Many children pretend to be supeheroes. It's a common fantasy, along with the childhood desire to be a firefighter, police officer, or ray gun maker (I used to think that was a real job).
Unlike those other chumps, though, I never once pretended to be a superhero. When I was six, I actually WAS Batman. I'm serious! My mother fashioned my first Batsuit (I had several throughout the years) out of the world's cheapest Adam West-era plastic mask (it only covered the front of my face), a football shirt (the brown helmet in the center looked kind of like a bat icon, if you were either drunk or not good at seeing), and a cape so thick that my neck bore a sweat-induced black ring long after I'd removed it at night. Did I care? Not one whit. I honestly believed I was this crime fighter, and as such, that I answered to a higher calling. There really should have been some kind of help for kids like me.
I wore that Batman costume many full days, and I still have pictures of me watching television, playing with my toys, and even eating with it on. My friends, also children, put up with it - maybe they respected me (as I hoped), maybe they felt sorry for me (the probable reality), but I'm willing to bet the sheer strength of character I showed by truly believing I was the Caped Crusader won them over. Maybe.
It all changed for me one beautiful night, when any doubts I had about the reality of my "identity situation" were purged from my system completely. Since it was the 1970's, young children were allowed to walk out their front doors in the evenings in order to visit accident scenes – which was fortunate for me because I lived in a semi-urban area of north Jersey just two houses away from a gas station, a very busy road, and (that night) a really ugly, but non-fatal, multi-car pileup.
While my parents were enjoying their post-dinner coffee, I heard the sirens and saw the flashing lights out our front window. Without hesitation I donned my Batman garb, told them I was "going out to play" and walked down to the end of the block to see what help I could offer. This was my big chance!
As I approached, I saw smashed cars, accident victims being put into ambulances, reporters, police vehicles and a small battallion of officers presiding over the scene. I'm pretty sure my speed slowed, because as much as I genuinely believed I would not be questioned in my Batman costume, the shock of being on the periphery of an honest-to-goodness accident caused me to hesitate. I stopped just short of the gas station parking lot, hoping not to be noticed as I worked up the courage to offer my services to the police on duty.
One officer must have been keeping an eye on me. Surely he sensed my apprehension and understood my intent. He walked over to me, and with a complete lack of humor that I am still grateful for, looked me square in the eye and said:
"It's okay, Batman. We've got everything under control."
I don't know what I said to him after that, if I spoke at all. I know I made it home, somehow (maybe by walking backwards), and I know a switch had been permanently flipped in my brain. A real authority figure had acknowledged that I was Batman. Despite what I had thought prior to that moment, I must have been harboring some doubt - because now, without question, the hero and I were one.
I told anyone would would listen - my family, neighborhood friends, that old man Duncan who liked to eat pastries in front of his house - and they nodded and acted impressed, though their enthusiasm was clearly lacking. In retrospect, they may not have even believed that the incident ever occurred. It was a formative experience for me, though, perhaps blending fantasy and reality so convincingly and at such a young age that I've never fully recovered. Deep stuff, huh?
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Betsy Ross, My Dog
My first dog was named Betsy Ross Spatucci. Why such a name, you may ask? She was born in 1976, the Bicentennial year of our country, and I was swept up in the patriotism that was everywhere at the time. I wore a kiddie-sized tricornered hat many days in that year, and not only saluted any flag I came across, but also gave the full Pledge of Allegiance, embarrassing several members of my family. Yes, I had problems – even back then.
Betsy had the kind of sweet disposition mutts are known for, and she was great around kids, which was ideal for me because I was one of those throughout my childhood. She captured my imagination, and when I was a few years older I even wrote and recorded a love song, "Why?", for my beloved pet. An old cassette of the instrumental track survives, just waiting to be remixed. The lyrics - my ruminations on what she meant to my young life - are far too shameful to ever see print, but have brought my wife many a chuckle when recited over a glass of Merlot.
By all accounts, Betsy brought a peace and happiness to my childhood, eventually allowing me to sleep in my own bed throughout the night. My parents were quite pleased with the effect she had on me, though there was one particular bump in this dog-owning road early on.
The crux of this story is this: I did not know at the time that dogs pooped. No one told me and I wasn't smart enough to figure it out on my own. So the first night we had Betsy, when I was still trotting out of bed to my parents' room in the wee hours, I spotted a few piles of dark material on the floor. This was her poop.
Betsy must have paid a visit to my parents' room at some point after we'd all gone to sleep, because she'd left them two or three puppy piles scattered about the carpet. Curious, I picked one up. I recall it being cool to the touch and fairly solid. I don't remember any kind of smell associated with the poop, though that may be the rose-colored glasses effect. Poop typically smells. That I have learned.
Some children may have picked up a pile of feces, connected it to their own defecation, realized what it was and placed it back on the floor. Instead, I woke my mom and put it in her face. That was a bad decision. Unlike me, she knew exactly what it was, and actually began repeating a synonym for "poop" several times before pulling me into the bathroom, shaking my arm violently until the poop flew into the toilet bowl, and sanitizing my hand with scalding hot water while advising me never to touch anything that I even suspected to be poop.
I've always tried to follow this advice, and while I've faltered once or twice (oh, there have been times), each time I fall off the wagon I think back to the summer of '76, Betsy Ross Spatucci, and my blissful ignorance of canine bodily functions.
Betsy had the kind of sweet disposition mutts are known for, and she was great around kids, which was ideal for me because I was one of those throughout my childhood. She captured my imagination, and when I was a few years older I even wrote and recorded a love song, "Why?", for my beloved pet. An old cassette of the instrumental track survives, just waiting to be remixed. The lyrics - my ruminations on what she meant to my young life - are far too shameful to ever see print, but have brought my wife many a chuckle when recited over a glass of Merlot.
By all accounts, Betsy brought a peace and happiness to my childhood, eventually allowing me to sleep in my own bed throughout the night. My parents were quite pleased with the effect she had on me, though there was one particular bump in this dog-owning road early on.
The crux of this story is this: I did not know at the time that dogs pooped. No one told me and I wasn't smart enough to figure it out on my own. So the first night we had Betsy, when I was still trotting out of bed to my parents' room in the wee hours, I spotted a few piles of dark material on the floor. This was her poop.
Betsy must have paid a visit to my parents' room at some point after we'd all gone to sleep, because she'd left them two or three puppy piles scattered about the carpet. Curious, I picked one up. I recall it being cool to the touch and fairly solid. I don't remember any kind of smell associated with the poop, though that may be the rose-colored glasses effect. Poop typically smells. That I have learned.
Some children may have picked up a pile of feces, connected it to their own defecation, realized what it was and placed it back on the floor. Instead, I woke my mom and put it in her face. That was a bad decision. Unlike me, she knew exactly what it was, and actually began repeating a synonym for "poop" several times before pulling me into the bathroom, shaking my arm violently until the poop flew into the toilet bowl, and sanitizing my hand with scalding hot water while advising me never to touch anything that I even suspected to be poop.
I've always tried to follow this advice, and while I've faltered once or twice (oh, there have been times), each time I fall off the wagon I think back to the summer of '76, Betsy Ross Spatucci, and my blissful ignorance of canine bodily functions.
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