That summer following my delayed junior-year freshman crisis began quietly enough. Duly chastened by the academic catastrophe of my own making, I begged and got myself hired back as a waitress at the Drowned Mug Café; all seemed forgiven and forgotten. I worked my ass off there for the entire month of May; when June rolled around, I went off again to Camp Michi-Fo-La-Ca again. So far, this was my typical summer routine.
I found myself the oldest camp counselor that year. Almost nobody from the previous two summers had returned—neither Ryan nor Celie, the guy and girl I had separately fooled around with. From the moment I got there, I felt immediately orphaned. Since the previous year, I seemed to have outgrown the whole college camp counselor schtick while I wasn’t looking. I felt marooned there for the duration, which made for three very long weeks.
So, I made the best of it. I concentrated on helping my kids—what a concept!—and being the grown-up of the place. I saved one camper from drowning in a canoe mishap, and I listened to another camper tell the story of her parents’ pending divorce, and another girl was found to be cutting herself and we got her help—that kind of thing. Important stuff, all—which made me feel like I was helping—but at the same time, I felt distant from it. My heart wasn’t in it—someone else could be doing the same job as I was, with more commitment. Otherwise, I had plenty of free time to consult the I Ching and read Another Roadside Attraction and meditate on my past transgressions. A few weeks in the woods are great for that.
When I returned to Ann Arbor, Pammy was hardly around; her book was in its final stages of proofing, and she was staying mostly in Dearborn with Matt. Trent and Stella and baby Simon occupied the Ann Street house with more and more of their stuff, and I was feeling a little like an unwelcome guest—not because of anything they did or said necessarily, but because the house didn’t feel like a collective any more. I was barely going to be able to afford school in the coming fall, so getting a place of my own was out of the question, regardless of my sense of alienation. Kozmik Kat did little but lay about the house, although he and I did bond over working picture puzzles in the dining room late into the summer evenings.
Being semi-disowned by my Mama, I didn’t even think of going back to Detroit for a family visit, which was hard because I missed my sister. But Avie and her troupe returned to Ann Arbor for the street fair in July. Daddy had taken the door off the rec room in the basement, which was where they stayed. Because Stella wasn’t off visiting her parents this year, and Trent actually returned at night to sleep at home, it felt like there was more adult supervision around the house, so nothing got as out of hand as last year.
During the day, I worked at a funnel cake booth; at night, Avie got me to put on my Captain Clarissa costume and perform in one of her street-theater improvisations on Saturday. It was an enjoyable time, if not quite the heady blast it had been the year before.
There’s nothing much else to tell about that unexceptional summer, unless you want me to discuss the six-hundred-pound gorilla in the room, the moment you’ve all been waiting for—the origin of Ms. Megaton Man. But, I suppose I have to.
If it sounds like I’m downplaying becoming a Megahero, it’s only because in retrospect it did feel somewhat anti-climactic. Not entirely disappointing, because it did have it’s thrilling moments, but not everything one might have desired. If one ever desires such a thing—which I never did. Let me explain.
Now, my idea of a cool Megahero origin story—again, not that I ever thought such a thing would happen to me—would involve some kind of semi-miraculous event like an industrial accident or a lightning strike, or the discovery of some mystical object buried deep in a cave somewhere or some scientific secret mankind was never meant to know. The result would be that a person could fly, or have Megahuman strength, or crawl walls, or whatnot.
Even my housemate Trent Phloog had several colorful if contradictory origin stories as Megaton Man: he was the sole survivor of a dying world; he’d been subjected to mysterious cataclysmic rays; he was raised by an intelligent tribe of kangaroos; he’d been bitten by a radioactive frog; and so on.
Pammy expressed her skepticism of these disparate narratives repeatedly in her controversial columns for The Manhattan Project. She argued such fanciful tales amounted to willful disinformation circulated by the government to obscure the Man of Molecules’ true—and no doubt more prosaic—origins. Knowing Secret Agent Preston Percy as I did, I suspected something like that to be the case.
Still, when it came to my own origin story, if I ever daydreamed such a day would ever come, I always pictured it involving something a little more dramatic than a teetering pile of moldering firewood. But you can’t have everything. At least I wound up with Megapowers, and became Ms. Megaton Man. Here’s how it came about:
The summer after my disastrous semester living in Yarn Man’s hippie crash pad was hot in Ann Arbor. Thanks to Trent’s chopping spree with his Megaton Man laser goggles the year before—the one that accidentally left a big hole in the back yard my daddy had to fill with rubble and sod—we still had enough firewood stacked against the garage to last us until the next Ice Age. We might have consumed more if anyone in the house had ever bothered to use the fireplace and cuddle by the fire. But Trent and Stella weren’t that kind of couple, and neither was Pammy, who usually preferred her romantic liaisons in a no-tell motel on the outskirts of town. One of Daddy’s friends had twice come out and to check the fireplace and chimney—those things can catch fire if you let the creosote build-up—and certified it safe to use. Still, I never used it, and neither did anyone else. As a consequence, we made hardly a dent in that wood pile in over a year.
Daddy warned us several times that if we didn’t use up that pile of wood—it rose almost to the roofline of the garage and extended almost as far as the back fence—that all kind of bad things would result. Wasps and bees would find it an attractive place to build their nests—to say nothing of mice and rats; termites might infest the wood, which would endanger the garage and eventually the house; and being stacked so close to the garage, it would promote mildew and wood rot. Stella told Daddy could help himself to all the wood he wanted; he loaded pu his pickup a couple of times, but after that, like the costume trunk, he always seemed to forget about it.
Daddy had me so scared of that pile of wood that I never went near it; it was so tall and stacked precariously from when Trent overdid his wood-chopping, I was just afraid it would topple over and crush little old me. Whenever I needed to run the clothesline from the house to garage and back, I approached the hooks on the garage with the trepidation of someone skating on thin ice, lest I disturb the adjacent wood pile. I used the step ladder to climb up to get to the hook; I had to be very cautious, since the least vibration caused the stack to teeter. Why a good strong wind hadn’t already knocked it over was a mystery; I guessed maybe the rotting wood had somehow fused together into a moldering wall of organic fibers.
One day, I was doing laundry—thank God the clothesline was already up—and I had a few things on the line drying already, while another load was washing in the basement. I was fixing myself a sandwich in the kitchen and happened to look out the back window. I noticed Trent out in the back yard talking to Preston. Trent was wearing a Border Worlds Use and Slightly New Bookstore T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and cut-off jeans—which showed his legs off nicely, I must say. Preston, fusty as usual, wore a tie loosened at the collar, a spiffy dress shirt, and slacks. He smoked casually and remarkably didn’t perspire despite the hot temperature.
I looked around the yard for his ICHHL space-pod, but there was none to be seen. Preston seemed to have come on foot.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, even though the windows were open. They were standing near the area where my daddy had filled that hole. Trent pointed to the ground while Preston kept right on smoking.
I went downstairs to fetch up the wet load of laundry. By the time I came out to the back yard, Trent and Preston had opened up the garage door. Inside, the Q-Wagon sat still and cool under the tarp. They pulled out some folding aluminum chairs and sat on the driveway in the shade of the neighbor’s towering tree.
“Why don’t we shoot some baskets?” I suggested, while I pinned up some wet laundry.
“Maybe later,” said Trent. “More toward evening; it’s too hot right now.”
“You’re just chicken,” I said. “Afraid to lose to a black girl. Aren’t you supposed to be working out to become a Megahero again—all-natural, this time?”
“I get plenty of walking around Ann Arbor,” said Trent. “And I’m putting some extra miles in on the exercise bike. I need to stay fit—I’m on my feet all day at the bookstore, and those kids—the colleg-age employees—sure give me a run for my money.”
“You’re missing the point,” said Preston. “You need to be working out—more than walking, or biking, even shooting hoops.” Preston pulled out his memo pad from his shirt pocket. “We have a personal trainer—an associate of ours at the lab. I’ll give him a call, if you’re serious.”
“Wait a minute,” said Trent. “Associate? You mean a Megahero? No thanks.”
“He’s bulked up enough to be a Megahero,” said Preston, “but he doesn’t have any Megapowers. His name is Samson McSampson—he goes by the brand name ‘Body by Nuke.’”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“I’ve heard of him,” I said. “He’s on cable access out of Lansing.”
“There’s talk of him being syndicated nationally,” said Preston. “He’s busy, but I think I can get a few sessions with him for you, Trent, as a personal favor.”
Trent looked uncomfortable at the prospect of a rigorous work-out regimen. “I don’t know, Preston,” he said. “A personal trainer…”
“He drives around in a big semi,” said Preston, “with all his workout equipment in the back. He can just pull up into the driveway here with his whole gymnasium.” He made a note in his pad. “I’ll give him a call.”
“Woo!” said Trent, feeling trapped. “You just don’t quit, do you?”
Having hung all the wet clothes by this time, I changed the subject. “How’s Bing?” I asked Preston. I assumed he had just seen him in New York.
“I haven’t been in New York for a while,” said Preston. “But I understand most of the effects of the booster Mega-Soldier Syrup seem to have subsided. Professor Rex is keeping a close eye on him.”
“Those doses were way past their expiration date,” said Trent. “I’m surprised Bing’s not dead. What a foolish thing to do.”
“Three doses would have killed an ordinary Civilian,” Preston agreed. “Especially since they were designed for Trent. It’s lucky Bing’s metabolism is composed mostly of natural fibers, although there may still be unforeseen results. But it seems unlikely that he will remain ‘Mega-Yarn Man’ indefinitely.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” I said. “That stuff is a powerful aphrodisiac. I’ll never have a lover with the stamina Bing had in that rec room.”
“Woo!” Trent blushed. “Me, I always took cold showers.”
“So, Preston, if you haven’t been in New York, where have you been?” I asked. “Do you spend all your time up in that orbiting satellite?”
“Good Lord, no,” said Preston, flicking his ash. “I’m earth-bound now. In fact, as I was just telling Trent here, I’ve just taken lodgings over on Detroit Street. It’s fallen to me to manage certain projects around—and under—the University. You’ll likely be seeing a little bit more of me from now on, Clarissa.”
“That’s great,” I said. “We can have you over for dinner more often—and you can babysit Simon from time to time.”
I had finished hanging all the wet laundry on one of the lines and was now folding and filling the empty basket with dry clothes from the other. All that was left were some big sheets. “Hey, could one of you big, tall men help me fold these sheets, so they don’t get grass stains?” I asked coyly.
Both Trent and Preston responded like gentleman—they got up from their comfortable folding chairs and started helping me pull sheets and pillow cases from the line.
I’m not exactly sure what happened next—it happened so fast—but I think Trent forgot to remove a clothespin, and yanked too hard on the line. The plank on the side of the garage where the hooks were screwed in came loose. Since the plank ran the entire length of the wall, it pried the teetering stack of firewood stack away from the garage as well. Instead of individual logs, about six cords of moldering wood that had fused into one solid, four-foot-thick wall was now toppling over on our heads.
I don’t know what came over me, but I instinctively shoved Trent and Preston out of the way—they felt as light as beach balls; this sent them rolling across the lawn, out of danger. Standing directly in the path of the toppling wood, I didn’t try to run; without thinking, I thrust up my arms and caught the mass of wood, somehow expecting to brake its fall. Or be completely crushed.
Somehow—instead of it crushing me—I was hoisting the entire stack of wood above my head.
At the same time, I felt powerful muscles ripple in my arms and legs; I thought I would burst out of the athletic shorts and cut-off tank top I was wearing. With my powerful legs about twelve feet apart, strength surged through me like I had never known before: Megapower.
Wasps and bees buzzed around—the upset stack must have disturbed their nests; but I didn’t even feel them trying to sting me. My skin was now impervious.
Trent and Preston, however, were not; they scurried inside the house and once behind the screen door looked back at me in astonishment.
“Don’t look now,” Trent said to Preston. “But Dr. Levitch outdid himself this time! Not only has this been his most potent and unpredictable batch of Mega-Soldier Syrup yet; it’s also produced Megapowers that are…sexually transmittable!”
“Oowee!” I said, still hoisting the wall of firewood over my head. “I’m Ms. Megaton Man now!”
Kozmik Kat, who’d been on the front porch all this time reading Another Roadside Attraction, came around to the back of the house, book in paw, to see what all the commotion was about.
“I was just getting to the good part,” he complained. “Marx Marvelous is going down on Amanda Ziller….”
Then he saw me in my triumphant Ms. Megaton Man pose, holding a ton of rotting timber over my head. I must have still been exclaiming, “Kick ass! This is way cool!” at my newfound Megapowers.
“What the heck happened here?” demanded Koz. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a Megahero, too, Clarissa.”
“I think so,” I said, dropping the load. It shattered into its component pieces of firewood, scattering over the lawn and driveway. I stood on the patio brushing all the dust, dirt, and bark off of me and out of my hair, and swatting away the wasps. But I hadn’t been scratched. “So, you like the book?” I asked. “I think it’s great. But I thought human sex held no interest for you.”
“I picture them in my head as cats,” said Koz, tucking Another Roadside Attraction under his arm. “I’m no perv.” He looked around the yard at the mess I had made. It only took him a few moments with his laser-goggles to reduce the rotting firewood to ashes, then to zap all the wasps I had stirred up.
Kozmik Kat seemed to enjoy this—I don’t think he got much regular use from his high-tech hardware—until the goggles began to overheat. “Yowch!” he said, flinging off his eyewear like a hot coal onto the picnic table. “It’s too hot a day for this crap.”
“You’re good at it,” I told Koz. “You should be an exterminator.”
“Yuck!” he said. “Vermin leave a bad taste in my mouth.” He pried off his red cape and buttons as well. “You want these things? Consider them yours, Ms. Megaton Man—I have no further need of them. Now that I’m a denizen of Ann Street, I find these accoutrements of the Megahero trade only scare the other kitties in the neighborhood. What I could use is a cool glass of lemonade.”
Koz looked naked without his goggles, cape, and buttons, but Preston give him his old mirrored aviators. Later we fetched out a white scarf and blue beret from the costume trunk in the basement. In his new Civilian outfit, Kozmik Kat looked every inch the debonair flâneur.
When Stella came home with Simon, we explained to her what had happened—how I had thrown Trent and Preston to safety, how I’d hoisted a ton of firewood over my head, how I felt I had nearly burst out of my clothes. But everyone pointed out that although my muscles seemed more taut and well-defined, they were hardly any bigger than before. They certainly weren’t the grotesque musculature of Megaton Man. Still, I felt with the next exertion I might lose every last stitch on my body.
“Better you than me,” said Stella, who was used to turning naked with but a thought. “What you need is a Megahero uniform—something reasonably durable—to prevent such mishaps.”
After dinner, she helped me dye my old purple leotards to a medium blue and my trunks to a bright red—to match the cape Kozmik Kat had donated. We polished my pink leather boots and gloves with a creamy yellow. Stella even took some stretchy yellow material from the costume trunk and fashioned a letter “M” for the torso of the body suit. She cut V-neck above the “M” to form an audacious, plunging neckline.
I put the costume on in the dining room, where Stella’s sewing machine was set up, and stuck on the cat’s goggles, cape and buttons. I didn’t think the goggles would fit—they were cyclopic, by the way, meaning they had one red lens, just like Megaton Man’s—but they were small, cat-sized. But the metal proved malleable, and instantly conformed to the shape of my face; they weren’t as thick as Megaton Man’s, and unlike his, you could see my eyes.
Stella snapped the buttons onto my collar bones; the short, red cape looked sweet on my frame, and the red panties, surprisingly, didn’t make my butt look too big. My new muscle tone rippled through the shiny fabric of my costume. I thought I looked boss, as we used to say.
Still most astonishing was that, even though my strength had grown by a magnitude of twelve, I wasn’t visibly any bulkier than before.
“Look at me, Trent,” I said. “I’ve exercised less than you!”
Trent seemed a little bit wistful—if not jealous—as though he wouldn’t mind being a Megahero again if he could do without the over-muscled physique, or the hard work to build one up.
“Have fun while it lasts,” said Trent. “But don’t get too used to it—that Mega-Soldier Syrup stuff is liable to wear off at the most inopportune moments.”
Stella knelt down with a tape measure and read out my measurements to Preston, who made notes in his memo. He then disappeared from the dining room; I could hear him on the phone in the kitchen.
Stella stood up and admired her handywork. “What do you plan to do now?” she asked me. “As America’s Newest Nuclear-Powered Hero?”
“I plan to find some gorgeous campus hunks, beat them into submission, and force them into kinky acts of perversion.” I thought this would get a laugh, but considering my recent behavioral history, it landed with a thud.
When Preston returned to the dining room, he announced, “I just ordered an official uniform from our supplier on the East Coast; it should be in here in two-to-three weeks. Dr. Levitch, unfortunately, is out on the West Coast; he can’t get away until then. I’d like him to test you.”
“Why?” asked Trent. “My booster shot wore off in a couple days; Clarissa should be back to normal before then.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Preston. “As you pointed out, Trent, this is a different batch of Mega-Soldier Syrup altogether. Look how long it’s affected Bing—and he’s just now returning to normal. It might take Clarissa just as long or longer. And that’s assuming Clarissa got her Megapowers through sexual transmission; Dr. Levitch can offer an opinion on that.”
“I have to see if I can fly while it lasts,” I said. “C’mon—let’s go outside!”
Stella got a funny look on her face, as if only now realizing the implications of having a new Megahero in the house—that it might not exactly conform to the normal-lifestyle ethos she so cherished.
“Maybe we should keep Ms. Megaton Man a secret for the time being,” she said. “We wouldn’t want to draw any undue attention to Ann Street now, would we?”
“It’s almost twilight,” said Trent. “No one’s likely to spot her unless she crashes into something.”
“My night-vision goggles should prevent that,” said Koz, who now had one of Preston’s unlit cigarettes dangling from his mouth. “You don’t see me with bumps in my noggin, do you?”
“Who said you could smoke in my house?” said Stella.
“It’s not lit,” said Koz. “It just makes me look cool.”
We all moved to the back yard, which now seemed bigger without the enormous stack of firewood. It felt roomy enough at least for a test flight.
“Well, here goes nothing,” I said.
I took off—as in straight up—past the trees and telephone poles. Just like that, I was flying. But as I was soon to find out, landing is the hardest part.