I've stayed up entirely too late to finish this one. I mean, I wrote the first half on the subway, at about ten in the morning. I waited until after midnight to finish it off. Tomorrow I've got to write something ridiculously short. Which is what this was meant to be.
The Death, At Age Forty-Five, of Hubert Panel
His life begins with a bang in 1923, the smack on the ass, the doctor's gloved hand, infant Hubert bawling and choking upside down in the air.
In the middle: noise and strife in primary school. His O-levels. A-levels. A fling with an older woman while at University, sudden marriage to a girl from his village, the miscarriage, then two or three more, and a shockingly quiet life in chartered accountancy.
The end came as he whimpered in his mistress's bed, the final convulsive thrust, heart stopping after years of abuse, amyl nitrite ampule mere inches from his fingers.
So, what else could you want to know? That he liked chips and mushy peas? That he dreamed of owning a Jaguar but made do with a succession of younger and younger girlfriends while his wife grew older and more resigned? That doing sums day after day truly gave him pleasure?
I'd prefer to tell you about his secret life. Not the one with spotty girls in go-go boots and Mary Quant knock-offs. The other secret life. His life as a super hero. His life as Hubert Panelo, Protector of the Weakling Masses.
In this life, he could scale buildings using nothing but the tips of his fingers and a healthy dose of determination. He could improvise a freeze ray from some ice cubes and a mirror. His specially fitted motorcar could cross the country in minutes and even dive under the Channel to put him in the heart of Paris in under an hour. And it was in this life that his nation depended upon him for its continued safety and security.
Of course I needn't tell you all his exploits. Fighting the Jerries in the tunnels under the North Sea. The defeat of Sir Nefarious. Returning the moon to its orbit around the Earth.
Nor do you need to be told about his secret laboratory in the heart of Basingstoke, nor his flame-impervious dive suit. And you certainly know already of his many contributions to our daily life: the radio-starting car, spring-heeled shoes, and porridge that never gets a skin on top of it, no matter how long you let it sit.
What I want to tell you about his secret life is this: that despite his many grand good deeds--rescuing hospitals from neutron bombs, and vaporizing malignant ant-mutants; finding Mayan ruins previously unknown, and restoring salmon to the waters of the Amazon; even the defeat of the New Mongol Hordes, and the incredible seven hour magma laser fight with Lieutenant Destructo at the summit of Mount Everest--
Despite all of the famous and well-known fine things that he did in his secret life as Huberto Panelo, Protector of the Weakling Masses, there is only one thing that flashed through his mind at the instant of his passing.
One event, one specific deed.
Four years before he died, in the summer of 1964, when he was only forty-one--far from magneto-copter or anti-gravity suit--he walked through a quiet neighborhood in the guise of hum-drum suburban accountant Hubert Panel. Instead of being surrounded by black-hearted villains or cheering crowds, he was alone.
He came upon a small child, standing by itself on the street, eating a Zoom Ice Lolly. As he grew near, he stopped and stared; never before had he seen anyone, young or old, eat such an odd-looking frozen treat. Hubert Panel had no children of his own, and had therefore ignored recent developments in icy confections. Thus his curiosity.
The child, barely five years old, was confused by this sustained adult scrutiny. She stared back at her observer in growing fear. In her distraction she dropped her ice lolly, and it was ruined, so she burst into tears.
This is where Hubert Panel performed his act of bravery. You see, as Huberto Panelo, he saved masses of innocent children nearly every day, from nuclear whirlpools and space comets. But he practically never spent any time alone with an individual of the species. He was, in fact, afraid of them.
Standing in front of the bawling child, Hubert realized what had happened. He had frightened her. She had lost her sweet. And he ought to buy her another one.
He looked at the melting lolly on the pavement. He looked at the tips of his shoes. He murmured something that was meant to be “there, there, it'll be alright, Little One” but sounded more like “hurm, hurm, ahem!” He tried to think of anything else.
After several painful moments of inaction, he moved. He went inside the shop, spent his 6d, and came out with the replacement.
She was only sniffling when he returned. He stretched out the hand with the lolly, and said, “here you go, Little Girl.”
She shrank from him.
He offered it again. She looked ready to run away.
He said “hurm, hurm, ahem!” again.
Being a hero is difficult. It requires persistence, resilience, and inventiveness, especially in the presence of the incorrigible.
He crouched down, so his head was level with hers. He offered the treat again, gently extending his hand. He said nothing, but he screwed a sort of hopeful expression onto his face.
She watched him, still suspicious.
This is getting tiresome, he thought, and looked over his shoulder at the village clock.
That's when she took the Zoom Ice Lolly. She ran down the street and disappeared.
Hubert clucked to himself in irritation, stood up again with some difficulty--his portrayal of a middle-aged accountant was complete--and continued his walk home.
After a few minutes, he permitted himself a laugh.
And that's the moment he remembered as the pain squeezed his chest, shot up through his neck, and took up quarters in his jaw. That's the act of heroism he thought of as he collapsed heavily upon his young mistress, making her feel as though she were suffocating. That's what he thought about as he died.
That's what I wanted to tell you about Hubert Panel.
© 2011 Michael Bernstein
No comments:
Post a Comment