Chapter 2: Don’t be Scared to Search . . . . Time Rolls Back the Shadows of Your Mind

Then a larger thought said, “Stop your crying.
Don’t be scared to search, ‘cause you may find
Fate holds out a candle for your footsteps,
Time rolls back the shadows of your mind.”
--“We Can Make the Morning”

****

The next day, I woke early and went through my morning routine with care, trying to wipe away all thoughts of the previous day. My shirt and suit were fortunately wrinkle-free, and I chose one of my tamer ties to complete the ensemble after passing up a few of my favorite—but “nontraditional”—ties. I had quite a tie collection, though I usually just wore ties on Sundays. Now, however, maybe I would get an opportunity to show off my eclectic collection more frequently. As I smoothed down the tie I had chosen, I thought about the person who had given it to me.

I’d had a crush on Lana Lang for my first few years of high school. But when we had finally started dating, her controlling side had come to the fore, and she had insisted I do a lot of things I didn’t want to do—such as add ties that weren’t “so crazy” to my collection. Though her attempts at control had irked me at the time, in hindsight I was glad for her tie demands at least, and I sent a mental “thanks” in the direction of Kansas or wherever it was she’d finally ended up. We’d lost touch after breaking up the summer following our senior year, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I heard one day that she’d become some big-time CEO. That woman had been made to be someone’s boss—just not mine.

I got out my shoe polish and shined my shoes, feeling anal-retentive but wanting to be meticulous. Shoes so shiny you could see your face in them weren’t something that could make or break a job interview—but they would certainly make me feel better.

When I was done, my eyes rested on my glasses, and—for a reason probably based more on procrastination than whimsy or leanings toward obsessive compulsiveness—I grabbed them. After I finished cleaning the lenses, there was only one thing left.

Inhaling deeply, I walked to the sink and picked up my white locket from the counter. Clutching its chain in my hand, I went and sat on the bed. Then I placed the chain around my neck.

****

An hour and a half later, I was slowly eating a bowl of cereal and thinking about my upcoming interview. I usually couldn’t handle normal breakfast foods like bacon and eggs in the morning, as they made me queasy, but cereal always worked well enough. As I ate, however, I kept my eye fixed on my watch. If I was late for my interview, any sliver of a chance I might have had in being hired by the Daily Planet would surely disappear.

When I was ready to leave, I called a taxi cab and grabbed my portfolio. After climbing into the back seat, I began thinking about what the newspaper building and interview were going to be like. I could feel butterflies fluttering in my stomach . . . or perhaps it was fish swimming in there. Well, whether or not there were actually live creatures twisting my innards, my nervousness was obvious to my chatty cab driver, who tried his best to make me more relaxed by providing me with a constant flow of mostly one-sided conversation.

When the taxi finally arrived at the Daily Planet, I paid and tipped the well-meaning driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the building. As I stared upward at the great globe, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation. I’d seen the symbol on the front page of the newspaper many times, but being here, staring up at it while the life of Metropolis pulsed around me, really drove home the reality of it to me. I was standing right by the headquarters of one of the greatest newspapers in the world. And I had a chance to be a part of it.

Citizens of Metropolis shuffled around me, going about their daily lives, unconcerned with the strange person standing in the middle of the sidewalk and hampering the flow of foot traffic. Though I knew I might be annoying people nearby, I just kept staring at that globe. I wanted it to be a part of my life. I couldn’t really explain why, but something about it beckoned me. Something about it whispered, “Home.”

I finally forced my feet forward and passed through the revolving doors of that great metropolitan newspaper. After speaking to someone at the front desk and getting directions, I went to the elevator and began my ascent to the newsroom, trying to remain composed. But once I had taken my first few steps out of the elevator, I couldn’t help but pause again.

The room was a flurry of activity. Couriers raced around, people typed frantically at their keyboards, reporters picked up faxes . . . . Everyone had a job, a duty, a purpose. This was what I wanted—what I’d needed for so long. There was no doubt in my mind.

My gaze took in the whole newsroom as I reveled in this sense of belonging. Finally, my eyes stopped on an office across the room. That must belong to the Editor-in-Chief, I thought. My breath caught in my throat. I was finally going to meet the legendary Perry White.

My knees felt like rubber, but I stood straighter and moved forward with determination. I would not be afraid. I would be confident.

I knocked on the door to Perry White’s office, and he barked, “Come in!”

My confidence flew out the window like a startled crow, and I was hit by a wave of anxiety . . . . So much for not being afraid.

I had heard of Perry White’s great accomplishments, but never much about the man himself. What if he were a vicious tyrant who enjoyed eating wannabe reporters like me for breakfast? What would I do if he took one look at me and told me to hit the road?

After straightening my tie, I took in a deep breath and told myself I was being ridiculous. My mental reprimand was so convincing I almost believed it. Shaky, I tucked my portfolio under my left arm and used my free hand to open the door, praying this interview would go well and wouldn’t end up with me being served as dog food.

The Planet’s Chief Editor was busy reading something and didn’t look up when I came in, so I waited uneasily for a few seconds.

At last, not knowing if he would ever acknowledge my presence if I remained silent, I ventured, “Mr. White?”

He lifted his head, and I saw the dawn of realization in his eyes as he looked at me and then at the portfolio I was holding.

“Ah, you must be Kent,” he commented with a Southern accent and a tone much kinder than the one he had used when shouting for me to enter.

Gazing briefly around his office to learn a little about him, I noticed a picture of Elvis on the wall. I wondered idly if he was just a big fan or if he was also from Tennessee. His accent would certainly support both. Looking around a bit more, I also saw an Elvis clock—the legs of which were moving back and forth like the tail of one of those Kit-Cat clocks that had once been found everywhere. The movement wasn’t quite like the King’s gyrations, but it was close enough, I supposed.

Mr. White set down the piece of paper he was holding and stood. He started to hold his hand out to shake mine but thought better of it and instead gestured toward a chair. “Please, take a seat.”

I sat and clutched my portfolio a little tighter to myself. “Yes, sir.”

“I talked to Professor Carlton about you,” he commented as he returned to his chair. “He was singing your praises as loudly as a robin in the springtime.”

I gave a small smile. Professor Carlton had been an amazing teacher, and I still stayed in contact with him. He was the only reason I’d gotten this interview in the first place. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I would have ever tried to get hired by the Planet without his encouragement—even if it had been a dream of mine.

The Planet’s Editor-in-Chief picked up a piece of paper from his desk and held it in the air. Looking at it, I realized it was the résumé I had faxed him from Smallville. He shook it gently and remarked, “It says here you were the editor of the Smallville Press. That’s in, uh . . . ”

“Kansas,” I supplied quietly.

“Right. Kansas.” He scanned my résumé, but I had a feeling he was doing it just for show. I was certain he knew what he thought of it already. My suspicions were just further confirmed when he set it down and gave a preoccupied sigh. “Kent, I must confess I’m a bit concerned—and not just about your résumé.”

I nodded and steeled myself, readying the speech I’d prepared.

He gave me a hard look. “Now, Professor Carlton told me that you’re suffering from—”

“Aphephobia,” I offered feebly.

“Right. You don’t like to touch people.”

I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

I opened my mouth to give him my spiel, but he continued: “Now, son, you have to understand that in a business like this, not touching people could be—well, it could be potentially fatal to either a human being or your career . . . . Do you, uh—do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” I said quickly, reaching inside myself for that elusive confidence. “But I want you to know, Mr. White, I’ll never let my fear interfere with my job. If I’m in a situation where contact is absolutely necessary, I can touch someone else. It—it isn’t that I’m incapable of doing it . . . . I have my reasons for not liking to touch people, and all I ask is that people who know me respect my wishes, sir.” I sat a little straighter and tried to act more self confident. “But I can assure you, Mr. White, that if I learn the President of the United States wants to shake my hand, I won’t refuse him.”

Mr. White smiled at that. “Your example’s a little ambitious, don’t you think, Kent?”

I gave him a tentative grin and ventured, “Just hopeful, sir.”

He laughed and shook his head. But when his eyes returned to me, he frowned. “You aren’t sick, are you, son? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”

I swallowed, disturbed that he had picked up on my paleness. “No, sir. I’m not sick.”

The Editor-in-Chief gave me a skeptical look and then grunted, “Glad to hear that.”

My eyes fell on the portfolio in my lap, and I stood and handed it to him, muttering, “I, uh—I brought a portfolio with some examples of my work . . . . ”

“Ah, good, good,” he remarked as he opened the folder. He flipped through its contents with a practiced eye. He hadn’t reviewed much when one of his eyebrows began to lift and my high hopes began to plummet.

Finally, the newsroom legend commented, “Professor Carlton said you had intended to do a lot of traveling but never got around to it.”

“Yes, sir,” I confirmed. I hesitated before explaining a little further, “I had . . . personal reasons for staying closer to home.”

He nodded absently, and I wasn’t even sure if he’d heard what I said, for his eyes had moved back to the folder. At last, he looked up from my portfolio and stared straight at me. “From what I can tell, your writing’s not bad, Kent, but I generally don’t even consider someone with this kind of résumé.”

“I understand,” I murmured, dropping my eyes to the floor. It had been worth a try, at least. My mind immediately turned toward what I was going to do next, but my thoughts were scattered all over the place like birds in a flock dodging a thrown rock. I had no idea where to go from here, and I felt overwhelmed.

Mr. White, sensing my preoccupation, cleared his throat. “That having been said, I trust Professor Carlton.”

My eyes shot up to his face. I didn’t even dare to breathe.

“But what’s more—he’s calling on a favor I owe him. You’ll find that’s what half of the newspaper business is about—calling in favors . . . . Now, I’m going to hire you on a temporary basis, Kent. You prove yourself, and you’ll be brought on as a real employee. Just don’t disappoint me.” He smiled and stood.

I got to my feet. I was pretty sure I was beaming at him. “I won’t, sir.”

“Work starts tomorrow, Kent,” he told me gruffly. He moved once again to shake my hand but again snatched it back. “Uh, sorry, Kent . . . . It’ll take a while to get used to this.”

“That’s okay, sir,” I said in a quiet voice, hoping for the sake of my career that there wouldn’t be too many instances of his wanting to shake my hand—I had the feeling he would get annoyed with me fast if that were the case.

He waved his hand in the air. “Please—enough with all this ‘sir’ business. Call me ‘Chief’—or ‘Perry.’ Everyone else here does.”

“Yes, sir,” I responded automatically. Wincing at the slip, I told him, “Sorry . . . . Thank you for everything. I promise you won’t regret this.”

He made some sort of dismissive grunt and returned to whatever it was he had been doing before I’d entered his office.

I opened the door and began to walk out when someone barreled into me. I stepped backward in surprise, and the person who’d run into me fell to the floor.

Chagrined, I moved to help the person—a woman—get to her feet, but then I quickly realized what I was doing and stopped. “S-sorry,” I mumbled.

She glared at me and picked herself up off the ground with more dignity than seemed possible, given the awkwardness of the situation.

I moved out of the doorway and to the side so she could bypass me, and her annoyance was almost tangible as she brushed past me and shut herself in the small room with the Chief Editor. I could hear her demand, “Who was that guy?”

Wincing, I walked away from the door, not wanting to eavesdrop. Still, I couldn’t help but turn around and stare into the office at the animated woman inside.

I wasn’t sure who she was, but she was beautiful.

Though I wasn’t able to hear her words, I could see the fire in her eyes and her motions. Whenever she jerked her head, her brown hair did this amazing bouncing thing and then fell right back into place. Her brown eyes were like pools a man could easily fall into, but her gray suit was of the “no-nonsense” and “business only” sort which would make many men wary of pursuing her.

Yes, she was beautiful. And she was professional. And she was furious . . . with me.

I shook my head and reflected, It’s just my luck to make an enemy at the paper before even being permanently hired.

Trying to ground myself, I put my hand on the lump that was my locket. I stifled a sigh and walked into the elevator. Pressing the button for the ground floor, I tried to focus on what had just happened before my run-in with that spitfire of a woman.

I had been hired—albeit temporarily—by the Planet. My dream was looking as if it could become a reality. Seek, and ye shall find, I thought to myself with a smile.

After I exited the elevator, I walked outside the Daily Planet and stared up at the globe once more. I was looking forward to seeing it every day.

My spirits high, I decided I would just walk around the city for a while until I found a place that seemed good for lunch. After that, I would return to my hotel room and call my folks. They were probably upset that I hadn’t talked to them the night before, and they would be waiting anxiously to hear from me.

I stopped at a crosswalk behind a mass of people waiting for the walk signal. The signal came on, and most of the people in the group sped ahead and crossed the street. Lost in thought, I trailed several yards behind an older woman with an armful of shopping bags and a mother pushing a stroller.

It was fortunate my professor had had such a connection, I reflected. Maybe it was unfortunate that I hadn’t been hired on my own merits, but I would prove myself in time and make certain the Planet’s Chief Editor never regretted taking me on. At least, I hoped I would be able to prove myself. That was my goal, anyway.

I heard a noise and turned my head. A bus was rushing toward the two women and the stroller, apparently unable to stop.

“Run!” I shouted. The two women turned their heads and looked at the bus with deer-in-the-headlight expressions. The older woman dropped her groceries, and the mother clenched her stroller tighter. Both of them tried to run out of the way.

But they weren’t able to make it in time. The bus hit them straight on. I was helpless to stop it.

Moments after impact, I was yelling at the horrified onlookers, “Somebody call 911!”

As I ran toward the two women and the child, I briefly turned my gaze to look at the bus. It continued with its forward motion and showed no sign of slowing. But I couldn’t do anything to stop its path of destruction—not as I was.

One look at the baby was all it took for me to know he wasn’t alive. Feeling sickened, I next turned my attention to the pair of adults. The mother had been killed when the bus hit her, but the other woman was miraculously still alive.

I knelt beside the older woman, gently holding her hand and keeping my fingers on her wrist, praying she would survive. She was so badly hurt that I didn’t know what to do. With the man I’d helped the night before, it had seemed so simple: keep blood from coming out of his chest wound. But with her . . . I could do nothing. I was no paramedic. All I could offer was my presence, such as it was.

She opened her eyes and gave me a weak smile. “Thank you for . . . trying to save us,” she whispered. Her lashes fluttered briefly, and then her eyelids dropped.

Her pulse should have been throbbing beneath my fingers, but it was only a dull trickle. Looking at my watch and trying to count, I realized it was getting slower and slower. She was fading fast. Her breathing was getting ragged.

Though I was in the middle of the road and traffic was backing up and the horns of clueless drivers were blaring angrily, I stayed where I was. I waited with the woman until the emergency forces arrived too late to be of any real assistance.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed before I finally made it back to my hotel. After stumbling into the room, I went to the toilet and vomited.

****

That night, I readied myself to call my parents. I didn’t feel like talking to anybody, but I knew they would be worried about me.

After I called collect on the payphone, I waited for someone to answer and steeled myself for the inevitable barrage of questions. I loved my parents, but I sometimes wished they weren’t so concerned about me—it made it hard when I didn’t want to tell them things. Still, they meant well, and in the end I usually felt better after talking with them.

A familiar voice soon answered, “Hello?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Clark!” she exclaimed. I could hear her say away from the receiver, “Jonathan, get on the phone! It’s Clark!” Then she returned to the telephone. “Clark, how are you doing? Did you get to Metropolis okay? We were worried when we didn’t hear from you yesterday.”

“I got to Metropolis fine,” I assured her. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday—something came up . . . . I’m, uh, I’m calling from my hotel now.”

“How is your hotel room?” Mom asked. I could almost hear the wince in her voice.

“It’s—well . . . ”

Dad had picked up the phone, and he prompted, “It’s a dump, isn’t it?”

I smiled at his perception. “I guess that’s what you expected?”

“We’ve been to Metropolis before, Clark,” Mom pointed out. “We know how expensive it is there.”

“Well, I was thinking earlier that I was glad you couldn’t see it, Mom.”

“So, how was your interview, son?” Dad asked.

I plopped onto the couch with a sigh. “Well, I’ve only been hired on a temporary basis until I prove myself—but that’s a start, right?”

“That’s wonderful, Clark!” my mom exclaimed.

“I’m sure you’ll prove yourself soon enough,” commented Dad. “In the meantime, you could probably use some money. I’m going to wire you some cash.”

“Dad—that’s okay. I’ve saved up a bit of money. And before long, I’ll have a paycheck.” I was trying to sound excited—and really, I was glad to have a shot about being a permanent member of the Daily Planet—but I was drained by the events of the day. Mostly, I kept seeing that bus and replaying the scene in my mind.

“Clark, are you okay?” Mom pressed. “You sound tired.”

Of course, she would pick up on that. “Well, I am tired,” I admitted. “It’s been kind of a long night. Well, a long couple of nights.”

Sounding concerned, Dad asked, “What happened, son?”

I hesitated. I hadn’t been sure whether or not I would tell them about what had happened after I arrived in Metropolis, but maybe it was better that I not leave them completely in the dark. “Yesterday, I saved a man’s life—at least, I think I did. I’m not sure if the hospital was able to help him or not.”

“What do you mean, Clark?” Mom questioned. I could see her worried expression in my mind’s eye.

“A man was shot, and I called the ambulance for him . . . . ”

Dad prompted, “And?”

“And I had to touch him to stop his bleeding,” I sighed. “I was scared—but he was going to die for sure if I didn’t do anything.”

“Honey, there is nothing to be scared of.”

“Yes, Mom, there is,” I said firmly.

Mom protested, “Clark, you know I’m glad you decided not to go encase yourself in a fortress in Antarctica, but—”

“I’m tired,” I broke in. I knew if we talked for much longer I would be telling them about what had happened with that bus after my interview—and that was something I didn’t feel ready for. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”

“All right, son,” Dad said, sounding reluctant. “But I’m going to wire you some cash tomorrow.”

I hesitated. “Dad . . . Thanks.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll pay you back—I promise.”

“Good night, Clark,” Mom said quietly.

“Thanks. I love you guys.”

“And we love you,” Mom returned.

After hanging up the phone, I pulled my shirt over my head. My parents were too perceptive sometimes.

But I hadn’t been lying when I’d told them I was tired. Fatigue seemed to be dripping out of my bones.

I still kept thinking of that bus, of how maybe I could have stopped it . . . and of how those broken bodies had been lying there in the middle of the road.

A shadow was hanging over me. It was suffocating me, pressing in on me. I didn’t know if I would ever shed it. Time should have been on my side in that regard—but what if more bad things just kept happening? How would I be able to erase or surpass the darkness?

When I finally slipped into bed and then into sleep, the nightmares returned in full force.