George’s questions occupied a lot of Clark’s thoughts over the next few days. He’d known from the start that he needed to find a way of living without red kryptonite – that much had been obvious. But what George had made him realise was that he needed to find a way of living without Lois.
In one of George’s later sessions, it was suggested that Clark was really in mourning for the loss of his Lois. It made a lot of sense. Wells’s news that he was unable to find her after his year-long search was almost the same as confirmation of her death, and that had plunged Clark unknowingly into a period of intense mourning. He’d turned inward, focusing on his grief and despair, just like a person might who’d been bereaved. Even his hope that she was still alive, and his dreams about her, could be compared to the feelings and experiences of a person who’d suffered the loss of a loved one.
George even suggested that Clark might like to hold a small memorial for her; perhaps lay some flowers on her gravestone and propose a toast or two to her amongst good friends – Alice and Perry, basically. Clark declined. He wasn’t ready for that. He felt nauseous just thinking about the idea.
However, he did think that perhaps he could find a way of living with his loss. Other people managed that, so why couldn’t he? Widowers even remarried.
So a fresh start was needed. He’d move back into his apartment, kick the kryptonite habit, and gradually ease himself back into normal life. He’d even date, but this time he’d look for the right woman, not just any woman willing to jump into bed with him. She’d be bright and funny, sensitive and intelligent, and somehow, by a miracle of fate, she’d want to be with Clark Kent and not Superman. As George had pointed out, there had to be at least one woman out there somewhere who could look beyond the cape and tights.
And who knew – in time, he might even find a way to love her.
Ripples of unease broke the surface of his otherwise tranquil sea whenever he found himself thinking that. Logically, he knew that there was no reason why he shouldn’t love the right woman, but...well, it was that ‘but’ that caused the ripples. He wasn’t sure what the ‘but’ meant, but it was there, nonetheless. However, his recent sessions with George had borne in him a new determination to make things right again, and that meant pressing forward – thinking positively.
Of course, it was easy to decide these things in the safety of his room at Perry and Alice’s. It was considerably harder to actually do any of them.
The first part was the easiest. Within a week of making his plans, he was back in his apartment. Alice had arranged for a cleaning company to visit, and she’d visited herself to add a few personal touches, like a brand-new Scrabble box set prominently on his coffee table. He laughed out loud when he saw it.
It felt good to be home. He had all his own things around him again, and he could do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. Control was back within his grasp.
Of course, he still had appointments with the clinic, and he soon found out how closely they were keeping an eye on him even though he was at home. He forgot about an extra session George had arranged for him with one of the relationship counsellors, and it only took them five minutes into the appointment time to phone him to ask where he was. Presumably if he hadn’t answered the phone they would have sent out search parties!
Kicking the kryptonite was harder. For anyone else, the hassle of traipsing over to the clinic every other day for a hit might have lessened their craving, but for Clark, it was a breeze to fly there, get his fix, and then drift slowly back on a kryptonite high. The clinic usually held him back for the first couple of hours to make sure he was safe to himself and everyone else, but even that didn’t seem like much of an inconvenience – he was too high to care.
However, the day eventually came when he decided that enough was enough. He was never going to get better if he was continually feeding his habit, so he told George he was giving it up and that was that.
****************
Well, not quite. The trouble was, he didn’t have anything to do all day long, and that made for an idle mind. Idle minds sought ways to relieve the boredom, and one great way of doing that was to disappear into a cloud of kryptonite-induced oblivion.
So he had lapses. The clinic had strict procedures for dealing with lapses. Any time he appeared on their doorstep begging for kryptonite, he was taken for assessment by one of the staff psychiatrists. Often, it was George, but not every time. They’d start by trying to talk him out of it, reminding him of how disappointed he’d be with himself afterwards, of the fact that it had been his own choice to give up the red stuff in the first place. Sometimes, they’d win the battle, and sometimes they’d lose. If they lost, a nurse would escort him to the treatment room and remain with him while he was granted the briefest of hits. She’d time his hit by monitoring his pulse – when it went below a certain rate, the box was closed and locked safely away with the green kryptonite once more.
It was all very medical, and designed, it seemed to Clark, to make him feel as guilty as possible. They never denied him his dignity, but boy, did his conscience take a battering.
The other strict rule concerned Superman. At his sickest, Clark really hadn’t noticed the cries for help any more, hadn’t been tuned into the unique sounds of distress and disaster which had dominated his life before his breakdown. But now that he was recovering, he began to hear them again.
“Clark, this is a cast-iron, non-negotiable rule,” George announced. “This is one you do not break, okay? You are not to respond to any requests for help. I do not want you going anywhere near that red cape until I say so.”
Clark frowned. “Not even the minor stuff? I can’t stop old ladies from being mugged or catch petty thieves? Those sorts of rescues are good for me, surely. Make me feel useful.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think you know where the boundaries are, buddy. When does a minor rescue become a major rescue? When the mugger shoots someone? When the thief takes a hostage, or two, or three?” George shook his head. “I just don’t think you’re ready to cope with the emotional fall-out yet.”
“But-“
“No buts. I’m the professional here, okay? Let me do my job.”
So he ignored the cries for help. In truth, there were hardly any in any case, because people had lost the habit of calling for him during his absence from the skies.
Harder to ignore were the accidents. Metropolis was a big city, with an extensive transport system and the usual high volume of impatient, hasty drivers. Minor knocks were commonplace, and larger incidents were fairly regular. Clark valiantly ignored them all, until the day of the multiple pile-up on one of the major freeways on the west of the city.
He heard the radio reports first. Helicopter-based reporters, quick to the scene, described a terrible picture of twisted metal, jack-knifed vehicles strewn across the highway, and crumpled crash barriers. The TV news soon joined in, and it was when Clark heard the first human scream that he couldn’t bear it any longer.
He didn’t hesitate for a millisecond after that scream. He flung on the first available suit from his wardrobe and was airborne while the reverberations from the scream were still ringing in his ears.
At the scene of the accident, he had a brief moment of nervousness, not to say nausea, as he flew over the chaotic mass of broken vehicles. It was a long time – or at least, it felt like a long time – since he’d done this. Did he still have the skills? Would he be accepted by the emergency services? How much did they know about his illness?
They did indeed look at him askance when he swooped down to the hub of the rescue operation. However, having arrived, there was no going back, so he strode straight up to them and asked firmly, “What can I do?”
There were a few more sideways looks from busy rescue workers, but then one of the more senior-looking firemen stepped up and barked, “The jack-knifed truck near the other end. It’s stopping the bigger fire engines from getting through.”
He nodded once and then took off. That was the ice-breaker – after that first job, he became a member of the team, just like old times. The remainder of the rescue proceeded slowly and painfully, as these incidents always did, but eventually, all the injured were either in hospital or at home, and the freeway was cleared of debris.
He returned home and sat staring blankly at the TV for a long time. He didn’t feel elated, but he didn’t think he felt depressed either. He’d seen some pretty horrific injuries and a couple of extremely distressed people who’d been trapped in their cars for a long time, but none of it seemed to have had a significant impact on him. Mostly, he was confused because he didn’t think he felt enough of anything at all.
The phone rang eventually. “Come and see me tomorrow, okay, buddy? Ten o’clock.”
He confirmed the appointment and rang off. Relief settled over him – George was on the case and would explain these weird, non-feelings to him.
He tumbled into bed, exhausted.
************
Well, as usual, it turned out that George had out-smarted him.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to sit on your hands for very long,” he said with a note of triumph.
Apparently, the non-negotiable, unbreakable rule had been a ploy - George’s way of making sure Clark was ready when he went out for the first time again as Superman. The theory went like this: if Clark was prepared to break George’s cast-iron rule and also risk his own well-being, then he was probably resilient enough to do Superman’s work. Well, the theory appeared to have worked – according to George.
Not that George took Clark’s mental survival from the accident for granted. He went over the incident in forensic detail with Clark, drawing out his thoughts and emotions both during the rescue and afterwards. To Clark’s surprise, and considerable relief, there was reassurance to be gained, seemingly, from his lack of strong feelings after the event. George thought that was fairly normal – it was his first major rescue for quite some time, so he had every right to feel a little shell-shocked. As long as the feeling didn’t persist for more than a day or so, Clark should be fine.
There were warnings and more rules along with the reassurances, however. He was granted a permanent licence to resume his Superman work, so long as he practiced the self-monitoring skills he’d learnt at the clinic. He was to continue attending a selection of classes and workshops at the clinic, and, equipped with a better understanding of his strengths and weaknesses, he ought to be able to detect the early warning signs that signalled he was pushing himself too hard. Weekly sessions with George would help, but Clark was now entrusted for the greater part with his own care.
Weirdly, it seemed like an awesome responsibility at first. He’d been cosseted and coddled, monitored and tested for so long that he felt a little exposed. After each of his first couple of small rescues, he prodded himself mentally all over, a bit like someone might do if they’d just miraculously survived a nasty tumble. Lack of the shakes – check. No guilt – check. No cravings – check. Sanity – check.
Phew. Safe to do it again, then.
Things grew easier, though. His confidence built as he gained more practice, and the people he helped were usually grateful for his help and often told him so. He began to rediscover his self-respect – one of the early casualties of his addiction.
People were also surprisingly forgiving of the kiss-and-tell stories in the tabloids – the general view seemed to be that he was just one of the many celebrity victims of the gutter press. He would never know whether they believed the wild stories of sex on the ceiling and positions only a rubber-limbed contortionist could manage, but he guessed that was the fate of anyone caught in the glare of adverse publicity. So long as it didn’t prevent him doing his job, he would just have to live with it.
His addiction had been reported on as well, of course, but again, many people were sympathetic and told him how glad they were that he was better.
************
He wasn’t better, of course. He was recovering, and suffering fewer lapses into depression and cravings for his drug, but he didn’t seem able to shake them completely. George told him that these things took time, but Clark wasn’t so sure. His world seemed to have shifted, seemed to be slightly askew. He came to believe that he might never be entirely cured. He’d reach a point where he could manage his addiction, and that was the best that could be hoped for.
George rejected that theory outright, naturally. He was positive, he said, that Clark would make a full recovery and undoubtedly emerge from the experience a stronger, more self-assured man than ever before. That was George’s experience of these things, he said.
So Clark pressed forward, placing his faith in the man who had already taken him from helpless junkie to recovering addict.
George wanted him to start building up a social life. Clark couldn’t see how he was going to manage that. Other than Perry and Alice, he didn’t have any friends. He had work acquaintances, but none whom he would consider contacting socially. He wasn’t a joiner of clubs and societies – even though he had a passing interest in vintage foreign language movies, for example, the thought of joining a club to sit around with a group of earnest men and women discussing the merits and demerits of Eisenstein made him shudder. He couldn’t do sports either – something he’d always enjoyed at school - because everyone knew who he was. It was no fun playing against someone who didn’t need to put any effort into beating you every single time you played against him.
He considered and rapidly rejected dating agencies. Again, everyone knew his face, and anyway, after all those tabloid headlines about his sex life, who would believe he wanted more than a quick roll in the hay? If they didn’t laugh in his face first, that was, for claiming he needed help finding women.
“Clark, you need a job,” pronounced George.
“I’ve got a job,” said Clark.
“No, a real job,” replied George. “Not that girlie stuff you do in tights and a cape.”
“Girlie stuff, George?” said Clark. “Do you have any idea just how much strength it requires to lift a fully-loaded oil-tanker out of the sea and fly it to the oil terminal?”
George snorted. “Brawn and a nanosecond of brain power,” he said. “No, a real job is where you sit behind a desk drinking stale cups of coffee and talking to people you’d rather send to Siberia than spend another five minutes with. That requires real strength, Superman.”
“True,” agreed Clark, laughing. “But,” he continued, sobering quickly, “I have a problem. I’m not sure I could go back to the Daily Planet, after the mess I made of things there. I’m not even sure they’d want me back.”
“There are other papers, Clark.”
“Not like the Daily Planet.”
“How about the Daily Star?”
“A tabloid rag posing as a quality newspaper,” said Clark. “I couldn’t work there.”
“What would you say if I told you I’m a Daily Star reader?” said George.
“I wouldn’t believe you,” retorted Clark. “Either that, or you only read the cartoons.”
“Okay, you got me,” said George. “So, it’s the Daily Planet or nothing, is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I guess you just have to swallow your pride and head on over there, buddy.”
Clark nodded reluctantly. It was certainly true that he couldn’t continue indefinitely without a job. He’d been living off his savings for too long already, and whilst Alice and Perry had refused to accept a cent from him while he’d been living at their house, now that he was back at home, his living costs were almost back at pre-job-loss levels. Ends just weren’t going to meet before too long.
********************
Walking into the Planet was the hardest thing Clark had done for a long time. Kicking the kryptonite had been harder, but only marginally. Previously, he’d been so out of his mind at work that he really didn’t have a clue how bad his behaviour had been, especially during the last few weeks before he’d resigned. So when heads turned, or colleagues greeted him, he had no idea what was going through their minds. They were polite, of course, even cordial, but Clark knew that was no guide as to their real opinion of him. He suspected the worst.
His editor was the same – possibly worse, even. He shook Clark’s hand warmly and invited him to sit, expressed his pleasure at Clark’s obvious good health and successful return to his Superman work. All very welcoming. But for every friendly, pleasant sentence spoken, Clark felt that there were probably ten others which remained unsaid but probably contained much harsher and more difficult words.
Still, eventually the conversation wound around to Clark’s possible re-employment at the Planet. Clark wondered, ever so tentatively, if there was any chance...?
His editor was enthusiastic – the Planet would love to have him back, just as he’d intimated when Clark had handed in his resignation. The thing was, though, they’d got this new guy – Ralph, his name was. He was a bit young and inexperienced, but he was enthusiastic and keen to learn, and...well...
Not an addict, Clark supplied silently.
Ralph was no way as good as Clark had been, no way at all, his editor insisted. At his best, Clark had been as good as they came; a potential Kerth winner and possible even a Pulitzer contender. Ralph would never be as good as Clark. But the guy was here now, and his editor couldn’t very well kick him out the door just because Clark was back, now could he?
It was all so very reasonable, so...so convenient.
“I’m clean, you know,” said Clark bluntly. “Haven’t been high for weeks.”
“Really?” said his editor, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “That’s really great. Well done.”
“My therapist says there’s no reason why I shouldn’t remain clean for good, now that I’ve kicked the habit.”
“Great! So...you’re still having therapy? How often is that?”
Clark kicked himself mentally – he shouldn’t have mentioned George. At least, not until there was a glimmer of hope that he might actually get a job of any description. “Once a week. But I’m sure I could arrange evening sessions, so I wouldn’t need any time off.”
“I see. Well, that would certainly help.” His editor shifted again, pushed a few papers around his desk.
“I’ll do anything,” blurted Clark. “Part-time work, freelance...obits, even. There must be some of those that need updating.”
“Clark...you’re a senior investigative journalist. I can’t have you doing obituaries.”
“Look bad, would it?” said Clark, unable to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice. “The Daily Planet employing Superman to do the office boy’s work?”
His editor’s face blackened. “That’s not fair, Clark, and you know it. We’ve never let your other job influence our decisions here.”
Clark had his own opinions on that, but he kept them to himself. “Well, then...?” he prompted.
His editor shook his head. “No, Clark. I’m sorry, but you’re just too over-qualified to spend all day writing obituaries.” He cleared his throat. “Look, here’s what we can do. I’ll take you on as a freelance, okay? If there’s any extra work that can’t be handled by the staffers, you’ll be the first in line.”
Clark sighed. “I was hoping for something a little more secure than that.”
“It’s the best I can do,” said his editor regretfully. “You know how tight money is around here – the board won’t let me increase headcount until the balance sheet is a bit healthier. In the meantime, I’m sure there will be plenty of work we can’t handle in-house.”
Yes, and it was usually the kind of work that the in-house staff didn’t want to handle – the mundane stories which padded out the paper on a slow news day.
But recovering addicts couldn’t be choosy about the work they were offered, Clark concluded. It could be worse – he might yet be reduced to sweeping the streets or cleaning public conveniences. He wasn’t above doing any sort of work to remain employed.
*****************
George immediately put a positive spin on things – working freelance would allow Clark to ease back slowly into his old routine, while still giving him a chance to meet plenty of new people.
Well, yes, he certainly met plenty of people. Minor court officials, junior detectives, small shop owners – he met them all, interviewed them all, and wrote up their two or three paragraph stories for the centre pages of the newspaper. He was assigned a hot desk – shared with two other freelancers – situated conveniently close to the men’s lavatories, and learned more than he ever wanted to know about the bowel habits of the male newsroom population.
Still, it was work that paid the bills and kept him occupied. Life could be worse.
******************
“Lois!”
Her name exploded inside his head, expelling him forcibly from sleep. His heart was racing, his body drenched in sweat. He sat up and stared blindly into the darkness, frantically trying to get a grip on where he was and what had just happened.
He was at home. In bed. At night. He’d been asleep, dreaming...dreaming of Lois. She’d been in danger – some unseen, indescribable danger that had terrified her. He’d reached for her, but she’d disappeared as soon as he’d come close enough to touch her.
He passed a shaky hand over his face. Why now? He hadn’t consciously thought about Lois for weeks – had deliberately kept his mind elsewhere. Building up his Superman work, easing back into life at the Planet, planning the future – those were the things which had occupied his thoughts lately.
He flashed on the lead box sitting in the clinic’s medicine cabinet.
No. No, no, and no again.
He pushed himself off the bed and into his bathroom. Stripped off his sleepshorts and stepped into the shower, turning it on to full power and maximum heat. The hot needles of water danced against his skin, cleansing him of the sweat and the dangerous tendrils of his addiction. He turned his face up to the spikes of heat and let them wash away the dream.
Better. This was a minor set-back, that was all. He’d tell George and he in turn would say not to worry, these things took time.
*****************
So where was his love life in all of this? Non-existent, of course. How did you meet women when your desk was situated next to the men’s toilets, you were only in the office part-time, and anyone else you met was either an interviewee or a rescue-ee? Things did not look good on the relationship front.
However, lightning strikes when and where you least expect it, and so it was with Clark and a certain blonde-haired young woman in the DA’s office.
Their first meeting was somewhat...explosive.
“Help, Superman!”
He flew through the relevant apartment window and landed in the lounge with a thump. She was leaning up against a closed door wearing a rather anxious expression. Maybe there was even a touch of irritation in her body language?
“That was fast,” she observed.
He shrugged. “You yelled, I came. What’s the emergency?”
Her face went a little pink. She jerked her head backwards at the door. “In there. The kitchen.”
“What’s in the kitchen? Or is it who?” he added, prepared to deal firmly with whoever had frightened this attractive young woman.
“I think it’s about to blow,” she said. “You better get in there quick.”
That was enough information, he decided - if they spent any longer discussing ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was, something bad would happen. “Okay, stand well back,” he commanded.
She scampered away from the door and in he went.
BANG!!!
A metal lid came hurtling towards him, closely followed by a tide of scalding brown mush. He caught the lid but couldn’t avoid the mush, which spattered all over his suit and down his legs.
Only slightly dazed, he walked further into the room to discover the source of the brown mush bomb. A battered aluminium pan sat on the stove, hissing quietly to itself as the brown stuff dripped down the sides and burnt on contact with the hot metal.
“Are you okay?”
He turned to find her standing hesitantly at the door. “Yes, fine,” he replied. “But I think your pressure cooker is dead - or in its last throes, at any rate.”
She picked her way carefully around the brown splotches on the floor and joined him at the stove. “I think you’re right,” she said, looking down at her ex-pressure cooker. “I’m sorry, I thought there was more time before it blew.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m invulnerable to flying pan lids.”
She snatched a glance at him. “But your suit...and your hair...” She put her hand over her mouth, and for a moment he thought she was feeling queasy - until he realised she was trying not to laugh.
Well, clearly, he looked ridiculous in some way, but he was Superman, wasn’t he? Superman was above such things. “Um...maybe we should get this cleaned up,” he said, indicating the spattered kitchen.
“You do clean-up as well as exploding pans?” she said. “And there I was thinking you were just some kind of unpaid vigilante who thought he was above the law.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Above the law? Never. I uphold the law.”
She snickered. “Well, right now, you’re upholding an awful lot of chilli...especially in your hair.”
He raised a hand to his head and grimaced when he felt lumps of meat and globs of sticky liquid there. “Look, I know this is a little presumptuous, but do you think I could borrow your shower? Then I’ll help you clean this up.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
**************
And that was it. Mayson Drake was her name and she was an assistant DA. He learned fairly quickly that she didn’t think much of Superman – thought he ought to leave the upholding of the law to appropriate agencies such as the police and the FBI. That attitude made for a lot of spirited debate, which certainly broke the ice and in a weird way helped the relationship along, but best of all it meant that she wasn’t enthralled by the guy in tights and a cape. If she liked him at all, it was because he was Clark Kent, an okay-looking guy who worked part-time at the Daily Planet and came from Smallville, Kansas – not Krypton, The Universe.
Actually, he was pretty sure she thought he was more than just okay-looking. That first day, after he’d showered and changed, he got his first clue when he walked back into the kitchen to help with the clean-up operation.
“Okay, where’s your mop?” he asked.
She stared at him with an open mouth.
“What?” he asked, a little self-consciously. “Did I miss some chilli?” He ruffled his hair experimentally.
She shook her head slowly. “No...I-I thought you’d come back as him, I guess. Superman. Tights. Cape. Not that...not...you.” The ‘you’ came out rather squeakily. She cleared her throat.
He looked down at his black jeans and t-shirt. It had been a last-minute impulse to change into his own clothes – he wasn’t sure why, it had just seemed like a good idea at the time. Apparently she didn’t agree. “I’m sorry. Would you rather I changed back?”
“No!” she exclaimed quickly, making him jump. “I mean, no, you’re fine as you are,” she continued more calmly. “Absolutely one hundred percent fine. Stay just exactly as you are.” She turned around and grabbed a cloth from the sink. “Wow,” he heard her mutter under her breath.
He felt his cheeks heat up. He was pretty certain she found him attractive – and not just a little, either.
******************
George was on cloud nine when he heard. “Way to go, buddy!” he said. “She sounds great.”
She was. Clark really liked her. She was as sharp as a razor, held strong convictions – not all of which he agreed with, but enough that they could find common ground – had a good sense of humour and shared a lot of his eclectic tastes in music and movies. Not only that, but she looked pretty stunning, too. Shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair, intelligent blue eyes, fine, youthful features and generous lips.
Their relationship blossomed over the ensuing weeks. He visited her place, she came over to his, they went to movies and concerts, shared sandwiches and fruit juice in the park at lunchtime, and even played Scrabble late into the evening.
Physically, things were a little hesitant. Clark held back deliberately, not wanting to rush either Mayson or himself. He’d been in relationships at both extremes of the physical spectrum – carefully-controlled kisses and caresses for years to full-blooded sex after two or three dates – so with this one, he wanted to do it right.
She’d read the papers, of course. Knew about the sex scandals in the tabloids, was aware that he’d suffered some sort of crisis and was slowly putting his life back together again. He tried to be as honest as was comfortable with her, answering all her questions but never volunteering any information that wasn’t requested. He didn’t tell her about Lois, or time-travellers and parallel universes. Any of that would have ended the relationship in about five seconds, he figured. He did tell her about his addiction, though, and his continuing therapy – there seemed little point in trying to hide these things when they still occupied a large part of his life.
Mayson seemed to take his problems in her stride. Perhaps it was her work in the DA’s office that made her more sympathetic towards breakdown and addiction. Whatever, it didn’t appear to scare her off, to Clark’s relief. No, she was pretty understanding, in a brisk, no-nonsense sort of a way. He appreciated that – it made it easier for him to confide in her, as he did increasingly as he became more confident in the relationship.
Never Lois, though. Mayson could never know about Lois.
******************
