Читать книгу I, Superhero!! : - Mike McMullen - Страница 7

Cowboy secret space detective true love

Super villain two-in-one

The bad guys have taken over Washington

Don’t be scared cause I’m prepared

There’s an emergency but I’m ready

Cause fortunately I’m a super hero too

I got super powers just like you

—Ookla the Mok, “Superpowers”

Before I fully committed to transforming myself into a real-life superhero, I decided to try to meet a few, talk to them, find out what the life’s like. I made contact with a number of what seemed to be the more established RLSHs, and, after some consideration, chose Geist, a green-clad do-gooder from Minnesota, to be my first superhero playdate. Not only had he shown the most openness with me in our previous communications, but his focus was as much or more on charitable work as crime-fighting, which is the kind of hero I think I’d like to be.

Geist responded to my request for a simple interview by offering to spend an entire Saturday with me, taking me along on charity missions during the day and a crime patrol that night. I recently took him up on this offer, making the fifteen-hour drive from Dallas, Texas, to the Minneapolis, Minnesota, area to meet with Reginald “No, Of Course This Isn’t My Real Name” Rausch, aka Geist.

PHOTO COURTESY OF GEIST

The drive itself was a beat down. Traveling up I-35 from Texas to Minnesota is like being in a sensory deprivation tank that’s moving eighty miles an hour. My notes from the drive:

Oklahoma

Brown.

Flat.

Kansas

Green.

Flat.

Nice rest stations.

Iowa

Barn.

Silo.

Barn.

Barn.

Silo.

Barn.

Silo.

Holy crap, another barn.

Minnesota

Green.

Slightly undulating.

The worst part of the drive was that all the nothing gave my mind plenty of downtime to go where it wanted, and I usually don’t like where that leaves me. I tend to focus on the negatives in my life, and thoughts of bills; of home repairs that we desperately need but just can’t afford; and of how much I was missing Wife and Biscuit assaulted me the entire time.

Finally, mercifully, I reached Geist’s stomping grounds of Rochester, home of the Mayo Clinic. It was 9 p.m., and I’d been on the road since six o’clock that morning. I pulled off the interstate and, eyes bleeding, turned into my hotel’s parking lot. My first thought after having to cruise around the lot four or five times before finding a spot was, Gee, this place is a lot sketchier in person than on its website. What the hell is going on that this place is full up?

I checked in with a desk clerk who looked like the lead singer for Flock of Seagulls after being victimized by a drive-by face piercer. He asked whether I was there for the Jehovah’s Witness convention, which explained the parking situation. My first response to his question was to worry about hearing polite yet insistent knocks on my door throughout the night and tripping over stacks of The Watchtower left outside my door. Then I decided that, as far as these things go, sharing a hotel with a few dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses is probably better than a biker convention or a dozen soccer teams in town for the under-sixteen state championship.

I lugged my bags up to Room 427 and called Geist, letting him know I’d arrived safely. That done, my only thought between collapsing onto the bed and passing out was, This better be worth it.

Notes from My Day with Geist

11:00 A.M.—GEIST’S HOUSE

My first impression as I sit down across from Geist is Gosh, this guy’s older than I imagined.

“I’m in the second half of my forties,” is the way he puts it.

We’re sitting at a table on a screened-in back porch on a pleasantly warm late-summer day. Reginald, a fairly average-looking guy who’s in pretty good shape for someone in the second half of his forties, is having a cigarette, a vice not too common among comic book superheroes. But then, apart from the costume, Geist doesn’t have all that much in common with the superheroes most people know. For one thing, he’s not rich. He’s firmly entrenched in the middle class, even complaining at times of the difficulty paying bills every month, putting him much more in the vein of Peter Parker than Bruce Wayne, Tony Stark, Oliver Queen, or any of the dozens of other superwealthy superheroes.

“I try to pay most of my Geisting expenses out of the Geist Fund,” he tells me. My first hint that he uses his chosen name in much the way the Smurfs used theirs. “How does Geist make money?” I ask.

“Well, I used to have a pretty extensive comic book collection, but I’ve sold most of them through the years to pay for Geist-stuff. I still have a few valuable ones, but they’re tucked away in a safe-deposit box. I’m trying not to touch those if I don’t have to.”

Reginald stubs out his smoke and leads me back into his house, a nondescript wooden single-story decorated with an eclectic mix of art deco pieces and African masks and weaponry, resulting in the general impression that Jay Gatsby and the Black Panther both went broke and had to move in together.

I take a seat on the couch and a black cat approaches me, warily.

“That’s Sheba. She bites.”

Undaunted, I extend a hand in friendship and immediately learn to listen when a person tells me something about his or her cat.

“Sheba…bad girl.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “You warned me.”

“I’m going to go Geist-up. Here’s my jacket, if you want to check it out while I’m getting ready,” he says, handing me a full-length coat in standard army-issue green. It feels like it weighs fifty pounds.

“I probably won’t be wearing it today since it’s so warm, but you can check out the pockets and get an idea of what I usually carry with me,” Reginald says, before heading into the other room to Geist himself.

I pick up the coat, but I’m hesitant to rifle through a stranger’s pockets. That’s usually frowned on in polite society, and if there’s one thing my mother taught me, it’s to be polite. After a few seconds, and for some reason checking to make sure Geist isn’t about to return and catch me doing exactly what he’s just explicitly told me to do, I slide a hand into a side pocket. It’s surprisingly deep, and after getting in about halfway up my forearm, I finally feel something not unlike a can of soup. I pull it out, and it’s a large smoke bomb. Green, of course. I soon discover there are a surprising number of pockets in the jacket, all filled with random superhero accoutrement: a slingshot with metal ammo; miniature strobe lights, a flashlight (with three settings: regular, laser pointer, and a very “we’re trying to simulate night vision on a budget” shade of green); more smoke bombs; and random bits of white paper, all blank.

Having exhausted the pockets, I inspect the outside of the jacket: there’s an aftermarket collar—large, round, and opalescent green—and a custom Geist patch sewn onto the chest.

“I had Jack make that for me,” my host says, returning from the bedroom more Geist than Reginald in his trademark green pants and striped green shirt.

“Jack?” I ask.

“He’s the guy who runs Hero Gear. He makes a lot of stuff for us,” he says, referring to the RLSH community.

Geist quickly crosses the living room and shuts the blinds before taking a seat across from me.

“I have some nosy neighbors,” he explains. “I don’t want anyone to see me Geisting-up.” As he speaks, he laces up his boots, then straps on a pair of leather bracers.

“Those look like you got them from—”

“A renaissance fair, yeah,” he finishes, displaying them proudly. “I’d been looking for something like this, and they were green, so it was perfect.”

The overall effect is slightly more patchwork than it seemed in the pictures I’d seen, but he still looks like someone with a mission. What that mission happens to be may be inscrutable from his appearance, but it’s a mission nonetheless, which is more than most people can say. I notice what appears to be three ropes with tennis ball-sized rubber balls on the ends hanging from his belt.

“Is that a bolo?” I ask.

“Bola,” he says, correcting me.

“Oh, is that how you say it?”

“Well, that’s what it said on the Internet.”

“No, you’re right. A bolo is one of those skinny ties like country singers wear.”

“Yeah, I’ve got some of those, too.”

“Nice.”

“Here, let me show you some other stuff,” he says, as he pulls out a cigarette pack and removes a small rectangular device from it.

“This is a minitaser. It’s designed to be hidden in a pack of cigs like this. I use it more in my civilian life. I make sure Suze uses it, too,” he adds, referring to his girlfriend, Susan.

“What was her reaction to your decision to do the superhero thing?”

“Oh, she was great. Totally along for the ride, just as long as I did it safely. She’s the one who insisted I take self-defense lessons first.”

“Like karate or something?”

“Kinda, but please don’t call me a martial arts expert. That’s happened twice already in different articles, and it’s not true. If I was, I probably wouldn’t need this,” he says, putting down the taser and picking up a large black nightstick. “It’s a stun baton.”

He pushes a button on the weapon’s handle, and wicked-looking blue arcs crackle to life between two metal nubs on the end of the club.

“Sweet.”

“Yeah,” Geist says, “now what else?…Oh yeah, the glasses.” He pulls out a pair of what appear to be common, ordinary sunglasses, but which are surely equipped with ultraviolet, infrared, night-vision capabilities.

“They’re Oaklies that I’ve spray painted green. These have kinda green reflective lenses. I have another pair with black lenses.”

“Oh,” I say.”

“Well, they’re fake Oaklies. I have real ones, too, but I didn’t want to paint them.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I only wear the mask when I’m patrolling. I’ll be wearing the bandanna and glasses today, since we’re doing charity work. I’ll put them on in the car after we’re a few blocks away. I can’t have the neighbors seeing Geist leaving Reginald’s house in Reginald’s car, you know?”

“Totally.”

On our way out, Geist picks up Sheba and says his goodbyes. If you’ve never seen a grown man in a superhero outfit baby talking to a cat, it’s a sight I highly recommend you avoid at all costs.

We get into the car, a nineties model Toyota, and Geist puts the stun baton on the back floor, explaining that he only wears it on patrol. It lands on top of a copy of the City Pages, a local publication. A dramatic picture of Geist graces its cover.

“Good photo,” I say.

“Yeah, they did a story on me a while back. I carry that around and use it as an ID sometimes, so people know I’m not just some weirdo.”

“So—car get good mileage?” I ask, my lack of interviewing experience deciding to kick in.

“Yeah, it’s okay. It’s Suze’s. I’d like to have a green truck, that’d be pretty cool. But then on the other hand, people would be like, ‘Hey, there’s Geist in the green truck.’ It’s identifiable. That’s why using my girlfriend’s car is good, because it blends in.”

“Uh huh.”

“I think we’ll go by the children’s home first. I have some comic books and Pokémon cards to drop off. I’ve been there a few times before, so they mostly know me there.”

“Did you buy the comics with the Geist fund?”

“No, I got the guy at my comic book store to donate them. It was kinda funny…. I went in there all dressed as Geist, and told the guy who I was and what I did, and asked if he’d be willing to donate something for the sick kids. He said he could give me all the leftovers from Free Comic Book Day, and I thought that was really cool.”

“Yeah.”

“But when I thanked him and left, he was like, ‘Bye, Reggie!’”

“Heh. That sucks.”

“Yeah, I guess I’d underestimated people’s ability to recognize my voice.”

“You should try growling like Christian Bale does in Batman. That seems to work.”

11:15 A.M.—MCDONALD’S PARKING LOT

“Oh, up here, there’s usually a homeless guy,” Geist says, as we’re nearing the children’s home. “I have some bags of nonperishable food items in my trunk I keep to give out. It’s all flip-top, pull-tab-type stuff that you can open without a can opener.”

“That’s good thinking,” I say as we pull into a McDonald’s parking lot. I look across the street and see an old woman holding a sign that says Please Help.

“Oh, it’s a woman today. It’s usually a guy,” Geist says, as he gets one of the food parcels from the trunk. As we approach the woman, a car pulls over and a college-age girl gets out, runs across the street, and gives the old woman (hereinafter called Gerty, because that’s shorter and easier than saying “the homeless woman” every time she’s referenced) some cash.

“Do you have a rubber band?” Gerty asks the girl as we reach them.

“Do you want my ribbon?” the girl answers, reaching up to remove her headband.

“Noooo,” Gerty says, “I say, ‘I need prayers, money, and a rubber band today!’”

“Awww.”

“By the way, thank you for helping,” Geist says to the girl. “My name’s Geist and I’m a real-life superhero.”

“Awww.”

“And I’m standing behind you to help!”

“Awww. Thank you!”

Geist hands Gerty the bag o’ food before launching into what I will, from now on, refer to as the “Spiel.”

“Hi, my name’s Geist, and I’m a real-life superhero. I’m a crazy guy in a costume who puts on a suit and tries to do something good. There are about two hundred of us in the U.S., and we all just try to do something to make things better. Here’s my card.”

Gerty looks at the bag. “What is it?”

“It’s all kindsa food—”

“It’s not gonna ruin out here, is it?”

“No, everything’s snap top,” Geist assures her. “On the back of my card are numbers of some places locally that can help—”

“I’m from Arkansas.”

“Okay. Well, you got the Interfaith Hospitality Network, the Salvation Army—”

“Yeah.”

“—social services, stuff like that—”

“I’m supposed to go back Monday.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah. Hey, and you know what? Read the scriptures…. I’m askin’, I’m not stealin’. Know what I’m sayin’? People come by here and laugh, and I think, ‘I wish they’d pray instead of laugh, but you know—’”

“Well, I wish you the best of luck. And look at those numbers on back,” Geist says, and we start to make our exit/escape.

“You look cool,” Gerty says, calling after Geist.

“Thank you!”

“You do too!” she adds, talking to me.

“Thank you!”

“I think you need orange like him!”

“Like him?” I ask, pointing to Geist and wondering if she has some rare form of color blindness.

“Yeah, but orange!”

“Oh, Okay!”

“You don’t have a rubber band do you?” she yells. We’re at the corner, and I’m mashing the crosswalk button somewhat desperately.

“No, ma’am!” I call back.

“Thank you for the stuff!” she yells as the walk light begins to flash. Geist and I quickly cross the street and get into his car.

“That was kinda cool,” I say, and as I say it, I realize I’m being sincere. Despite almost getting into a never-ending conversation about the scriptural significance of rubber bands, it felt pretty good to help somebody out.

11:25 A.M.—CHILDREN’S HOME

The local children’s home is the kind of generic red brick and white-trimmed building that has become synonymous with suburban critical care. We park, Geist grabs his comics and a photo album full of Pokémon cards, and as we reach the building, a grandfatherly man in jeans and a T-shirt buzzes us in.

“Hi!” the old man says, seemingly taking no notice of Geist’s appearance. “How are you?”

“Good!” Geist says, “Have we met before?”

“No!”

(Insert the Spiel here.)

“Oh, wow!” the old man says.

“—and” Geist nods at me—” he’s an author, he’s writing about me—”

“Oh! Okay!”

I’m finding myself starting to respect the old man’s apparent lack of fazeability.

“—and we’re going around and trying to do something good.”

“Oh, okay! There’s nothing wrong with that!”

“That’s what we think! And today I’ve got some comics and some Pokémon cards for the kids.”

“That’s good! Let me fill out a slip here for you. Just put your name down there, and—”

“Well, I have a secret identity.”

“Oh! Well, then you don’t have to.”

“Well, I can do what I can,” Geist says, and he proceeds to try to fill out the donation card without giving actual information. While he’s doing that, a pair of Hispanic boys walks by staring. They spend the next few minutes standing in the background, pointing at us and talking in Spanish. The only words I understand are “superhero” and “cowboy.”

“What do you do, just follow him around?” the volunteer asks me while Geist erases God knows what on his card and starts over.

“Yep.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“We were able to give some food to the homeless earlier,” I say.

“Oh, that’s great! You’re having a good day, then.”

“We got more planned,” Geist adds, as he turns in the card and indicates that we’re done here.

“Thank you!” the old man says.

“Thank you,” Geist says.

On the way back to his car, I get a text from my wife. She’s asking if the strange man I met over the Internet and then drove fifteen hours to spend the day with has hacked me to pieces yet.

As I’m responding, I hear “Hi! I’m a real-life superhero!” and look up. Geist is waving to some kids riding by on bikes. I soon learn that he introduces himself to anyone who makes eye contact, to anyone who drives, walks, or skates by and to anyone he thinks may or may not be within the sound of his voice.

Back on the road, Geist tells me our next stop is a lemonade stand some local children have set up to raise money to support the troops. I decide to take advantage of the drive time to actually ask some questions.

“So, did you become well known overnight, or was it a gradual thing?”

“Gradual, but a lot quicker than I figured. I mean, for a while we were just a bunch of nuts on the Internet sharing experiences, and then it starts to get legitimized. In my blog, I’m real up front about how I haven’t found any criminals. I haven’t come across any crime. I’m lookin’, I’m prepared. I set out on missions to do charitable stuff, and if that’s all I end up doing in the end, I still feel good. ’Cause I do worry about people who are just out looking for trouble, because it’s gotta be demoralizing, because you go out and most of your patrols are going to be washouts. I’m sure that’s one reason why so many heroes come and go. That’s why if you throw in a charitable mission, you’ve got something. It doesn’t demoralize you. It’s not like, ‘That was a waste of time.’”

“So, you’ve never actually stopped a crime in process? Or even accidentally happened upon one?”

“No, not yet. But I’m looking. For instance, there was a person of interest that I was looking for in this area. He was a Level Three sex offender who was released from nearby here and was seen following women around in this area. Then there was a daylight rape on a bike path of a 15-year-old girl and the description in the newspaper was really vague. It was ‘heavy set and wearing blue.’ White, black, beard, clean shaven, I don’t know. Um, but when I saw this guy’s mug shot like a month later, like in a grassroots-circulated e-mail, I went, ‘Well, he’s heavyset, he’s a Level Three sex offender…’ What if, you know? And so I was thinking maybe he was the guy. And actually, the cops picked him up—he was the guy. So I kinda felt gratified that I’d been looking for the right guy.”

“So it’s not like you can just go out at night and see crime after crime being committed—”

“Not at all, and that’s the frustrating part. You have to be in the right place at the right time, and how do you do that? How do you know who’s a good guy and who’s a bad guy just by looking at them?”

“Good point,” I say. “I mean, how many people, in their entire lives, see more than maybe one or two crimes as they happen? In their entire lives?”

“Exactly! That’s why you can’t just fight crime. I mean, some of these guys do, and they say they’ve stopped a bunch of stuff, but I just don’t know.”

“So, are the cops cool with what you’re doing?”

“I think so. I’ve got this weird relationship with cops—or nonrelationship—in that, somewhere in their logs, somewhere on their books, they know who I am. They know Geist. Um—I don’t know if they get a good laugh out of me or what, and I don’t know how widespread that knowledge is. If there’s a message to get out to the cops, it’s that I’m not a kook. I’m a reasonable person. They’re my first call if I have time, but I’m not going to sit around waiting for them. That’s why I’ve got a stun baton, pepper spray, smoke bombs, etc.”

“What do they say when you encounter them as Geist?”

“They’ve told me to stick to charity. I get that a lot.”

12:30 P.M.—SOMEWHERE EN ROUTE TO LEMONADE STAND

We’ve been driving around trying to find the lemonade stand for almost an hour. Geist asks me to check the MapQuest printout he’d made of its location, and I start to wish he had an Alfred back at the cave he could get directions from, or at least a decent GPS.

“Are we lost?” I ask.

“Hey, you’re with a superhero…. What could go wrong?” I laugh, but deep down I think how much those sound like famous last words.

1:15 P.M.—AT LONG LAST, THE LEMONADE STAND

Upon our arrival, Geist hops out of the car and delivers The Spiel flawlessly to the parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, assorted hangers-on, and lemonade stand groupies milling about the otherwise quiet residential corner.

“Oh my goodness!” an avuncular type says to the kids.

“Look at that! Look at him!”

“Hi! My name’s Geist, I’m a real-life superhero. I’m on the Internet and stuff like that.”

“Go get some lemonade!” the uncle says.

Geist buys us each a one-dollar glass of lemonade, paying with a twenty and donating the change.

“Why thank you!” the mom/cashier says.

I can only assume that Geist thought she and the other mom, both young, rather hottish, and wearing tank tops and short shorts, didn’t hear The Spiel the first time ’round, so he repeats it.

“Oh!” one of the mothers says to her kids. “He’s a real superhero!”

“Where’s your cape?” one of the little boys asks.

“I actually don’t have a cape because it gets in the way. I also don’t have any superpowers.”

“Oh,” the boy says, and wanders off.

“I do have lots of widgets and gadgets,” Geist calls after him, but the children’s attention spans have expired. We make our exit, thanking everyone again for supporting the troops.

“Have you ever had people react poorly when you approach them?” I ask, when we get back to the car.

“Kinda. Not really. I guess it’s just too bad when there’s a kid who won’t come up to you. You know, with the coat it’s a little weird.”

“I’d imagine” is the only appropriate response I can think of.

I’m not quite sure how long Geist can keep up this pace, running from one thing to the next, but so far, it’s been surprisingly enjoyable. We’ve spent so much time doing for others, I’ve forgotten about my house, my job, and all the little things that had overwhelmed me the day before but now seemed less urgent.

1:25 P.M.—ANIMAL SHELTER

We pull in at the shelter just as a man is riding his bicycle across the lot.

“Hi there!” Geist calls as he exits the car. The bike rider gives no indication whatsoever that anyone has spoken to him. Geist, as ever, seems not to notice. We grab some dog and cat food from the trunk and head in, where a bored-looking teenage girl sits behind the counter. Geist launches into the Spiel, this time ending with, “Can you tell I’ve said that before?”

“Heh. I’m Danielle,” the teenager says, as two more equally disinterested-looking girls walk out from the back.

“They’re Michelle and Michelle.”

“Oh! That’ll be easy to remember. I’m Geist. I’m a real-life superhero.”

Blank stares.

“I’ve got a card.”

The blank stares change to bemused looks. I’m not sure this is an upgrade. Geist pulls me aside and tells me to go get the City Pages, his emergency ID, from the car. When I return, Geist gives it to Danielle.

“Here you go…. I’m not just a nut who runs around in a funny costume.”

“I was going to look you up on the Internet,” Michelle says.

“I’m on there.”

“I know, I saw you,” the Other Michelle says.

“This is my new friend,” Geist says, indicating me. “He’s an author, and he’s writing a book about people like me.”

“Are you a superhero too?” This from Danielle.

“No. I’m barely a writer,” I admit, trying to put a “yeah, I know this is kinda weird, but if it helps, we’re not taking it all that seriously, either” inflection in my voice.

“Well, you guys take care,” Geist says, after they’ve taken all the pet food into the back. “And I appreciate you taking care of the animals.”

“Thank you!” Danielle and Michelle say.

“Thanks!” the Other Michelle says.

Outside, bike boy rides past again.

“How’s it going?” Geist asks.

This time, the man at least looks in our direction, acknowledging that someone has spoken. He still doesn’t stop, though. I imagine how we must look to him, and all things considered, I can’t say as I blame him.

Our last charitable mission of the morning is a Salvation Army “Fill the Truck” drive. We discover to our dismay that it’s back in the same neighborhood as the lemonade stand. I decide to take advantage of the drive back across town to do some more questioning.

“So, what inspires you to do this? To help out all these people?”

Geist thinks for a bit before answering.

“Well…it’s kinda hard to say. I was watching CNN on September 11, and I was watching it all day on TV. And I think we all got a sense of powerlessness and helplessness, and I think it’s time we take it back, and, you know…just not be defenseless. That’s the anticrime thing. The charitable stuff, I can’t say what that is. I’m not ultrareligious, although I was raised in a religious home. I guess the only other thing I can think of is, I guess we’re all a jerk, at times, in our real life. And how do we make up for it? We all make mistakes. And can we be better people?”

2:00 P.M.—SALVATION ARMY DRIVE

We reach the Salvation Army event just as it’s starting. It’s just us, a Salvation Army semi and an old man with some sort of hearing aid that’s connected via wire directly to his brain (no crap), making him look something like the beta version of Lobot, Lando Calrissian’s aide in Cloud City (from Star Wars: Episode V).

I’m not sure what good the device is doing since the man’s response to every question or statement is a loud, noncommittal, “Yup!”

GEIST: “I’m a superhero.”

LOBOT: “Yup!”

GEIST: “Here’s a card.”

LOBOT: “Yup!”

SALVATION ARMY GUY: “Would you like to stay and get a receipt for your donation, sir?”

LOBOT (as he gets into his vehicle and drives off, sans receipt): “Yup!”

Other than our run-in with a famous movie cyborg, the “mission” is uneventful. I’ve noticed by this point that most of the charity missions follow a pattern:

1. Geist announces his presence to whomever’s in charge, usually an old man for some inexplicable reason.

2. Said old man has no reaction whatsoever to the fact that a bizarrely dressed man has just identified himself as a real-life superhero.

a. Unless there are kids around, in which case the old man tries to get them interested.

b. They usually are.

c. Until they find out Geist has no cape or superpowers, at which time they meander away.

3. Geist makes his donation and scurries off on the next mission.

I find it more than passing strange that no one has a strong reaction to what is, on the surface, a patently absurd situation. I’m not sure if they’re holding back because they’re afraid they’re dealing with an insane person and just want to humor him until he leaves or because they’re really just not that shocked. I think it’s the latter, and I blame reality TV. Of course, I also blame reality TV for lower test scores, domestic violence, and that sore I had on my lip during my last three semesters of college.

3:30 P.M.—DEBBIE’S HOUSE

Geist says he wants me to meet someone who knows him solely as his superhero persona (and still trusts him enough to invite him into her home), so our final stop before heading back for supper is a visit to a friend of Geist’s named Debbie. He met her after some serious flooding ravaged the local area, and they both volunteered time and material to help clean and rebuild. She lives a little bit out of town in a big house on a heavily wooded hill. As we approach it, a mangy but sweet-looking black dog with a gimpy back leg approaches the car, barking. The yard and house are covered with artsy-craftsy décor. Geist grabs a small stack of comics that he’s brought for Debbie’s grandkids, and we approach a screen door.

“Oh, hi!” comes a Fargoesque voice from within. “Come on in!”

The first thing I surmise on entering is that this is the first time Geist has met Deborah’s grandchildren. Instead of the comics-hungry little boys I was expecting, there are three stereotypically jaded teenagers, two of whom are girls, lounging around the living room and doing a horrible job of disguising their “I’m too cool to do anything but lie on the couch and laugh at old people” attitude. They don’t even bother to hide the sudden case of giggles that attacks them when Geist and I appear. I find myself getting a little put off by it, but Geist appears not to notice, so I let it go.

“So what’re you doing?” Debbie asks, after Geist introduces us.

“We’ve been giving some donations to the homeless…some food…what else?”

“The children’s home. Gave them some comics and some Pokémon cards and…and…what else?”

“Animal shelter,” I say.

“Animal shelter. Some stuff for the kitties and puppies.”

“Alright!”

“And we went to a lemonade stand where kids are raising money for the troops, and we had a couple of ten-dollar glasses of lemonade. They only wanted one dollar, but we didn’t want change.”

“Oh, you guys are so good!”

I feel a bit guilty about letting him pay for me. Then I remember the hundred bucks’ worth of gas it’d taken me to get here.

“This is my granddaughter Emily, and”—Emily gives a standard world-weary teenager’s head bob from her place on the couch—” don’t get up, Emily. And this is my daughter Sarah, and this is my granddaughter’s boyfriend Stevie. They’re down from the city for the weekend. And they’ve all heard about you, of course.”

Geist hands out cards to everyone and gives his stack of comics to Stevie.

“You can look me up on the web.”

“Stevie’s into superhero stuff,” Debbie says.

“So am I!” Geist says.

Debbie asks the teens if they want their picture taken with Geist, and they giggle noncommittally—even Stevie.

“No?” Debbie asks. “Oh well…this is Randy!”

A stocky, bespectacled man in his midthirties has entered the living room.

“This is my son-in-law, Randy,” Debbie says.

Geist gives The Spiel, and produces his ID copy of the City Pages. “I’m on the cover here, plus there’s going to be an article on MSN, another one maybe in Rolling Stone.” Geist opens the paper to the article and starts showing the pictures to a disinterested-looking Randy.

“This is my friend who flew in,” he says, pointing to a picture of him and another RLSH named Citizen Prime. “He has a four thousand dollar suit of bulletproof armor.”

Suddenly, Randy perks up.

“Alright! I’m a big Iron Man fan.”

With this, Randy rolls up his sleeve and displays one of the most awesome tattoos in the history of awesomeness. Thor, Iron Man, and other comic book heroes pose dramatically down the length of this arm while a slightly out-of-place-looking Yoda perches on the shoulder, overlooking them.

“Wow!” Geist and I say in unison, before launching into a discussion about how Randy has the good Iron Man on his arm, not one of the lesser, modern versions. I’m shocked at how quickly and easily my inner geek takes over. Apparently, my own little Geist is lurking just below the surface, and at this point, I’m not sure how to feel about that.

Everyone thanks Geist for the picture, and we prepare to head out.

“So, what’re you writing about this guy?” Debbie asks me.

“Good things. So far.”

“You gonna tell me who he is?” she says, whispering.

“Can’t. Writer/superhero confidentiality. It’s like talking to your priest.”

“I can never get anything out of him!”

“Well, we have to be headed back,” Geist says, possibly afraid I was going to crack under the intense pressure of Debbie’s questioning.

“We better see you at the ceremony!” Debbie says.

“I better start writing something, I don’t want to say anything stupid,” Geist says.

“What’s all this?” I ask.

“Oh,” Geist says, “I forgot. Debbie has nominated me for a local humanitarian award for my help after the flooding.”

“You didn’t say anything stupid at the other thing,” Debbie assures him. “Our senator was very impressed with you! He got up after you and said, ‘I couldn’t put it any better than Geist did.’”

Geist’s face lights up a little at this.

“I didn’t know that. I had to leave right after I spoke. I didn’t know that.”

“Hey,” I say, “you shut a politician up. You are a hero.”

“Geist for president!” Sarah says.

4:05 P.M.—EN ROUTE TO GEIST’S HOUSE

“I just wanted you to meet someone who knows me only as Geist, and she’s still, ‘Come on in!’” Geist says as we leave. “I wish more people were that excited to see me as Reginald. To tell the truth, I think I have lost friends over the hero thing…through one way or another. Obviously, my time and attention aren’t going into hanging out with my friends. I’ve got one, good, unlosable friend. He’s the best of the bunch. And he knows all about the Geist stuff. And he’s like, ‘You know, when we get together and talk about that stuff, you light up. That’s when you’re happy.’ He could think it’s completely nuts, but he knows if it makes me happy…he doesn’t care.”

The drive home is uneventful, mostly Geist regaling me with stories of being hot on the trail of a serial killer/child molester/rapist only to have the cops arrest him before Geist can close in on him. As we near home base, the de-Geisting process begins. By the time we reach his house, there’s no longer a superhero in the driver’s seat, just an oddly dressed but normal-looking guy named Reginald. Inside, Reginald’s girlfriend Susan has already started preparing dinner for us.

“Hi!” she says. “You must be Mike!”

“Yes, ma’am, nice to meet you.”

“You too! So have you boys been having fun?” she asks, greeting her boyfriend, now more Reginald than Geist, with a kiss.

Reginald fills her in on the day’s activities before excusing himself to change for dinner. I offer to help Susan with dinner prep, but she tells me that there’s nothing much left to do, leaving me to hover awkwardly in the kitchen doorway.

“So I have to ask,” I say. “What’s it like dating a superhero?”

“Well…” she says, pressing her lips together thoughtfully, “the first thing is that he’s doing great things. I also have fear when he goes out at night and I don’t think he’s realistic about all the dangers that could be out there. He’s a bit cavalier about that, I think. But I’m proud of him, and I don’t mind time being taken away from us when it’s for a good cause.”

“I’m taking him on patrol later,” Reginald says, who has successfully de-Geisted for dinner.

“What do you have planned?”

“Well, just go to some high-crime neighborhoods, you know, see if there’s anything going on. We saw some gang graffiti while we were driving around that I wanted to paint over. I thought it was a pentagram. That’s the Vice Lords. Do we still have some of the gray paint?”

“It’s in the basement,” she says, as she starts cutting up a tomato for the salad. “What neighborhood was that?”

“It’s over there off Fourteenth Street. You know the—”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ve seen some tough-looking people that hang out here.”

“Like what do you mean?” Geist asks.

“I think there are gangs there,” she says.

“That’s why there’s gang graffiti.”

“Well, the roller should still be down there with the paint,” she says, returning to her tomato. From all I can tell, this is normal conversation in the Geist household.

Dinner is pleasant, and we discuss decidedly nonsuperheroish things, such as how the general level of public discourse has degenerated over the last couple of decades, and how great the Thin Man movies are. Over the course of the meal, it becomes apparent that I have more in common with the weirdo who runs around in a costume and mask than I do with many of my “normal” friends. I’m not sure how to feel about this.

After dinner I help clean up while Reginald re-Geists. I learn tonight is an auspicious occasion: it’s the debut of his new mask, which just arrived in the mail that day. It’s very Green Hornetish, and sticks directly onto his face with spirit gum. As I watch him affix it in the mirror, I start to get a feeling of anticipation as if something exciting is going to happen. I find myself getting kinda antsy to get going, full of the kinda nervous excitement usually reserved for a first date or the Big Game.

Once Geist is convinced the mask is going to hold, he finishes suiting up (it’s safe to leave the house in full Geist mode, since it’s dark by now), he kisses Susan for luck, and we head out. Little did I know then that getting suited up would be the second most exciting event of the entire night.

8:00 P.M.—PATROL: HIGH-CRIME AREAS

To start off the evening, Geist takes me on a tour of what he refers to as “high-crime neighborhoods,” but all is quiet. Kids play freely in the wide grassy expanses between the uniform housing units, and I wonder if he’s made some mistake. This seems like the safest place in Minnesota, but I have to take his word for it. It’s his city. After a half an hour of cruising around and looking more suspicious than anyone else in sight, we move on. As we drive the town’s main strip, two tricked-out cars pass us in quick succession. The second car is either following or chasing the first, we can’t tell which. Geist decides it’s worth checking out.

“They’re headed toward this new bar in town that’s really popular. It’s kinda early yet. We can follow them and see if anything’s up. Probably not, but you never know.”

We speed up minimally, for obvious reasons not wanting to be pulled over for speeding. Luckily the bar’s only a few blocks away, and when we get there, the cars are nowhere in sight. In fact, for a really popular bar, the parking lot is pretty barren.

“This place is dead,” Geist says.

“Maybe that’s why,” I suggest, pointing to the only person in the entire lot, an old man who’s standing in front of the building and urinating on the porch.

“Heh heh. Yeah, that could drive off business.”

“He’s probably one of the owners,” I say. “Later on he’ll be like, ‘Should I not be standing out there pissing on the front door steps? Is that wrong? Because if I’d known that would be bad for business, I wouldn’t have done it.’”

“Ha! Yeah, probably.”

Deciding to take a pass on reporting the old man for public urination, we head to a city park not far from Reginald’s place of work. En route, an ambulance races past us, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

“You always have to wonder where they’re going,” Geist says. “I know they’re going to get there before I am, they’re going to be better equipped. When the experts are on it, they’re the experts. Sure, I’m curious, but they don’t need me mucking about. It’s like when the bridge collapse happened—we had a big bridge collapse last year, a lot of deaths and injuries—with that, immediately they get experts in there, and they’re telling people not to help. A lot of people died, you know. You don’t…I certainly didn’t want to make light of anything tragic like that, uh, by showing up in a goofy outfit.”

At least he’s self-aware, I think.

“Do you get a lot of odd looks when you’re in your—is it a uniform or a costume?”

“I’m not a snob when it comes to that. A lot of people insist that it’s a uniform, but to me it’s a costume. I do get some odd looks, but you know, I went on patrol in New York City one time, and no one looked twice at me.”

“Heh.”

8:45 P.M.—PATROL: THE PARK

“This is a pretty decent park,” Geist says, as we reach our destination. “Lots of bike trails and everything, but at night there’ve been a lot of assaults. I come here sometimes and walk it just to keep an eye on things.”

As we approach the park, I instinctively make my way toward the nicely lit concrete path that runs along the perimeter of the park. Geist pulls me back.

“It would probably be better to stay out here, more in the dark. I don’t want to scare anybody who’s just out for a walk.”

While that’s a good point, it raises a question in my mind.

“So, have you ever been reported?”

“What’s that?”

“Has anyone ever called you in? Because, you know, here we are, two guys, one in a crazy outfit and mask, prowling around in the dark edges of the walking path. For the second time this evening, we’re the two most suspicious looking people around.”

“Heh. That’s a good point.”

We drift farther into the shadows and make a circuit around the park, seeing nothing but joggers and dog walkers. I’m sure we’re seen by a few of them, too, but the only indication they give is a slight quickening of their strides.

Personally, if I were walking alone in a park at night and saw a strange man in a mask lurking in the darkness, I would have been terrified. But then, maybe that explains how I got to this point in my life in the first place.

9:15 P.M.—PATROL: GRAFFITI ALLEY

After skulking around the park for about half an hour, not accomplishing much more than getting in a nice postdinner constitutional, we set out on our last mission of the day, gang graffiti eradication.

We drive back across town and park across the street from the alleyway Geist had noted earlier. Or at least we think it’s the alleyway. There’s a wide gap between each of the dilapidated businesses along the street, and they’re all so dark it’s impossible to tell one from another. While Geist gets the paint from the trunk, I keep my eyes peeled for gangbangers and po-po. Once Geist has his gear together, we cross the street (a little too slowly for my taste. I suddenly want to get this done and get out of there). I can’t help wondering how a Vice Lord would react to our defacing his tag. Something along the lines of shooting us repeatedly in the face, I would imagine. I do imagine, in fact, and find myself mall walking toward the alley.

We find the correct alleyway, and Geist gives me the Geist-light to hold while he paints. I illuminate the pentacle, which is done in white spray paint on a gray concrete wall. Geist calmly stirs the paint with a stick while I scan from the rear of the alley to the street and back again, looking for gangsters. What does a Vice Lord look like? Are they a black gang? Hispanic? Asian? White? Are there white street gangs? Does asking that question make me racist, or a victim of a society in which the dominant media overemphasize the involvement of minorities in gangs? I decide it’s the latter, mostly because that makes me feel better about myself.

While Geist stirs, I try to remember everything I know about gangs, forming a quick checklist in my head:

Bloods wear red.

Crips wear blue.

Gang members are prone to holding their “gats” sideways when they “bust caps.”

Female companions are frequently referred to as “bitches,” which really isn’t very nice.

Okay, so unless a minority dressed in purple and holding a bitch sideways shows up, we’re safe.

Clang!

I flinch at the sound of a metallic crash at the end of the alley.

“I think there’s someone back there,” I say, and Geist doesn’t even look up or acknowledge that I’ve spoken. Man, this cat’s either deaf as a doorknob or really intent on properly stirring paint, I think. I guess if you’re going to do something, do it right. I’ll give him that.

“Up here,” he finally says, and he’s standing with his roller, waiting for me to light up the graffiti.

I do so, and he covers it in a quick four or five coats, waiting fifteen minutes between each to ensure it properly dries before applying the next. Okay, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but that’s what it felt like.

As he’s painting, I hear a car approaching, about to pass by the alley. I shield the light with my hand, plunging us back into darkness until the vehicle passes by. A minute later, I hear another one approaching and dim the light again.

“What the—?”

“I didn’t think you’d want passing cars to see us. Thought it might raise suspicion.”

“Good thinkin’,” Geist says.

Nice. I’ve impressed the superhero with my tactical skills. Feels good.

When Geist is done painting over the pentagram and several other possible gang signs, I get him to pose in front of his handiwork for a picture. I’d forgotten my digital camera at home, so I pull out the disposable Wal-Mart camera I’d picked up on the way. I can’t hold the camera and the light at the same time, so I can’t see jack as I try to frame the shot. I find the slightly darker lump that I’m pretty sure is Geist and, just as I snap the pic—

Clang!

—another crash from the end of the alleyway scares the crapola out of me (the first exciting event, forget suiting up). I’m pretty sure I got the pic, though, so we hightail it back to the Geistmobile and call it a night. A few days later, I have the film developed and find my trophy shot from the alley.

PHOTO COURTESY MIKE MCMULLEN

The Pant Cuff of Justice

The scary part is, Geist was wearing green pants, and I don’t roll up my cuffs like that, so who the hell’s leg was that? I’ll have to do some research and see how the Vice Lords wear their jeans.

Driving home the next day, I paused to reflect on my day with Geist. Then I almost hit a deer and decided to pull over before continuing my reflections. The crime-fighting part of our day was interesting, and even a little fun. However, it was, with all due respect to Geist, a total bust: it was the charity work that really accomplished something. Really, the entire point of my trip wasn’t so much to see Geist bust heads like a specter of vengeance, it was to see how a charity-driven superhero functioned in the real world. Looking back on the day, I could come up with only one conclusion: a charity-driven superhero functions the same way a charity-driven anybody functions in the real world, just with a mask.

So why hide your identity? I remembered what Geist told me outside the animal shelter, that “I guess we’re all a jerk, at times, in our real life. And how do we make up for it? We all make mistakes. And can we be better people?”

If we do nice things and then get praised for it, are we really being nice for the sake of being nice, or are we secretly, deep down in our little hearts, doing it for the attention, for the pat on the back? “Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them, for then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven,” the Bible says. Unless you’re doing your charity work completely anonymously, the question of who you’re “practicing your righteousness” for would have to linger in any self-aware person’s mind.

I guess that’s what the mask does for Geist: it removes any question of motivation. If people don’t know who he is, they can’t pay him back, can’t sing his praises. Even if Geist wins a humanitarian award, Reginald gets to retain his anonymity and receive whatever spiritual or karmic reward he believes comes to those who do good without publicizing it.

I like that. Maybe that’s as good a reason as any to put on a mask and let people think you’re crazy or a loser, all the while you’re doing more to make the world a better place than they ever tried to do. I think I could learn a lot from Geist’s example. As he put it to me during our day together, “The first time people see you, yeah, let ’em have a laugh, y’know? Then let ’em see what you do. And then they go, ‘He may be crazy, but he’s not altogether crazy.’”

PHOTO COURTESY OF GEIST

A-a-a-and the Money Shot