I Can See Your House From Here - Archives
vol 2 number 30
I send this to you from the Crescent City - New Orleans, Louisiana.
I tell you this because I can, because I am here, and you are not.
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One thing that you never see in comic books is what happens when someone close to a superhero dies. Not like another superhero, giving his life in the line of duty; not even the superhero's girlfriend, who was bound to die from issue one, a plot device to fuel your sympathy for the hero, to make you hate the bad guy for what he really is, to make you cheer all the louder when the hero does the right thing by not killing the villain in the end. I'm talking about an acquaintance, not quite a friend but certainly more than a statistic, who gets killed by a bad guy for no reason connected to the hero.
These sorts of things, I guess, don't make for good stories. I mean, if the hero's friend is gunned down over a drug deal gone bad or a case of mistaken identity or a stupid domestic dispute, who is the superhero supposed to go after? The killer, obviously; but that makes for a short read. BAM! The door is kicked in in the first panel, flying through the air, completely separated from its hinges by a kick fueled with anger and super-strength. In panel two, we see the killer's head spin, dark emotion glimmering in his eyes. In panel three, the killer's face goes from hatred to fear in the blink of an eye. In panel four, we see the hero with his fist just above the killer's neck, where you might expect his head to be.
Besides, the hero wouldn't get that worked up over it. After all, this was just an acquaintance, not the girlfriend who he had always worried about, or the nerdy best friend who certainly would be the target of an extortion attack. No, this was a guy who you might have seen in a flashback or a crowd scene, but only in passing, blink and you missed him. But he was a good guy, this friend, and you could tell that. You could tell that he had a lot of promise left ahead of him, just by looking at him.
It might not make for an action-packed blockbuster double sized issue with holofoil variants, but it would be interesting to me to see how a superhero dealt with the aftermath.
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There's something fascinating about New Orleans. There's the obvious: the strip clubs that redefine seedy right next door to the beer closet on Bourbon Street, the constant "I know where you got them shoes!" calls, the tourists who would embarrass a fraternity.
Peel back the surface, though, and it's like stepping into another universe down here. It's still the Deep South, geographically, but it's unlike anywhere else, especially what you might imagine Alabama, Kentucky, and Louisiana to be like. There's something indefinable that you can see in the natives, a relaxed acceptance of the knowledge that this is it -- this is what you get, and that's all. They don't rush around, checking their Palm Pilots every five minutes, at least not in the French Quarter. They saunter, walking calmly from one place to the next, drinking like fish out of water even though the humidity makes the entire city an aquarium large parts of the year.
And when people die, you don't see a lot of tears or a pall of gloom. You see a celebration of life instead of a tribute to death. You hear swing bands playing Dixieland instead of a pipe organ playing some morbid hymn. You realize that it's not death that is being recognized but life, and that it's not the end of a journey but the beginning of another.
Maybe it's the Irish in me -- we skip all the weirdness and head straight to Pissedville on whatever vodka is nearby -- but I think that's the best way to go out.
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Something you don't see in comics: the reaction of someone who finds out that an old friend might be a villain. Not a super villain who finds out that his old childhood chum has just gained immense power and can now join him in attempting to rule the world. Not a superhero that unmasks the bad guy that has tormented him for one hundred issues, only to find that it's his best friend. These things are predictable, and happen all the time (chicken or egg? Does it really matter?).
I'm thinking more along the lines of the middle-aged computer salesman who is watching the news over his Hungry Man TV dinner one night, tuning back into reality just in time to catch footage of the Green Goblin being unmasked. This guy is watching with the usual aplomb of a car-wreck voyeur when it suddenly hits him -- this Green Goblin that is accused of murder is a guy that he used to play touch football with in the old neighborhood. All those memories of G.I. Joe and stickball and Atari in the afternoon get sucked into a mental blender with pictures of the unmasking, the news stories about missing women or dead police officers.
What do they think? What goes though their heads? "I always saw this coming?" "Everyone that knew him saw the crazy behind his eyes?" Or maybe a stunned "Whoa..." hits them square in the brain and in the gut, as things click into place, the pieces becoming clearer. A speechless attempt to email other old friends, to tell them what has happened? The gnawing sorrow that goes along with having your expectations turned around?
That's two perfectly good comic book stories, for anyone reading. I would put them to paper, but I'm way too tired.
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So far, in the past forty-eight hours, I've managed to double my money and then break even again at the local casino. I've had three Stoli and cranberries, a nice La Crema Pinot Noir, and the ever-classic Blue Crack. I've bought a shirt and a few DVDs, eaten two fantastic meals, and walked over seven miles. I've slept a total of maybe five hours in two days, driven 400 miles (with 400 more miles to go today), and packed and unpacked and repacked again. And it's almost over.
New Orleans is a magical place, filled with ghosts and folklore and myths and so many more stories for anyone willing to listen. But as different as New Orleans is, on the surface and under the skin, it's ultimately no different than any other place. There are people that are alive, and there are people that are dead, and a whole lot of people that are somewhere in-between. And somewhere in New Orleans, today and tomorrow and tomorrow again, a few of each will pass from this world to the next. Their stories will be passed amongst friends and strangers, and stored away for future telling.
Just the way it should be, because that's how memories are kept alive.