“Superman’s metamorphosis and makeover … should close a chapter on what has been a trying five years for the Man of Steel: He’s gotten killed, reincarnated, split in two by a one-eyed Cyclopean foe named Cyborg, and married – after wooing reporter Lois Lane for half a century.”
– news item
Lois wanted it most – The Wedding – but she had to wait until Superman died and came back again before they boogalooed ’til dawn having swapped spit, sucked face, and said “I do” for a woman preacher in hair extensions and Spandex. All this preceded their Virtual Honeymoon, where they toured the Asteroids and somersaulted in Zero Gs without leaving their Barcaloungers.
“Honey, I can’t take the time to go anywhere,” he tells her, “The traffic is murder, particularly on Saturday night.”
She’s adamant, her eyes flashing cold fury, yelling he’s a workaholic. “Honey, I never disputed that,” he tells her back. He’s mild, she’s wild. And she won’t quit, ragging on him about how much she haaaates his new short haircut. “I’m not Fabio,” Superman shrugs. Marriage, he can take it or leave it. But Lois insisted half a century was the perfect courtship, then, after that, things would inevitably get a little old.
He’s the Man of Steel except when it comes to the women. Secretly she calls him the Man of Steel Wool. Says he’s obdurate, he wears her down. Says she’s been way-tired of journalism even before sleaze politics, corrupt elections, presidential press conferences, media feeding frenzies, embedded reporters, fawning interrogators, trivial scandals and scandalous trivia ruined it for her – you know, the Soap Oprah-ization of America.
“What would you do instead?” he comforts her. No reply. One minute she’s quietly polishing her ancient relic of a Remington – the last one left in working order in the Universe. The next, he suddenly hears her screaming in the bathroom, swoops upstairs, she swears she’s seen a roach in the linen closet and a mosquito on the mirror. “Just get rid of them,” she whimpers.
Treading air, he investigates the situation, his back to her until he hears her hiss through clenched teeth, “Alright, sucker. You. Are. Going. To. Breathe. Your. Last!” and wonders how she’ll pull that off. Bullets pass right through him. Homeopathy has, finally, neutralized Kryptonite. Quickly, he turns around, throwing her a quizzical glance, and then he realizes she’s actually talking that way to the roach and the mosquito. She hates bugs, insects – he can never remember the difference.
What is the difference, anyway?
His Lois, she’s his. She’d never dump him, would she? He knows she’s concerned about the downfall of Western Civilization, but there’s really nothing he can do about it. She expects him, single-handedly, to stem the tide. Look, he says, how the beach eroded where she used to swim as a child, all the jetties in the world can’t dam the sea. So now Lois is sending him to the gym, says Build yourself up and the shoreline will follow.
That’s a big burden for anybody, even Superman. He has to say he’s more sensitive than people think. And it’s not just a Kryptonite thing. Yes, he did come to know self-doubt, didn’t he? As to the rumors about his psychotherapy with a Primal Screamer, he would like to say they’re unfounded, but, well, some things are Confidential. Entirely too painful to discuss.
Outside on the deck, Superman sees a strange gray-and-black striped cat, a 12-pound tiger, has to be a male, sitting on a metal lawn-chair as if it’s a throne, until it meets his gaze. He stares in its face, then it leaps off the foam cushion, and flees, skittering off into the distance like, well … a bug.
