| Fiction : Looking for Batman
It was way past bedtime but you took us driving.
“Where is Batman from?”
“Um … Gotham.”
“And where is that?”
“Um … fictional America”
“Where’s that?”
What did you want me to say? Batman doesn’t exist, fictional America, and you are going to kick yourself here, by its very nature is fictional.
F-I-C-T-I-O-N-A-L
I could tell you that Batman is a province of Turkey, somewhere in the southeast, famous for its oil extraction and its annexation by the Ottoman Empire in the 16th Century. But that would just be a poor distraction, as this battered VW polo would have trouble reaching Carlisle let alone southern Turkey from Banff. It would also be a poor pun as your hunt is for the hero buried so deep in all that fiction.
“So where is fictional America?”
“Um … fictional America”
The conversation seems to continue in this vein but I cannot safely say I am paying any attention. The only thing keeping me awake is the steady flow of ice cold air invading the confines of the back seat through the tiny gap that the windows allow themselves to be opened to. I am watching the blackened landscape as it flies past my window every field and fence the same, black and anonymous. The full moon obscured by heavy clouds waiting to release their contents soaking our little ‘chariot’ and denying me of any potentially distracting views. The semi-formed shapes in the darkness will have to do, distraction being as desperately needed as it is.
“Keep your face to the window!”
I want to laugh, or maybe cry, you make us face the windows not so we can’t see where we are going—not even you know that—but lest we suffocate from the ‘toxic’ fumes you believe are emanating from the car. It’s quite a conceit to think the mighty governments of Europe are conspiring to poison us in our VW when the most heinous of our crimes appears to be a search for fictional Robin’s even more fictional multi-millionaire vigilante mate. And let’s face it the questioning displayed here is hardly million-dollar-question worth.
“So where is Batman?”
Your questioning seems to have become more direct and necessary. I give up reasoning that it is one thing to look into the mouth of madness and quite another to try and address it.
“I don’t know! He doesn’t exist!”
We turn into a field, disturbing the neatly ploughed earth or at least denting the layer of frost covering it. We sit in silence for a few minutes. My exasperation seems to have shocked you, if not back then at least closer, to reality. The silence remains your hands on the wheel and I am assuming silence is a sensible tactic to avoid piling up future analysts bills.
“Okay, let’s go home”
I turn from the window uncertainly.
“Fumes! Window!”
I turn back to the window grateful that for at least this time a fruitless search has ended.
__________________
Shut up! Grammatic oil!
Just a sockpuppet for Freud. Whats happened to my bag?
Not down with the rock not down with the roll
Last edited by poprock; 2nd November 2006 at 12:19pm.
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