Short Story: The Diary Of A Superhero

Short Story: The Diary Of A Superhero

I’ve written a few extravagant lies on my résumé in the past:

That I could speak fluent French and German, landing me the slot at a European conference in Istanbul as the world’s worst interpreter.

That I actually cared for the elderly - a blatant lie whereby I found myself cleaning up what I hope was chocolate pudding from behind the back of a radiator in a residential home.

I even omitted the fact that I smoke and once described myself as ‘merely enjoying the occasional drink’. And this we all know is complete and utter bullshit.

However, I do not for a second remember submitting a CV which said that I was superwoman, that I could miraculously be in two places at the same time or that I could survive for over a week without sleep. These things my employer must have invented all by themselves.

‘We would like you to be waving a gun and pointing it at the audience,’ she announced.

‘Excuse me?’

‘It will make it look more realistic, like you’re really from Charlie’s Angels.’

‘But I’m not from Charlie’s Angels...I’m a Kindergarten teacher.’

‘Do you have anything which resembles a gun at home that you could bring to dress rehearsal on Thursday?’

No, I don’t have a gun, but I’m thinking about making an investment. And I don’t know who I’m going to shoot first, myself or this stupid Taiwanese fashion show director to whom I’ve been donated by my company as a real-life Western Barbie doll. Maybe I can take us both out at once, along with entire Hess management team. Charlie’s Angels style.

She rummages around in this musty carrier bag she’s been holding and pulls out what can only be described as a ten year old’s negligee.

‘Perhaps this will fit,’ she mutters as she holds it up against my body, pulling my arms around like I’m some sort of puppet.

‘I told you, I’m a Kindergarten teacher. I don’t own a gun, nor do I wear underwear to company banquets.’

She looks at me.

I look at her.

She’s still looking at me.

She hasn’t blinked for over a minute now.

I think I could poke her in the eye and still her expression wouldn’t budge.

I’m still looking at her, because I don’t want to surrender and end up wearing the negligee.

She’s still looking.

So am I.

This is Asia, so this staring business could just go on forever.

I give up.

I’m teaching Junior High in fifteen minutes and since I genuinely don’t possess any of those superhero powers such as the ability to fly or transport myself to the other side of Taichung in rush hour traffic, I’m going to be late.

I’ve been up since 6am. I didn’t see the sunrise through all the pollution, nor did I spot the hundreds of ninja school kids who jumped out from the skies when the bus arrived and stole every available seat on the vehicle smaller than my wardrobe. Every day I try and figure out their hiding spot so that I can beat them. I’ve narrowed it down to the roof of 7/11. They launch themselves over my head before I’ve even seen the bus coming, and I get stuck standing next to the creepy old women who stroke my face or the sweaty teenager who takes photos of me on his iphone.

On the days I wear sunglasses, people think I’m a superstar. Anyone with blonde hair is Cameron Diaz. Wear sandals and a khaki pair of shorts and you were in Tomb Raider.

‘Are you from that movie?’

‘What, do you mean Charlie’s Angel’s: The Hess Employee Massacre? Then yes, yes I am.’

My contract says nothing about unpaid fashion shows to entertain our Taiwanese co-workers, nor does it say anything about babysitting one year olds, an hour and a half drive into the country side, but yes, I’m doing it. Three members of staff have suddenly ‘fallen ill’ within the past two months. This is the Mandarin translation into English of ‘they went fucking insane.’ And if it wasn’t for the fact that I was already crazy to begin with, I too would have succumbed to this mysterious Hess disease. The one which takes ordinarily bubbly, happy young English teachers, sabotaging their social lives and sacrificing their souls.

By the time I reach my bed at midnight, I’ve been sexually harassed on the bus by someone’s grandma, force-fed a bogie from a two year old, had a Junior High kid tell me he was going to stick a firework in my vagina and asked by a co-worker if I enjoyed my thirty-third birthday.

I’m 23.

I need sleep.

I close my eyes.

My phone rings.

It’s midnight.

‘So, did you manage to pick up a gun?’

‘Thankfully, for your sake, no, no I didn’t. But don’t worry, I didn’t have time today to eat lunch, go to the bathroom or change my snot covered clothes either.’

‘Oh, right, well please do get on to it. And can you tell your housemate, she needs to lose her glasses, it’s just not very...fashionable.’

‘But she needs them to see...’

‘Right, right, so you’ll tell her, right? Oh and by the way, Pete has called in sick, can you sub his lunchtime class tomorrow?’

Pete has ‘called in sick’. We all know what this means.

I guess that’s one less person to have to put out of their misery when I finally get round to buying this gun.

I’m thinking of attaching this to my resignation letter, which I will be sending as soon as I return from my vacation in China (I need my Taiwanese employment Visa to enter Beijing). There are five other English schools along my road, and I’m pretty sure they don’t require me to turn up to work in my underwear or fight rampant grannies to get there.

If you happen to be the kind of person who lies about being a superhero on your résumé, please apply to Hess. They find it 100 percent plausible that their staff can teleport themselves through time, be available twenty-four hours a day and double-up as weapon-wielding pornstars.

There are currently several positions available. Superman was driven to a nervous break- down, the A Team are in rehab and Wonder Woman is receiving counselling for unduly inflicted stress.

Good Luck.