A comic book for Ben

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.  Cracks me up when Isaac Hayes calls him “Rockfish”.  But I digress.  Tell me more about this history thing.  I really like that.’

‘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