The Indestructible Man Read Online Free
Author: William Jablonsky
glanced at Cindy, then at Bobby, raising a greasy black eyebrow. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “I’ll leave you two alone.” He looked Cindy up and down, flashed Bobby a thumbs-up, and headed for the bar.
“Feeling better now?”
“I guess so,” Bobby said, beads of sweat gathering on his brow. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” Cindy said. “I figured you had your reasons.”
“It’d take too long to explain.”
She hugged his thick neck. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“Thanks,” Bobby said, too surprised to say more. He smiled nervously and began to wheel himself toward the door. “ G’night .”
“Not so fast,” she said. “You came for a beer, so stay and have one with me.”
They drank all night, and after Brooks and Cindy’s friends left she wheeled him back to his apartment, where they talked until well past two. He liked the sound of her voice, and kept her talking about herself. She worked as a receptionist in a podiatrist’s office; was obsessed with blueberry pancakes; her favorite color was purple; she had a cat but wanted a basset hound once she had a house; she’d once had sex in an old mausoleum. When she tired of talking, she leaned over and kissed him, then helped him into bed and took off his clothes. After a bit of fumbling she straddled him and took control, and it was better than Bobby had ever imagined.
When they finished he was sweaty and tired and his hips ached, but he barely noticed. For the moment, at least, Romulus Wayne’s hollow grin had stopped haunting him, and as the sleepy numbness washed over him he could not shake the suspicion that his life had just changed for the better.
In the morning Cindy had to work, so she threw on her clothes without showering and ran out after a quick peck on the lips. After she left he was bored, and wheeled himself down to the corner newsstand for a paper, which he bought only for the TV listings. As he flipped through the pages an insert fell out onto the sidewalk. He left it to the breeze; those glossy ads were wastebasket filler at best.
“Hey,” a man’s voice called out. “Pick that up.”
He was about to tell the man to piss off when he noticed the police car alongside the curb, the driver glaring sternly at him.
“Better get that before I have to cite you,” the officer said.
“Fine,” Bobby said. The glossy paper was blowing away in the breeze, and he barely trapped it with his right wheel before it blew off the curb.
“That’s more like it,” the officer said, and drove away.
“Asshole,” Bobby said when the policeman was out of earshot. As he was about to rip it up he glanced at the ad: a glossy two-page still of Romulus in free-fall from a plane, smiling like a game show host, the All-American slogan in white block letters across the bottom. Romulus seemed to stare directly at him. “Leave me the hell alone, will you?” Bobby said, then crumpled the ad and tossed it in a waste bin.
Bobby might have been satisfied crumpling Romulus in effigy if he hadn’t become so inescapable. One night, “The Indestructible Man” Romulus Wayne was a featured guest on the Late, Late, Late Show . Bobby cringed at the super-heroic name; any competent mugger or bank robber would simply toss Romulus aside and get on with his business.
He needed to turn off the TV, call Cindy, go for a beer with Brooks. Instead he turned up the volume and leaned toward the TV in his wheelchair, his face no more than a foot from the screen.
When the host announced him, Romulus emerged from behind the curtain, clad in a black turtleneck and olive corduroys. He stood still, staring nervously at the audience, who began to laugh. A few seconds later a huge wooden crate dropped from the rafters onto his head, knocking him to the ground with a thud so sickening that some audience members screamed and several
“Feeling better now?”
“I guess so,” Bobby said, beads of sweat gathering on his brow. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” Cindy said. “I figured you had your reasons.”
“It’d take too long to explain.”
She hugged his thick neck. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“Thanks,” Bobby said, too surprised to say more. He smiled nervously and began to wheel himself toward the door. “ G’night .”
“Not so fast,” she said. “You came for a beer, so stay and have one with me.”
They drank all night, and after Brooks and Cindy’s friends left she wheeled him back to his apartment, where they talked until well past two. He liked the sound of her voice, and kept her talking about herself. She worked as a receptionist in a podiatrist’s office; was obsessed with blueberry pancakes; her favorite color was purple; she had a cat but wanted a basset hound once she had a house; she’d once had sex in an old mausoleum. When she tired of talking, she leaned over and kissed him, then helped him into bed and took off his clothes. After a bit of fumbling she straddled him and took control, and it was better than Bobby had ever imagined.
When they finished he was sweaty and tired and his hips ached, but he barely noticed. For the moment, at least, Romulus Wayne’s hollow grin had stopped haunting him, and as the sleepy numbness washed over him he could not shake the suspicion that his life had just changed for the better.
In the morning Cindy had to work, so she threw on her clothes without showering and ran out after a quick peck on the lips. After she left he was bored, and wheeled himself down to the corner newsstand for a paper, which he bought only for the TV listings. As he flipped through the pages an insert fell out onto the sidewalk. He left it to the breeze; those glossy ads were wastebasket filler at best.
“Hey,” a man’s voice called out. “Pick that up.”
He was about to tell the man to piss off when he noticed the police car alongside the curb, the driver glaring sternly at him.
“Better get that before I have to cite you,” the officer said.
“Fine,” Bobby said. The glossy paper was blowing away in the breeze, and he barely trapped it with his right wheel before it blew off the curb.
“That’s more like it,” the officer said, and drove away.
“Asshole,” Bobby said when the policeman was out of earshot. As he was about to rip it up he glanced at the ad: a glossy two-page still of Romulus in free-fall from a plane, smiling like a game show host, the All-American slogan in white block letters across the bottom. Romulus seemed to stare directly at him. “Leave me the hell alone, will you?” Bobby said, then crumpled the ad and tossed it in a waste bin.
Bobby might have been satisfied crumpling Romulus in effigy if he hadn’t become so inescapable. One night, “The Indestructible Man” Romulus Wayne was a featured guest on the Late, Late, Late Show . Bobby cringed at the super-heroic name; any competent mugger or bank robber would simply toss Romulus aside and get on with his business.
He needed to turn off the TV, call Cindy, go for a beer with Brooks. Instead he turned up the volume and leaned toward the TV in his wheelchair, his face no more than a foot from the screen.
When the host announced him, Romulus emerged from behind the curtain, clad in a black turtleneck and olive corduroys. He stood still, staring nervously at the audience, who began to laugh. A few seconds later a huge wooden crate dropped from the rafters onto his head, knocking him to the ground with a thud so sickening that some audience members screamed and several
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