A few days ago, I did something stupid. Then the world followed.
There’s no excuse. Who deserves that kind of crap thrown at
them? Very few people, and you’re not
one of them. So, I’m sorry. Really I am.
When I calmed down I
started to think. Perhaps this is the
chance I’ve been waiting for because:
You are Batman now, so you
look after Gotham .
And I am a Batman fan, so
I live in Gotham .
Therefore, you look after
me.
So I can ask for your
help.
Because, I’d really like
you to listen to me. Not because I mean
anything. I am nothing at all – but
maybe that’s the point.
So, I sat down and wrote a
story. It’s meant to be a comic and it
would be if I could draw, but I can’t so I have to write. I’m not saying that it’s good, but it is made
by me, a Gothamite under your protection.
So here goes:
Night-time, a suburb of Gotham , late August.
There has been an unseasonal rain .
The thunder has passed now; the sidewalks are a mirror reflecting the
clear night sky.
This is one of the few places
in Gotham where you can see the stars. The folk who live in these pleasant houses, lining
these pleasant streets may earn their pay in the city but they would never,
ever choose to live there: a place where the buildings reach so high and the lights
glare so bright you never see the sky.
Better to live here, with its good schools and its whole-food stores and
its low crime rate. This is a normal place, known only to itself, and everyone
who lives here likes that.
In one of these pretty,
flower-fronted homes, a woman stares out from her bedroom window. We know nothing about her - her name, her
job, who her friends are - we know only that she cannot sleep. But there is nothing strange about this. She tells us that she often suffers from
insomnia, only she uses a different verb: ‘I enjoy’, she says, ‘I enjoy not
sleeping’.
In these silent hours she
sees things no one else does. She keeps
these secret observations locked away in her mind, as treasure, to take out and
admire when she needs to feel superior.
She likes to think it makes her a little less normal, but that, as we
all know, is untrue. Having secrets is
the most normal thing in the world.
Tonight she watched the
storm gather and break. The rain pounded
the rooftops and beat the sidewalks senseless – a horrible show of climatic brutality
as though the sky was pissed with Gotham but Gotham
had no idea why. And though it has gone
and all is calm now, something still feels wrong. And this wrong
crawls under her skin. It makes her
anxious. She’d like to do something to put it right, even though she’s
doesn’t know quite what that is. Not yet
anyway.
And perhaps because she
fancies that she isn’t ordinary, or maybe just because she’s there, she decides
to do the something that is forming
in her head.
So, she gets dressed and
calls a cab. And when it arrives she
tells the driver she would like to go to Gotham Police Headquarters.
The roads are dead this
late at night, so they get there fast, in just twenty minutes. She stands at the steps of GCHQ. It’s not the tallest building in Gotham and yet it always seems so. That’s because it has tiny windows. It’s not a big wall of glass like the modern
buildings. It is made out of stone and
it is old so it resembles a mountain – towering, magnificent.
She enters through the
revolving doors (which she thinks are a nice touch), and she bangs on the
little bell at the reception desk (which she also thinks is lovely) and a small
officer approaches, wearing a blue shirt with short sleeves, deep blue tie and
a policeman’s hat. He, like the door and
the bell, is perfect. Everything about
this scene tells her that she is in a police station. She feels like she is in a story.
‘Good evening, ma’am. How may I help you?’
She places her hands on
the shiny walnut desktop. Her mouth
opens. She is excited because she has no
idea what she is about to say:
‘I would like to see
Batman, please.’
Now- that really was
surprising.
The officer takes a moment
to reply because he likes these ones – the lunatics who drop in to speak to
Batman. He always tries to come up with
something funny, something to tell the boys in Hennessey’s when their shift has
ended. Sometimes it works, sometimes it
doesn’t, but like his wife always says, he’s paid to be a police officer, not a
goddamn comedian.
‘What? You ain’t tried the Yellow Pages already?
Could’a saved you a visit. You should look
him up under V for Vigilante.’
She smiles. ‘You know very well how to get him. I want to use the bat signal.’
‘Oh sure, go help yourself,
because in no way is that restricted access only. Sure, we let anyone up there! Hey, you wanna call Superman while you’re at
it? Hang on, I think I got his number
somewhere…’ and he starts to pat his pockets down, comedy-style.
‘No - but thank you for
the offer. It is Batman I have come to
see and it is Batman I shall see’.
‘Oh, you shall, shall
you?’
‘Yes, I shall, because
under the Batman Rights Act of 1939, any citizen of Gotham
is allowed to call Batman if they have information that may safeguard his position
as city defender. I believe I have such
information and so I am here to exercise my right to tell him, directly, as the
law stipulates. Go look it up if you
have to.’
The man shakes his head,
‘Lady, there ain’t no such damn law.’
‘Yes there is. It’s in that book on the shelf behind you.’
He continues to shake his
head. ‘And there ain’t no damn book on
no damn shelf neither.’
She doesn’t say anything. She just stares patiently, smiling, until
finally he gives into the temptation to turn around. There, leaning against a copy of Thomas
Paine’s The Rights of Man, is a book
which states, in big gold letters down its spine, “Batman Rights Act 1939”.
He turns back to face her.
‘Well I’ll be…,’ he says. ‘How’d ya do that?’
‘Oh, simple,’ she tells
him, ‘it’s an Unbelievable Plot Device. Gotham ’s full of them - like abandoned fairgrounds on
every corner and chemical factories that never screw a lid down on
anything. I think the city might only work
because of them.’
She’s on the roof
now. There are no stars to be seen so
the city twinkles in their place. She
sees the signal apparatus. It has a
great, big switch - painted red. In
fact, it’s so large that she has to place both hands upon it to push it down. It makes a really loud noise to let you know
it is on, and then a yellow light throws a bat across the sky that screeches,
‘HELP ME!’
So he arrives. He swoops down from God-Knows-Where, cape billowing
behind him. Upon that concrete platform,
guarded ineffectually by demons carved in stone on each corner, Batman now stands
before her. And he is tall and dark and
massive and awe-inspiring. The Knight, the
Light and the Night, are altogether in one frame – just how it should be. And she thinks to herself that, if only
someone could draw this, it would make the perfect picture.
‘Hello’, she says.
‘Hello,’ he says.
‘Are you well?’ she asks,
because she only knows how to talk to neighbours and colleagues. She doesn’t speak superhero.
He, in spite of
appearances, is a polite person so his answer is normal too. ‘Quite well thank you. Yourself, though? Why did you call?’
Yes – she thinks – why did
she call?
‘I called because you need
to know why you bore me so much,’ she suddenly blurts out.
To his credit, he takes
this criticism genteelly. ‘Bore you? Well, that makes a change, I must say. Most folks find me quite exciting.’
She feels ashamed. That was so rude. Where is this stuff coming
from? ‘That sounded so wrong. You don’t bore me, not exactly. It’s just that they keep rolling out the same
clichés and it gets…repetitive.’
‘They?’ He raises his eyebrows when he says this which
she finds amazing as there absolutely no eyebrows to see. How does he manage that?
‘Yes they. I’m a little hazy on
this, but is seems as though they keep
making you the same way, in films, that is, though I gather sometimes in comics
too. I may be in a minority about all
this as everyone else seems to love it.
So, they might actually mean anyone
with a different view to me….Oh dear! That
sounds a bit egotistical, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, it does, but as you
are woman enough to admit to it I guess you can’t be a complete idiot. So - go on, how am I always the same?’
‘Well – and this is kind
of weird - I need to demonstrate it.
Could you do me a favour? I need
you to give me a lift onto that stairwell.’
She points over to the
rooftop exit.
‘What? On top of that thing? You sure?
That’s about eight feet high?’
‘Yes, please.’
They walk over to it. He places his hands around her waist and
boosts her up. She manages to get her
arms well over so she can scramble on top.
When she stands up she is covered in dust. She shouts down.
‘Right - imagine that I am you!’
‘You’re me?’
‘Yeah – and this jacket I have
on is my cape. Now you need to see what
I do because this is how you look almost all the time.’
She holds out her ‘cape’
behind her for dramatic, Batman-effect and leaps down. Her sneakers make a loud thud on the concrete
that sends all the bits and crud flying.
She lands by bending her knees down low, brings her arms tight into her
sides, elbows bent at right-angles and grimaces – downturned mouth, teeth
gritted tight - and juts her chin out.
‘That’s how I look…? Like a man struggling to pass a kidney
stone?’
‘Yes! Yes!
Exactly! And that is pretty much
you all the time.’
‘Hmmm! Not sure what to think of that…What else do they do?’
‘Well they don’t let you
interact much with people, and when you do it is pretty angst-ridden…’
‘Hey look!’ he interjects,
holding up his black-gloved hands, ‘I am the first to admit that I am not a
people person.’
‘Oh – absolutely. But it’s just that your being round people
helps us to actually see you. Here’s an analogy – if you looked at a black hole
with your naked eye, what would you see?’
‘Nothing - just
darkness. Black.’
‘Exactly. So when astronomers ‘look’ for black holes
they measure its effect on the things around it, like the gravitational pull on
a star - they observe its light being drawn in.
That’s the only way to know it is there.
Otherwise, all you see is black-on-black which is pointless and dreary. You, Batman, are that black hole. You are a dark thing in a very dark world. We need to shine a people-light to see you.’
‘So when I talk to Robin,
say - that’s when I come into view? I
see. I like that. What else you got?’
‘This: you are not crazy.’
‘Woah! Really?’
He steps back for effect. ‘Are
you sure about that? Because everyone
tells me I’m crazy. They say, “Batman, you
are crazy!” all the time.’
‘Yes I know they do, but calling
you crazy is pure laziness. It’s a half-assed
short-cut to explain why you do the things you do. We like to think nowadays that violence is unusual,
that - when it does happen - it is committed by abnormal people. So – blissfully ignoring the fact that we do
horrible things all the time - we label you crazy because we want to be better
than that. It’s like a pretend
psychology – “he beats people to a bloody pulp; he must be crazy!” Do you see?’
Batman is far from
convinced. ‘Well, why do I beat people
up so much? What does that come from if
not insanity?’
‘I do not mean to insult
you (again) but you are an anachronism; you are a man out of time. You were born a long time ago and the concepts
behind you are even older than that. History
is the proof that violence works. Men
punched, kicked, shot and stabbed their way through life and a lot of them
enjoyed it too. So, you are not crazy,
you are just a man - a scary and therefore successful man according to the
history books.’
‘Okay, but amongst these
scary, successful men from history did you ever find one that dresses like a
giant bat? What kind of sane man does
that?’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ she
says. ‘the kind of man who was created to
be a superhero. Wearing a costume kind
of comes with that. Alternatively, the
story would be: “Batman sallies forth in a nice pair of slacks and turtleneck
sweater, drives his Studebaker out to the harbour then punches someone.” That, to me, sounds a bit like The Rockford
Files, which is no bad thing, but then it would be The Rockford Files and not
Batman. Are you following me here?’
‘Oh, yeah – and I love Rockford
‘Okay – well, people call
you the Dark Knight, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well you really are a
knight. Every part of your life is. And
that’s why when people say your life is a struggle between two personalities –
Batman and Bruce Wayne – that’s rubbish.’
Batman jumps up like he’s
just seen the ‘wet paint’ sign, ‘You know about that? Okay…I am comfortable with that for some
reason, but can we do the knowing about it quieter next time?’
‘Yes, and sorry. Shall we use a code word? Like what’s-his-face?’
‘Good idea. So - explain. ’
‘Okay what’s-his-face
lives in a big house – a castle – up on a hill.
What’s-his-face is even named after a Scottish nobleman. He looks after his peasants (his employees),
and makes a ton of money from his estates.
Then, he shows off his money and power around the shire by attending
court with the other lords and ladies of Gotham . What’s-his-face is therefore a medieval lord
of the manor. You sir, are that same
person. Thing is, alongside managing
their wealth, feasting on swans and shagging the wives of other knights at
courtly parties, a knight had to fight.
To be a gentleman meant you were allowed to wear a sword. Knights were soldiers and they got their
hands bloody.’’
‘But, what’s-his-face does
not act like me.’
‘No, but just because you
modify your behaviour for different occasions doesn’t mean your insides are
some didactic struggle! Everyone changes
their personality a little to suit the situation. I don’t talk with my mom like I do my best
friend, just like you don’t walk into business meetings and punch people in the
face for not making budget. But that
doesn’t mean that you or I are two personalities, or that those two
personalities are at war with each other.
You are a knight pure and simple - a chivalrous idea that probably never
existed but you choose to live it because, like I say, you’re
old-fashioned. Do you follow?’
‘Yes, and I like your business
motivation suggestion - might try that.
But tell me - why is this bugging you, exactly?’
‘Well, they concentrate on
a handful of (admittedly very good) stories where the duality theme is explored
because repetition is a great shortcut - it is easier to turn you into a cliché
rather than a whole person. But worst
of all they use it to liken your psychology to those men you hunt down. Tell me something, Batman – do you think
you’re anything like Two-Face? Joker?’
‘What? No way.
They’re douchebags.’
‘Exactly. But they
do. They
think that Gotham is a hall of mirrors where
you and all the people reflect each other.
You all have an internal struggle between the punchline and the punch,
the orderly and the disorderly. And all
of you are crazy – remember that.’
‘So, when I stand like
this,’ he demonstrates a heroic stance - hands on hips, legs apart, cape
billowing, ‘and say, “Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot” thus
making a point that I am neither, they
ignore me?’
‘Yeah, that kind of
thing.’
‘Well, I’ll be…How you supposed
be a hero if you act like that?
Surprised they let me run
round Gotham .
But I still have to make the point that knights didn’t keep their
military career secret.’
‘No – you’re right. But Batman can’t be Batman all the time
because in our advanced societies we create equally advanced institutions to
defend us – the police, for instance. Anything
that acts outside that institution is deemed vigilantism and must be
stopped. But the police cannot cope in
our city – not just through corruption or incompetence, though unfortunately both
occur. It’s more because Gotham is not advanced at all. It is a crazily violent hell-hole where being
human for most means living by subsistence.
That, Batman, is a city of the Dark Ages. Therefore, it needs a solution from the Dark
Ages. In other words, Gotham
needs a Dark Knight to get medieval on its equally medieval ass.’
‘So…, I’m not crazy.’
‘Nope.’
‘And my alter-ego is not
much of an alter-ego at all.’
‘Not really.’
‘And I’m really old?’
‘Your ideas and your
behaviour is, yes.’
‘Anything else I need to
know?’
‘Just that they don’t take
much notice of your Golden Age. Back
then, you smiled a lot, and you cracked lots of jokes…Like when a gang opens a
door, but they don’t know you’re standing behind it and you say, “Oh,
hello! I was just waiting for a street
car!” That’s my favourite. I miss you being fun.’
‘And then what do I do?’
‘You punch them - hard.’
‘Do I smile whilst doing
that?’
‘Not always. You tend to save it till after when you’re
laughing about their stupid, bruised faces with Robin.’
‘Yeah, I think I remember
doing that.’ Batman smiles, and he stops
for a moment to look out over the city, like he wants some unseen audience to
know he is thinking. ‘Look - I like what
you’ve told me, but I can’t promise to do anything with it - that seems to be
out of my control. I change, you know -
from day-to-day almost, according to what they
want from me.’
She nods her head. ‘I understand that you can’t promise me
anything but I had to come here. I was
compelled to. It felt like if I told you
these things they might work out.’
Now she’s quiet, pensive, unsure
of what happens next. She has the notion
that her life is a book and that this is the last page.
Batman breaks the
silence. ‘Hey, can you see my face has changed? That happened just last week. And I keep hearing a name in my head. Ben,
I think.’
‘Ben’s a nice name.’
‘It’s not bad. So, we done now, because…?’ he gestures
toward some unseen crime about to unfold.
‘Yes, I think so. I have “fulfilled my purpose” apparently.’
He walks over to the edge
of the roof. As she places her hand
against the door he calls out behind her.
‘Hey! I didn’t get your name!’
She turns to face
him. What was her name? And does it matter if she doesn’t know it? There is a well of consciousness deep down
telling her that none of this is real; that the storm, her house, her friends -
her whole life in fact - did not exist until three hours ago. People who are so short-lived don’t deserve a
name, do they?
But then, it appears, they
might:
‘Joanne. My name is Joanne,’ she tells him.
THE END
