The Saturday of the Marvel Reunion arrived. I couldn’t argue the right words with Daryl to make him go to his half hour bicycle at the gym. My Daryl hates to exercise and I tell him he must at least four times a week. His doctor told him he has to exercise too, but my willful husband’s biology is programmed to not exercise at all, especially on a day he has such a matter ahead as The Marvel Reunion. In the morning, my words to encourage him to go to the gym weren’t enough and ended in a discussion in the afternoon. We decided not go anymore, the Reunion the cause of his anguish. Daryl cried he didn’t have a job to compete with his old colleagues.
Daryl you don’t have a paying job, but we have a job—our book to sell to the market. You know damn well our book’s worth. We’re looking for an agent. It was easier to write the book than have an agent to represent my work, but we know it isn’t impossible to have an agent, I said over and over for him to calm down and focus his energy on the importance of our work together while I massaged his feet. I gave Daryl a cup of chamomile. He calmed and got strength he needed to not give up going to the Marvel Reunion at seven. I chose a black shirt we bought at Banana Republic last year when we could afford to buy our last clothing, and chose jeans I gave him at the time I worked for Mr. Z, an agent of garments from Brazil, but, but, the pant legs are four inches way too long for the hero’s size. Patiently, I told him that it was nice if I turned the cuff.
The pants have a nice green wash, baby, I said. It will be very nice like this.
Excuse me, he said harshly like a hero baby. He didn’t want to look like an idiot. O heaven, how does he not know his power? I’m in front of a god, master of the universe, and he wonders what the society of Earth will think of his stupid pants; but the fashion, my Daryl, is you who make your own. You look too handsome. Let’s go, amore.
We left home on Battery Park at six-thirty. I was going to a meeting of master heroes who made America as wife of one of those heroes, and then I panicked. I never had any idea my whole life in Brazil that I would ever some day be in The Secret Marvel Reunion, but I was there last Saturday June 6 at Legends Bar on Thirty-Third Street between Broadway and Fifth Avenue.
We dismissed our cab, and Daryl took the address from his pocket, read the address, and sweat came out of his face. You know what…, he said reading tremulous the tiny paper.
There is no number six on this block, you’ll see.
What’re you saying, Daryl? They gave you the wrong address only for the pleasure of mocking you?
I don’t know, there's no number six. You’ll see.
But we must walk past a few more buildings at least until number ten to make sure your colleagues would do such a thing, Daryl, then I'll cry with you because who would do such a horrible thing to you? I asked. He accepted my suggestion and the Legends bar with a giant number 6 was the next building a few more steps ahead. I sighed, thank goodness the secret meeting of the masters of the universe was a reality!
Now, Daryl and I agreed that we didn’t want to be the first to hang there waiting, and we two scared to be the first hanging there passed the bar to disguise whatever…, but Tom DeFalco was hanging there first, standing next to the bar in a glad conversation with other fellows of the Marvel Universe from the seventies, and Daryl and I agreed that walking to the end of the block to Broadway and coming back was enough for our time disguise.
In the bar finally, Steve Buccellato, the organizer of the secret heroes meeting warmly greeted us, gave us our identification. I shook hands with Don Hudson, and after, we walked downstairs to the party.
To find out that the other heroes already at The Secret Marvel Reunion were sweaty too; what were those heroes guilty of? But those heroes had also aged and matured, and I who came from Brazil to be here at the sacred moment of The Marvel Reunion heard only sweet words to me and my Daryl, the same from us to them, words of good wishes, felt warm hugs. The masters have compassion. They love. They forgave themselves and others for the childishness of their young age. And the masters talked peaceful; strange they said how they feel to be there after so many years, but happy to see each other after so long, a beer in the hand. Cheers!
Regina, I should have apologized to Evan Skolnick. I was a jerk to him.
Daryl don’t worry. He will know you’re sorry for whatever bad you did to him last century.
Regina, I should have taken more pictures.
I know, amore...
Klaus Janson & me
with Rick Parker
Rob Tokar & me
with Rodney Ramos
Don Hudson & me--He's tall!