purple

he exchanged his soft cotton sweatpants for the purple spandex that he was unfortunate enough to be destined to wear. they were so difficult to pull up over his bulging calve muscles and girthy thighs, made huge by so much action, so many opportunities to "work out." he had gotten it down to an art, though, hardly noticing the way it mercilessly squeezed his skin tightly together, like being inside the digestive track of a large snake. he decided daily to look past the way it pulled his leg hair out as he struggled to pull them up. he ran his hands over the rubbery, eggplant smoothness of the lower half of his costume--costume, could you call it a costume? it was a representation of this double life he lived.
usually he was yanking on these glorified rubber bands in his haste to get to the next "mission," to solve the next "problem," but he was simply trying them on this time, taking time to measure their effectiveness and assess his need for improvements. he was startled by the hollow clicking of Marcie's stilettos on the shiny wooden floors of his house. he had these floors installed for just this purpose--for all his strength, his hearing was his kryptonite and he needed whatever help he could get. each definitive CLICK CLICK was closer than the last, and his brown broke out in a sweat as he stumbled out of his spandex, falling to the floor as they stuck around his ankles, grape colored feet cuffs, making him a desperate prisoner for an endless 30 seconds. there was a soft scrape at the base of his door as she came to a stop and moved her left foot into that impatient pose she often assumed.
SPPPPPPPT. SPPPPPPPT. SPPPPPPT. his curiosity made him pause on his side, one foot out and one foot in.
SPPPPPPTSPPPPPPTSPPPPPPTSPPPPPT. potent aerosol stinging his nostrils. the key hole spat a fiery mist into the room as the sound persisted. he watched it settle and cling to the floor in tiny droplets--a miniature crime scene of a murdered orange. he listened a while, unwilling to move until the SPPT'ing stopped and her legs-long with tiny calves that got unusually bigger as they climbed upwards-CLICKED away across the polished oak flooring of the hall, across the recently varnished living room and finally taking her through the front door onto the long, winding stone walkway. the door closed firmly behind her.
he waited to hear the purring of an engine and the grinding of gravel as it spun under retreating wheels, before kicking off the last of the purple tights and, in his tighty whities (that gave him underwear lines but he wasnt able to shed yet, even after 6 months. he often kept his cape pulled together in the front to hide them), gingerly opening his bedroom door to survey the mystery on the other side.
"BERLIN, LAST SUMMER" it read, its unmistakable orange color bleeding slowly down the door, eventually drying in globs several inches down. each letter was neatly drawn, like computer print, a stark contrast to the way it was messily weeping.
he settled across the hall, sliding to his bottom with his back resting against the wall, below the large picture of a yacht at sea, facing the cryptic message squarely. he remembered last summer, remembered when the microwave had turned on at 2am and ran by itself for three hours before waking him up with the pungent smell--so pungent he could taste the charcoal in its scent--that called him to unplug it and toss it in the back yard. he found buddy licking out its insides later that morning when he was opening all the windows to air the house. that started his summer. a couple of other appliances followed the microwave's suicidal example as the weeks stretched on; the toaster was next, then the coffee maker, and finally the stove that was only a year old. the deterioration of his kitchen--the electrician said it had something to do with his sockets--led him to venture into the city he tried to avoid. by the end of july, he had eaten at almost every restaurant within 50 miles. he was not one to eat the same thing over and over again; which is why he preferred to cook at home, looking up recipes on his computer that wouldnt connect to the Internet any other way but dial up, and so filled his office with static dial tones.
he kept fruit in a bowl on a marble-topped island, but that summer, he was gone so often that he always returned to the staggering odor of rotted bananas and peeled his Florida oranges only to dig his fingers into mushy, spoiled fruit that he would throw on his composte pile and try to keep Buddy from eating.
it was august by the time the air conditioning went out and buddy learned to turn on the hose. he would wake up early in the morning, when the sun had already climbed high enough to set his burning gaze over the entire city, to the high pressured water spraying his window, a torrential downpour on his house alone, each drop heavy as lead and pounding, pounding him awake, as it uncontrollably snaked across the yard. buddy would howl with pleasure and lapped at the spray in the air before it hit the ground, and he would wake to turn the hose off and wouldnt be able to fall back asleep because of the humidity, sticking him like glue to anything he touched.
it was a relief, then, when he was called out of the country--a highly classified mission. of course, everything was "highly classified" since the government had discovered him and forced him out of his private life into the public's great, blinking, unforgivable eye. Berlin was much cooler and he had breathed the thinner air in great gulps. unfortunately, he had spent most of his time there lying face up, staring at the uneventful white stucco ceiling and trying to match footsteps to people. the surgeon was unmistakable, he clunked heavily down the squeaky tile, his geriatric white Keds taking the punishment of his overlarge belly without mercy. each step filled the air with its force and aftershock. he counted each time the surgeon came in to check on the patient, and got to 23 before his client was finally wheeled out for the operation. he was a glorified babysitter that time. this was becoming a usual occurrence.
but he met Marcie that summer. he was not a very assertive man, outside of his purple spandex outfit and sense of justice and urgency. she had made up for his shyness, pulling herself to him by grabbing the knot that tied his cape together. she reached for the mask that concealed the top half of his face--now there out of habit rather than for necessity--and pushed it to rest just above his forehead, giving him just-out-of-bed hair. he remembered the waxy taste of her lipstick; was it supposed to be some kind of berry? it was reminiscent of crayon, and left an oily film on his teeth when she bit his lip. he had taken, not returned, but she gave freely every time anyway. everytime he saw her, that taste-so artificial, so heavy, fell from his memory back onto his tongue and his smacked his lips to get rid of its reminder.
"BERLIN, LAST SUMMER" was it a command to recall their first meeting, how this disastrous relationship began? as if he had forgotten. could it be a goodbye? or her way of forcing her hello into his life again and again and again, an endless greeting.
buddy, who had graduated from hose knobs to doorknobs, trotted across the kitchen tile on TAP TAPPING toenails and dropped yesterday's Wall Street Journal onto his lap (he hadnt quite figured out the importance of dates, and was doing good to assume the role of mailman these days). he pushed it-covered in thick slober-to the side and easily pushed himself to standing. he imagined himself rummaging through his shed for some turpentine, when an article title jumped out at him like a lightening strike, clarity against the hazy darkness of his mind. "THE LOST COURSES OF THE ADIRONDACKS." each bold letter seemed typed neatly into the space of his consciousness.
he ruffled buddy's shaggy head and returned to his bedroom to collect his supersuit, leaving the blaring orange lettering to dry, soaking its message into the wood permanently.