The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Six LIV

Chapter Six

L IV

“Well, I keep a gratitude journal, and I review it every night before I go to sleep. Today’s entry will be all about perspective. What happened here has given me a healthy dose of much-needed perspective,” I explain.

One of the first responders offered us Mylar blankets. Most of us have wrapped ourselves in them, despite the pleasant temps. The layer of protection feels comforting, even though we look like we all just failed at running a marathon.

“From your perspective, what happened?” Detective Gemelli is nicely appointed in a plaid sport coat, a starched oxford, and chinos. His curly salt-and-pepper hair is well groomed, and he has tiny white lines around his eyes from where he must have spent time squinting (or smiling) in the sun. He pulls a small notepad and a stubby pencil out of his blazer pocket—so old school—but of course the historian in me likes this detail.

I tell him, “My perspective is that I’ve been afraid of all the wrong things. I’ve been so scared, to disappoint my family, to come across as rude when I go places like the grocery store, that I allowed myself to be pushed around. And I’ve been so afraid at work, too anxious about making waves to assert myself. But today has been a gift. I’ve been shown what I actually should fear in this world. And, of course, I have to appreciate that no one’s hurt. In a way, it’s like I’ve snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, like when John Paul Jones—you probably know him best as the father of the American Navy—captured the Serapis during the Battle of Flamborough Head. But only metaphorically.”

Detective Gemelli glances up from his pad. “Ohhh-kaaaay, so would you describe the alleged perp’s build as medium or—”

I didn’t want what happened today, but I needed it. This was a blessing in disguise. “Are you familiar with the Tudor home on Green Bay designed by Harvey L. Page? It was built right at the turn of the nineteenth century.”

The detective makes a note. “Is that where you think the perp went?”

“No, no, I have loved that house my entire life. The pitched roof? The gables? The half-timbering? To die for. Anyway, that house is why I developed an interest in selling real estate, because it meant I could go to historical properties like that every day. And guess what? I worked my tail off, and I finally got the chance to list that place. You see, I’ve been sending the owner little things here and there for almost a decade, trying to cultivate a relationship. Like two years ago when I found an antique book that described some of the home’s original details. So I included a note saying, ‘I ran across this about your house and I thought you’d find it fascinating.’ And guess what?”

The detective rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m guessing it has nothing to do with the attempted robbery?”

“No, and I’m really sorry, but I have to get this out because it feels like an epiphany,” I say.

A cute paramedic with spiky hair and the name Washington embroidered on his uniform approaches. “Is she okay?” he asks, gesturing toward me with his chin.

“Stick around a minute, Washington. She might be in shock,” Gemelli replies.

The day I got that listing was the best day of my life, so I naturally recall every detail. “The homeowner called while I was in the Bloomingdale’s fitting room. I was standing there half in and half out of a swimsuit because I was going to Miami for the weekend. It was a Miraclesuit, and those can be difficult to pull on because the Lycra’s so minimizing. A lot of times you have to size up, but I didn’t know that. Anyway, the phone rang and I always answer the phone, even if I think it’s a telemarketer, because you never know. Success is built on showing up, right? The suit had an asymmetrical single shoulder strap, which I was iffy about because of tan—”

The detective closes his notebook and I take that as my cue to move it along. “It was the lady who owned my dream listing. She called me . She said she and her husband were thinking about selling because the winters were just getting so hard and they have grandkids in Arizona, and ... I can see by your expression that part’s not important. I’m sorry, it’s been quite the morning.”

“I bet the Arizona part’s important to her grandkids,” Washington offers.

“You know what? You’re right, thank you. It really is all about the clients for me,” I reply. “Anyway, I forgot about my trip to Miami, and instead I went to the appointment over the weekend. When I got to the home, I was feeling confident because I knew everything there was to know about both the house and the neighborhood.”

“What school district?” Washington asks.

“Dewey.”

Washington nods with approval. “Nice. Fully renovated?”

“Better,” I gush. “Complete restoration, all the original fittings, including the leaded glass. Just fabulous.” I glance at the detective and quickly press on. “Short of it is, I nailed the appointment. While I was there, I asked the owner, ‘How many agents have you met with?’ and she tells me, ‘Three so far, but I tell you what, I know I don’t need to meet the fourth.’”

Washington raises his hand, poised to give me a high five. “And you got the listing?”

“I did.” We smack our palms with a resounding clap, and the noise makes Vishnu yelp. “Whoops, sorry!” I say. He nods, wrapping the Mylar tighter around his shoulders.

I continue. “And I thought, Finally, I’m getting a big listing; all that time selling condos and bungalows has paid off. I’d tried so hard to get a foothold in the luxury market, but I’d lacked the confidence, and this was my calling card, my way in.”

Mr. Washington cheers, but I have to stop him. “Let’s not celebrate too hard. You don’t know what happened next. I got the listing because I knew my stuff, and I was on cloud nine, just so ecstatic. Then I got back to the office and told everyone, and Jase, he’s one of the brokers—”

“That the big Viking douchebag on all the billboards?” Washington asks.

“One of them, yes. He just muscled his way in on the listing. He said I wasn’t ready to handle such a big sale on my own.”

“Is that a usual thing?” Washington asks.

“Unfortunately, yes. So, I managed the staging and I created all the marketing material and I was there for every showing. I mean, I was the one who came up with the Gatsby-themed broker’s open house. It was featured in North Shore magazine! It was me who negotiated the deal, getting the seller multiple offers at a price well over asking. It was all best-case scenario, and I proved that I could do it all myself. Yet Jase insisted on splitting the commission because it’s his name on the brokerage. Somehow, on the listing I’d cultivated for years, he convinced me that he should get 75 percent of the commission, so I got only 25 percent when it closed. And everyone congratulated him for his hard work.”

“That’s outrageous,” Detective Gemelli says, now firmly on my team.

“Exactly,” I say. “And that’s the perspective I’ve gained. I treated the thing with Jase like it was life and death because I’d never actually been in a life-and-death situation before. But today, ta-da! Perspective. I feel like going forward, I could be less afraid to claim what’s mine.” I swear I am going to march back into my office and demand to take the lead on that Arts and Crafts–style house on Sheridan.

“You know what?” Gemelli says. “I’m glad something good came out of this.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “It means a lot to me that you said that. Also, I just remembered that the robber was wearing suede Golden Goose sneakers, if that helps.”

“Nice taste. I’ll make a note of it,” he says.

A heavyset uniformed officer with a bushy mustache and real “Da Bears” vibe gestures to Gemelli. His badge says R. Bonaparte . “You talk to Darby yet?” That must be the LuluMom’s name. “You’ve gotta hear her tell the story; she took that guy all the way downtown. Boom, baby!”

We join the rest of the group seated at one of the long community tables by the front window. Officer Bonaparte waves a meaty paw at Darby and says, “This witness says she took him on entirely alone. But surely one of youse guys helped.”

B-Money, Michael, and Vishnu are all in various stages of distress, despondency, and dispassion. But no one seems more bummed than Emily. Action Emily would have had him hog-tied in two shakes, and then we’d all have gone out for body shots to celebrate. I guess I’m not surprised that she froze, but I hope she finds a way to forgive herself.

Bonaparte raises an eyebrow and none can meet his gaze. Darby is completely composed, so much so that she’s actually retouching her lipstick. The pale plum-colored gloss really suits her complexion. As Officer Bonaparte bags the busted Stanley mug, he looks at Darby with admiration. “What the hell are they teaching you ladies in Zumba these days?”

Darby lets out a musical laugh and says, “Zumba? Please. I didn’t learn any of that at the gym. Absolutely not. I’ve been training with Zeus at Fearless Inc.”

“What’s a Zeus?” Michael asks.

“What’s a Fearless Inc.?” Gemelli adds.

Darby laughs again, showing off her square white teeth. She definitely grew up in a household with fluoridated water. “Only the best coaching program ever! Zeus showed me how to improve every aspect of my life, my physical, mental, and spiritual acuity. He taught me to channel my fear and turn it into action. You should talk to him; he was here with me earlier; he may have seen something on his way out. I mean, you should talk to him regardless because he is ah- may -zing. He took me from a regular old stay-at-home mom to someone who can kick ass on demand.”

Huh. Fearless Inc. actually sounds interesting. There are a million places trying to sell this kind of real estate coaching, but those programs always struck me as silly and not genuine. But this one may actually have some value.

“It’s like she turned into Wonder Woman without even changing into a superhero costume,” Vishnu adds. “I was so grateful. We are all so grateful. Here,” he says to B-Money. “Let us show them what she did. You have to have seen it to believe it.”

Vishnu mimes hitting B-Money with a cup. B-Money does an exaggerated stagger around the room. Then Vishnu pretends to beat him with the stroller, first the windup and then the massive bat. B-Money crumples to the floor and convulses, pretending to die. Even the reenactment is kind of amazing, only reinforcing my new perspective that today should be a turning point for me.

“Kick ass on demand? Mission accomplished, I’d say,” says Bonaparte.

“It was very impressive,” Vishnu adds, returning to his seat. “Meanwhile, I may need to buy new pants.”

“I can give you the name of my guy,” Michael offers. “Yours look like they came from Costco.”

“That is my favorite store!” Vishnu exclaims. “They gave me a very fair deal on snow tires.”

Michael grimaces. “Pro tip. Don’t buy your trousers in the same place you purchase your automotive supplies.”

Vishnu nods dutifully. “I will make note of that, thank you.”

“Let’s circle back to the incident,” Bonaparte says.

Darby tucks a few loose strands of honey-colored hair into her high pony. Her daughter is on her lap, chewing on a slice of the shop’s grain-free banana bread. Spoiler alert: it’s dreadful.

“Once I had Hazel here, I knew I had to protect her at any cost. I never want to be a ‘victim,’” she says, making air quotes with elegant, tapered fingers accented with the popular square-tip glazed-donut mani. “Standing around after the fact, wrapped in a shiny safety blanket like a baked potato. No thank you.”

“Don’t nobody want to feel like a victim,” Bonaparte agrees.

As Darby and Bonaparte speak, Emily shucks off her Mylar blanket, growing agitated. Out of nowhere, she says, “I protected a pod of minke whales from poachers in the Southern Ocean.”

Bonaparte blinks at Emily, unsure what to do with this non sequitur. The whole table is quiet. (It’s a little cringey.) Finally, B-Money says, “Poached whale sounds delicious. Served up with a side of baked potato? Damn, son, crime makes me hungry.”

“No!” Emily snaps. “The point was keeping them alive.”

No one says anything, and the only sounds are the hiss of the espresso machine and the quiet droning of the other uniformed officer’s radio as he dusts for fingerprints. “We were off the coast of Antarctica,” Emily adds. Her cheeks are flushed, her pupils dilated. I haven’t seen her this agitated since Michigan lost to Notre Dame in 2012. For the rest of the fall, out of nowhere she’d shout, “Fucking turnovers!” because she couldn’t let the game go.

Bonaparte blinks.

“It was very cold.” Emily’s aggravation is growing. I’m not sure what she’s trying to get at, but I admit it’s nice seeing her passionate. Before Brazil, she was a force to be reckoned with, but she hasn’t had that spark in years. Honestly, I’d have been surprised if she had turned into Action Emily. It’s like that part of her is dead and gone.

Now, I’ve heard that officers will often remain quiet while interrogating a criminal (I’m true crime podcast obsessed, thank you) because the guilty will sometimes be so uncomfortable, they’ll fill the silence with what amounts to an admission. But what does Emily have to admit? Regardless, words keep coming out of her mouth. Emily clenches her jaw. “We weren’t even wearing wetsuits.”

Is this a “fucking turnover” moment, I wonder?

There’s another pregnant pause before Bonaparte returns his attention to Darby. “Anyway, how’d you hear about this Zeus fella?”

Darby flicks her wrist toward the bulletin board. “A flyer a lot like that one. I found it at Total Foodstuffs about a year ago.” Of course, Total Foodstuffs. The Fearless Inc. flyer has little Contact Us strips with the phone number at the bottom. “I almost didn’t because who doesn’t use QR codes these days? But something made me tear one off and here I am, a crime fighter, a hero. Does anything feel better than saving the day?”

Emily’s hands are balled into fists, her knuckles white. In a low, vaguely menacing voice, she says, “They sprayed me with water cannons.”

Yes. Yes, it is a “fucking turnover” moment. Uh oh.

“The whales?” Darby asks.

“No! The fishermen. But I soldiered on for a just cause,” Emily replies. “I know a little bit about being a hero too.”

“Guess it’s a shame the perp had a gun and not a harpoon. Maybe then you coulda helped,” Bonaparte offers. He’s trying to be nice, trying to include her, but I know her well enough to immediately recognize that was the wrong thing for him to say.

Emily glowers at the officer.

Washington comes over and does a double take when he sees Emily. “Hey, I met you earlier today with the shower fall. You have had a day, haven’t you? Lady, I don’t know how to say this, but I think you might be kind of a shit magnet, like trouble follows you.”

Emily gives him a half smile. “That is one of the nicest things anyone’s said to me in a long time.”

See? Perspective.

When I get back to the office, the place has devolved. I shouldn’t have left the boys without adult supervision. I don’t know why they’re here and not out on appointments, or hustling for listings.

Trevor and the other agents are tossing around a Nerf football, which hits me square in the solar plexus, but I’m so deep in thought that I barely register it and the ball falls to my feet.

Today has been so eye opening in so many ways. I feel that we were spared somehow and that I can’t let the opportunity go to waste. Like this was my sign that I need to make some changes. I’m not sure how it should look, but I am sure that I need to alter my path. First things first, I feel ready to fight for my Arts and Crafts listing right now.

“Where are Chase and Jase?” I ask, looking at their darkened offices. I want to take advantage of this adrenaline rush and reclaim what’s mine while I have the guts.

“Spain,” Jackie replies.

Damn. I may not have the courage if I have to wait for them to return. Should I call? Or email? Or would it be better to do on Teams? What about Zoom? If they could see the determined look on my face right now—

“Yo, boss lady?” Trevor says.

I snap out of my fog. “I’m sorry, yes?”

Trevor points to the Nerf. “Little help?”

I paste on a smile, because I always want to appear professional, and I pick up the ball. But Trevor must notice that something is amiss because he approaches me, sitting down on the corner of my desk. “You okay?”

I’m quick to dismiss his concerns. “Yes, of course.”

“Really?” he presses. “’Cause you look like ass.”

I find myself telling him all about the robbery, and I’m pleased to note that he listens intently. There may just be hope for him yet. I explain, “Ultimately, everyone’s fine, but it was scary.”

“Dude, that sucks.”

I’m encouraged by his rare flash of empathy. If he can develop that, really home in on his people skills, he may have a future as an agent after all. “Thank you, Trevor. It did suck.” He tentatively places a palm on my shoulder, awkwardly attempting to comfort me. You know what? It feels good to be seen, to be heard, to be—

He says, “So I guess the robber stole our drinks?”

That’s it.

That’s my moment of Zen.

That’s when I tuck the Nerf into my tote bag and march out of the office. On the street, I stuff the ball into the nearest garbage can before driving back to Brew and Chew. When I enter, I pass the few members of law enforcement still milling around and head directly to the bulletin board to stare at the flyer for Fearless Inc.

Are you tired of being afraid?

Do phobias prevent you from living your best life?

Does your inability to say no make you miserable?

Is your fear of success keeping you stuck?

Then call Zeus at Fearless Inc. and learn to master every aspect of your life!

You know what, Zeus? I’m ready. It’s time.

I tear off a strip, and it takes me a moment to realize that while the bottom of the paper was full just a few hours ago, now half of them are already gone.