Fanboy Flames

Pixabay

Seeing Diana rise from the ashes of the salon fire is the coolest thing that ever happened on our street.

I know what you’re going to say: I’m crazy. But I know what I saw. Everyone did. C’mon man, I work in a comic book store. I know a goddess when I see one.

She looked broken by life, sagging on that dirty chair. We heard whispers from the peanut gallery: crazy, addict husband, miscarriage, drinking problem, failed ventures, car repo, even a dead dog. Cue the country music.

But then we saw her change. We don’t know how she did it. Maybe you’ll craft your own explanation. Here’s mine.

Diana gives a resigned sigh, looks around, stands…and a work of alchemy begins. The broom rasps across the floor. A half-melted screwdriver digs for buried treasure. Tile cracks and breaks. A hat box emerges, soundless on the chair. It’s the stage for a magic trick.

Spectators gasp and whistle when clothes join the box top in the ashes. An evening bag; brass razor; art deco compact; dye kit; velvet pumps; chic sequin dress; vodka. The crowd fidgets and leans in, whispering, joking, chiding, perplexed - but riveted.

That bottle cracks and she swallows. Bubbles drift over the tarnished sink. Scissors snick red locks, sandy paper files, that pungent acrylic smell. Black scales glisten over shoulders and hips. A clamshell clack, soft ruby bow smacks and pouts, fluttering black feathers fan emerald peepers. Bright cuticles flashing in a smoothing tug and pull, a reflected turn and wink, and - TA-DA!

From tragedy to hocus-pocus to burlesque to genuine magic, all in one take. Lewd smiles become arched brows and dropping jaws at the unlikeliest of results. Each step strips the droll patina concealing a glittering immortal among us (just add tragedy and fire). The butterfly slips from her dulling chrysalis. Hell, even the wallpaper was gold.

Sequins slink and shine through the parting crowd, off to a new beginning. Townies trade bewilderment for ignorance in the presence of a magnitude they long to claim. Heels click past the comic book poets and geek philosophers, and with a warm smile, she outshines us too - but we love her even more. We were the ones mocked for doting over a lost cause. That makes this our moment too.

She’ll leave us now, but we’re fanboys, so we know the score, cultists of a pop religion. We’d sacrifice ourselves with a smile, a zealous personal army poised for battle. For a moment, I wondered why, but I knew.

We’re revved up to our hormonal peaks, let’s be honest, but we’re way past sexual urges here. She’s the shine we lack but helped to polish, and for a few moments, we get to feel what that’s like, to cherish the unspoken ‘fuck you’ to all the doubters. Diana’s a living symbol of what we celebrate and cherish most, our savior queen, true victory made flesh. But even that doesn’t say it all.

You can fall in love at first sight, but it’s nothing like something you’ve influenced as it grows, no matter how trivial. You’ve cherished and nurtured it, among the true believers. You’ve written yourself into the myth. Even if she spurns you or no one understands, you’re still involved.

Don’t you get it? You’re a part of the process, a flagstone on the path to greatness, even when you realize that you’re nothing more than the shit that spawned the golden flower.

But that’s okay. It’s still great to feel like part of something special.