Don't Call Me Hero Page 4

  Rawly caught himself. He could feel his face turning red. “No, man, I said the girl in the comic book was hot. I didn’t even mention Miyoko’s name.”

  “Yeah, but you also agreed that this chick looks like Miyoko,” Nevin said. “So if you think the chick is hot, then what you’re also saying is that you think Miyoko’s hot, too.” Nevin stared at the girl in the comic book. “Not that I disagree with you, dude. I think Miyoko’s pretty hot myself.”

  What was Nevin saying? That he liked Miyoko? Was he going to try to make a move on her? Rawly had seen him flirting with her, of course, but that didn’t mean anything. Nevin flirted with all the girls. Rawly hoped Nevin wasn’t serious about Miyoko. If he was, then Rawly didn’t stand a chance with her. Nevin had him beat by miles in the charm department.

  “I’m going to check out the monsters,” Nevin said. He slapped the comic book against Rawly’s chest. “Here, I’ll let you and Miyoko spend some alone time together.”

  Rawly studied the cover art. Yui Tanaka did resemble Miyoko Elena. He decided to buy the comic book, but not today. He would come back another time by himself. For now, he settled on a copy of Green Arrow.

  While he skimmed through it, Nevin returned. He had an Iron Man toy sitting on the back of a plastic model of Doctor Octopus. He hopped them across a shelf, with Iron Man riding Doctor Octopus like a rodeo broncobuster.

  “Hey, Rawls, if I was a superhero, do you know what kind of power I’d like to have?” Nevin sat Doctor Octopus and Iron Man on a magazine rack. “You think I’m going to say something like super strength or the ability to climb walls, right?”

  Rawly turned away. He was trying to concentrate on his comic book.

  “We’ll, you’re wrong, dude,” Nevin said. “If I had a choice of super powers, I’d like to have the power of forgetfulness.”

  Rawly looked up from his comic book with a smirk on his face. “That’s not a power. Lots of old people have it. It’s called Alzheimer’s.” He nudged Nevin away from the magazine rack. “Watch where you’re standing, man. You’re going to tear the comics.”

  Nevin straightened. “No, dude, this is how my power would work. Let’s take this morning, for example, when Travis and those other morons were chasing me. If I had the power of forgetfulness, I’d zap them with it, and they’d immediately forget why they were after me. Pretty cool, huh?”

  Rawly didn’t answer. He was used to tuning Nevin out whenever he started babbling about nothing. Rawly continued reading his magazine.

  “Or, let’s say a couple of bad guys are robbing a bank,” Nevin went on. “I could zap them with my forgetful ray, and they wouldn’t remember what they were doing. The police could nab them easily and haul their butts off to jail.” Nevin bunched his fists on his hips and puffed out his chest. “I’d call myself . . . ” He deepened his voice like a radio announcer’s. “Amnesia Man!”

  Rawly decided to buy The Flash and the Green Arrow comics. He checked his wallet. He had thirty-four dollars left from the money his mother had paid him for cleaning tables. He looked around to see if there was anything else he wanted. He picked up a copy of Green Lantern, glimpsed at the cover and realized he already had that issue. Rawly decided not to buy anything else. He and Nevin were planning to go to the state fair, so he thought he’d better save his money for that.

  “Dude, I just had a thought,” Nevin said. “What if we did a skit about Amnesia Man for Open Mic Nite? You and me. I’ll be Amnesia Man and you can play my sidekick . . . Airhead.”

  Rawly sighed. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Nevin. I am not interested in taking part in Open Mic Nite. I don’t like performing in front of other people.” He wrinkled his face. “Airhead? Why Airhead?”

  “’Cause. If you were Amnesia Man’s sidekick, you’d constantly be exposed to his forgetful ray, so your mind would always be blank. You’d be an airhead.”

  “Forget it,” Rawly said and made his way to the checkout counter. He stopped at the glass case to admire the plaster action figures. He wished he could afford them, but they were too expensive, with prices starting at sixty dollars for the smaller models. The large statue of Superman ran for almost three hundred bucks. Rawly figured he’d have to win the lottery to be able to afford that one.

  Nevin leaned against the glass case. He quickly straightened when he realized what he was doing. He didn’t want to get yelled at again. “Hey, Rawls, if you could be a superhero, what kind of powers would you want to have? But you can’t say forgetfulness. I already have dibs on that one.”

  Rawly didn’t respond, sure that Nevin would make fun of whatever answer he gave.

  Nevin gazed at the Superman statue. “You’d want to be like Superman, right? Super strength. The ability to fly. And X-ray vision! Woo hoo! You could have all kinds of fun with that power.”

  Rawly tried to give him a stern look, but he cracked up as Nevin, with a goofy grin, wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter, man,” Rawly teased.

  Rawly had fantasized about being a superhero. Millions of times. In his dreams, he could fly. He had huge muscles. He possessed incredible strength. And everybody loved him, especially the girls.

  Usually in his dreams, the girls’ faces were unrecognizable. Recently, though, one of them had come into focus. It was unmistakably Miyoko Elena’s. She always had her arms wrapped around him, touching his muscles, wanting to kiss him.

  Rawly looked up at the Spider-Man figure. He had never found it believable that Peter Parker remained a nerd after he gained his super powers. If Rawly had written Spider-Man, Peter Parker would have beaten the snot out of Flash Thompson and anyone else who tried to pick on him.

  The people at Marvel Comics had a saying about Spider-Man: With great power comes great responsibility. What they should have added was: With great power comes great confidence.

  If Rawly was a superhero, he wouldn’t need to be clever or charming, like Nevin Steinberg. He wouldn’t need to be a star football player on a championship team, like Cruz Vega. Being a superhero would bring him all the attention he could ever want. People would be dying to get their picture taken with him. They’d beg for his autograph. He’d be front-page news. And the girls . . .

  “Hey, dude, when are we going to eat?” Nevin asked, snapping Rawly back into reality. “I’m starving.” He squeezed the folds of his stomach, like a mouth, and whined in a high voice, “Feed me! Feed me!”

  They made their way to the counter where Rawly handed Sid Lundy the comics and a twenty-dollar bill.

  While Nevin waited, he picked up an action figure of Captain Marvel and marched him across the counter. “Hey, Rawls, do you think superheroes are braver than ordinary people?”

  “Sure. That’s what makes them superheroes.”

  “Well, now, I wouldn’t exactly say that,” Sid interjected. “There are lots of ordinary folks who risk their lives every day. Police officers, firefighters and soldiers, for example. They’re our real heroes.” He rang up Rawly’s purchases and slipped the comic books into a black plastic bag with the Heroes & Villains gold-colored logo on the outside.

  “Yeah, but Nevin was asking about superheroes,” Rawly said, feeling a little embarrassed that Sid had corrected him. “I think their super powers make them more confident. It gives them the courage to do things other people would be too scared to try.”

  “Maybe,” Sid said. “But there are lots of superheroes without powers—Batman, the Phantom, and Green Arrow to name a few. Still, they always manage to get the job done.”

  “So what makes a hero a hero, Sid?” Nevin asked.

  “Oh, courage, sacrificing oneself for the good of others, being able to overcome adversity,” Sid mused. “I think that’s a pretty good start.”

  Nevin nodded.

  Rawly stuck his Dallas Comic Con flyer inside his bag. “Thanks, Sid.”

  “You bet.” He came around the counter and walked the boys to the door. “Tell your momma I’ll be stopping by for d
inner after I close up shop tonight.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The pig ran out of the kitchen.

  The 400 lb. porker’s hooves clattered on the tiled floor as it scurried into the dining room. A frayed rope was tied around its neck.

  La Chichen-Itza’s head cook, Fredo Ortega, and his two assistants, chased after it. Rawly’s mother ran behind them, her eyes blazing. “Get that pig out of here!”

  The pig headed toward a table where a husband and wife and their four-year-old daughter were sitting.

  “Eeee!” the little girl screamed. She hopped onto her mother’s lap. Her father bolted out of his seat. He grabbed his fork and jabbed the air, trying to fend off the pig. The pig paused to sniff the fork. It took off again when it saw Fredo and his assistants coming after it.

  “Get him!” Mrs. Sánchez shrieked. She stopped to apologize to the family before going after the pig again.

  The pig ran to another table where two female tellers from the nearby Laredo National Bank were eating an early dinner. The women screamed. They ran inside the mop closet and slammed the door shut.

  The pig climbed up their table and helped itself to what was left of their Wednesday enchilada dinner specials.

  The rest of the customers scattered, some laughing nervously, others stunned.

  Fredo lunged for the rope around the pig’s neck but missed. He fell on the floor, belly first. The pig moved out of the way, knocking over the table, and sent it and the dishes crashing on the floor.

  At that moment, Rawly and Nevin entered the restaurant. As soon as they opened the door, the pig dashed out.

  “What the . . . ” Rawly started before he was interrupted by his mother’s shouts. Fredo and the assistant cooks ran out the door and chased the pig down the sidewalk.

  “Dude, I need to eat here more often,” Nevin said dryly.

  When the chaos was over, the man, whose daughter had been terrified by the pig, unleashed his anger at Rawly’s mother. “What kind of place are you people running here? Is this a restaurant or a farm?”

  “I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” Mrs. Sánchez whimpered.

  “I want to speak to the owner!” the man demanded. “Now!”

  “I-I’m Leonor Sánchez.”

  “Lady, I don’t care who you are,” the man said, pointing a finger at her face. “I want to speak to Mr. L. A. Chichen-Itza himself.”

  “I own the restaurant.”

  “You do? Well, let me tell you something, lady,” the man roared. “I have a good mind to call the health department and have them shut you down!”

  “Please, I . . . I . . . ” Mrs. Sánchez stammered. “Look, don’t worry about your bill. Dinner’s on the house. You don’t have to pay anything.”

  “I should say so,” the man said. “But that’s still no excuse for bringing a pig into the restaurant.” His eyes grew wide. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you’re cooking live pigs in the kitchen!” He stared at his wife. “Maybe I oughta call the news and have them investigate what’s going on back there.”

  “No! Please, don’t do that,” Mrs. Sánchez begged.

  She stared at the bewildered customers standing around the dining room. Besides the man and his wife and their daughter, there were the two tellers who were peeking out of the mop closet, three parties of four and an old man who was a regular.

  “How about some dessert?” Mrs. Sánchez offered. “Maybe some flan or . . . ”

  “Lady, I wouldn’t spend another second eating in this place!” the irate man said. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” He and his wife and little girl walked toward the door. “I’m gonna call the news people about this,” he threatened before he stalked out.

  The rest of the customers, except for the old man, left too.

  The old man smiled and said, “Meal’s free, right?”

  Mrs. Sánchez slumped in a booth, exhausted. She dropped a hand over her face and closed her eyes.

  “Where did that pig come from?” Rawly asked, hardly believing what he had just witnessed.

  “That fool. That stupid fool,” his mother said, her face contorted in agony. “I’m probably going to get shut down because of him.”

  “Who?”

  “Fredo.”

  “Why did Fredo bring the pig to the restaurant?”

  Rawly’s mother shuddered. Thoughts of possible lawsuits, visits by the health department and news cameras being shoved in her face raced through her mind.

  “Mom?”

  “Fredo didn’t bring the pig. Mr. Joe did.”

  Mr. Joe owned a pig farm in Lancaster, just outside of Dallas. He stopped by each morning to collect the food scraps that were thrown away, to feed his pigs.

  “Fredo bought the pig from Mr. Joe,” Rawly’s mother said. “But he thought Mr. Joe was bringing him a pig that was ready to be cut up and cooked. Instead, Mr. Joe brought a live pig.” She burst into tears. “Rawly, they’re going shut me down. I just know they are.”

  “I think I’d better go,” Nevin said uncomfortably.

  “No, please.” Mrs. Sánchez composed herself and slid out of the booth. “Sit down. I’ll get you something to eat.”

  At that moment, Fredo walked back inside the restaurant, holding the pig tightly by the short piece of rope around its neck.

  When Nevin saw the pig, he quipped, “I don’t eat pork.”

  “Get that pig out of here!” Mrs. Sánchez bellowed.

  “I’m sorry, señora,” Fredo said. “It’s just that the pig chewed through the rope and got away from us.”

  The old man looked down at the pig. “I get free dessert, too, right?”

  “Get rid of that pig. Now!”

  “Sí, señora.” Fredo started out the door.

  “No! Not through the front. I don’t want anyone else to see it. Take the pig out the back.”

  Rawly’s mother wiped her eyes with a napkin and shook her head in disgust. “If I didn’t need Fredo so badly, I’d fire him right now.”

  With a lost look on her face, she dragged herself to her office behind the counter and shut the door.

  Rawly wanted to go to her, to comfort her somehow, but he didn’t know what to say. He surveyed the mess in the dining room. “Come on, Nevin. Help me get this place cleaned up.”

  Rawly righted the table the pig had knocked down. He grabbed a dustpan and a broom and swept up the broken dishes while Nevin wiped the table with a wet towel.

  “You know, dude, maybe we could work out a skit about a pig for Open Mic Nite,” Nevin said. “What do you think?”

  Rawly cleared another table and dumped the dishes into a gray plastic tub. “No, Nevin. I am not going to be in Open Mic Nite.”

  “Come on, Rawls, I need a partner,” Nevin said. “I can’t do stand-up, but I think I could write a comedy skit.”

  “No.”

  After they finished cleaning, they relaxed in a booth. Teresita approached them and asked, “You guys having the special tonight?”

  “Sure,” Nevin said. “If it’s good enough for the pig, it’s good enough for me. I’ll have an enchilada dinner and a Coke.”

  “Me too,” Rawly said. “But I want mango juice instead of Coke.”

  “Mango juice?” Nevin said, surprised.

  “I like mango juice,” Rawly told him. “It’s pretty good stuff. You ought to try it some time.”

  Nevin thought for a moment, and then said, “Okay, I will. Bartender, bring me a glass of mango juice on the rocks.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll bring it right out,” Teresita said.

  Nevin’s face brightened. “Hey, I just thought of an idea for our Open Mic Nite skit. See what you think.”

  Rawly started to protest but decided to let Nevin talk.

  “The Three Little Pigs go out for dinner,” Nevin began. “The waiter comes and takes their drink orders.

  ‘I’d like a Coke,’ the first little pig says.

  ‘I’d like mango juice,’ says the second little pig.

&
nbsp; ‘I just want water, lots and lots of water,’ the third little pig says.

  The waiter brings them their drinks and takes their dinner orders.

  ‘I want an enchilada dinner,’ says the first little pig.

  ‘I want an order of nachos,’ says the second little pig.

  ‘I just want water, lots and lots of water,’ the third little pig says.

  The meals are brought out. Later, the waiter asks if the pigs would like dessert.

  ‘I want some ice cream,’ says the first little pig.

  ‘I want some flan,’ says the second little pig.

  ‘I just want water, lots and lots of water,’ the third little pig says.

  Finally the waiter says to the third little pig, ‘Pardon me. I don’t mean to be nosy, but why have you only ordered water all evening?’

  The pig answers, ‘Well, somebody has to go wee, wee, wee, all the way home!’” Nevin cracked up.

  Rawly groaned. “Oh, brother. That is so stupid.”

  “Aw, come on, dude. It’s funny. You know it is. I could play the waiter. You could play one of the pigs, and I’ll ask a couple of other guys if they want to join us. We could probably find pig masks at Ghouls & More.”

  “No, Nevin,” Rawly said, exasperated. “I am not going to dress up like a pig and make a fool of myself in front of everybody.”

  “All right, scratch the pig idea. How about this, then? What if we did a variation of Chicken Little? You know, the sky is falling! The sky is falling!”

  “Will you stop?” Rawly balled up his napkin and tossed it at Nevin. “I am not going to play a pig or a chicken. Or an airhead. I don’t want to be in Open Mic Nite.”

  Nevin leaned back in the booth, crossed his arms and sniffed haughtily. “I guess Miyoko was right about you.”

  Rawly sat up. “Miyoko? What did she say about me?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Nevin took the napkin and wrapped it around his head like a scarf. “It’s just that when I told her I was going to talk to you about being in a comedy skit with me, she said she didn’t think you’d do it.”

  Rawly wrinkled his brows. “Why would she say that? She doesn’t even know me.”

  “Beats me. She said she didn’t think you could be funny onstage.”