Chapter 1: Meet Clark Kent

Meet Clark Kent


New York City had never ceased to be a center for world commerce, it only took a short and much needed break.  9/11, the Iraq War, and the 2007 Housing Crisis had taken their toll on the Big Apple, but fortunately for its 9.3 million inhabitants, it was also one of the first cities to rebound.  Government stimulus packages accelerated the completion of the rebuilt World Trade Center in 2013 and prosperity would soon follow.  Thirty-four Fortune Five Hundred companies relocated to Manhattan and six more existing businesses already located within the city’s limits were catapulted onto the list.  An attempted presidential assassination at Madison Square Gardens and two more Gulf Wars did not slow New York’s meteoric ascent to the top of the business and political world.  In fact, it was said that the tax money generated by New York’s businesses were solely responsible for funding reconstruction in the Middle East.

The skyline had expanded beyond the view of what any artist could have imagined.  The immense cityscape made the Dubai of the early millennium look like a child’s play set.  World Trade Center buildings One and Two highlighted a truly breathtaking silhouette of twisting, turning, and endlessly rising creations of unbelievable skyscraping architecture.  The light from this modern metropolis could be seen from the lunar launch base over 240,000 miles away without the assistance of a microscope.  This bustling center of innovation and wealth had truly become a beacon of hope to the rest of the world.

And, there could not be any place better from which to get daily news.  Over six hundred global news media distributors were located here, but none were more respected than the New World Reporter.  Known loosely as the “New Rep”, this conglomerate was responsible for bringing news to all parts of the world via television, film, internet, radio, and print.  Nestled securely between floors two-fifty and three-seventy-five of WTC 2, the New Rep employed over twelve thousand people in their Net Media division alone, including Clark Kent and James Miller.

Clark was a writer and James was a photographer.  They were both in their fifties and had been friendly since their first day together at the New Rep twenty-two years ago.  It was only with the tragic death of Clark’s wife that their bond was cemented as James was there to pull Clark out his darkest and deepest days of depression.  James was the only person aside from his mother that Clark could trust and he confided in him regularly.  James had a family of his own: a wife of thirty years and two daughters, one in college and one a senior in high school.  Both men loved their jobs and collaborated often, winning several awards for their coverage of terrorist cells still operating in the largely peaceful Middle East.  They had a unique but clear connection that made working together easy.

The doors of eight enormous elevators opened simultaneously onto the 260th floor of WTC 2 and into the offices of the New Rep’s net-based international division.  Forty people per car spilled into work chattering about things as trivial as “the Knicks game” and as important as “how the stock market directly effects world peace.”  The 9:00 a.m. shift had arrived refreshed, ready to deliver the news, and for the next eight hours, there would not be a nook, cranny, corner, cubicle or bathroom stall where anyone could find peace.  Amongst this crowd were Clark and James, having already met for their morning coffee and bagel routine, but still talking.

Both men walked briskly, smiled widely, and really looked their part.  Clark dressed in three piece suits, usually opting for blue or gray, and his shirt was always stark white.  Always white, no stripes or patterns.  An olive colored overcoat, a briefcase and a businessman’s hat that almost sat down on his glasses completed the look for which he was known.  Maybe he was overdressed (most everyone else wore khakis and a golf shirt) but he had been taught to “dress for the job he wanted, not the one he had.”  Incidently, he had no idea what job he would rather do than his own, but this advice was at least a good excuse for being old-fashioned and looking out of style for the time.

James was a head shorter than Clark, and about thirty pounds lighter.  An athletic looking black man with green eyes, he kept his hair short and was clean shaven.  He wore light-weight cargo pants, an outdoor shirt, and hiking boots every day, regardless of whether or not he was going out in the field to shoot.  His wife would often remind him that he worked in the largest city in the world, not the Serengeti, but he refused to change into office attire.  He would remind her that he may need to be in the desert by the end of the day and wanted to be ready for anything.  Clark loved this about James: his commitment to preparedness.  He didn’t even wear a watch because he was afraid looking down at his wrist could momentarily divert his attention away from the shot he needed to get.

These two were an odd pair but their minds worked brilliantly together and sometimes even more productively in opposition to the other.  Despite the fact that they shared an office, they were the best of friends.

“So how was D.C. anyways?” said James.  His eyes darted from face to face around the corridor and he gave smooth nods of recognition to everyone he knew.

“It was great.  Great weather.  Just a real nice weekend,” replied Clark.  He, too, was intent on acknowledging his coworkers, but was slightly more awkward in his gestures and his nods were accompanied by a very short, stiff wave.

“Did you get to see any of the sites or was it all work and no play?” asked James as he went for his key to unlock their office door.

“Oh, gosh.  Well, let’s see,” he started, “I saw the new Capitol Building, uh, I went to the Lincoln Monument, had some great meals, met some real nice people…” he trailed off.  “…went to the new Smithsonian Museum…”

“Modern Warfare?  I hear it’s incredible.  Did you have time to see the whole thing?” asked James.  He unlocked the door and both men entered the office.

“Yep, took the tour,” Clark smiled as he closed the door behind him and laid his briefcase on his desk.

Their office was small and sparsely decorated.  Two metal desks with computers faced each other with about three feet of walking space in between.  There was a good sized window directly in between the desks that offered the only redeeming visual quality to the room as it looked out past WTC 1 and over the city.  The walls on Clark’s side were bare, as was his desk, except for the picture of his late wife.  On James’ side of the room hung two of his award winning pictures, held up crookedly with thumb tacks.  His desk was in utter disarray with papers and photo negatives everywhere and in seemingly no order.  The only sign of normalcy were his pictures of the wife and kids from different times in their lives or family vacations.

James continued as he set down his camera case and pulled out his chair, “You know, they will sometimes give you a ‘behind the scenes’ look at things if you flash your press pass.”

“Not there,” said Clark, “trust me, I tried.”  He twisted in the corner taking off his hat and overcoat.

James considered not asking the next question, but he did anyway:  “Did you see the Superman suit?”  Clark stopped, one arm still in his jacket, turned around and glared at James.

“Yes.  Yes I did, James.  Why?”  But before he would allow an answer Clark continued, “You of all people should understand that… I mean… just because my name is…goddamnit James!”  Clark was visibly frustrated by a seemingly harmless question and shucked his jacket into a heap on the ground in protest.

“No, no, no.  That’s not why I asked.  Take it easy, buddy.  I’m sorry, okay?  I just think that suit is cool as hell and I’ve always wanted to see it myself, that’s all.”  James had seen this response out of his friend once before.  They were eating dinner in Cleveland and Clark decided to pick up the check.  The waiter, upon seeing his name on the credit card, announced to the restaurant that the “real Superman” was in the house and then snapped a picture with his phone.  Clark did not smile for the picture or show any emotion whatsoever.  He simply signed his bill and the two men got up and left.  On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, James asked Clark if he had left the kid a tip.  Clark responded, “Yeah.  On the gratuity line I wrote ‘don’t be an asshole.’”  James laughed, but he was the only one.  That incident was about five years ago and this conversation had apparently tipped Clark’s mood in the same direction.

An hour or so went by with only the sound of tapping fingers on keys and mouse clicking.  James looked up to see Clark take off his glasses, lean back in his chair, rub his temples and let out a held breath.  He looked back at James and said, “I didn’t mean to spout off.  I know you didn’t mean anything.  It’s just… We’ve never really talked about this, but I hate that my parents gave me this name, you know?  The crap I’ve had to put up with…”

“I understand, man.  It’s cool,” said James, now set back in his chair.

“Still, sometimes I wonder why the hell I went into journalism at all.  I mean, although I’ve always kind of looked like the character I never let that define me or shape who I was going to be.  But I always seemed to be fighting myself or others because of it.  And for what?  A name?”  He let out another breath and continued, “At some point, I just stopped fighting and even started to accept it, but since Elaine died it‘s harder to…” he stopped and put on his glasses.

“It’s alright, man.  ‘Nuff said,” and James went back to his work.

“You know,” said Clark, “I was born with mild jaundice and the doctor suggested that my parents expose me to sunlight in small amounts to help clear up the condition.”  He smiled, “So, I guess I did get some sort of healing power from the yellow sun.  Maybe I do have some things in common with the Man of Steel, James.”

Without looking up from his desk, James grinned a huge grin and said, “You know, you can call me Jimmy, Mr. Kent.”

“Isn’t it obvious why I don’t?” replied Clark.  Both men laughed and then worked the rest of the morning in a content silence until the stomach growls made it hard to concentrate.

“ ‘The Deli on 5th’ sound good for lunch?” said James, breaking the quiet.

“ ‘The Deli on 5th’ it is,” confirmed Clark.