Mr. Incredible (non-fiction)

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Sunday night, July 10, nearly midnight


“Are you crazy? Get off! Get off!”

I think: "Maybe I am." Just 60 seconds ago I was asleep in my bed. Now I’m hanging onto the back of a pickup truck racing down the street.

Two gang members are reaching across a bicycle in the back of the truck trying to make me let go. Fortunately the swerving truck is making it hard for them to keep their balance enough to reach me. It is also giving me every incentive to keep a firm grip. We must be going at least 40 and I don’t want to hit the pavement at this speed. Not in just a T-shirt and my Sponge Bob Square Pants boxer shorts.

We slow down a little to make a squealing right turn and I hang on, bracing my feet on the bumper, gripping the tailgate. We accelerate into the darkness.

“How am I going to get out of this?” I start gathering mental evidence for what is bound to be a very bad ending:

1. white Ford ranger, no plate, dealer decal reads “Atlas”, black vinyl bed liner.
2. bicycle: medium sized, red, with knobby tires.
3. gang member A: shorter than average, close cropped hair, hispanic, studded earring in right ear.
4. gang member B: thinner, about the same height, little younger.
5. gang member C: passenger in cab, looking out rear sliding window and. . .

The truck hits the brakes, I jump off before it completes the stop.

“Go! Go! Go! Go!” gang member A yells. The truck speeds away.

“Great,” I think, now I have to walk home six blocks in my underwear.

The truck stops again, about a half block away. Uh oh.

The bicycle lands in the street. The truck peels away.

“Cool! A ride home!”

It’s a little small for me, but I’m home within two minutes. The police haven’t arrived yet.

Brenda is on the phone.

“My husband is back!” she says into the phone, and looking at me with a mix of “are you nuts?” and maybe a touch of pride (probably just wishful thinking on my part). She gives our address.

“There must be someone hurt pretty bad out there,” she continues to the 911 operator. “. . . Thank you. . . We’ll be outside waiting for you.” Hangs up.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say sheepishly as I put on some pants.

“What did you do that for?”

“I’m not sure. I was just waking up, and when the truck pulled away, instead of letting go, I jumped.”

We went out to the street to wait for the officers, and to see if we could find the pummeled one.

Brenda explained. “I woke up when I heard the pick up come to a stop in front of our house and then the sounds of them hitting somebody. I ran into the yard and started yelling at them to leave him alone when you came running out. I know you were thinking you were trying to protect me, but you ran right past me into the street!”

“Well I wanted to see if someone was getting hurt. I only saw those guys jumping into the back of the pickup, so I went to see if they had dragged somebody into the truck.”

“Well why did you jump onto the truck?”

“I dunno. I was holding onto the tailgate to look inside the bed and when the truck pulled away, I just jumped.”

She looks at me as if I’m nuts. Not the first such look I’ve gotten tonight.

We are in front of Bob’s house. He lives across the street and keeps an immaculate yard. A darkened figure comes around the corner, carrying what looks like a spear. (He looks very little like a Greek athlete.)

“Who is that?” I call out.

“I’m just looking for my friend. He got beat up. Angel?” he calls into the darkness.

“What’s that you’ve got?” Brenda asks, pointing at his “spear”.

She takes it away from him. It’s a metal fence post, the kind used for barb wire.

A couple of patrol cars are gliding down the street toward us, their lights off. I step into the street and wave, headlights come on, they pick up speed and pull in front of the three of us. Brenda and I step away from the gang member.

Soon the cops are searching around Bob’s house.

The drunken javelineer sits despondently by the mailboxes.

“Got any cigarettes? I’m nervous ‘cause I’m on probation.”

“No, we don’t smoke,” I say.

Brenda steps toward him shaking her finger. “Smoking isn’t good for you! And if you’re on probation then you should be home in bed.” Ah, my little mother hen.

He’s concerned about his bicycle and I tell him that it’s leaning against my garage. The policeman had said they would take care of it.

Bob turns on a floodlight in his backyard revealing Angel’s legs beneath a tarp behind the shed. He’s bleeding quite a bit from the back of his head, but refuses medical help or to press charges.

After giving a statement, I thanked them for responding so quickly.

Just as I am about to go I laugh and tell them how I was dressed on my little ride.

They get a pretty good laugh out of it. One of them says that next time I should just be a good witness and not try the super hero gig.

I go back inside and my wife is shaking her head. “You’re my Mr. Incredible,” she says. “Middle aged, over weight, and still acting like you’re 25.”

“Well, all super heroes work in their underwear.”