Mistaken Identity
- Chapter 24

Mistaken Identity
Chapter 24.

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Poplar Bluff, Missouri.

'Life is pain and misery and emptiness. It is the fucked up people that realize that and the even-more-fucked-up people that plaster a smile on their faces and repeat to themselves “everything is going to be okay. Say your prayers, eat your vegetables. Everything is going to be okay.” These are the people that say things like “you may not be able to control what happens in your life, but you can control how you react to it.” Is that really control? If I can change the temperature of the air conditioner as my car is careening off a cliff, is that really control?

No. It is an illusion. It is just an illusion; a mirage; a happy little trick of the mind that keeps the lemmings marching. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Wake up. Hit the alarm. Brush your teeth. Piss. Or piss and then brush your teeth; that's called 'control'. Shower. Shave, if there's time. Dress yourself: the button-down Oxford homogeneity. Monkey suit, monkey shoes, monkey tie. Today's Wednesday, wear the red one with the blue stripes. If you want 'control,' go wild and wear the blue one with the red stripes. That'll show them! That'll show them all who the master of his destiny is.' Eat breakfast. Drink coffee. Kiss the wife and kids. Get in the car and adjust the seats, the mirrors. Adjust the air conditioner as you careen off the cliff.

Wake up. This is your life, and you're dying one second at a time.'

Lou's Diner is a small mom-and-pop coffee and breakfast hole-in-the-wall across the street from Rodgers Theatre in the so-called “downtown” of Poplar Bluff. I've had bowel movements bigger than this city. But the coffee's not bad. At least I got that going for me. My finger picks at the rip in the tacky leather cushions of the two-person booth. The yellowish cushioning is poking up through the split in the seat. It's taunting me. “Pick me.” It's like a scab. Picking it will make it worse, but honestly, have you ever had a scab you didn't pick at?

Me either. And as I'm running the little wooden stirring stick around the edge of the coffee mug on its six-hundred-sixty-sixth lap and stare out the window at lemmings marching to walk; staring at watches, shuffling briefcases, casting awkward glances; I think about scabs and scars. I think about Ian Garner.

I think about his bruises and his blood. I picture the stuffy stewardess – glorified air waitress- in her own blue-and-white monkey suit with the plastic pilot wings and plastic nameplate reading “Flo” casting a wary eye at the black guy in seat 17E of Flight 205 from Miami to Missouri, with tinted sunglasses trying to discretely cover the blood bruise around his left eye. I think about the YouTube video Lindsay showed me in my hotel room – our hotel room – this morning. “Ian Garner(?) Street Fight!” The footage was grainy. Crappy cellphone camera. It was far away too, and lasted only 0:46 seconds. But I knew it was home. Everyone that mattered knew; everyone else didn't matter.

How like us? No one else matters. Just Ian. Just Patrick. Like Lee Van Cleef and Clint Eastwood in some wind-blown desert cemetery, ten paces apart and Peacemakers ready. I am the Man With No Name.

BANG!

It's the sound of the waitress placing a piece of white toast with raspberry jam down in front of me. I force a smile up at her and nod to say “thank you.” She doesn't ask if I want anything else. I don't mind. I am the Man With No Name, and I am not Patrick McCarthy.'

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“Heroes...”

'The voice is distinctly that of Patrick McCarthy. The Intercontinental Champion finds himself once more in downtown Poplar Bluffs. He's not loitering this time. He's pacing. A gentle rain falls like a thin curtain of mist and water. A black baseball cap, a black hooded sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers offer there protection from the rain. The streets are mostly empty. A few businessmen meander about in a seemingly aimless fashion under enormous black umbrellas. Businesswomen take careful steps to avoid puddles and maintain balance atop the elegant heels of business shoes.'

“That's what they think we are... heroes.”

'McCarthy ducks under the awning of Rodgers Theatre, a damp haven from the soft rainfall.'

“Yet they pass on the streets, unable to recognize us. Our alter-egos. How is that possible? We don't wear capes; most of us. We don't wear masks; most of us. We don't hide. We don't have inner-circles and secret identities. So how does someone, how does a quote-unquote “hero” like The Saint bask in the thunderous roar of thousands on Monday Night, but walks unnoticed on the streets on Tuesday Morning?”

'McCarthy pauses. He removes his hands from the front pockets of his jeans and crosses them in front of his chest. His head rises, lifting the shadow from the brim of his baseball bat like a veil from his face.'

“It's because we're temporary. We are Disposable Heroes. We exist as superhuman only for the hours between when Mind Games starts and when Mind Games end. That time is bookended by relative obscurity. We exist like disposable camera, disposable razors, disposable contact lenses. Available at convenience. Temporary. The same decaying matter as every other atom, molecule and nucleotide.”

'McCarthy pauses again. His pale blue-grey eyes follow the path of a businessman who passes in front of him. The man makes no acknowledgment of McCarthy's existence. He averts his gaze and stares at his shoes. Polished black. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.'

“Heroes get remembered, but heroes die. Ask Superman. Ask Captain America. Heroes get remembered, but legends never die. So what's a Disposable Hero to do? Our kryptonite and our curse is the knowledge that we are fleeting, and there is only one way to extend our lives. It's a Catch-22, and like Yossarian's friend we can pursue elongated life to the point that we appear dead, or we can shorten our lives in the hopes of immortality.

Ian Garner, Patrick McCarthy, the Disposable Heroes... we choose the latter. Bones break. Lips burst. Teeth get knocked in or out. Necks snap like twigs. Internal organs rupture and fill with blood until it curdles and gurgles up the throat and out the mouth. It is the pursuit of a legacy. We wear our kryptonite around our waists, with our names engraved in them. Mine says “UCW Intercontinental Champion. Patrick “The Saint” McCarthy.”

'McCarthy instinctively touches the bare spot on his waist wear his Intercontinental Championship belt would be.'

“We kill ourselves to live forever. The first step to immortality is death. Ian Garner, one of us will die...

...the other will live forever. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

'McCarthy lowers his head and again lets the shadow of his brim obscure his face. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and begins walking off back out into the rain. He stops only briefly to check his reflection in the windowpane of Lou's Diner; a small mom-and-pop coffee and breakfast hole-in-the-wall. He doesn't notice the Man on the other side of the glass, sipping his coffee and eating a slice of white toast.'

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'Somewhere, thousands of miles away in the basement of Our Lady of Perpetual Hope, a beautiful young brunette woman sits in a steel-chair semi-circle with a Styrofoam cup of free coffee cradled on her lap. The large white sandwich board reads “Independent Mothers.” Here name is Scarlett Willis. This is her first meeting.

“Welcome, Scarlett.” '