“Huh?”
Rosenfarb explains the way it works. If you were able to do things normal humans couldn’t, the possibility existed that some object or herb or chemical that was harmless to normal humans was now capable of hurting you. And it was imperative that Overman recognized this.
Overman shakes his head. “I’ve just got to ask—”
“Of course. You must have lots of questions,” volleys Rosenfarb the expert.
“You’re putting me in the same category as Superman—”
“No way. You can clear traffic. But you can’t fly.” Rosenfarb pauses for a moment. “Can you?”
“Rosenfarb!” Overman is fed up. “Just because you’ve read lots of comic books, doesn’t mean I’m a superhero.”
“Don’t get bogged down in semantics, Ira—”
“It’s not semantics. Have you ever met a superhero?”
“Besides you?”
“Yes, besides me.”
Rosenfarb goes silent. Overman decides to make use of the precious available airspace.
“Have you had coffee with Atom Smasher? Have you golfed with the Fantastic Four?”
“Why would I? They’re already a foursome—-”
“You know what I’m talking about, Jake. This is apples and oranges. Fiction versus reality.”
Rosenfarb says that all he is trying to do is make sense out of an extraordinary situation. “I just think I can help you, Ira.”
Overman can’t imagine how. Rosenfarb lays it on the line. With power comes responsibility and decisions have to be made as to the hows, whys and wheres of using it. Rosenfarb’s take is that based on his own vast knowledge of superheroes, their failures as well as successes, he is in a unique position to advise Overman on how to proceed.
“And what’s in it for you?” Overman asks, curious to know what Rosenfarb has up his sleeve.
“You’re my best friend. I’m here to serve.”
“And?” Overman knows him too well.
“And nothing. I only wish for your success.”
“That’s very nice of you—”
“Because I know you’re the kind of person who shares his success with others.”
There it was. The window man wanted his piece of the pie. “And how exactly will I share my success, Jake,” Overman wants to know.
“There’s plenty of time to talk about that,” Rosenfarb scoffs it off. “Right now we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
As the waiter brings the check to the patio, a thought occurs to Overman. If he lets Rosenfarb pick up the tab, it is an implicit acceptance of the deal on the table. The broad strokes of the deal are that Overman is at the precipice of enormous change and will need help navigating the dangerous twists and turns in the road ahead. The fine print suggests that Rosenfarb’s “guidance” is a euphemism for constant meddling with the ultimate goal of capitalizing on Overman’s abilities.
“Why don’t we split it?” Overman says, making an honest attempt to grab the check.
Rosenfarb, much too quick on the draw, will have none of it. “You’ll get the next one. Heck, maybe you won’t ever have to pay for meals again. You can just “will” the restaurant to comp you,” Rosenfarb laughs.
It is a grim vision of the future. Something good finally happens to Overman and he’s got Rosenfarb tailing him around like a dog, angling for dinners and free trips to Vegas. This guy was annoying enough at a party or on the tennis court. Overman decides to nip it in the bud before it gets out of hand. As soon as Rosenfarb stiffs the valet and they’re back on the road, he states his case.
“Jake, you know I’ve been thinking—”
“Willpower Man,” Rosenfarb interrupts, beginning to spitball superhero names. “Nah, too cumbersome. Maybe we need a ‘the’ name. You know, like the Hulk.”
“Jake, I don’t want any help with this,” Overman states.
“I don’t mind, Ira. Really, it’s my pleasure to share my insights with you. Hey, here’s a great idea: Over Man. You had the name all along.” Then he thinks better of it. “Maybe it’s not so good, because it has the negative connotation of implying that things are over.”
“I appreciate your offering to help, but this whole series of events has been a very personal kind of—”
“Overman, you know nothing about superheroes,” Rosenfarb snaps. “You need a sidekick,” he declares, as if it some kind of legitimate occupation.
“A sidekick?”
“You’re not prepared to do this alone.”
“With all due respect, I’ll be the judge of that,” Overman replies.
“Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you? Batman, one of the greatest superheroes of all time had a sidekick, but Mr. Fancy Pants here thinks he can go solo.”
“Superman didn’t have a sidekick,” Overman points out.
Rosenfarb reminds him that he is a far cry from Superman. “That’s like me comparing myself to... John Hampson for Christ’s sake!”
“John Hampson?”
“The first American to patent Venetian blinds,” Rosenfarb spits out, as if Overman is an idiot for not knowing this information.
“I’m just going to say it one last time. You’re making a mistake.”
“Duly noted,” Overman assures him.
A tinge of paranoia creeps into Rosenfarb’s disappointment. “You don’t have another sidekick in mind, do you?”
“I have no other sidekicks,” Overman assures him.
The rest of the ride to Steinbaum Mercedes is more than a little icy. That said, Overman is pleased because he has laid down the law, refusing to let this interloping bug put a damper on what is his and his alone. “How’s Rita?” Overman asks, an admirable attempt at meaningless conversation.
“She’s having her tits redone for the third time. I can’t believe the amount of money I’ve spent on those things. Especially since I never get to go near them.”
Overman feels a rush of sympathy for his friend. Yes, it could be a ploy to get him to reconsider, but the truth is that Rita knows no bounds in what she will take from her husband, giving little if anything in return. If he were Rosenfarb, he’d jump at the chance to be a sidekick, too. But he is not Rosenfarb and grateful for that.
“Thanks for lunch. I’ll definitely get the next one,” Overman says, jumping out of the passenger seat.
“Call me if you need anything,” Rosenfarb pouts.
“Take care, Jake.”
As Rosenfarb speeds off, Overman is sky-high. His elation has nothing to do with alleged superpowers. It comes from his successful deployment of a self-defense mechanism. An unlikely sexual encounter and the ostensible willing of a fire were one thing, but having the balls to impede a seasoned guilt monger like Jake Rosenfarb was in another league entirely.
The rest of the day unfolds, presenting Overman with a slew of realizations. Realization Number One is that Maricela and Rodrigo are still together. When he picks her up at work she reacts as if there were never an Overman inside her. Yet she relates to Overman with a new warmth and understanding, as if they are the deepest of friends with an unbreakable bond. Overman rather likes this. While some men, after a night of marathon sex with a score like