The Search

The Search

I burst through the door in a feverish craze, my German-shepherd-husky-mixed companion champion—champ for short—trotting behind me. Where is it? Those three words pinballed around my developing cranium. I was exhausted, deflated, and dangerously teetering between a faulty seesaw of a great flood of tears and a 9.5 magnitude temper tantrum. I nearly stumbled down several concrete steps that placed me in the backyard. I scanned the Amazonian terrain: The sea of leafy blades stretching for miles until it reached a blockade at another chain-linked fence and the ancient, wise tree whose roots held it in place for millennia. Its age was said to have stretched back to times when even my ancestors ceased to exist--I suspected it was only a mere fable, but grandmother always sprinkled in sand specs of truth in her sayings.

It sat aback looming over its foliage and casting its cool shadow over those who wished to acquire protection from a broiling sun whose power was at its zenith in the summer. The stubby short-armed, smooth-headed version of me had previously cringed and crunched over in fear, locking my eyes into its unreachable canopy. Within a couple of years, my legs were long enough to stand at half a trunk and my arms were noodly enough to clasp my hands around it. Now, I considered myself an expert veteran and a guide through its treacherous terrain. I’d climbed its thick trunk, hung and swung from its wood-chipped arms, and plucked away its armor for that bitter-sweet sap. But today, the tree was the least of my issues.

Before taking steps in the yard, I’d rummaged every crease, corner, file cabinet, bed, shoe box, and ball of dust in search of perhaps the most important artifact of my existence—barely a decade—the Superman action figure. At face value, to the regular human mind, the toy was nothing more than what it presented to the eye: A plastic concoction of various parts welded together in visible joints that gifted the soulless being limited flexibility. In my mind, Superman was perhaps twice the hero he was in comic books and movies, not only could he perform his basic duties of flying, freezing, lifting, and laser beaming, he in fact could travel through time at will, explore the depths of the multiverse, and grant unlimited wishes, a far cry from the inferior genie of Aladdin's world. Superman’s absence had been brief, yet immensely painful; my imagination had not fasted before and after only a day, I could feel its strength withering. Luckily, I could replenish it with lego-bricked starships, and Beyblade UFOs, but I’d become increasingly suspicious of the Supreme General of the Lego Army, he’d drawn recruits from a plethora of other universes, a few of his most formidable being Batman, and Spider-Man—I envied his guile tongue and ease at which he could muster support and feared that he would eventually rise and singe the library of truth—my bookshelf—in a grand crimson flame.

Only Superman could bring balance…

My mission was not one of naive childish play, no, my mission was of utmost importance, the key to imagination. Without it, I’d be thrust into the vein-bulging, headache-inducing, sleep-depriving logic of the real world—a realm molded by the Adults and a realm I couldn’t foresee myself in at such an infantile age. They say a child who falls into the real world will go through a hellish metamorphosis: First, the forehead crinkles, then the hue of the iris is siphoned away, next the spine coils in on itself so that you traverse the world hunchbacked. In the most advanced stages, the hair even flees from its homeland follicles risking the danger of being carried away by the wind that lazily deposits its baggage at random.

I looked upon the expanses of the grassy clearing ahead: One Superman, thousands, maybe millions of blades of grass, one of me. My target rested somewhere coiled in a tuft of green. I massaged my palm along Champ’s furry head and signaled a serious gaze into his almond eyes. I motioned him to follow along as I began my search. Though he was ignorant of the possible calamity at stake, his nose wasn’t a bloodhound’s, and his tracking skills had withered in his years of readily accessible food, his sense of smell was immensely more powerful than mine, and for that, his presence on this journey was necessary.

I started at the border of the great thorned bush—a spiky shrub whose defense was nearly impenetrable. Though this cluster of vegetation was perhaps many millennia younger than the wise tree, it was deceptive and cunning. From a distance, it boasted the appearance of any regular bush thick with its micro-leaves and web-thin branches. On closer inspection, small gaps allowed you to glimpse into its barbed wire innards. Curious hands were strictly forbidden to delve inside, doing so came at a cost: I’d paid in pain much too often. Instead, I methodically moved around its perimeter, my eyes foraging for gaps in the leaf-encrusted armor. Some gaps were bigger than others and with enough space, I could gaze upon the beautiful, but treacherous catacombs of the great thorny shrub. Yet, there was no glimpse of that royal blue, deep red, or corn yellow.

I searched for scraps of cloth, maybe Superman had to perform an emergency landing through the great thorny bush. That led me to search for body parts dislodged and tangled in spindles of branches; a part of me suspected that his plastic body may have not been best suited for crashes. After hours—minutes in child time—I abandoned my search. Superman was not here…

I continued to move along in the garden at a snail's pace wafting my hand through the green maze, inspecting and double-checking each cluster. Occasionally, I’d be assaulted by a lone straggler fly: The species that loves to try and burrow into your ear canals, travel to your brain, and achieve supreme mind control. Other times I’d be confronted by their yellow-black striped neighbors, a rather docile species but extremely aggressive if provoked. Whenever my ears caught the goosebump-inducing buzz of their transparent wings, I reflexively flinched, my bony shoulders stabbing the cartilage of my ears. Sometimes a high-pitched shriek would follow, maybe a few curses--the origins of my knowledge of which are still unknown to this day. This often made Champ snap his head back and trot back over to me. I often wondered whether it was the shriek or those words that made him respond with urgency.

Champ and I continued along our journey ravaging up and down the yard in imaginary rows and columns, his nose sifting through blades of green while I waved my hand through the maze, cutting through patches like a lawnmower. We were beginning to reach the back of the yard and I could feel the ridges of the ground where the wise trees’ thick roots resided. I tried my best to step around them and not on them weary to upset the spirit of the being. The closer I got to the tree, the more my morale dipped. We were running out of space. The other border of the yard, a wooden splintered fence, planted itself just beyond the wise tree.

Time was of the essence…

The ancient wise tree only covered a select few blades under its UV-blocking leaves. My legs felt just as weak as aged twigs, my arms drooped at my sides limp and lifeless, and my mouth was parched--I could hear my taste buds moaning like stranded souls traversing an endless desert. My eyes darted back towards the front of the yard to the green serpent—a water hose—that came in handy when the sun played too rough: when the skin gristles and the saliva stiffens. My iris’ nearly dilated with arousal. Such a long walk though. In a lustful craze for water, I turned my feet to walk back and pour my fill.

Then a scent smacked my nose…

A scent I know all too well. The scent that all pet owners dread, a scent so sinister to the nose that it causes a human to reflexively shrivel, a scent that makes the most devout followers of religion question their God. I turned my head back around, my nose like the bloodhound champ wasn’t. It crazily searched for the source: Champs droppings. The mere thought of it shot a hit of disgust through my veins. My imagination had withered yes, but a child’s withered imagination is ten times the average adult's. And so, I bathed in prolonged imaginative agony: The lump of steaming brown, semi-digested food pile lived rent-free in my mind. It was one of the biggest drawbacks of having a yard, open and free for him to frolic wherever he pleased and deposit stink bombs whenever his digestive system commanded so.

I needed to find the location of the droppings before going to grab the necessary materials to dispose of them. Immediately. An animal dropping is not just an animal dropping, no, it is a land mine waiting to smear itself all over your fresh-out-of-the-box white Air Force ones. Propper disposal was key. On a usual pickup and disposal mission, I’d have my hazmat suit to protect me from the rancid radiation however I’d been unable to locate the article of clothing for a week and so my missions had been completed by hands cloaked in a plastic baggie. My focus on Superman had run away, he had to wait, just a bit longer.

When I moved about to the house to retrieve a protective plastic baggie…

I spotted him. I froze my eyes in disbelief. Hidden in plain sight, oh how the universe works. He sat in a patch of grass a little less dense than the rest of the yard, like the first balding patch on an aging man's head. I sighed in deep relief and quickly moved to retrieve my lost comrade.

“Stop!”

A familiar voice. In fact, a voice that sounded just like my own, but I knew it couldn’t have come from my own mind. I swiveled once more to find my brother--my identical twin--standing atop the slabs of concrete steps that led to the yard, his eyes daring me to cease my search at its climax, his arms waving like chopsticks in the air to signal me. How rude.

“No! Don’t do it, Jon, there’s…”

There’s what? Why would I stop for such unimportant matters? Family or the fate of imagination? How could he be blind to my noble quest, it angered me. My impatience took full control of my limbs and without hesitancy, I grabbed my Superman.

And more.

“Ohhhh what the heck!” I screamed, my hands immediately unlatching Superman from my grasp letting him smack once more against the earth. I wanted to curse. The Gods, the wise tree, the grass. Curse it all!

I’d found both of the things I was searching for in one fell scoop of my right hand. I barely recognized it. My mouth dropped open to gag, throw up, or maybe release my soul from my body. My hand! It was smeared in brown, the stench was rancid, completely unbearable. My nose made that reflexive crunching, the hairs inside curled into balls assuming their protective state. My legs spurred to action before my mind and suddenly I found myself in the bathroom scrubbing and scrubbing.

And scrubbing.

Scrubbing to the point where my hands gave the glint of a freshly washed wine glass, the lather of soap exceeding that of the most pristine washing machines. I nearly shed a layer of skin under the boiling water, it hurt immensely, but what could I do? The tiny microbes of death living in that lump of brown had to be eliminated at all costs. I looked at myself in the mirror, the energy drained from my eyes, dark circles sagging my expression. Questions swirled through. How did poop get on the toy? How did Jaelan know before me? Did champ poop on it? Whose else could it be, a human surely wouldn’t commit such a satanic act, right?

Confusion and betrayal littered my mind. Was I deceived and led on by my own trusty steed? Did he really lead me on just to discover his sick prize? Are animals capable of the calculated demise of others, premeditated crime? Was my brother the true mastermind that plopped Superman onto the mud-brown mess? Was it both of them? Perhaps Superman flew himself into it wishing upon his own demise and if he did, why?

“Told you not to touch it.” My twin uttered those words in the bathroom as he passed by. Pure mockery, it had to be him. My evil clone, the true mastermind behind this betrayal? I hear the air whisking, heavy breathing, and the sound of something soft clocking back and forth against the bathroom door. I glance down and meet those almond eyes once more, I see his tail wagging with uncontrollable force, I see the jubilation in his open mouth, and his hanging tongue. Oh champ, how could I be mad at you? That’s how all enemies deceive: They hide behind those pleasurable faces, fake the goodness in their eyes. I give champ another rub on his cranium and wonder if he’s a German shepherd or that snake that fooled Adam and Eve.

This was the last day Superman was seen by anyone in our household.

After dropping him back to earth and scrubbing my hands of waste, I’d completely forgotten he was still outside subject to the forces of nature.

But, when I went back to check for him…

He was gone. Not even a trace of the lump that smothered him. I cocked my head to sky, maybe I could catch a glimpse of him flying off in the distance, yet, the sky was empty, a perfect afternoon blue.

Dogs, snakes, evil twins, and flying action figures.

My imagination in the following weeks nearly fell to shambles, the Supreme General of the Lego Army nearly plundered the library of truth while all I could do was watch in pure agony. Eventually, I recovered from the trauma of those events still living in the neurons that make my memory.

Yes, that day was the last day Superman was seen.

It was also the last day I’d ever think about prodding my mother for a Superman action figure in the store…