In the summer of 1988, I purchased a ticket to the greatest show on earth. I purchased it with sleepless nights of boyhood dreams, fraught with quixotic motifs of changing the world and making a difference. I punched the ticket and received 26 weeks of training to prepare me for the next 30 years as a ringmaster to the circus. The 26 weeks of training was fraught with befuddled jargon, resplendent boots, morning runs, proud and aggressive battles of manhood, intertwined with endless hours spent in the classroom learning the unique skills of the ringmaster. After 26 weeks of training the transformation was complete. The 21 year old young man that entered the gauntlet, exited in full regalia. Proud to wear the uniform, creased and spotless. Exuberant for the challenges that lie ahead, prepared and dauntless to the looming task of entering the ring. Bursting with pride as the badge was placed on the chest, becoming the fearless centurion of those in need. The boy had become Superman.
There is only one problem. And it’s really quite a dilemma. Unfortunately, they don’t bring seventeen year old children into the police academy during training, have them sip a blood red glass of Sloe Gin, write out a note to their parents, and then blow the top of their head into the ceiling of their bedroom. You see, some might call it Superman’s kryptonite, I call it being human, but somehow that scene still stays with me today quite easily recounted in the chaos of conscious memory.
The young man had worked with a young woman at a local theatre in the summer of 1988. During the summer, while working together, they exchanged glances, smiles, and talked of their tomorrows. Soon enough, romance had blossomed and in the spawn of youth, the two decided to clean a sullied theatre together. Half way through the battle of gathering popcorn containers and spilled drinks from their entwinement with folded theatre seats, the boy asked the girl if he could kiss her. She said yes, and the two sat together briefly in the theatre of their dreams, Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh, locked together in a moment of youthful indiscretion. The manager of the theatre walked in on the two, and both were fired on the spot for “conduct unbecoming” young people in love. The girl’s parents were alerted by the dutiful manager and they immediately forbid her from seeing her ex-coworker. That night, the boy went into his cellar and removed a bottle of sloe gin from his parent’s liquor cabinet. He began the process of ending his life by attempting several notes, some of which he crumpled up and tossed aside, starting anew, searching for the right words to leave behind. Once the sloe gin had accomplished its purpose of providing the necessary false bravado, and the right words had been found, the boy placed the barrel of his father’s shotgun under his chin, and blew his entire cranium, brain matter and all, into the ceiling of his room. His mother came home and discovered her son. In shock, she called her husband home from work before calling the police. He then frantically called reporting the tragedy. In the 911 call, he screamed indiscernible words, crying for help; blood chilling moans, and sounds only describable when heard in person. What he was trying to say, and couldn’t find the words, was my life as I knew it is over. I will never sleep a solid night again. My happiness is gone forever and likely, so am I.
Superman went to the home that day. The mother kept shrieking a cacophony of sounds not often heard. She repetitively asked me if her son was dead. She was asking me the question in earnest, which seemed to lack any semblance of reason. Ma’am, your son is missing his head? There are two flaps of skin at the top of his neck, and there is brain matter scattered everywhere, obviously he is dead. Something in the way I was raised made me hold back on using these words predicated on obvious reality. “We are going to figure out what happened Ma’am, we are here for you”. “We are going to support you and get you through this, do you have any relatives that can come here and assist you right now?” “Why, why, why….why”. “I’m not certain Ma’am but please come in the other room and sit for a minute, we are here for you, I promise you, We are here for you…”
The father arrived and quickly assessed what his wife was not capable of comprehending. Their lives were changed forever. I stood in the room with the father long after his son’s body had been removed. He was walking around the room in disbelief, looking at the trophies, the photos, and the ribbons gathered in youth and happier times. He asked me what he should do about cleaning up. My training kicked in and I replied, “I have no idea sir, I truly have no idea”. He decided to remove the section of rug that was blood soaked and covered with the remains of what was once his son. He retrieved a utility knife from his toolbox and we proceeded to cut out a 4x4 section of rug. He rolled it up and tied it, walked outside and placed it in a barrel. Soon thereafter, it was time to go. It was time to leave these people to their own lives, their own personal hell. It was time for me to move on.
I walked outside and headed down the front walkway toward my cruiser. I was going to just wave my cape and fly away, after all, that’s what Superman does, but the cruiser seemed a more fitting exit. As I walked along the walkway, I detected a clicking sound in the lugged soles of my brand new boots. Assuming I had stepped on a pebble that had decided to come along for the ride, I stopped and dislodged the object, preparing to cast it aside for the annoyance it was. I looked closer at the object as I held it in my hand, and instantly realized it was a small piece of bone fragment from the young man’s skull.
My training kicked in once again and I immediately walked over to the rolled up carpet and embedded the fragment deeply into the fabric of the rug, as though I was planting it in soil, hoping for something to grow anew.
There is only one problem. And it’s really quite a dilemma. Unfortunately, they don’t bring seventeen year old children into the police academy during training, have them sip a blood red glass of Sloe Gin, write out a note to their parents, and then blow the top of their head into the ceiling of their bedroom. You see, some might call it Superman’s kryptonite, I call it being human, but somehow that scene still stays with me today quite easily recounted in the chaos of conscious memory.
The young man had worked with a young woman at a local theatre in the summer of 1988. During the summer, while working together, they exchanged glances, smiles, and talked of their tomorrows. Soon enough, romance had blossomed and in the spawn of youth, the two decided to clean a sullied theatre together. Half way through the battle of gathering popcorn containers and spilled drinks from their entwinement with folded theatre seats, the boy asked the girl if he could kiss her. She said yes, and the two sat together briefly in the theatre of their dreams, Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh, locked together in a moment of youthful indiscretion. The manager of the theatre walked in on the two, and both were fired on the spot for “conduct unbecoming” young people in love. The girl’s parents were alerted by the dutiful manager and they immediately forbid her from seeing her ex-coworker. That night, the boy went into his cellar and removed a bottle of sloe gin from his parent’s liquor cabinet. He began the process of ending his life by attempting several notes, some of which he crumpled up and tossed aside, starting anew, searching for the right words to leave behind. Once the sloe gin had accomplished its purpose of providing the necessary false bravado, and the right words had been found, the boy placed the barrel of his father’s shotgun under his chin, and blew his entire cranium, brain matter and all, into the ceiling of his room. His mother came home and discovered her son. In shock, she called her husband home from work before calling the police. He then frantically called reporting the tragedy. In the 911 call, he screamed indiscernible words, crying for help; blood chilling moans, and sounds only describable when heard in person. What he was trying to say, and couldn’t find the words, was my life as I knew it is over. I will never sleep a solid night again. My happiness is gone forever and likely, so am I.
Superman went to the home that day. The mother kept shrieking a cacophony of sounds not often heard. She repetitively asked me if her son was dead. She was asking me the question in earnest, which seemed to lack any semblance of reason. Ma’am, your son is missing his head? There are two flaps of skin at the top of his neck, and there is brain matter scattered everywhere, obviously he is dead. Something in the way I was raised made me hold back on using these words predicated on obvious reality. “We are going to figure out what happened Ma’am, we are here for you”. “We are going to support you and get you through this, do you have any relatives that can come here and assist you right now?” “Why, why, why….why”. “I’m not certain Ma’am but please come in the other room and sit for a minute, we are here for you, I promise you, We are here for you…”
The father arrived and quickly assessed what his wife was not capable of comprehending. Their lives were changed forever. I stood in the room with the father long after his son’s body had been removed. He was walking around the room in disbelief, looking at the trophies, the photos, and the ribbons gathered in youth and happier times. He asked me what he should do about cleaning up. My training kicked in and I replied, “I have no idea sir, I truly have no idea”. He decided to remove the section of rug that was blood soaked and covered with the remains of what was once his son. He retrieved a utility knife from his toolbox and we proceeded to cut out a 4x4 section of rug. He rolled it up and tied it, walked outside and placed it in a barrel. Soon thereafter, it was time to go. It was time to leave these people to their own lives, their own personal hell. It was time for me to move on.
I walked outside and headed down the front walkway toward my cruiser. I was going to just wave my cape and fly away, after all, that’s what Superman does, but the cruiser seemed a more fitting exit. As I walked along the walkway, I detected a clicking sound in the lugged soles of my brand new boots. Assuming I had stepped on a pebble that had decided to come along for the ride, I stopped and dislodged the object, preparing to cast it aside for the annoyance it was. I looked closer at the object as I held it in my hand, and instantly realized it was a small piece of bone fragment from the young man’s skull.
My training kicked in once again and I immediately walked over to the rolled up carpet and embedded the fragment deeply into the fabric of the rug, as though I was planting it in soil, hoping for something to grow anew.