedroom, pulled off his shoes, threw a blanket over him, and went to camp out on the couch. Lasted about ten minutes before I remembered he had a guest room. I never said I was letting him drink alone.

Next morning opening one eye at a time, taking in my surroundings, sun shining through (are those really leopard print) curtains, I slowly remembered where I was and why I was there. Blurry eyed and dry mouthed, I was very happy to be the owner of a shop and could be late when I needed to be. Leah was scheduled to open with me. One quick phone call later and then off to the kitchen to make coffee.

I had the coffee brewing and a bagel in the toaster, when Roger came in. "Sorry, I just helped myself. Have to get to the store soon." I looked over at him, studying him, as if any signs that he's still crazy would be physically apparent. "You all right?"

"Hmm. Oh, yeah, fine." Not very convincing. Roger was avoiding looking at me. Did he think something happened last night. Oh geez, I hope he didn't think... No, it's been years since that happened. He knows better.

I took a sip of coffee. Mmm, much better. "You going to work?"

"Yeah. Hey, Sam? You...do you think? What I mean is. Can you not tell anyone what I told you last night?" I don't think I had ever seen Roger so nervous, not even before he proposed to Marianne. "You know, about my...power."

I think my jaw dropped down to my toes. "You mean you were serious?"

"Course I was. Not something I would joke about, is it?"

The Night Roger Confessed All.

We were drunk when he told me. I don't know if he ever would have come clean otherwise.

Roger and I used to date (what? I told you that. I most certainly did. Go back and look). Long time ago. We worked together while in college. We were both on the waitstaff of a fancy restaurant. Let me just interject something here: this was not the best time of my life. I was severely depressed with profoundly low self-esteem and was looking for some kind, any kind of connection with another human being. I was recovering from some serious drama that happened months ago and to top it all off, I had just been dumped shortly before starting work at the restaurant.

I had noticed Roger within the first week. He was handsome, with this boyish charm to him. He knew just how to compliment and schmooze to get the good tips. And then he started to show interest in me. I was smitten almost immediately.

It didn't take Roger long to realize that I was not the right girl for him and told me as much, but it took me a bit longer to face facts. While I liked Roger as a person, I mean we really connected on many levels, just not in the right way. It wasn't him that I was clinging to, he was just a warm body. I finally admitted to myself that I had crossed the line over to crazy and backed off.

No I didn't go to therapy. I needed to. But I had already done that route when the drama hit and it didn't work, obviously. Instead I partied too much, drank too much, smoked too much, and had bad relationships until I basically grew out of my depression.

All the while, my new friend Roger was there. When he wasn't there physically, pulling me out of some club when I had been there way too late, he was on the other end of the phone when I needed to cry about the latest loser stealing my cash. He counseled me after graduation when I was freaking out about what to do with my life and he went with me to the bank when I applied for my small business loan. He was there for my bookstore's grand opening and he bought a prodigious amount of books the month I wasn't sure I was going to make enough to cover rent.

And he didn't ask for anything in return. Of course I was there for him too like when he was sworn into the bar and I threw him a surprise party for his thirtieth birthday. I was there when the girl he proposed to one week before ran off with her secretary the next. I was there for the political repercussions when it was exposed that an adviser to the congressman had been unwittingly dating a lesbian.

It was because of the philandering fiancee that I learned of Roger's secret. He was drinking, like you do, and was at the point of the 'I should have knowns..."

"I should have known she didn't love me when she said she hated the way I ate cereal. I should have known when she didn't want to move in together before the wedding. What couples don't live together first now a-days? I should have known when she got more turned on during the Wild Things pool scene then I did. Hell, Gia was her favorite movie! I should have know when I couldn't tell her about my ailment, about when I grow into Leviathan. "

"Excuse me? What was that last one?"

The Night I Gave Roger Permission

Of course I gave it to him. Dear reader, did you really expect me to deny my best friend a chance at happiness? Looks like you don't know me at all.

Shortly after Roger returned from the restroom (he had something in his eye apparently) we ending up discussing the night on the corner. The night he was stabbed. Roger was still certain that the reason he didn't grow was because of the knife wound. The shock to his system had halted the transformation.

I had long since given up trying to convince Roger that he never really grew to tremendous heights when he came in contact with water. He believed that I would say such 'lies' to stop him from putting himself in danger or other such nonsense. While that was partly true (I did want him to stop putting himself in danger) he failed to see the elephant in the room.

Roger had been cultivating and nurturing the Leviathan part of himself long before he shared it with me. By the time I became privy to his secret, it was already so deeply ingrained there was no changing it, at least not without intensive psychotherapy.

Now I had given him the means, unspoken permission, to continue as Leviathan. Part of his depression the previous weeks had been because of my obvious joy. Look at it from Roger's point of view. Imagine if the thing that you felt set you apart, made you special, was so embarrassing and annoying to your best friend that they would revel in the absence of it. Yea, I felt like a shit. Giving him the free class at the martial arts school was essential giving my blessing. It meant more to him then my putting on a costume, riding around in a bright orange sports car, and answering to Mini-Might.

The very next day after I gave Roger the gift certificate he joined his first class. Basic self-defense. Starting small was a good thing. I thought it best to not observe him during lessons, didn't want to add any pressure. Plus I had suspicions that he was more out of shape then he ever let on. I did however keep track of his progress. It was not hard to call up the school's owner, Braylon, seeing as we'd been friends back home. Somewhere along the way during one of my phone conversations with Braylon, I decided to take some lessons myself.

Leviathan and Mini-Might were the farthest thing from my mind when I signed up for the class.

The Time I Had Too Much Power

So Roger got stabbed.

It wasn't bad, but it was a bit of a wake up call. I thought that it would be the end of Leviathan and Mini-Might, that we would be done before we even started. I wasn't having a hard time accepting that. I was wearing a smile so often I'm pretty sure Leah, my summer help at the shop, thought I had a new lover.

Roger and I still met up for dinner or drinks a couple nights a week. He was using his hand sanitizer even when he was drunk, he wasn't talking about alterations to his costume, or where his next mission would be. Instead he was talking about work and listening to me talk about my bookstore. It was so nice.

Except it really wasn't. Even though he was acting happy, laughing along with our friends' jokes, getting up to sing karaoke on occasion, the smiles never reached his eyes. I knew better then to ask him what was wrong. I already knew and I was afraid. I didn't know what was worse: being a part of Roger's delusion or seeing him so profoundly unhappy.

Then I stopped smiling too. Leah assumed that the imaginary lover and I had split. It was ridiculous. Why should his happiness or lack there of affect me like this. It couldn't continue. So I made a decision. I bought him those martial arts lessons that he had mentioned. A friend from back home had also moved down to the city and opened up his own martial arts school. I went down there and had them draw up a gift certificate good for one term of classes. They had all sorts of self-defense, judo, weapons, things that I had absolutely no interest in. Roger would be bale to pick which one he wanted to start with.

The night I was to give it to him, Roger was so late I thought he wasn't going to show. Usually that only happened when his congressman was running for re-election or they were trying to pass some piece of legislation that the congressman was sponsoring. Things had been pretty quiet for him at work lately, and that always meant something was going to pop up to surprise them.

He walked in to the bar looking even more dejected then he had been as of late. He answered my unasked question, "I got splashed with water and barely anything. I think my powers are fading."

So I could have not given it to him. I could have let his 'powers' fade with time as he believed they were, or I could jump start it all again and have my friend happy again. It turned out to be a surprisingly easy choice.

The Night Leviathan Mets His First Nemesis

Roger thinks he grows to dizzying heights when he touches water. While it is the most abundant element on the planet it's not always around when you need it. This is why Roger has a bottle of water with him whenever he goes out crime fighting. This is also why Roger wears a fanny pack.

He swears up and down that it's a utility belt. I'm sorry but any bag that straps around the waist and has only one pocket is a fanny pack.

We had arrived in what was essentially the 'bad part of town'. Nestled between two different universities, it used to house the students. Cheap housing and a general disregard by police for what happened there, led to the drug dealers moving in and thriving in the process. It is now a mix of college kids and the working class who couldn't afford to live in better parts of the city.

"Where are you planning on parking?"

"I scouted out a spot earlier. It's behind a corner pharmacy....I paid off the owner."

"Smart."

The back alley was dimly lit, casting a sepia glow to Roger's face. He looked about as nervous as I felt, but with a grim set to his lips. He was determined to do this.

We had spotted a group of five teenagers on a corner about two blocks away. The distance was convenient for our first time out, but I was still uneasy. The kids weren't necessarily doing anything wrong. What if they were just a group of boys waiting for their girlfriends so they could all go to the movies. That happens right?

Roger and I argued back and forth in hushed tones as we crept along walls, keeping to the shadows. Roger reasoned that no group of boys, out together during the night, were ever up to anything good, and as a boy he knows that first hand. I didn't like that we were just assuming their guilt. Eventually, he conceded and we chose a vantage point to observe from across the street in a store's door front.

It didn't take long before a car pulled up and one boy went to the driver's window to talk. And it didn't take an eagle eye to see the transaction. They weren't being discreet. Sighing, recognizing my defeat, I slumped against the door. "I'm going over there to talk to them," Roger said without looking at me.

"And what are you going to say? Excuse me boys, but you must cease these nefarious deeds and return to your homesteads?"

"That's a good opening. I'll go with that." And he walked away.

"Roger...Roger!" Scream whispering is not very effective, especially when the person you're calling to is so incredibly pig headed.

I watched as Roger walked over to them. There was purpose in his step, no doubts in his manner. The boys watched him approach, some questioning, some distrustfully, a couple began to laugh. One walked forward, his hands in his jacket pockets, yet still gesturing as he spoke. He must have been the leader.

Roger raised his hand in greeting. He was speaking, but I couldn't hear the words. There was a pause and then the boys began laughing as if they'd heard the one about the lesbian and the priest walking into a bar.

I say Roger reach for his fanny pack and pull out the water bottle. That's when I began to run.

"Leviathan! Watch out!"

"Aw what the hell? You brought your bitch too. Isn't that sweet."

What did he just call me? Head down, arms pumping, I began running faster. I didn't have a lot of distance to cover, but it felt like Roger was miles away.

Roger charged the kid nearest to him, water was flying through the air, splashing the boys closest. I saw a flash as something metal caught the light from the street lamp. Just as I reached him, the mighty Leviathan slumped against me.

Not good, not good. I pulled the knife out of Roger's side, brandishing it at the hoods standing around.

"You want to come at me, fuckers? See how effective you are against a woman who just saw her best friend get stabbed. Let's see how you do!" I swiped the knife around, jabbing at the boys. Geez I stab like a girl, I couldn't help thinking it.

A few started walking away. The couple that remained, including the leader, took a couple steps back. The one held up his arms. "Whoa there, Momma. We just don't want crazy here messing up business, you feel me? Be cool."

"I'm just going to walk away now. I'm getting him to the car. Let us go without any trouble and we won't tell the docs how this happened. We want to keep this quiet too, you understand."

They looked at each other. I knew that they had to have more weapons and the only reason they hadn't killed us was the novelty factor of our costumes. That and maybe they didn't want a murder on what was certainly their corner.

"Okay, baby. You go on now. I don't want to see his crazy ass ever again."

"Got it." I slowly backed away, supporting Roger as best as I could. He was still able to stand and walk, so that was a good sign. I waited until we were a good distance away before closing the knife. I could have thrown it into the manhole as we passed, but I wanted it. Don't know why. I just did.

We made it to the pharmacy without incident. The kids had gone back to their normal conversation, a new car had even pulled up and left already. Under the soft bronze glow of the back alley light I lifted Roger's top away from his side. The wound wasn't deep, the bleeding needed to be staunched, but it wasn't gushing. We would be okay with dropping off Betsy, getting back to my apartment, and getting changed without things becoming dire.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I think I got ahead of myself. I need to prep more. He got me as I was transforming. I didn't have a chance to crush him."

"It's all right, you dork. Let's just get you stitched up. No Leviathan until you're healed. Then we'll see."

"Martial arts lessons and then I'll be back for him."

Oh great...

On the plus side: I got to drive Betsy.

The First Time We Went Downtown

The blood drained from my face. I could feel it. Where does blood go when it leaves your face that quickly? Back to the heart? Down to your toes?

My living room seemed really far away. The world sounded tinny and Roger's voice in my ears was the wahh wahh of cartoon teachers.

"Sorry, what?" Did Roger really just snap his fingers in front of my face. Who does that?

"I said are you all right?" Roger was holding my shoulders, staring down at me.

"Me? Fine. Just fine. Why? What makes you think I'm not fine? I'm just standing here in...what is this made out of anyway, and you say we're going to go somewhere to do something to drug dealers and why wouldn't I be fine with that? I mean that's fine. Fine. Yes, I'm fine." And Roger's brilliant response:

"It's a cotton and lycra blend." What? Oh the costume. "And if you're not feeling comfortable with confronting criminals, just go with me, hang back, and maybe when you see how much fun I'm having you'll feel like joining in."

"You sound like a parent trying to convince a kid to get on a roller coaster." Deep breath, Sam. There were no options. If Roger was going downtown, where ever that was, then I was just going to have to go with him. If for no other reason then to apply first aid when needed.
"All right. Let's go"

Have I told you about the car Roger drives when he's Leviathan? It's not his everyday vehicle. It couldn't be. His work vehicle is just your average family friendly sedan. Nice enough that you know it cost quite a bit, not so nice that you'd worry about parking it at the curb overnight. At least in most areas.

And then there's the L-88 Corvette. So fast it's not even funny. I don't know how Roger got a hold of one seeing as only just over 200 were made, but he did. And then he had it custom painted (out of state). You know how much Roger likes orange and yellow? Imagine the brightest orangiest Vet ever, with yellow detailing and yellow leather interior. Can you picture it? Now turn up the volume on the color by about ten and you still wouldn't be able to comprehend how bright this car is. He's still working on a name for it. Superheros have to have a cool name for their vehicles. The Levimobile, Orange Flash, Water Wonder, none are quite right. I call her Betsy. Roger hates that.

We left my apartment, me in a large overcoat to hide my suit, and made for the storage shed on the outskirts of the city where he was keeping Betsy. This was shortly after he got her, and was still working out the logistics of being a superhero while trying to keep his identity a secret. Hence the storage shed.

There was no talk of going back to his apartment for his costume, so I knew he already had it on under his sweater and docks. At least this time there were no flying buttons. We climbed into Betsy ("Please stop calling her that." "No."), slipped our eye masks on, and pulled out of the shed.

As embarrassing as the color of the car is, there's no denying it awesomeness in all other areas. It's fast and sleek, truly beautiful to drive as I would find out later that night. Roger turned the corner out of the storage lot and we headed south back into the city.

The day I became Mini-Might

I'm not proud of this, but I do don a costume on occasion.

When Roger called me that day and said he had something for me, sounding downright giddy, I was intrigued. We're not gift givers, Roger and I. Birthdays and holidays come and go and while there will be drinks raised and downed, there are few gifts exchanged. I was at a loss, especially when he said it would bring it to my apartment. What couldn't wait until that night when we met for dinner?

When the buzzer rang, I was actually a bit nervous, a tad excited. Who didn't like receiving presents? Opening the door to reveal Roger standing there, a big goofy grin on his face and a large package in his arms. My confusion momentarily flared when I saw the garment box and then realization dawned. I knew what would be in there before I even lifted the lid.

A freaking costume. My own superhero suit, or rather sidekick suit. I had only been joking when I called myself his sidekick. Up until that moment I thought that Roger knew that. I thought it was an inside joke, I was Mini-Might to his Leviathan. I guess I'll have to make myself clear. I'd have to lay it down. I'm not going to be a part of this anymore.

Looking up at Roger's face, I couldn't do it. I couldn't let him down. Damn him. Damn the innocence in his eyes, the cautious optimism that I would like this poorly sewn pile of latex. Damn his delusion in the first place.

I pulled it out of the box and held it out in front of me. Grey and yellow, with just a touch of orange. He knew I wouldn't wear all garish citrus like his costume. Shorts instead of the expected flare skirt, long sleeves, and oh good lord even knee high boots. Actually those were kinda hot. Stitched on the left chest in orange was a double M, slightly overlapping. MM for Mini-Might. Tucked in the bottom of the box, wrapped separately from the rest of the costume was my own eye mask. Yellow, to match his.

"What, no cape?"

He smiled, "It's already made, but I wasn't sure if it'd be too much."

"Of course it is. It wouldn't be right for the sidekick to have a cape when the hero doesn't. Wouldn't want to show you up."

"Go try it on."

Crap. I took the box back into my bedroom. Closing my door, I made a silent pray to the universe. Let it be too small, too big, too anything, just let in not fit so I don't have to actually wear it. At this point I just want a bottle of wine, a book, and warm fuzzy slippers, strike that, someone massaging my feet would be nice. I need a pedicure too. Wait, I'm bargaining with the universe. Better stay with the slippers.

With my back to the mirror, I slip out of my wrap-around dress and wriggle the gray costume, which I know see has some shimmer to it, up over my hips. I'll need help with the zipper to get it all the way up my back, but when I turn around to face the mirror I can already tell that it will fit like a glove. "How did you know my size?" I call as I'm walking back into the living room. As I turned the corner, Roger's eyes boggled a bit and his jaw dropped. He recovered just as fast and didn't say anything, but I knew.

"The state dinner. When you made me go dress shopping with you." That's one nice thing about having a best friend in politics. I get to go to all the fancy stuff when he's otherwise dateless.

I turned to have Roger zip up the back. "It was only fair. You made me go with you to the dinner and I knew I would be abandoned, left talking to Barry, the mind-numbing moron while you schmoozed the governor. Well?" Stepping away, I gestured down to myself.

"It's not complete yet."

"Fine." I sat down to slip on the boots, ran back into the bed room for the eye mask. Admittedly I was beginning to have fun. Nothing like looking hot in a costume to change your attitude. "Drum roll please!" Waiting until I heard Roger start to mimic percussion with his tongue, I did my best superhero/sidekick bound into the living room.

"You look fantastic! Now lets go. I heard there's drug dealers downtown. Let's go scare the pants off of them."

Uh oh.

The Reason He's Not Commited

It's got to be on your mind if you've read the couple stories about Roger that I've posted on here. Why isn't the man locked up, or at the very least on meds. I thought the answer was simple, but trying to put thoughts into words isn't the easiest. Especially when they're justifications.

I'd be lying if I said I never thought about it. And I'd be lying still if I said I never looked into it. Legally I do have the ability to have him committed in the state we live in even though I am not a relative. They would observe him in a hospital for 72 hours if I can show he is a danger to himself or others.

Yes he tackled a person, but that was a bank robber. And there was the time he fell off the bridge. Total accident. Oh and the day that it rained when he left his umbrella at home and he ran into traffic thinking he was walking over the cars and buses. But it was only one street before I caught him, no one got into a collision. Except for that bike rider. But seriously she shouldn't have been riding in the rain anyway.

One could argue he is a danger to himself and others all they want. I'm not buying it. Besides the thought of Roger in a room, being 'observed' by people with clipboards through a little window makes my stomach churn.

Then there is his career to think of. If I were to be 'caught' as Mini-Might who cares. So kids would walk by my bookstore whispering to each other, "That's where the crazy lady works." It would add a certain appeal perhaps even a touch of charm to an otherwise ordinary shop. That's why it's up to me to protect him. Roger's secret double life has not affected his job yet. If he were to be committed or if he were to be caught as Leviathan his career would be over. What politician would have a known loony on staff, even if he has a brilliant political mind? What group of constituents would elect a man that has delusions of being a superhero to office?

Because Roger is brilliant. When he's not worrying about being caught in the rain without an umbrella, he is one of the best political strategists around. Why he didn't go to Washington, I'll never quite understand. He could have gone there and made it in a matter of years. Instead he chose to stick around in our hugely unimportant state, vastly outnumbered by the other side, to work for a man who wouldn't be where he is without using people far smarter then him to get ahead. Roger is content being a medium sized fish in a small pond, hoping to feed enough off the scraps floating around to one day be a big fish.

Can you tell this is an issue for me? It is utterly frustrating to see such talent go to waste. Whenever I tell Roger this, he just smiles like he knows something I don't. Which is highly likely. Whatever it is, he's not telling me.

The Bar Episode aka "That's the last time we can go in there"

It isn't always successful. Roger can't always hold his cool about being Leviathan.

A couple nights after the thwarted bank robbery we were out at our favorite bar. Roger still was euphoric about "crushing the robber where he stood!" While I was just grateful the cops hadn't come knocking at either one of our doors demanding to know why a high profile staff member to our congressman was gallivanting in spandex in public.

Roger is a charmer anyway, he has to be to be moving up in politics the way he is. When Roger drinks he's even more generous with compliments, and though I learned long ago it's mostly the alcohol talking and though I sometimes get taken in still, it is amusing to watch. He's forgotten about me sitting on his right and instead is putting the moves on the college girl to his other side. She's way too young for him and sober he wouldn't have stood a chance. Luckily for him they're both so drunk they're practically holding each other up, forehead to forehead over the bar top.

I can only hear every few words, catching "yer eyes ser so perty, deep lichk a meadoo." at least twice. Next time I look over they're kissing. All tongue, saliva, and lots of side to side head movement. More licking each others' faces rather then kissing. For some reason I'm reminded of cows. I catch the eye of the girl's friend across the way. She has a pitying expression on her face. At first I think it's for her friend. I get a little miffed, he's not that bad! Then I realize she's pitying me. Oh.

I know how it must look to outsiders. Guy and girl come into bar together. Guy ignores girl and started chewing on other girl's face. It would appear that I've been blown off. It happens occasionally. And occasionally I'm the one that hooks up with someone in the bar. Sometimes. Ok, yes most of the time it's Roger that will leave with someone else, but he's trying more. I prefer to sit, drink my beer, and yearn for a smoke rather then pit my self esteem against male ego. Don't get the wrong idea. Neither one of us is having a bunch of one-night-stands. We do usually try to date the people. Not one has lasted more than three weeks.

Roger suddenly stands up, placing his hand on each of our shoulders he leans his head between the cow girl and me. "Is gotta pees." And he stumbles to the back of the bar towards the restroom. I sit drinking my beer and wonder how the girl will react if she ever finds out that Roger sits down to pee more often then not, especially when drunk.

A minute or two goes by when I hear a large yell from the back of the bar. There's a man taking exaggerated strides, holding his arms widely to his sides, and he's yelling my name. "Sam! I forgot and washed my hands!"

Oh shit. Roger usually uses hand sanitizer to 'prevent' something like this from occurring. Roger now thinks he's Leviathan.

"Fear not, bar patrons!" He bellows. "I will do my best not to crush you. Just stand aside." The others in the bar are staring, trying to work out if he's serious or just seriously drunk.

I put down my beer, throw enough to cover our tab at the bartender, smile at the cow girl, "Well, okay then. See ya." Grabbing my purse and Roger's overcoat, I slide off the stool. Acting as a ramp agent guiding a plane to the terminal I steer Roger out the door and into the night.

"She was pretty," Roger yells down at me (I am quite a bit shorter then him anyway, but he thinks I'm far far away at the moment).

"Yes, she was."

"Maybe I can go back and get her number?"

"No, I think that's the last time we can go in there."