Batman Part 1

“They” are building a subway in L.A. now. I started this as “We are,” but 𝘐 am not part of “We” which is continuing the transformation of L.A. from a cowboy town of some true charm and character, into a slick paradigm for how the Moon City will look when we’re done destroying our once-engaging planet. The Red Line will be a minimalist traffic jam for Millennials “heading out” to somewhere. The Red Line is going to be reliable because L.A. roads no longer go the same way twice. Which is fine, you can’t park when you get there anyway. The Red Line has not thought about parking.

The Red Line is the one you want to take from Hollywood Boulevard to Downtown. In fact, last night Barri, a ukulele player who writes novels, said that it will be the best way to get Downtown today.

So the other day (mask and gloves in place) I sojourned to the subway construction in Hollywood, looking for Kale the Green Giant, a fan’s favorite who hangs out around Grauman’s Chinese Theater. He passes out thick green smoothies, nutrition guides, and cards for his yoga class. His leaves are pure silk. But when I got there, it seemed like his shift is over.

Suddenly I see Batman. He’s parked his gleaming Batmobile right on the Boulevard, of course, providing distraction from the minimalist panels of shutdown stores and cafés. He’s come out from an open nail salon. He regards the perfectly polished, deep chrome, pen-point spurs jutting from the frame of his wings. There is a cloak fluttering behind each shoulder. The polish is perfect—he lifts his pointed brows like arrows on his alert jet black ears.

“I’ve seen you before,” I tell Batman. His body suit is a thing of mobility, sleek as my editor’s Porsche.

“Green drink?” he says.

“Not interested,” I say.

“No problem.” He lifts one brow. Does not smile.

Sullen guys are alluring, dedicated as they are to the roles they’re playing. I am glad he does not talk. I like watching unsuitable men. He pulls up the long sloping back of the SUV, revealing a smaller shape, covered with a night-sky velvet case which reveals the interior vehicle; snake eyes for a windshield. The original Swarovski! He pushes another button: The Batmobile—YES!—moves out as the case folds away and the car says, “STEP ASIDE.”

Wings rise. These are true bat wings. This is no customary ride. I take my seat. (One does not say “No” to Batman.)

“FASTEN SEATBELT.” The mobile delivers a gleaming belt. A helmet with small wings pops up, commands “PRESS BUTTON ON LEFT.” A mask flips up, clicks into the helmet. (Perhaps I’ve time traveled? I’ll be late for dinner. But then, my dinner guests are used to Breaking News.)

“SHALL WE HAVE A FLIGHT?” The car has a chilly British voice. Did he play Phantom of the Opera? Has he had a rough time getting work lately? Will he sing “The Music of the Night”?

Batman clips on a blue-black mask. Nods.

“Thank you,” I say. So not all bats are trouble. The top of the Batmobile folds back like my grandmother's convertible, and a pole shoots up. Batman is shifting buttons—the spinner whirls out on top, and with a jolt we are airborne!

“This is REAL!” I say (but I peer above my mask and scan the skies for other bats.) Maybe this episode was pre-recorded to keep us safe. I see no bats, but love the rush of speed, the dash of three-dimensional distance. The touch of fear. I am in The Batmobile Top-Down! And Batman is singing behind his mask. As he moves around in his body suit, I see mighty muscles; his haunches prowling like Brando’s in the short Marc Anthony’s Toga, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 get-off image of my first twenty years.

The squinted windows now are hooded by a sort of iPhone thing he points at each one, turning it empty, fast and slick as you turn off your TV. The seats lower way back now. I’m seeing as I lie next to him, bodies of ultramarine light; this may not be so simple. Maybe this “Batcopter” will fly me off to wherever Batman lives. Wasn’t it a rather grand Manhattan apartment, upper Eastside? Cuomo cut the curse way down. I’ll like that. But am I really what Batman wants? I mean the Hollywood stories and so on. Be still, I tell myself looking up into those eyes. Pretend this is some wild dream. Dreams do go like this, don’t they? He’s cool of course. He’s another kind of a bat I guess. A cool customer, like Joan Didion. Cool is fine by me. It is/was/has been/once was where I lived. The night is hot. He is kissing me! But these lips are mine; oh, did I ever dare to consider a kiss again. Do not think in that direction—his hands are silky smooth as French kid gloves. The seat has spiraled! I am flying under him, my legs wrapped up under his wings. They are true wings and I have to keep my shins down low enough not to bruise the center core, from which the wings do spring. When, I want to ask him, did you decide to be what you are? To play yourself? And when you go back to New York, do you undo the wings and become the elegant bachelor again? How does it really go? Do NOT think, Do NOT distract him. He’s no kid. Men need you to be still, to concentrate on the energy they crave to bring it off wild, and, well, I do send those rays to him; he cries out; the wings flap over me and I’m grateful—I lie still and hold my legs soft and steady around him.

“And…now,” he says, quiet, “and now,” yes. Now. And this is different indeed, for as he caresses me with wise authority, I see it truly is night outside. I have lost all time, all that I call reality. His wings lift high; the seat belts pop free! He grasps me firm to his gut, gripping me with his arms. I lift off. We fly up together into that comic strip dark blue universe, winging high over a baffled planet, slowly gazing up at us as we fly through the Universe. Taking Off is what this is. Do not ask if we can do this forever.

As we whirl around the Crescent of the Moon, I see They were Wrong; the Moon is not always round; and now we are looping through Saturn’s rings, all framed, all riding to the supreme of galactic silence.

“Ah Padre,” he says to Jupiter as we turn, lowering now, down, down, down…can I bear this to end?

“I cannot lose you, too.” Do not say this aloud. (I do not want my husband’s soul to hear any of this.)

Batman folds his wings closed now, the spinner slows as we lower back into the top-down car. The skylight closes. He strokes my face. He rises, returns to his costume as I dress. Then he taps his iPhone and the windows go light. I put my watch on. I’ve only been here five minutes! It felt like a week of midnights. He gives me a look of gentle satisfaction, easy to return. Do not overwhelm the elegance of this exchange.

“I must meet my friend–for the subway,” I say.

“I’ve shown you everywhere I know,” he says.

We walk to the front of Grauman’s. He is suddenly gone. My friend Barri is here.

“Where were you?” She’s frowning.

“I was just casing the footprints at Grauman’s.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been here over five minutes.”

“Sorry,” I shrug.

“And what the hell is that on your shoulders?”

“What?” I felt nothing—but I lifted my hands; soft light fabric. Black.

“You’re wearing a cloak? Where did you get that?”

“Gift from Batman,” I wink.

“Yeah,” Barri frowns. “Sure, come on—we’ll be late.”

We walk down the steps to the subway. The plain grey walls are already crumbling.

“We’re taking the Red Line,” she says.

“Oh good.”

An announcement voice declares, “THIS TRAIN IS THE BLUE LINE.”

Then it announces “THE NEXT TRAIN WILL BE THE RED LINE.”

We get on it. Are told “THIS IS THE PURPLE LINE.”

We get off at the next stop to wait for the actual Red Line.

“You can’t ever get where you want in L.A.,” Barri says.

“Not exactly.” I touch the cloak. “But there are lots of places you never knew you wanted to go.”