Batman's Gift
1992 was a pleasant year, filled with fond memories for me. GG Allin was still alive, and I had secured an easy, if sweaty job spraypainting Dumpsters in Columbus. One weekend found me walking through a seedy part of town in search of an antique coin shop, when, passing in front of McDonalds, I heard a bum by the door bellow "buck for coffee!" I turned to look, and there I saw him, the finest example of hobo I had seen in all my years.
He was dressed in an old black sweatsuit that had faded to gray and was possessed of a few holes, the pants tucked into scuffed engineer boots that had patches of mold on them, and crowned with a Batman full-head mask and cape. The mask was a bit too small for his head, but this owed to the fact that his head was large and bulbous, rather than it being a child's mask. The length of the cape, which correctly fit his medium-height, lumpy body, provided further evidence of this. I looked in wonder for a moment, then placed a few coins from my pocket in his waiting palm. A look of fury overtook what facial features I could discern under the mask, stubble, and grime, and he dashed them to the ground, repeating in a wounded, disgusted yowl, "BUCK FOR COFFEE!" I thought better of exposing my back to his potentially pounding ham-fists in their bursted, fingerless work gloves, and did not retrieve my change, merely turning about and plodding away in my original direction. He added, "Faggot!" as I retreated.
This was not to be our last meeting.
I was poised to enter Outland, behind two very high fashion goths of the sort that I thankfully did not normally see there. One was attired in a funereal black dress, with Robert Smith hair and long, black press-on fingernails. His friend had a strip of hair at the top of his otherwise-shaven head tied into a little topknot, and sported a mesh tank top, black jeans cut off just above the knee, and those prison-striped tights Manson fans seem so fond of, with glittering jackboots taking over just below the knee. I was in my normal, severe going-out clothes: a 1950s era Catholic priest's frock coat, charcoal-colored shirt, Laibach tie, black slacks, and low-topped Red Wings work boots overdone with parade gloss, but the company I was unintentionally keeping inspired a well-timed Batman appearance to include the phrase, "I knew it." This having been matter-of-factly stated, and a second's worth of purely creepy eye contact made, he slunk away.
I keep notes on the homeless. In my dilletantish paranormal research, I've discovered that nothing fascinates minor supernatural manifestations like bums and graven images. The latter are easy to come by; statues and lawn ornaments aren't uncommon, and a coin will do quite nicely, especially if you know what era the devil you're pestering had a strong bout of full conciousness during, and can match up the date on the currency. But hobos are universal; Powers's
concept that they are ghosts themselves is fine for novels, but in actuality, they just seem to be kindred spirits, or something. Regardless of the reasons, they're excellent bait for most anything I'd want to study, and the only problem is finding one who's in a situation to be useful. To that end, I started my notebook. Batman wasn't around much, and I didn't know where he slept, so his entries were short, but he was beginning to intrigue me, so I consulted my documents and returned to the neighborhood I'd seen him in first.
Two hours had yielded nothing; it was three A.M. and everything was closed. I was many blocks from home and had to urinate, and with the necessity of this urge taking precedence over the decorum I attempt to carry myself with, I relieved myself in the local style, in an alley. Exiting it at the far end from where I'd entered, I found myself behind a disused warehouse, and nearly tripped over the bastard, fast asleep, in a sitting position with his legs stretched out in front, his back propped up against the wall. Hovering above were none less than the ghost of Abraham Lincoln, boxing ferociously with what appeared to be a proto-Shoggoth.
"Thank you, Batman," I repeated to myself weeks later, when I was finally able to win the Midwestern Spirit Battle championship (ashamed as I am to say it, we use Magic: The Gathering rules) with their captive forms.
The last time I saw him was in a drugstore. I witnessed him shoplifting a pack of White Owls and followed him from a distance until he lit one. Noting that he did not cut it open and refill it with anything illicit, I approached, and asked why, if it's free anyway, would one choose the cheapest cigars in existence. "I just likem, faggot," he responded, through a cloud of pungent smoke.
I bought him a box.
He was dressed in an old black sweatsuit that had faded to gray and was possessed of a few holes, the pants tucked into scuffed engineer boots that had patches of mold on them, and crowned with a Batman full-head mask and cape. The mask was a bit too small for his head, but this owed to the fact that his head was large and bulbous, rather than it being a child's mask. The length of the cape, which correctly fit his medium-height, lumpy body, provided further evidence of this. I looked in wonder for a moment, then placed a few coins from my pocket in his waiting palm. A look of fury overtook what facial features I could discern under the mask, stubble, and grime, and he dashed them to the ground, repeating in a wounded, disgusted yowl, "BUCK FOR COFFEE!" I thought better of exposing my back to his potentially pounding ham-fists in their bursted, fingerless work gloves, and did not retrieve my change, merely turning about and plodding away in my original direction. He added, "Faggot!" as I retreated.
This was not to be our last meeting.
I was poised to enter Outland, behind two very high fashion goths of the sort that I thankfully did not normally see there. One was attired in a funereal black dress, with Robert Smith hair and long, black press-on fingernails. His friend had a strip of hair at the top of his otherwise-shaven head tied into a little topknot, and sported a mesh tank top, black jeans cut off just above the knee, and those prison-striped tights Manson fans seem so fond of, with glittering jackboots taking over just below the knee. I was in my normal, severe going-out clothes: a 1950s era Catholic priest's frock coat, charcoal-colored shirt, Laibach tie, black slacks, and low-topped Red Wings work boots overdone with parade gloss, but the company I was unintentionally keeping inspired a well-timed Batman appearance to include the phrase, "I knew it." This having been matter-of-factly stated, and a second's worth of purely creepy eye contact made, he slunk away.
I keep notes on the homeless. In my dilletantish paranormal research, I've discovered that nothing fascinates minor supernatural manifestations like bums and graven images. The latter are easy to come by; statues and lawn ornaments aren't uncommon, and a coin will do quite nicely, especially if you know what era the devil you're pestering had a strong bout of full conciousness during, and can match up the date on the currency. But hobos are universal; Powers's
concept that they are ghosts themselves is fine for novels, but in actuality, they just seem to be kindred spirits, or something. Regardless of the reasons, they're excellent bait for most anything I'd want to study, and the only problem is finding one who's in a situation to be useful. To that end, I started my notebook. Batman wasn't around much, and I didn't know where he slept, so his entries were short, but he was beginning to intrigue me, so I consulted my documents and returned to the neighborhood I'd seen him in first.
Two hours had yielded nothing; it was three A.M. and everything was closed. I was many blocks from home and had to urinate, and with the necessity of this urge taking precedence over the decorum I attempt to carry myself with, I relieved myself in the local style, in an alley. Exiting it at the far end from where I'd entered, I found myself behind a disused warehouse, and nearly tripped over the bastard, fast asleep, in a sitting position with his legs stretched out in front, his back propped up against the wall. Hovering above were none less than the ghost of Abraham Lincoln, boxing ferociously with what appeared to be a proto-Shoggoth.
"Thank you, Batman," I repeated to myself weeks later, when I was finally able to win the Midwestern Spirit Battle championship (ashamed as I am to say it, we use Magic: The Gathering rules) with their captive forms.
The last time I saw him was in a drugstore. I witnessed him shoplifting a pack of White Owls and followed him from a distance until he lit one. Noting that he did not cut it open and refill it with anything illicit, I approached, and asked why, if it's free anyway, would one choose the cheapest cigars in existence. "I just likem, faggot," he responded, through a cloud of pungent smoke.
I bought him a box.