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Episode Seven

TAR-MAN VERSUS A BAG LADY

Tar-man sits alone, slumped in thought.

"Evening."

"Who the hell are you?" Angry, flustered, and completely disarmed hardly begin to describe his sudden discombobulation. No-one, no living being besides himself, had ever set foot in his lair before. Not, at least, to his knowledge.

"What's with the stupid clothes? You got a secret identity or somethin'?" She giggled.

"Never mind that." Alarm began to take precedence. "Who let you in here?" Demanded.

"Unlocked, sweetheart. Anybody can come in."

"I don't like people…. I don't like you in here."

"Whadda ya gonna do, buddy, stick me to death? Ha! Gonna tar and feather me? Run me out on a rail? Hey, I know, sweep me clean with an old broom! Hee-hee… can't catch me!"

He had, in fact, grabbed a broom handle with the nubby and pathetic remnants of what must at one time in the distant past have been bristles, and was chasing her around the room, trying to get her out the door. He finally succeeded in this, not without her at least general compliance. He waited, first until he heard her footsteps and shrieking laughter fade down the iron staircase, and then for perhaps fifteen more minutes of utter disbelieving catatonia, before he was at last able to lower his defensive broom-wielding posture and limply fade onto a sawhorse. Who was she? How dare she? Did she know who he was? That comment about tar… he could hardly avoid the conclusion that he had been discovered, but why? There was no real compromise involved, it wasn't like he had a store of arch-villains who would now be able to compromise his strength. He had no strength. She could be tied to The Company, but that made no real difference either. His moonlighting was his own business, and who would care if they did find out? But could he still expect to be alone? That was really what made him shudder, what gave this event the aspect of tragedy in his mind. Not only had she defiled his solitude, but she had laughed at him! Wasn't that exactly what made the solitude so necessary? Goddamn! Who the fuck was she? He felt the resurgent presence of a retributive God, one who had left him in peace for many years, but whose petulant, arrogant and whimsical sense of humor seemed to be swinging into view once more.

Here's the ontological proof of God's existence, he thought. Random chance could never be so cunning. Only a malicious consciousness could have invaded his disciplined solitude at this moment. Admittedly, he could simply blame the consciousness of whoever-she-was, but he was accustomed to seeing higher, or rather more all-encompassing, causes for events. He certainly had not brought the situation upon himself, at least not wittingly, which in his mind left only Divine retribution. Unfortunately, this left the question open: retribution for what? What could he possibly have done?

Well, it wasn't so much a question of that, he decided. It could be as simple as a chance attention falling upon him at this moment, but he had no way of knowing when the Celestial Gaze would waver away again. He told himself, a little desperately, that there was a good chance that it already had. He was wrong. What was that smell?

Back in his blackened clothes once again, his hideous countenance assuming its customary look of hopeless agony, he relaxed on a corner of the roof, just out of the penumbra of a streetlight. How comfortable the loneliness felt, how secure he became once the gnawing canker of solitude had overtaken his consciousness! He wondered how to make it last forever, how to shed the cloak of daily relations with the world which caused him so much anxiety, and sink softly into the womb of his dirty, painful, misanthropic, true being. It couldn't be the will of God, no matter how retributive, to deny a man his natural and harmonious state. Sure He seemed to enjoy making the road tortuous, sure He'd use any excuse to punish the transgressions of the sincere travellers, and had no Personal interest in seeing the goal reached, but Tar-man believed at least this much: God would not remove the goal entirely. He knew it existed, because he experienced its renewal whenever he allowed the layers of tar to wash back over him in an agonizing luxury of self-awareness. It was only a matter of reducing the periods of time during which he could not permit himself such freedom. It was only a matter of reducing them until they disappeared entirely, and he was left whole, miserable, alone with his emulsion, at peace.

In the midst of these musings an idea began to edge its way into the edifice of Tar-man's thoughts. At first it was just a little mouse of an idea, slipping through the hole behind the p-trap under the kitchen sink, nibbling delicately on the paper bags waiting to line the trash can, finding nothing but minute crumbs of receptiveness left by the former tenants which, however, were enough to encourage further exploration.

Gradually its tail began to lengthen and became rougher, almost scaly, making a slight scraping noise as it rummaged to and fro. Its body, too, seemed to expand a little, and the fur became greasy, so that little dark trails were left in its wake. Its whiskers became duller in color and less sensitive, but its eyes developed a strange glint and its teeth a new sharpness. In the corner it came upon an ancient apple core, withered to practically nothing, but a windfall of epic proportions to an idea seeking a tiny foothold. As it gnawed, its greasy body seemed to break apart, at the same time developing an odd waving and shuddering in each of the parts, like some sort of dark primordial charismatic revival. At last a clan of diseased insects was born and went scuttling off to find the trash, One Source of all Being and Selfhood, as well as the dark corners in which they would lay their loathsome eggs and guarantee the survival of their kind forever.

At this point Tar-man recognized that something momentous was taking place, and he moved out onto the open roof to give the idea room to take shape. The stars seemed to pulse in rhythm with the song of the roaches who bore the idea into his tar-encumbered brain, and the song was one which he felt he had been born hearing, one which he knew his destiny could never let him forget. It was the song of the costumed super-hero.

What was a super-hero? he wondered. And not because it was true but because he could not, under the circumstances, think anything else, he came to this conclusion. Super-heros are primarily defined by the fact that they do not exist in the ordinary way in society. There is no niche provided for them, so they have no alternative but to seek others of their own kind or solitude. [He only felt comfortable with this generalization because he was sure there were no others of his kind.] If they have a tendency to devote their lives to helping others, it is only because with their outside perspective they are better able to see where help is needed than those whose vision is obscured by worldly concerns. He judiciously decided to take a wait-and-see (read: total inaction) attitude toward the helping others question, but other than that he knew the die had been cast. His course was set. There could be, now, no turning back, no alternative but that he should become… Tar-man.

Of course, even a petroleum-beclouded memory such as his was able to inform him at once that he already was Tar-man, and when that light clicked on the roaches immediately hurtled off into the darkness to seek refuge in a more congenial atmosphere. No question about it, that visit from whoever she was had really confused him.

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