WHITE TIGER ©

by: Jim Caswell

"But one look at Jason Todd's features bring it all back to me. We've come to find his real mother."

"John."

"Yeah, Ma?"

"What time do you have to be at work?"

"Noon. Why?"

"It's 11:45."

"Nuts!" Why did John always do this? He knew better than to pick up a comic before work. But A Death In the Family called out to him, saying, "You have plenty of time, John. Come read me."

John ran to the door, grabbing his jacket and keys on the way. The garage was a dismal darkness as he hopped into the seat of his clunker. Hitting the ignition and the garage opener at the same time, he pulled out as soon as the door was raised, only to have the engine conk out immediately after clearing the door because he forgot to warm up the car. A fatal blow dealt to his flashy exit.

Driving to work, John began to think about super heroes, a regular occurrence to kill the frustration and boredom of his typical day. He had loved comics since childhood, his dad getting him started on them when he was only old enough to look at the pictures. He didn't become a real collector, however, until he was in his late teens, when he had discovered how much Death In The Family had increased in value since he originally bought it.

When he was little, John would always dream of growing up to be a super hero; going out into the night, dressed in a costume with all sorts of special gadgets belted around his waist. Criminals everywhere would cower in the presence of The White Tiger, a name that John had given a great deal of thought to. A white tiger is a rare breed and very ferocious when threatened. Also, when John had seen a picture of one he had thought it was the most beautiful animal he had ever seen.

He had even gone so far as to make a costume, complete with weapons for his crime-fighting career. The White tiger's uniform was a store-bought black ninja costume bought the previous year for Halloween. He had taken it out of the closet a few times since he had outgrown it, being little more than rags. The cherry bombs, an old clothesline and a broken broom handle became explosives, a swing line and a staff with a heavy dose of imagination.

As he started to grow older, however, John started to realize that he would never become The White Tiger. He didn't have the discipline to train himself mentally or physically, compounded by the fact that he was a total klutz, able to trip over a flat piece of paper. Instead of dedicating himself to a daily workout regiment to hone his body, he was far happier sitting in front of the television with a two-liter of pop and a bag of chips. Despite that, however, the idea of The White Tiger swinging into action sounded appealing. He dreamed of living life as a mild-mannered grocery worker by day, masked avenger of justice by night. Unfortunately, only the first part was true; a dead end job with minimum wage pay.

John managed to make it through the door of the store with two minutes to spare. Slipping on his tie and vest, clocking in, and strolling into the deli, he saw his boss talking to a very attractive brunette. "John. I would like you to meet Chrissie Collins. Chrissie, this is John Wells. John will be showing you around; how we do things here."

John really felt as though his luck was beginning to turn. Chrissie was a gorgeous woman with a body like a mountain path: plenty of curves in all the right places. Her dark brown hair hung shoulder-length, feathered back to highlight her beautiful face but not to an extreme Farrah-like level. With one look, John had fallen in love, though the same result occurred about five times a week, always looking for his own Lois Lane.

"Hello?"

During John's brief daydream, Chrissie was staring at the stars-truck man, waiting for some form of acknowledgement. When she had to resort to waving her hand in front of his face, John knew he had already made a fool out of himself in her eyes. His boss didn't help any by commenting "Hey John, wipe the drool from your chin. It's unbecoming and I don't want to have to call for a cleanup." Everyone in the deli laughed, including Chrissie. John had been wrong; today was going to be like every other day. He couldn't help but think that they wouldn't have laughed at The White Tiger.

John spent the next two hours showing Chrissie around, where everything was kept and how to run the equipment. He kept his conversation on the task at hand, short, to the point, and business-oriented. His eyes never left her, however, basking in her beauty to the point of almost missing her speaking. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did." John smiled, attempting to be charming. "That's what I'm here for."

"How old are you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering."

John looked a bit sheepish when he responded with "twenty-two." He wasn't quite sure why he was embarrassed with the answer, but felt the full weight of his feeling of failure. Silence quickly settled in as John struggled to figure out how to keep a conversation going without feeling worse. "So, what do you do with your free time?"

Chrissie's face lit up, practically squealing "I live to party."

John fought the urge to roll his eyes. He had never seen the attraction in drinking or taking other mind-altering substances. Not only did they mess up the users body and brain, but also making fools out of themselves, pass out in strange surroundings, and waking up feeling like sludge. On top of all that, what do you end up with in the end: a Swiss cheese memory and an empty wallet? He would rather spend his money on comics. Even those that didn't increase in value at least provided you with a few minutes of entertainment that could always be revisited. On top of that, it didn't kill nearly as many brain cells.

John still thought she was incredibly cute, however, and lust can make any number of flaws seem insignificant. He told himself that she would outgrow it, but he really couldn't talk about people needing to grow up. Even better, he could change her values. One of the main objectives of being The White Tiger was to change people's lives for the better.

About this time, the boss headed in their direction. "Hey john. A shipment just arrived. Go check it in and put it away. Chrissie can come and work with Monique."

Finally, a reprieve had arrived. John had learned to look forward to working in the cooler. He was alone in there, able to let his thoughts wander to things other than work. This was a perfect time as well, with things apparently going downhill with Chrissie. A typical load would take five minutes to check in, and at least an hour and a half could be spent without someone else coming to look for him. He could let his body slip into auto-drive and allow his mind to wander.

John didn't know what else to about Chrissie. He wanted to ask her out, but realized that they had nothing in common. She was wild and carefree, while he liked quiet times and romance. He bet she would love White Tiger; someone who is big, strong, handsome, brave, walked on the wild side, and would fight for her. All of the things mild-mannered John Wells wasn't.

He could just see it. On one of White tiger's nightly tours of the city, she would be struggling with her date. It would be obvious that the man had too much to drink. He says something to her and she smacks him. In a fit of rage, he hits her back, knocking her to the ground. He moves toward her, ready to attack, until The White Tiger swings into action. The assailant's reflexes are slow from the alcohol, making him easy prey to a left hook, followed by a spin kick. White Tiger would then swoop Chrissie up into his arms with gentle care, carrying her off to safety.

It takes John about an hour to finish the load and return to reality. Upon exiting the cooler, he asked the boss for a break. "Sure. Take Chrissie with you."

Just what John needed. The two began walking toward the break room in silence. Suddenly, two of the plainclothes security personnel ran past, almost knocking them down. "What's going on, John?"

"Must be a shoplifter." It had always been unclear to him why anyone would want to shoplift from a grocery store, or what was valuable enough to warrant an entire security division, but it happened none-the-less. "Come on."

Chrissie and John ran in the same pattern that the security guards had taken, ending at the front doors. Outside, the largest fight John had ever witnessed was well underway, with ten guys punching, kicking, and scratching at each other. John recognized the members of security, and he could tell that it had been an ambush; somebody caught by them before probably set it up. Chrissie's face was lit up with an evil grin, filled with excitement.

John wondered what White Tiger would do in a situation like this. It was a dumb question, because he knew that, much like any self-respecting superhero, he would find some place to change into his costume, open a can on the criminals with his superior fighting skills, and win Chrissie's heart. As he didn't have his costume handy, John cut out that step and headed for the door, moving toward the battleground. This was a job for….

Shock set in as one of the shoplifter's buddies pulled out a knife, plunging it into one of the guard's stomachs. While John wanted to ask what White Tiger would do, a realization finally clicked within his brain; it didn't matter what White tiger would do because he didn't exist. He fights crime in a make-believe world where he would never get hurt; never get stabbed in the stomach. This was real life, and John was just an average guy. Not a superhero with lifelong training and gadgets. The question wasn't what would White Tiger do, it was what will John Wells do?

The answer was surprisingly simple. Moving as fast as possible, John grabbed the fallen security guard by the shoulders and dragged him inside. Standing there, not moving, was Chrissie with a shocked look on her face.

"Get back out there, John. The fight is still going on."

"No." John looked around for someone who was calling for paramedics.

"What? Why not?"

"I'm not going back out there. It's not my job."

"You're a coward!"

"Yep. I realized that I don't need to be a hero. There are people in this world whose job it is to put their lives on the line." As if on cue, a police car and ambulance arrived on the scene, sending the thieves running. "And I'm not one of them. They are specially trained to handle situations like this." Paramedics rushed into the store, immediately starting into C.P.R. John watched as they started, continuing his statement. "If he can be injured, what kind of chances would I have had? If that's what it takes to impress you, I'm better off without you." He had also realized that he didn't need The White Tiger either; at least, not in that way.

* * * * *

John's problem was that he was always trying to make The White Tiger live through actions, while limiting him to what he had available. Through his writing, however, he could become as real as Captain America, Spider-Man, Superman, or Batman. White Tiger could not only be as brave and athletic as John wanted him to be, but could also have better definition, including the proper-colored costume. John could experience all of those adventures he imagined, along with thousands of others. After all, an imagination is a terrible thing to waste.

© Copyright 1990, 2003 - James E. Caswell