I am the Batman
At the moment, Ray thinks I’m her hero because someone snatched her purse while we were in the supermarket. She was about to give chase as she always does (she once tried to chase her stolen car on foot) but I stopped her and headed out the door and took off after him. When the guy saw me coming, 6’2″ of black clad anger, I yelled at him to drop the purse.
I can’t remember ever having moved so fast.
He drops the purse and I check to see everything’s still there and reluctantly decide to head back to the store, where a eight or ten customers, staff and (stupidly) the thief’s friends have gathered to watch it all happen. People are congratulating me, the thief’s mates are asking how many details I noticed about the guy (!?) but I decide to ignore them and give Ray her purse back. While I’m in the store, this older guy comes up and asks if I’m a trained runner, which at last stops Ray hugging me, because she’s convulsed with laughter.
We give our details to the staff, who turn them over to the police, and Ray and I head out of the store…
“My hero,” she says, half joking.
The truth of the matter is, I’ve has a crap couple of weeks and I hate shopping — I was just itching to beat the crap out of someone and this guy just gave me the excuse to get really angry at someone.
“How did you stop him,” she asks.
“I used my angry voice,” I told her and she understands immediately.
I’m thinking how it’s not heroic to just want to beat the living hell out of anybody and picking a target that everyone else can justify.
And then I think of Batman.