Here's the Deal
(Fiction: Copyright 2014 Liz Zélandais)
As superheroes go, I
play against type. My short stature and buzz-cut are reminiscent of Peter Pan;
and being a single mom makes me an oddity in The Coalition. But when they're
shopping for the latest hero-mobile or aerodynamic wardrobe with wicking
technology, I'm the one they tap to negotiate the deal.
Hints of my super power
emerged in elementary school. The cafeteria ladies would add extra fries or
another carton of milk to my tray. “No charge, Sweetie.”
But it was only a few
years ago that I knew. As I retreated from a stunning dress in Ann Taylor's new
spring collection, the sales assistant sprinted after me, begging me to take it
for fifty percent off. I hesitated. She dropped the price another thirty
percent. I bought the dress and began investigating this anomaly.
My boss doubled my
salary after a single request. The board of a hideously expensive private
school agreed to start a “differently privileged” scholarship fund and admit my
two children. Queen Catherine Cruise Lines gave me their stateroom suite at a
price usually reserved for boiler-room occupants.
Every successful negotiation
showcased my growing confidence and skill. Joining The Coalition was better
than being voted Homecoming Queen. Most importantly, I was giving my kids the
best of everything.
I don’t know when the
euphoria gave way to the realization that my life had become a cesspool of
stuff. Designer stuff. Techie stuff. My children were vapid consumers, fixated
on video screens and unable to utter an intelligible sentence.
I met my friend, Amazon
Woman, for lunch. She was sporting Prada we had scored at Wal-Co prices during
Milan Fashion Week. Once seated, I said, “Ama, I'm miserable. Defying the laws
of economics was fun at first, but now it’s meaningless and overwhelming.” The
waiter interrupted to deliver menus and to say that our lunch would be
compliments of the house.
Ama arched one eyebrow.
“You're expecting sympathy?”
“No, but I would sell my
soul to recapture a sense of purpose.”
As we ate enchiladas and
sipped margaritas, our conversation turned to shop talk—crime fighting,
identity trademark infringement, and the turbulent relationship of Lightning
Man and Copper Girl.
When I was leaving the
restaurant, a man with the dark, angular looks of a GQ model approached.
“Madam, I can help you
with your problem.”
I’m seldom susceptible
to handsome men, but something about this one made me flush. “Do I know you?”
“Call me Luc. I am in
the soul-purchasing business, and I overheard your interest in such a
transaction. Your soul for a purposeful and passionate life.”
He was genius. I started
working with governments and organizations needing my skills; and formerly
starving families thrived as they got food, health care, and education. My kids
got back on track.
There's one problem. Luc
makes for attentive and charming arm candy, and my children adore him. But now
that I own the soul of Satan, what do I do with it?