Superman

This was written because i had come to a troubling realization. I'd gone to South Africa, and sometimes things you already know have a way of hitting you all at once.

In my travels i have come across many significant people - both in a good way, and in bad - that have been burned into my mind like a torch, forever keeping themselves alive with the cavern of my mind, flickering endlessly. The girl in china that came up to us, practicing her English, smiling at her mom when she got it right. the little girl who followed us around asking for Pepsi, and when we didn't oblige she said "fug you". A few others have found their way into my memory over the years as well, a face here, a name there. Most are in passing, an anomaly worth noting that, for some reason or another, sticks with me. Very few shake me though.

 

His name was Hassan, but people called him super. Super man, super spy, but call me super because it is easiest to remember.He was one of many people i have come across, young and old, that come and go with the blink of an eye. He was a tour guide for us in South Africa, taking us over the course of two days to see penguins, whales, seals and baboons. He showed us the mountains, the ocean, and everything in between. He talked with a heavy accent, which came as no shock since he grew up in cape town. "Call me sew-pah. My friends call me sew-pah mehn, sew-pah spah-y. But sew-pah is easiest to remem-bah, so call me thet." 

He was an amazing tour guide, one of the few that really stuck with me even just for his skills as a guide. That isn't enough to make a lasting impact though. He could have been the two girls, or one of many passing faces that are a general curiosity that sticks, but nothing more. No, that wasn't what made him stick, what moved me. It was the way he held himself. The way his steps were shuffling, his back bent in pain. His hair was turning grey, his hands had large bumps, the scars of Rheumatoid Arthritis. He had the air about him of someone sixty years old, getting on in years, a man who was about to retire, if he hadn't already. He was forty-one years old.

 I did a double take when he told me that. Forty-one years old. He told me and my mum and dad about how his arthritis, not two weeks ago, hurt so badly that he couldn't get out of bed. It had taken him, with the help of his wife and kid, ten minutes to walk the twenty feet from his bed to his bathroom. Even having had RA since he was thirty-one, he had never had it hurt this bad before. He was hoping that he could put up enough money to buy his arthritis money this coming Monday or Tuesday. It was four hundred ren, and he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to. That is about fifty dollars american. Fifty dollars. Think about that, and let it sink in. Fifty dollars. That is enough to buy a single tank of gas, a little less than one video game that has just came out. Enough that this man wasn't sure he was going to be able to put up, to help him through a week or two of being able to hurt just a little less, even if it doesn't halt the progression any. All of this was between me and my dad. I listened in, keen on the conversation, but didn't say much. I rarely did to strangers.  

Super sat there smoking a cigarette, casually telling my dad this. My dad had the gall to tell him that my mother had RA too, and that we had to pay one thousand american to buy to really good medicine, to help keep hers at complete bay, no progression. I wanted to hit him, knock him out.  My mum came across us then, and had to make small talk about it with him, clearly wanting to do the same as me. To this day, i still don't know how he had taken it. Normally i could venture a guess, to think through the mind of another and see it from his point of view. I can't do it. It is just beyond my realm of comprehension how this man took that statement. The conversation continued, going on to how he was forty-one and how he had lived with RA for ten years now, and it came up that my father was sixty-five at this point in time. Super said offhandedly that he probably would never live to see the age my dad was at.

 

That night, at dinner, my mom brought the conversation up. I hadn't really comprehended what was being said, because when my father speaks to other people it usually ends badly, or with him bragging. So i had tuned some of it out, mostly after my dad made an a*s out of himself about the medication. My mom brought up the fact that Super didn't think he would live to see my dads age. That he would be glad to reach fifty. I had lived, intentionally or not, having always absently believed that people like Super - the good, the kind, the caring - would live long lives. The fact that, at the time this had been going on, me being the age of twenty was near what this man hoped for was his middle age. The conversation at the table continued on, but i was absolutely stuck to the core by this. This man was one of those that stuck with you. He cared, he was good at his job, he loved his family, he did his best at what he did. And by the time he was fifty, he would be content to have lived as long as he had. Its wrong, its unjustifiable.

 I still believe, to this day, that this man should have died at the age of ninety. But i realized - i had always known, but now it was brought home like a hammer to my chest - that this would never happen. It was a good chance he wouldn't even make it to fifty. I sat there at the dinner table, looking at my hands, and i cried. My dad tried - badly - to comfort me in his own way. My mother didn't know what to do - there was nothing she could do, and she realized it. My sister just avoided my gaze. I was always the strong one, and my facade had broken. It shocked her. And i just looked at my hands and cried. I talked to my mum about it, and eventually we made our way back to our rooms. I sat in the bathroom, my eyes staring out at nothing in particular, thinking back to this man that touched me so. It wasn't fair. He should live a long life. Superman isn't supposed to die young. 

Reviews

[WestWriter]

If this isn't a true story, then you did a damn fine bit of method writing here. Full marks for character depth and development, and a vivid setting that is essential to the setting. Plenty of conflict for all the characters involved, which is quite impressive considering the brevity of the piece and the number of characters. Bonus points for emotional resonance that will stay with me for a while to come.

I just scrolled up and saw that this is Non-Fiction, but I'm going to leave what I wrote exactly as it is because I believe it can be useful. If you can place yourself into a character as well as you've seamlessly conveyed this story, you'll be one hell of a story teller/writer. I'd love to read a short story, or perhaps a flash fiction, from you.

This story has all the elements I look for in a story, so I'm giving it 100/100. Thanks for sharing!

- Jess

[Fractured Minds]

Thank you kindly. Sorry for not responding to this is any form of timely manner, i had a lot happening. You're words are kind, and i appreciate them. The story is true, and i often wonder to myself if Hassan still gives his tours. He was a kind man, with a kind heart. I hope he still lives, and has his pain under control. I'm getting back into writing, and i'd love to talk to you sometime. If you get this, please send a message sometime.

Regards,
Fractured Minds