3. Interview

3:01 p.m. Tuesday

Eli picked up the wild, purple Mardi Gras mask he usually used for interviews — partly because he loved Mardi Gras, partly because he knew it annoyed Cabot — and slipped it on just as the door opened and an extremely nervous Arthur MacLean stepped through.

Cabot stepped out from the table and walked around to greet him, hand outstretched.  Immediately Art took note of how much bigger Doc seemed in person — well over six feet tall, with perhaps 220 pounds of muscle packed on.  His brown hair was graying at the temples and he showed signs of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but the energy he exuded still gave the impression of a man in his late 30s instead of, as he knew very well, his early 50s.  His smile was broad, and his handshake firm.

“Art, so glad you could meet with us today.  I’m Dr. Glenn Cabot, and on behalf of the Union of Unusually Gifted Heroes — “

“UUGH!” shouted Eli and Joy in unison, each with a big grin, causing Art to jump back a bit.  Their signature shout had not only become a ritual among Union members over the years, it had also led to them describing themselves as “Grunts.”

“Yes,” said Cabot with a “patiently enduring” sort of look on his face, “as I was saying, on behalf of the Union, I’d like to say how pleased we are that you would consider a career with us.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, sir,” Art managed to get out.  “Thank you for having me.”

“Not at all, not at all.  And you can just call me Doc.  We like to keep things friendly here.  Of course, you know my colleagues.  The lovely lady in the middle I am sure you will recognize as Joy Caraway, or Upper.  She usually stays seated at these meetings; men who shake her hand have a tendency to fall in love with her.”

“Oh, Glenn, knock it off,” Joy responded, shaking her head in a pseudo-disparaging way, but not denying the charge.  As always, Upper made a wonderful first impression.  Her long, blond hair, light skin and supermodel features would ordinarily give the impression of flightiness; however, something about the look in her bright blue eyes invariably convinced people in Art’s position, and correctly so, that she was far more intelligent than the typical “dumb blonde.”

“And this ridiculous fellow,” indicating toward Eli, who was by now around the table and extending his own hand, “is Conductor.  We’ll have to keep things a bit more formal with him until you officially become a member, you understand.”

“Of course,” Art said, shaking his hand furiously and trying not to gawk.  “It’s an honor.  Really.”  Conductor, very much unlike his colleagues, came across as a fun-loving attention magnet — partly because of the mask, partly because of the image he so diligently courted in the media.  He stood perhaps an inch over six feet and carried a bit of extra weight around his middle — a consequence, no doubt, of getting to “zap” from place to place instead of walking.

“The honor is ours,” Conductor responded gregariously and managing with considerable effort to get his hand back.  “Have a seat, Art.  Can we get you anything?  Water?  Coffee?  Drool bib?”

“No, thanks, I’m good,” Art responded, hoping desperately that was a joke and subtly touching the corners of his mouth just to make sure.  He sat on the edge of the indicated chair — an expensive red leather piece that looked quite comfortable and that Art’s tentative manner managed to make appear made of razor blades.

“Please, Art, relax.”  Upper’s voice was even more pleasant and soothing than Art had imagined possible, far more so than he had gathered from her appearances on TV.  “We’re friends here.  The chances of us trying to eat you are very, very slim.”

I absolutely believe it about falling for her, Art thought, smiling his best smile without even trying and sitting back a bit in his seat.

“That’s better,” she said, smiling in return.    

***

Doc cleared his throat and began what clearly was a rehearsed and oft-repeated speech.  “We try to keep first meetings like this somewhat casual.  Really we’re just trying to get to know you a bit better, and let you get to know us a bit better.  This,” patting the folder, “won’t come into play much.  Frankly, half or more of it is information we already have.  But we like to get an idea of what applicants lie about, what they brag about, what they exaggerate, and so forth.  Certainly you should feel free to ask any questions you may have, whether it’s about the application, about our work, or anything else you may feel is relevant.”

Art thought that might have been a cue for him to ask one, but Doc continued with barely a break.  “As you may know, Conductor and I are two of the three founding members of the Union.  In fact, this week marks our six-year anniversary.  I’m quite sure Conductor has something inappropriate planned.”  Cabot’s longsuffering sideways glance toward his long-time antagonist and friend was met with a quizzical expression and a shrug of the shoulders, followed by a quick wink and a smile aimed at Art after Cabot had turned his head.

“Anyway,” Doc continued, “our mission has always been threefold.  First, provide a necessary supplement to traditional law-enforcement measures — particularly here in the Houston area, but occasionally in other locations as the need arises.”

“We had to go to the Cayman Islands last year,” Joy said.  “We had some trouble getting Conductor back from that one.”

“Second, we want to continue to study the phenomenon of gifts.  What causes them?  Why are they so regional?  Are they genetic, environmental, or some combination?  These are questions that everyone at this table — and you too, I wager — would love to have answered.”

“That’s one reason we are particularly interested in you, Art,” Conductor added.  “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now the odd correlation between some Grunts’ names and their particular abilities.  My friend Joy, as you know, can make anyone happy at any time.  And Siren uses her songs to shatter walls, break bones, nice things like that.  Her given name is Melody Hu, as you are probably aware.  So, could your name have something to do with how you are able to draw with such amazing ability?  One day we hope to find out.”

“Third,” Cabot continued, “we want to provide a support group for our own members.  Quite frankly, we provide this city with an invaluable service.  In the last six years, our crime rate has plummeted, land values have jumped, jobs are being created in every sector.  We are about to become the second most populated metropolitan area in the country.  This is the place to be, Art.  And without trying to sound too arrogant about it, we deserve a lot of the credit.  And we’re not embarrassed to ask for it.

“Did you read comic books growing up, Art?  Superman, Batman, whatever?”  Art nodded.  “Ever wonder why so many of them are independently wealthy?  Because in Comic Book World, we don’t want to be bothered with mundane details like how Bruce Wayne keeps the Batmobile oiled and lubed, or how Clark Kent can afford all those shirts he rips off while living on a reporter’s salary.  We just want to see the good guys duke it out with the bad guys, right?  And, hopefully, the good guys will win.

“But in Real World, things work differently.  The first time I used my ability to stop a criminal — I detect genetic and chemical anomalies, as you probably know.  Spot cancer traces, body temperature fluctuations, that sort of thing.”

He says that like he’s claiming a talent for playing piano or something, for crying out loud, Art thought.  What in the world am I doing here?

“Anyway, the first time I used it, I pointed out a drug dealer who had murdered a police officer.  I singled him out in a crowded bus terminal based on his breathing patterns and perspiration.  And he sued me.  The creep actually sued me.   Called it an invasion of privacy.  Cost me $100,000 in legal fees defending myself.  Wiped out my medical practice.  Of course, he had all his legal services provided for free.  It’s never tough to find a lawyer to sue a doctor over bogus charges with no money down, hoping to force a settlement and take forty percent.  Don’t get me started.

“The point is, did I have a silent benefactor pay all my expenses?  Did a `tough, smart lawyer’ ride into the courthouse on a white horse to rescue me?  Did the city offer me free power for a year as compensation when I finally won?  No, all I got was my picture in the paper and a nice plaque from the mayor.  And that’s fine.  I didn’t do it for money or acclaim.  I did it because it was the right thing to do.  But the bottom line, forgive the expression, is, I couldn’t have afforded to do it again.  And I venture to say, you wouldn’t be able to do it once.  Am I right?”

Art nodded.  A hundred K.  I wonder how many toilets Dad the plumber would have to unclog to pay that bill.  

“So that’s the three corners of the triangle,” Cabot said, gesturing to the UUGH seal on the wall.  “Protection.  Research.  Encouragement.  No one else in the world can do it.  By coming together as a team, we can accomplish all three.”

“When you think about it,” Conductor added, “being a hero is an enormous emotional and physical burden.  We haven’t had a successful bank robbery in three years, a kidnapping in four; we’re down to about twenty murders a year, and that’s unheard of in a metro area of six million.  Still, there’s no lack of work.  There will always be drug deals, purse snatchings, domestic crime, and such like.  The natural impulse for a civic-minded individual such as yourself is to stay on task 24/7 until it’s all gone.  And as noble as that may be, it’s just not practical.”  He grinned.  “We haven’t yet found someone who didn’t need to sleep.”

“Think about Fly,” said Cabot, following up.  “We don’t like to talk about exactly how far his hearing can reach, but trust me — it’s a long, long way.  There’s probably a crime or potential crime within his range every minute of every day.  Imagine if he tried to stop them all.”

“That always bothered me a bit about Superman,” Art said, a little surprised he felt comfortable enough to volunteer an observation.

“Exactly,” Cabot said, smiling.  “Comic Book World versus Real World.  In Real World, we need rules.  We need guidelines.”

“We need health insurance,” Conductor quipped.

“We need a support group to fill in for us when we are sleeping, eating lunch, or having private time with family, so we can know the world won’t fall apart when we’re not looking.  We need to know we can pursue the bad guys without fear of being hung out to dry by the police if things get a bit dicey.

“We need the Union.”