That was how I first spotted the homeless man pawing through a steel trash bin, his tattered duster whipping violently around his calves…on a wind-free night. He glanced up as my headlights arched over his graffiti-tagged domain, a giant rat reclining on two legs, beady eyes following my vehicle until the possibility of danger had passed.
Two minutes later, as I turned onto an unpaved shortcut, another vagrant appeared—dressed similarly, no less—and half scuttled, half walked toward my racing vehicle, gazing right at me through the window as I passed. I trailed him in the rearview mirror, wondering at the way he followed my path into the middle of the road and just stood in the dust, watching as I sped away.
I didn’t see the figure in front of me until it was too late. Tires squealed, the windshield cracked with a sonic boom, and a body careened over my roof, thumping and wheeling overhead before disappearing into the inky night. Tumbleweeds scraped my doors like fingernails, rocks battered the tires and underside of my car, and I spun twice, carving dizzying whorls into the dry desert bed before miraculously coming to a rest without flipping.
The pitch of night—complete on this barren desert side street—couldn’t mask the smell of burning rubber, or the ragged sound of my breath breaking in sharp spurts from my lungs. It took a moment to get oriented again, but when I did I found myself facing the direction I’d come. In the background were the circus lights of the Strip.
In the foreground was a man crumpled on the desert floor.
I began to shake. Then, before shock could set in, I began to move. Grabbing my cell phone, I pushed from the car, the screech of door against bramble arching in the air like a lonely cry for help. My headlights illuminated the person I’d hit, but it seemed to take me forever to run on jellied limbs and slide to a crouch beside him.
I don’t know how I recognized him, perhaps it was the long coat, but even before I reached the crumpled figure I knew I’d find that beggar. The one I’d already seen. Twice.
Multiple smells hit me at once. Pungent body odor, the man surely hadn’t washed for weeks; vomit, sour and smelling of the bottle; and something greasy, whether his hair or clothes or the dinner he might have unearthed from that trash bin, I didn’t know. There was another scent too, one I couldn’t name. I knew only that it was him, and I tried to ignore the voice in my mind telling me there was no way he should be here. That it was impossible. That I’d left him miles back in the dark.
His face was turned away from the beam of my headlights, and a wiry beard kept me from seeing if a pulse beat in his neck, but his limp limbs were turned in impossible angles and gruesome directions. It didn’t look like an ambulance would be necessary. Shaking, I touched his skin for a pulse. I had just killed a human being.
His head rocked, eyes opened wide, and he screeched in my face. I fell backward, gasping, and quickly scrambled out of reach. His cry hadn’t been one of pain. It even sounded joyous, like he’d made some sort of discovery. It sounded, in fact, like he’d cried, “Eureka!”
He hollered again, this time drawing out the syllables, and I couldn’t tell whether he was laughing or crying, but that twisted, mutilated body began to shake. “Eu–re–kaaaa!”
I reached for the cell phone I’d dropped, but was stopped by the man’s voice; throaty, strong, and surprisingly authoritative. “Don’t touch that phone!”
“I—I’m just going to call an ambulance.”
“Don’t need no ambulance.”
I pushed the emergency button. “You need a doctor.”
He just looked at me and grinned, still sprawled on the gravel like some beat-up and forgotten doll. I waited for a dial tone, the emergency operator, for anything that would connect me to someone who could help, but the phone had gone dead. It must have broken when I’d dropped it.
I looked at the vagrant and knew I couldn’t move him, but I couldn’t leave him there either. I’d never leave someone else helpless and vulnerable, alone in the desert. “I’m going to drive my car over, and we’ll find a way to get you in, okay?”
“No, no. I’m a quick healer,” he said, and just like that the leg beneath him straightened with an audibly sickening pop. “See?”
I didn’t. I thought I might vomit, but I didn’t see. “Let me get my car anyway.”
Ignoring his protests, I jogged back to the car and slipped into the seat. Then I pulled alongside the man, who was now, amazingly, sitting up, and—careful not to bean him in the head—pushed open the passenger door to view him through the other side.
“Told you I heal quickly,” he said, waving at me with a hand that was broken just above the wrist. The torque of the movement was nauseating, but not as much as the way he suddenly jerked the arm upward, snapping it back in place. We both stared at the arm, poised midair. Then he gave me a little finger wave, grinning. “Bet you can’t do that.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. The wrist, obviously healed and fully functioning, appeared as good as new. That’s when I realized the dusty ground, the man, and even my car, were as dry as they’d been before the accident. There were no body fluids or blood; no urine released as battered muscles convulsed then went lax with injury. I glanced from the wrist into clear eyes that watched me intently, corners crinkled in a knowing smile.
“Uh…”
Stepping from the car, I watched from over the hood as he slowly straightened. He was still bent at the waist, but he’d been stooped like that back beneath the underpass and appeared otherwise fine. Which brought me back to my original question. How had he gotten here?
“How—How…” It was about as much as I could manage, and I had to settle for the truncated version. “How?”
“I told you. Quick healer. Like you.” And he began to walk away.
I put my hand to my cheek, where he’d pointed. It was the one Ben had touched, the one that had been bruised and tender. I frowned. The soreness was gone.
“Sir, come back.” I rushed to catch up. “What’s your name?”
He doubled over instantly and began to laugh; maniacal, breathless spasms rocking his body back and forth while tears streamed over his grimy cheeks. I looked around to see what was so funny, and came pretty quickly to the conclusion it was me. His laughter broke off into wracking coughs, and he bent over, hacking away. I pounded on his back, trying to help.
“You ever read comic books?” he asked, straightening suddenly, all signs of ill health vanishing with the movement.
I wiped my hand on my pants. “You mean like Donald Duck?”
“I mean like Superman, Wonder Woman…Elektra.” He said this last word with all the panache of a seasoned lounge act, fingers splayed in the air with theatrical introduction.
“No.” This whole conversation was getting stranger by the moment. I took a step back, muttering to myself, “What do I look like? An adolescent boy with cystic acne and bondage fantasies?”
“Not fantasies,” he said, overhearing me. “History. Research. The truth multiplied by the collective consciousness equals fact stranger than fiction.” He began chuckling again.
“Sorry?”
“I’m a superhero!” he announced, raising his arms like a competitor in Mr. Olympia. “Hero to the superheroes. Command leader of Zodiac troop 175, division of anti-evil, La-as Vegas!”
After what I considered an amazingly brief period, I closed my gaping mouth. I even formed words. “I really think you should get in the car, sir. I’ll pay for an exam.”
“You’re sweet,” he announced to the desert, grabbing my arm. “So sweet. So good. One of the good guys. Like me.”
Yeah, I thought. Just like you. “Ah, look. At least let me take you to the shelter. They’ll give you food. You’ll have a place to stay for the night.”