Bill The Conqueror

Rita has tried, despite all the evidence, to believe her husband’s lies. She listens intently to his detailed excuses. She’s plugged a Glade Plug-In Tropical Breeze air freshener in the laundry room to cover the smell of smoke in his clothes. She avoids asking him the real question, the question that neither of them wants answered: Where were you last night?

Most husbands have shortcomings. There are husbands who work too much or too little. Husbands who watch Lakers games when they should be mowing the lawn. Husbands who squeeze toothpaste tubes at the top, who refuse to throw out their old underwear even when they’re full of holes, who eat the last of the Cheerios and put the empty box back in the cabinet. There are husbands who tinker endlessly with classic Edsels, ham radios, vegetable gardens, and stamp collections. There are husbands who refuse to visit their in-laws. Husbands who sleep too much, who won’t eat red potatoes or whole wheat bread and don’t do dishes. There are husbands who sweat, smell of mildew, and eat too many onions. There are husbands who sit on the john for hours reading the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and don’t replace the empty toilet paper roll. There are husbands who suddenly buy electronics or llamas for no known reason. There are husbands who talk too much or not enough. Husbands who can’t dress properly and don’t shave regularly. Husbands who think a rusty washing machine is a lovely lawn ornament. Burping Husbands. Farting Husbands. Parsimonious husbands. Taciturn husbands. Perfectionist husbands. Didactic husbands. Lazy husbands. Petty husbands. Gambling Husbands. Brutal husbands. And, of course, the ninth and final ring of hell is reserved for the worst of all husbands: The Philandering Husband.

The trouble is, Rita’s husband does none of these things. In fact, Bill is a nearly model husband. He puts his laundry in the hamper, brings home flowers regularly, and gets the kids ready for school. If Rita were to mention to her sister Paula, even in a whisper, that Bill did a single thing wrong, she would be accosted with the litany of her husband Mike’s sins, of which there are a considerable number. So, Rita suffers this latest betrayal in silence, hoping beyond reason that she is wrong, that Bill is not up to his old tricks.

She reviews the clues. Number One: The hurried phone call from his cell phone one week ago Thursday. He said he was at dinner with a vendor, but Rita heard the music in the background, which cast doubt on his alibi. Number Two: A cocktail napkin with Sue Storm Richards’ name and phone number on it. Number Three: The polaroid picture that speaks for itself. Unless it is old, who even uses polaroid cameras anymore. Unless it isn’t who she thinks it is, or where she thinks it is.

Bill, unsuspecting, drives his blue ’97 Taurus down Allen Street, fiddling with the radio, trying and failing to find something by The Doors, preferably “Light My Fire.” As he pulls into the driveway, he looks at the warm light pouring out of the window and thinks of his children tucked in their crisp white beds, and his spotted spaniel, Lady, snoring protectively outside their door. He sees Rita cross in front of the window carrying a load of blue clothes toward the laundry room. This life, so serene, so nearly perfect, so fragile it could shatter at any moment. Bill knows this. He thinks about it as he studies his wife’s wide rear-end waggling against her worn bathrobe as she forces the laundry into the washer. He sits in the car for a long time; his chin slumped on his chest, waiting for Rita to go to bed. When the house goes dark Bill eases out of the car and slides the key into the doorknob gently, hoping to slip into the house without Rita noticing.

He thinks he hears her muffled “Aha.”

There is no doubt she has noticed his absence. He says nothing and skulks down the hall to the girls’ bedroom stepping gingerly over the sleepy, snoring form of Lady.

Bill cracks the door and peeks in on his sleeping daughters. Brittany, secretly his favorite, lies curled in her bed with a ragged Tickle-Me Elmo tucked under her arm, the tip of her tiny thumb resting on her lower lip. She breathes softly with a sweet little whistle. Lizzie, fierce even in repose, kicks the blankets restlessly in her sleep. This is when he feels guilty when he looks at his sleeping children.

He turns and goes to his bedroom. He pauses and studies the strip of light creeping under the door. She is awake, then.

Bill pushes the door open. Rita is sitting on the bed with her terry cloth robe gathered around her shoulders and a single worn pink fuzzy slipper on her left foot.

“You’re still awake,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. Rita holds up the polaroid picture, the one he knows has been missing for over a week, the picture he only vaguely remembers bringing home.

“I can explain that…” he starts but it sounds feeble, like air escaping from a balloon.

“You can?” Rita’s voice is thick with sarcasm. She shakes her head.

“I’ve been meaning to stop. I know how you hate it. I would never do anything to hurt you or the kids but you gotta understand…” Rita holds up her right hand and Bill sputters to a stop. “Didn’t you ever have a dream, Rita?”

Bill had originally planned to be exercising his superhuman powers by now, saving the world, not redesigning bolts for airplanes. As a boy, he had waited patiently for his powers to descend upon him. He ached for the day he would wake up with the ability to conjure up a hurricane or slice stuff to pieces with his laser vision or lift up a Mac truck with just his pinky finger. He pretended to have broken bones, hoping that the excessive x-rays would result in the hoped-for transformation. He dreamed of being “The Conqueror,” and he created an emblem he doodled on the covers of his Pee-Chee folders and inside the composition book he used for Biology. But year after year, his superpowers did not emerge, so he adjusted his expectations, hoping simply for the power to get sodas from the vending machine for free or just to have an uncanny ability to bluff at poker. Eventually, Bill succumbed to the power of ordinariness, and his life as a superhero receded like the sound of a passing train whistle growing fainter every year.

“We’ve been all over that, Bill. I don’t want to have the same stupid conversation again and again.” Her face contorts into a pout as she imitates his oft-repeated defense, “‘But, honey, they’re real superheroes and all we do is tell stories.’ You know what I think? I think you’ll never stop hanging around with those losers!”

“They aren’t losers!” Bill protests, “They’re just past their prime. Superman can’t outrun a speeding bullet anymore but he can still beat the hell out of a Shelby Mustang.” She lets the photo drop to the floor and Bill snatches it. There is Bill smiling, raising his pint of ale high in the air with a graying Superman in the background. A now-flabby Green Lantern has tilted his head towards Bill, his arm hanging over Bill’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. Bill is proud of the intimacy it implies. In the background, the iridescent head of The Silver Surfer glows against the dark paneling of the bar. A hangout for the once Super and Powerful, the bar’s walls are covered with memorabilia from the lives of these formerly disenfranchised victims, orphans and aliens. Bill desperately wants Rita to realize what it has taken for him to become close to these men. Men like these don’t confide in just any Joe Blow off the street.

Rita climbs into bed and flops down with her back to Bill. “Look at you!” She barks. “Pining away over a bunch of freaks of nature. They’re a bad influence. We agreed that you wouldn’t go to Rori Dag’s anymore. We’ve talked about this. They’re has-beens! No one really cares about defeating evil villains anymore. That’s all over, Bill, they’re ancient history.”

Bill has no answer for this. He can only think of how Captain America’s eyes fill with tears when he talks about Captain Marvel (the first one) wasting away in a hospital bed from the twin ravages of cancer and chemotherapy. He knows the bitterness The Green Hornet feels when he mentions the acrimonious departure of his long-time companion, Kato. Bill has listened to the point of boredom to Batman’s tedious debate with himself about coloring the gray on his temples, even though his Bat Hood covers the gray. Peter Parker’s rapidly receding hairline is a constant joke among the older patrons of Rori Dag’s. But even as a bunch of graying, paunchy been-there, saved-thats, they are still more spectacular than, say, Everett, the English twit Bill carpools with on Tuesday and Wednesday or Mike, his idiot brother-in-law. Rita simply does not understand and Bill cannot precisely express how dull his life is without knocking back a beer once in a while at Rori Dag’s. He cannot blame her for her minor ambitions, but he refuses to surrender the final remnant of his own dreams. Bill has spent every day expecting life to begin tomorrow, so when he discovered Rori Dag’s, he could at least drink with men who had saved the world. He was willing to do almost anything to have, if not the feeling of being Someone, then at least the feeling of being near Someone, no matter how fragile the reality.

Rita continues her assault. “You went there tonight, just like last Thursday! Yeah, you called but I could hear the goddamned Bat Theme playing in the background. What really hurts is that you lie about it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have to lie if you’d just loosen up.”

“What would Paula think if I told her…”

“I don’t give a damn what Paula thinks! I’ll go to Rori Dag’s whenever the hell I want!”

“Then you can go to hell! We agreed that it was the best for everyone concerned …”

“For you, you mean? I NEVER AGREED!”

“Keep your voice down, Bill, you’ll wake the kids.”

The thought of his sweet-faced girls softens his resolve. He is swept with inspiration. “Come with me, honey. Come and meet them just once. You’ll see, once you get to know them. The Hulk can really tell a story…”

“I’m going to sleep,” Rita says curtly and clicks off the light.

Bill stands for a while in the dark with the picture of his superhero friends still in his hand. Then he props it against the lamp on his nightstand, strips to his briefs and slides into bed next to his snoring wife.

After a few moments, he climbs out of bed and gropes in the dark for his recently discarded starched shirt. Quietly, he ties the sleeves around his neck into a makeshift cape and goes to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. His wife continues to snore softly as he returns to his place next to her in bed. He tucks the polaroid under his pillow. Maybe the morning will offer new inspiration. Things are always better in the morning.

Tomorrow, he could wake up as Bill the Conqueror.