Realization Number Two is that he feels like he can now sell a car to any customer he wants. It is just a matter of how much stamina he can muster to invoke the necessary willpower. Which leads to Realization Number Three: that he needs to get in shape so he can build strength. Realization Number Four is the proclamation first voiced by Rosenfarb: in the event that Overman actually has extraordinary abilities, where, when, why and how he chooses to use them will be of paramount importance.
On the way home, Overman checks in at the Jungle Gym to investigate some sort of fitness program. A clueless shill named Chuck tries to rope him in for three years at $250 per, but is sorely outclassed. Even the old Overman could browbeat this rank amateur down to a hundred a year, the new one closing the deal at a cool $79. From the gym, it’s off to the comic book shop and the video store, where Overman stocks up on “Iron Man,” “Batman 1-3,” “The Incredible Hulk,” the two “Spidermans,” and as a nod to diversity, the poorly received “Hancock.” While he firmly rejects Rosenfarb’s superhero theory, he recognizes it as a possible learning tool. In fiction as in life, the powerful are faced with difficult choices, so it might be useful to see how pop culture archetypes approach moral dilemmas. The heroes naturally take the side of Good rather than Evil, their equally powerful nemeses skewing to the wicked and self-aggrandizing. While Overman never imagined himself using any of his “skills” for nefarious purposes, he knew there were gray areas and was curious to learn how others approached them.
Sitting down to study his fictional forbears, what is most striking to Overman is that virtually all these characters came from backgrounds far more dysfunctional than his own. Peter Parker was a nerd, mocked incessantly by his peers before becoming Spiderman. Bruce Wayne saw both his parents murdered before he turned into Batman. Iron Man’s mother and father died in a car crash. By comparison, Overman’s background seemed downright bucolic: the misfires of his life hadn’t converged into a spectacular pile of shit until he grew into adulthood. The other universal theme he discovered was that the transformation from helpless to invincible inevitably led to vigilantism. Power was a natural breeding ground for revenge. Overman pondered whether this was where he might be headed. To be sure, there was a laundry list of bastards who should have treated him better: teachers who picked on him, bosses who fired his ass, friends who betrayed him. If he truly had superpowers, he could go back and serve justice one scumbag at a time. But would it even be satisfying to avenge their idiocy so many years later? It seemed like a lot of energy for precious little gain.
Overman chose to envision his future in more modest terms. It would be enough to sell a bunch of cars, put some money away, maybe move out of the shithole apartment and buy a condo. Nothing fancy, but enough to carve out a life. It never seemed to be enough for the heroes of those comic books and movies. Of course if it had been, the story would be over and the publishers and movie studios couldn’t make any more money. Playing devil’s advocate, Overman then reminded himself that his personal evolution was just starting to kick into gear. Limiting his options at this early juncture reeked of Thinking Small. No need to close the door on anything right now. Stay fluid, be open to the opportunities that present themselves. The first order of business was to keep selling cars and get in shape.
He is about to crawl into bed when the phone rings — not the cell, but the landline that has been dedicated to wrong numbers since the day public television took him off their call list, having finally realized that his fifteen-dollar donation was a once in a lifetime affair.
“Overman,” he answers, as if it’s the finance department buzzing him about a lease deal.
“Sorry to call you this late, Mr. Overman. This is Dr. Gonzales from the Clearview Vision Center.”
The car salesman brightens. He never got to thank the man who was seemingly responsible for the Overman game-changer.
“Dr. Gonzales. I’ve been meaning to call you. I’ve been so pleased with your work.”
“I know,” Gonzales responds. “One of your friends has been calling me every day about Lasik surgery because he loves the job I did on you.”
“Oh, no,” Overman whimpers. He knows what’s coming.
“The thing is, his vision is fine and there’s no reason to do anything. But he won’t listen. Can you give me any advice on how to handle Mr. Rosenfarb?”
“If I were you, I’d leave the country,” Overman replies, only half-joking. Overman explains that the window man is imbued with the tenacity of a pit bull, a quality he unleashes whenever he has an idea, no matter how small or how stupid.
“He thinks that if I cut open his eyes, he’ll be able to have sex with beautiful young women,” Gonzales says, bewildered. “It’s crazy.”
“The man is ill,” Overman avers. “My advice is not to take his calls and sit tight. Maybe he’ll have some sort of breakdown.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m sorry for any trouble this has caused you.” Overman hangs up, wracked with guilt for what he has thrust upon the poor doctor. He wonders if he can use whatever is in his arsenal to tame Rosenfarb, but he knows in his heart that going toe to toe with Jake requires a lot more horsepower than he currently has under the hood.
When the alarm goes off at 6, Overman springs into action. He throws his car salesman gear into a small duffle bag and by 6:45 is walking through the door of the gym. He waves to Chuck, now the embodiment of shame for the beating he took on the annual membership fees, then proceeds to the locker room to store his work clothes. It is Overman’s first visit to a locker room since high school and he is quickly reminded why he never missed it. The smells were identical, that curious blend of soap and stench, and the sights had worsened considerably. This was Ira’s introduction to preening fifty year-olds with shaved pubes standing in front of a mirror, admiring their pecs and appraising their junk. Gay? Maybe half of them. Self-absorbed? Across the board. This was, after all, Southern California, where youth was not permitted to go gently into that good night, but hung onto with a ferociousness that turned its worshipers into wannabes. For the first time in his poor excuse for a life, Overman felt glad that he was different. Unlike the posing guy with the bald genitalia, scrounging for a kernel of existential validation, the new, improved Overman felt like he possessed something singular. It didn’t have to be stared at or paraded around, just sharpened and strengthened.
Overman brushes past Sir Baldy and makes his way out to the gym floor. He’s going to start with the tricep bar that pitiful Chuck showed him how to operate. He sets the weight at a light twenty pounds to start. Overman’s been told that at his age it’s about reps, not how heavy he can lift. He does ten pulls then takes a break, using the opportunity to drink in the Jungle Gym scene. Lots of plastic tits, old guys with dyed chest hair, young moms trying to get back to their pre-baby weight, a former professional wrestler, a middle aged female ex-bodybuilder named Carla who seems to know everybody and won’t shut up. After his second set of tricep pulls, she drops by to add him to her friendship circle. It turns out that after her bodybuilding career, Carla became a private detective. Upon leaving the gym, she will drive to City of Industry to spy on a beer distributor who’s banging his secretary. She feels super fat and she shouldn’t have had that onion bagel yesterday and she’s single, no surprise. As Carla flutters off to pester someone else, the wrestler known as Bo arrives to introduce himself to Overman. He welcomes Ira with a quick survey of the landscape, pointing out which of the plastic-titted gym junkies are porn stars, which are actual junkies.
Moving on to the next machine, Overman tries to make sense of this strange world that has apparently embraced him with open arms. While he’s able to finish his bicep sets without making any new acquaintances, it occurs to him that people seem to fancy their personal training in noisy, showy, social environs. While Overman knew he’d be working out amongst others, he pictured a parallel pursuit of individual goals rather than the yammering interaction before him. At the shoulder machine, he manages to clear his head. This was what he wanted: to concentrate on the business at hand and rid himself of the clutter that would fill up brain space as the day wore on.
The last