Chapter 3: Soon, a Thousand Dreams will Start
Soon, a thousand dreams will start,
And romance will fill your heart.
--“My Desert Serenade”
****
The next day, I left the Hotel Apollo early and walked to work. The weather was pleasant, and there were a lot of demons chasing through my head that I wanted to clear out. Mostly, I wanted to forget the dreams I’d had.
My walk did me a lot of good, just as I’d hoped, but before I arrived at the Daily Planet, I found my attention drawn to something. There was a commotion around some rubble that had once been a building, and after a brief moment of hesitation, I decided to investigate.
Evidently, the building was a theater which was supposed to be demolished that day—but while the job had been started, it hadn’t been completed. Everything had come to a standstill, and there was an utter lack of energy surrounding the place. There were a lot of people limply holding signs protesting the destruction of the theater, and construction workers were standing around and looking solemn instead of actually working.
As I moved closer to the rubble, I heard someone crying, and I turned and saw an elderly woman with tears flowing freely down her face.
“Are you okay?” I asked her in a soft voice. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but my heart went out to her.
“No,” she whispered, trembling. “Someone heard screams after—after the wrecking ball . . . slammed into the theater.” She took in a deep breath, trying to calm herself, but the tears kept falling as she continued, “The—the construction workers stopped, and someone ran inside, but . . . Oh!” She wiped the moisture off her face with her hand and tucked her chin into her chest.
I waited, wishing I could embrace her, but knowing I couldn’t. So instead I just looked at her sympathetically, helplessly. One sentence kept running through my mind like a strange mantra: There are so many tragedies in Metropolis.
She finally began talking again. “Bea—her name was Beatrice, but we always called her Bea—was buried beneath the rubble. I don’t—I don’t know why she was . . . inside . . . . I guess maybe she was . . . t-trying to save goodbye to the theater, but . . . ”
“Has someone called an ambulance?” I asked uneasily.
“We’re waiting for it, but . . . but I’m certain she is dead.” That started a fresh bout of crying. “Oh, Bea loved the theater . . . . She—she wouldn’t have m-minded dying with it. . . . But surely it—it wasn’t necessary for her to d—well . . . ”
I wished I had a handkerchief—wished I knew some way to comfort her. But there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t bring her friend back to life. Just like I couldn’t bring those people the bus had killed back to life.
Feeling helpless, I asked her a few more questions, and she began to brighten up a little as she told me about Beatrice’s life. It didn’t take long for it to become clear that Beatrice had been an amazing woman. My thoughts and prayers went to her, but it sounded to me as if she had probably gone to a better place . . . . But not even that could make me feel less somber. Death was always hard to take.
“Beatrice sounds like she was a wonderful person,” I said to the woman softly. I paused for a second and then ventured, “I’m a reporter for the Daily Planet. Do you—would you mind if I tried to write a story about Beatrice?”
The idea seemed to cheer her a little, and she told me, “I would enjoy it very much if her story could be told to the world. It—it would have made her smile.”
Giving the woman a sad smile of my own, I took down her contact information and asked a few more questions. Then I told her, “Thank you.”
She shook her head. “No. Thank you for helping me recall all those wonderful memories.”
I told her goodbye before glancing at the pile of rubble one more time. Then, after talking briefly to a few more people, I left to go to work.
****
When I got into the newsroom, I stood in front of the elevator for about two minutes. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do—somehow, I didn’t think Perry White would want a rookie in his office asking to be shown all the ropes. But I couldn’t exactly jump into the water without knowing where the water was.
My salvation quickly came in the form of a young man with dark hair who must have honed in on my hesitation.
“C.K., right?” he ventured as he approached with some papers in hand.
“Clark Kent, yes,” I returned, hoping I didn’t look too nervous.
“Ah—I thought that was what it was, but I wasn’t sure if Perry meant something like ‘Clermon Kent’ instead. You don’t generally see ‘Clark’ as a first name . . . . Perry told me Ferdinand’s name wrong one time, and I spent weeks calling him ‘Frank.’ When I was finally corrected, I had to listen to weeks of lame jokes like ‘To be Frank, Jimmy, how would I do that?’” He laughed. “So, uh, I guess that’s why I prefer to be cautious now.”
I smiled in understanding. “You’re right that ‘Clark’ usually isn’t a first name—it was actually my mother’s maiden name.”
“Well, you can call me ‘Jimmy Olsen,’” he noted with a grin. “There’s nothing unusual about my name. I’m just good ol’ Jimmy.”
“You can call me ‘C.K.’ if you’d like,” I offered.
“Thanks, C.K.,” he returned, looking pleased. “I think I will. The Chief told me to look out for you and show you around a bit. So, just come with me, and I’ll give you the grand tour.”
I gladly followed him on the short and roundabout journey to my desk as he pointed out a few things about the newsroom. Fortunately, it wasn’t a complicated setup (there were different sections, just like in the newspaper, such as Sports, Entertainment, and Society), and there were no cubicles, so there wasn’t a need for him to walk me around the whole newsroom for me to get an understanding of where things were.
He stopped his tour for a moment and informed me, “I got a few office supplies from the closet for you.” He pointed in the direction of the supply closet. “I know it can be a little overwhelming when you first get here . . . . It’s not exactly a welcoming pan of baked goods, but I guess it’s the newsroom equivalent.”
A mental image popped in my head of an apron-clad Jimmy approaching me with a pan lined with Post-Its and staplers, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Thanks.”
“No problem, C.K.” He stopped in front of my desk. “Here it is.”
I rested my gaze on my new workstation. The desk had already been outfitted with a computer and phone, and there was also a Daily Planet mug with some pens and pencils in it. The drawers probably held a few more of the office supplies Jimmy had mentioned. But even without all those items, it just felt good to look at that desk and know it was mine.
Jimmy opened the top drawer and brought out an envelope, which he set on my desk. “This has your username and password for the computer in it, along with things like contact information. It’s a sort of newbie info packet.”
“Thank you,” I said, looking down at the object.
He reached inside the drawer and brought out something else. “This is your work beeper—custom issue for high-level Planet reporters and low-level gophers like me.” He grinned and set the item on the desk.
From the sound of it, Mr. White must have made frequent use of Jimmy’s pager. “Guess that means I’ll be able to contact you if I need to?” I ventured.
He nodded and lifted a qualifying finger. “Just don’t abuse your grunt privileges. My pager has been known to occasionally find its way underneath a pile of sound-muffling pillows.”
I smiled. “I’ll remember that.”
“That’s my desk over there if you need anything,” he informed me, nodding in the direction of his own workstation. “The Chief gave it to me two months ago. I used to be just a copy boy—and I still mostly do legwork—but I’ve helped Lois Lane out a lot, and I’m slowly making my way up in the world. I know my way around a computer, so if you ever need anything that requires a little, uh, ‘creative’ computer work, just ask.”
I took the pager and pocketed it. “Thanks again, Jimmy.”
“No problem, C.K.”
“Jimmy!” shouted a voice that sounded suspiciously like a rampaging Perry White’s.
Jimmy grimaced. “Sorry—I’ve got to go. The Chief bellows.” And then he scampered off as fast as he could without actually running.
I watched his departure with a small smile before moving to take off my jacket and sit at my desk. I remained motionless for a few seconds, just allowing myself to enjoy the heady feeling of being a reporter for the best newspaper on earth. It was hard to believe I was finally here like this . . . . True, the position wasn’t yet permanent, but hopefully it would be soon. My dreams were on the cusp of becoming a reality.
Feeling more cheerful than I had all day, I picked up my “newbie info packet” and scanned the relevant bits. When I was done, I logged in to my computer. I knew it probably wouldn’t be too long before I was assigned a museum opening piece or something similarly unexciting, so I wanted to jot down as much as I could about Beatrice and the Sarah Bernhardt Theater while I had the time. I had about a paragraph and a half done when someone came up behind me and put highly manicured fingernails on my shoulders.
My heart in my throat, I stiffened and said in a firm voice, “Please remove your hands.”
The nails gradually retracted, and my heart reluctantly descended to its proper place in my chest.
After taking a moment to compose myself, I turned my chair around with great apprehension.
Standing before me was a woman in an outfit that was definitely not work-appropriate. Her bearing, however, was filled with confidence, and I could see she felt she was in her element—even if her outfit was one that revealed more skin than it concealed.
Noticing my glance at her attire, she gave me a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin and put her hand out, presumably for me to kiss or perhaps to awkwardly shake. “The name’s Catherine Grant,” she said in a sultry voice.
I looked down at her hand briefly before returning my eyes to her face. “Ah, yes—of Cat’s Corner, right?” I was fighting the urge to gulp—I didn’t want her to think I was intimidated by her. Even if I was.
She moved closer to me to say something, but the motion increased my anxiety, and I told her, “Please don’t come any closer, Ms. Grant. I have a phobia of human touch.” Really, it wasn’t a true phobia, and it wasn’t that I was fearful of others touching me so much as I was of myself touching them—I doubted a person would hurt themselves by touching me unless they tried to hurt me—but I was quite fearful of what Catherine Grant might do to me (or try to make me do to her) if we didn’t set up boundaries right away.
She studied me for a moment before purring, “Please, call me Cat. And if you ever need anyone to . . . show you around the city, don’t be afraid to call me.” Under her breath—but loud enough that I was supposed to hear—she muttered, “I like a challenge.”
“Thank you, Cat,” I replied feebly, knowing I would never request her services in any capacity if I could help it.
As she stalked away, swaying in a way that must have frequently turned male eyes in the newsroom, I forced myself to calm down. Being around her was nerve-wracking, and I was beginning to think she would probably be the greatest threat I would come across while working for the Daily Planet.
I had written a few more paragraphs of my story when I realized there was a murmuring noise by the newsroom televisions. I didn’t know how long it had been going on, but I wasn’t sure how I’d missed it. Leaving my unfinished story with some reluctance, I stood and walked over behind Mr. White and Jimmy . . . and that woman whom I had made furious the day before by inadvertently knocking her to the ground. My breath caught in my throat as I looked at her, but I quickly forced my gaze back to the television.
The newscaster Carmen Alvarado was speaking. “We are all mourning the loss of Commander Laderman and the transport vehicle Messenger, which exploded this morning.”
It took all my effort to keep myself from gaping and making a startled exclamation. The Messenger had exploded this morning? How had I missed that?
The woman I had upset turned to the Editor-in-Chief. “I told you there was something to Platt’s story, Perry. I knew there was.”
Mr. White shook his head. “Now, Lois, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. . . . Just because this Platt fellow managed to predict this would happen doesn’t mean there’s a conspiracy to sabotage the whole space program.”
Lois—I found myself glad that I finally knew part of the woman’s name—gave him a grim look. “Maybe it doesn’t. But there are more than a hundred colonists going up in the next launch. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to take that risk.”
The Chief Editor didn’t respond; he just soberly turned his eyes back to the television screen.
There was a new person on the screen whom a small caption identified as Dr. Antoinette Baines. “We do not know the cause of this terrible disaster,” she said in a voice so filled with tragedy that I almost found myself doubting her sincerity, “and we have been unable to find any link to the setbacks EPRAD has had during the past year. We are doing all we can to investigate this horrific event.”
Carmen Alvarado came back on. “The fate of Space Station Prometheus is now uncertain. Will this internationally financed space laboratory be continued? The Congress of Nations is calling a special meeting to make that very decision. We are all holding our breaths as we await their ruling—but perhaps no one is as anxious as the colonists who have sacrificed so much in order to make the journey to the space station. Will the Congress of Nations decide that the peril of sending those colonists into space will outweigh the possible benefits? For updates, stay tuned to LTC News.”
I tuned out the rest of the program and stared blankly at the television sets for a few seconds as people began to disperse. I was feeling a bit heavy-hearted—that space station meant a lot to some people. What if the Congress of Nations decided to cancel the whole mission? It would be a let-down for more than just America.
Sighing, I went to get some coffee. Unfortunately, Lois was there first, an empty mug in her hand.
I hesitated and was about to turn away when she looked up and glared at me. Suddenly, I realized this was Lois Lane—the hard-hitting journalist whose writing style and exposés I had long admired. Seeing the anger she could pack into one glance made me realize just how she had been able to get all those exclusives. A part of me wanted to turn and run, but instead I held my ground.
I took in a deep breath, preparing to eat a little crow. “I want to apologize for what happened, Ms. Lane. I should have been watching where I was going . . . . ”
Sounding grumpy but slightly appeased, she told me, “Perry told me about your ridiculous phobia. I get it.”
Her forwardness and her unfriendly nature both intrigued and annoyed me, and I watched in perturbation as she took a sip of coffee and then began to walk away without even a backward glance.
Unable to help myself, I muttered with bitter sarcasm, “I’m sorry if I inconvenienced you, Ms. Lane.”
She heard me—much to my mortification—and froze. Then she turned around and gave me an appraising look. Either I’d impressed her, or she wanted to learn more about me before she attempted to squash me beneath her heel. My money was on the latter.
“What’s your name again?” she asked me.
“Clark Kent,” I answered tightly.
“Very well, Clark,” she said, using my name as an epithet, “call me ‘Lois.’ ‘Ms. Lane’ is my mother.”
“Fine, Lois,” I said in a low and scathing tone as she went in the direction of Mr. White’s office. But I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me, and I rather hoped she hadn’t. I was acting childishly, and it was embarrassing. I wasn’t certain why she was bringing out that side of me, but she was. I was normally a lot more mild mannered.
I finished preparing my coffee and retreated to my desk, feeling somehow like a dog that had been yelled at for getting into the trash. I had only written a little more of my article when I sensed something distinctly tornado-like. Looking up, I saw Lois Lane walking away from the Editor-in-Chief’s office and appearing incredibly aggravated.
I heard someone say, “Watch out—the Ice Queen cometh,” and I turned back to my work with an irritated frown.
I realized a moment later that Lois had stopped at my desk. Lifting my head, I took in her sour expression. “Can I . . . help you?”
She wasted no time in barking orders. “Grab your coat, farmboy. We’re going to go talk to Samuel Platt.” And then, again just like a tornado but without the spinning, she began zipping away from my desk. I hastily grabbed my jacket and jogged to catch up with her at the elevator, which was opening as I approached.
We walked inside after a couple of people stepped out, and I queried, “Samuel Platt?”
“He used to be a scientist at EPRAD. Somehow, he knew the Messenger was going to be sabotaged. We need to go find out what he knows. . . . Any more questions, Kent?”
The elevator doors closed, and I crossed my arms and suppressed a sigh. “Weren’t you going to call me ‘Clark’?”
“I’ll call you ‘Mr. Green Jeans’ if I want to. It’s a perk of seniority.”
Her hostility puzzled me. I had apologized for knocking her to the ground—she wasn’t still upset about that, was she?
“Have I offended you somehow?” I asked her with a frown.
“Your presence here offends me,” she shot off. “Most of us have to work our way up in the reporter world. I’ve done that, yet Perry nonetheless chose to pair me with a hack from Nowheresville.”
My mouth became a thin line. “I assure you, I’m going to pull my own weight, Ms. Lane—”
The elevator doors opened. The whirlwind of a woman strode out ahead of me and then suddenly paused. Her shoulders were tense, and I could sense the reluctance which had a grip on her. Finally, she turned toward me.
“Look, I’m sorry, Kent . . . . ” She must have seen the flash of irritation in my eyes, for she quickly corrected, “Clark.” She sighed and clutched her purse tighter to herself. “I’m just upset about the Messenger. If I had paid more attention to my instincts when Platt came in, maybe Commander Laderman wouldn’t have died.”
It was her sincerity that banished my anger. In her eyes shined the grief and despair of a woman who believed she had failed others. I realized then that the bluster and bravado I’d been seeing were actually masking her compassion. It was a man’s world, and it must have been hard for her to get to where she was. I had to remember that.
Quietly, I told her, “You couldn’t have known he was telling the truth—this is something big and unexpected. What happened to the Messenger was probably something that wouldn’t normally be missed in routine inspections. Mr. White might have been skeptical about forming a conspiracy theory . . . but if you think there’s a chance someone is after the space program, then I do, too.” I gave her a small smile as a peace offering.
Her facial expression softened, and she seemed to be lowering her defenses. But just as soon as they were down, they shot back up.
In a voice shaped by annoyance, she told me, “Look, farmboy—I live by three rules. I never get involved with my stories, I never let anyone else get to a story first, and I never get involved with anyone I work with. So, if you’re looking for a little woman to hang on your arm, you can just forget it.” She turned away from me.
Resisting the temptation to tell her that I shied from human touch and that my smile had aimed at friendliness rather than charm, I replied instead, “I’m glad those are rules you live by, Lois.” She swiveled to stare at me with suspicion, and I added, “Because they’re rules I live by, too.”
“Glad to hear it,” she muttered under her breath. She nodded in the direction of the Planet’s main entrance. “Now, let’s go.”
As I followed her, I shook my head at myself. I was getting more ridiculous by the second. “Because they’re rules I live by, too,” huh?
I could see I was going to have to make certain I had a better arsenal of comebacks for dealing with Lois Lane.
I definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
