it. And even if I didn’t, who’s to say I can do something like that on demand?”
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Overman is apoplectic. “Jake, whenever I’ve tried to will something to happen, it’s taken everything out of me. It’s debilitating.”
“Are you saying I’m not worth it?” Rosenfarb asks, suddenly the wounded lover.
“What do you want from me?” Overman implores.
“I want you to make sense out of this. You owe me that much.”
Why did he owe Rosenfarb anything? For reminding him in explicit detail how he was the first to enjoy Nancy’s zesty, fruit-forward vagina? For screwing him out of an easy commission by buying a Beemer instead of a Benz? For being a sore loser at tennis? It was absurd. Still, there was a part of Overman that wanted to see if he could perform in front of someone else, even if that someone happened to be the unbearable Jake Rosenfarb.
He grips the wheel tightly, staring straight ahead at the gridlocked canyon and road maintenance vehicles in the distance.
“I don’t see anything happening,” Rosenfarb shouts, practically splitting his eardrum.
Nothing is happening, much as Overman tries to “will” it. He is stone silent as they creep along at five miles an hour, Jake starting to sigh with boredom. The more Overman concentrates, the more drained he feels.
“Yeah, well, I’ve always believed that a person can’t be afraid to dream,” Jake yawns. “This dream was a dud, so sue me.”
Overman tries to conjure a clear lane to Malibu, but the car is barely inching forward.
“Why don’t we play the Celebrity Game to pass the time?” Jake suggests. “I name a celebrity I’ve worked with, you guess the type of window treatments I installed.”
“I don’t think so, Jake.”
“Morgan Fairchild. I’ll give you a hint. Not a drapes gal.”
“This is stupid.”
“Not at all. You’d be surprised how quickly the time passes. The answer is ‘vertical blinds.’ Tom Selleck.”
“I don’t know, wood mini-blinds,” one of the few window treatments Overman can identify by name.
“You are so wrong. Selleck hates blinds.”
At that moment, a siren starts blaring, giant red fire trucks suddenly appearing in Overman’s rear-view mirror. One by one, cars begin pulling over to the side of the road, the Rosenfarb BMW following suit. Then, as the two trucks pass in front of Overman, he gets back on the road behind them and within moments, the Beemer is sailing toward Malibu, hurling Rosenfarb into a sea of befuddlement.
“My God, Ira, you did it! I’ll never doubt you again.”
“There was a fire, Jake,” Overman reminds his excited passenger.
“But there wouldn’t have been one if you hadn’t willed it.”
“I didn’t will a fire.”
“Don’t be modest. The self-deprecation thing gets old.”
“Jake, why would I want to be responsible for a disaster that could cause millions of dollars in damage and potentially take the lives of innocent people?”
“Because you wanted to prove something to a friend.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Thank you, Ira. Your generosity leaves me awestruck and humbled.”
There is no turning back. No matter how many ways Overman tries to toss this off to coincidence, Rosenfarb is having none of it. There is no denying what the window man has just witnessed through his goofy, overpriced glasses, and as promised, he is going to reward his pal by buying lunch at Geoffrey’s Restaurant, one of Rita’s swanky haunts. He lets Overman know that had his claims of willpower been a crock of shit, Plan B was a fajita pita at the Malibu Jack-in-the-Box, Dutch treat. But the man behind the wheel, the long shot on whom Rosenfarb had doubled down, had delivered the goods and deserved to be recognized.
It is a balmy, sun-drenched afternoon, the perfect day to be sitting out on Geoffrey’s patio overlooking the Pacific. Awash in his friend’s lunacy, Overman decides to immediately stick it to Rosenfarb with a double Belvedere martini, coupled with their priciest ahi tuna appetizer. While waiting, he guzzles down two glasses of bottled water to replenish the fluids he burned up in his efforts to will the car through the canyon.
Rosenfarb can’t bring himself to eat, drink or even order. He is lost in thought. “So who are you?” he asks his friend.
“What do you mean? You know who I am,” Overman spits back.
“I know your alias,” Rosenfarb continues. “But who are you really?
Overman can’t abide this idiocy. “Can we speak English, Jake? What are you talking about?”
As the waiter places the martini in front of Overman, the window man explains.
“Bruce Wayne was Batman. Clark Kent was Superman. Menachem Schneerson was Moshiach according to many people. Who are you?”
“Let me get this straight. You think I’m some kind of superhero who’s been disguising himself as a failure for fifty-five years just to fool people?”
“Do or do you not own a cape?” Rosenfarb asks, with McCarthy-like precision.
“Why? You think I can fly?” Overman laughs.
“That wasn’t my question. Batman wears a cape, but he can’t fly.”
“Then what’s the point of the cape?” Overman wants to know.
“He wears a cape because he’s Batman and he wants to look like a bat,” Rosenfarb explains.
“But bats fly. If his name’s Batman, he should fly.”
“Batman doesn’t fly. He dresses like a bat and uses powerful gadgets, end of story.” Rosenfarb is starting to get mad. As a child, Jake collected comic books and was considered the neighborhood expert on all creatures super and fantastic. A person could name any superhero and Rosenfarb would bark out the character’s assumed identity, followed by a precise description of his or her powers.
“I’m trying to help define you,” Jake tells Overman as the ahi arrives, decoratively presented on crisp, greaseless wontons. “We need to know where you fit in the scheme of things so we can figure out your next move.” On a historical note, he informs Overman that he is not the first Jewish superhero to arrive on the scene. Ira is pre-dated by a character named Atom Smasher, real name Al Rothstein, Blue Jay, AKA Jay Abrams, and Wiccan, the esteemed William “Billy” Kaplan.
“Can I bring up one small point?” Overman interjects.
Rosenfarb nods, picking at his friend’s ahi.
“These superheroes that you know so much about? They’re fictional characters.”
“So?”
“So I’m not a superhero. I’m a regular guy whose luck has changed.”
Rosenfarb decides that this would be the ideal time to educate Overman on Jungian archetypes and how his new powers are modern incarnations of previous human experience. As he launches into a pretentious discourse on Celtic mythology and its contemporary equivalents, Overman’s eyes glaze over. He can’t help but wonder why, if Rosenfarb knows so goddamned much, he is installing blinds for a living.
Rosenfarb can tell from Overman’s bored facial expression that he isn’t making much headway with Joseph Campbell so he switches to a more brass tacks approach.
“Here’s the bottom line, Ira. Superman could do a whole lot of great shit, but he had enemies who hated