The next morning, I slept through my alarm and barely made it to my morning Software System Design class on time. I must have looked like a maniac running across campus. Taking notes during class was an exercise in futility. I found my attention snapping back to the present while the professor was halfway through explaining some intricate point. My notes were reduced to a handful of cryptic scribbles that I hoped would make more sense after reviewing the related section of the textbook. But despite my repeated efforts to concentrate on class, my mind kept returning to the events of the previous day.
Dee. She was a force of nature, and not in a gentle rain and warm breezes sort of way. At first I assumed the whole superhero thing was just a joke, but the more time I spent with her, the more invested she seemed in a dangerous delusion. Maybe it was harmless. Maybe she was a superhero in the way some people put on costumes and then visit sick children in the hospital... but I really didn't think so. There was a seriousness underlying her casual banter. I was worried about how far she might take things. She could get herself into a lot of trouble. Trouble that might engulf anyone close to her. The next time Dee called, if she called, I was tempted to just let it go to voice mail.
I was still chewing on these worries as I walked back from class, so much so that I nearly ran into a petite redheaded woman that had stopped in front of me. She looked at me with a curious and very tired expression. I looked back with what was no doubt an equally perplexed gaze. Finally she spoke.
“You were at the Brass Rail last night, right?”
“Um, yeah. For a while anyway,” I responded.
“I came in right after you I think,” she continued, “You rode in on a yellow scooter?”
I just nodded. She looked familiar. Then it came rushing back. The really drunk woman. The one that had to be nearly carried out.
“So, how are you doing this morning?” I asked cautiously even though the answer was already clearly written on her face. The Dollar Tapper Hangover. More than a few students have fallen victim to it. I was no exception.
“I didn't think I had that much to drink,” she replied. She was silent for a moment, then said, “in fact, I'm sure I didn't.”
The significance of that statement began to drive a disturbing train of thought, but before it got up to speed, she continued.
“I just wanted to thank your friend, the one you showed up with. I don't remember much about how that night ended... but I remember her. I remember that yellow scooter.”
No answer formed. This whole encounter was so unexpected, I was still trying to get my head around what it meant. We just stood there, silent. Her hands were shaking. She seemed to realize it as well and self consciously stuffed them into her pockets. A scrap of memory drifted to the surface. A volunteer group visiting the campus earlier in the semester, warning about an increase in sexual assaults on campus. They had even handed out special drinking straws that changed color in the presence of date rape drugs.
“I... Is there anything I can do,” I asked. She shook her head.
“No, I'm fine,” she insisted. “Just... tell your friend thanks. If she hadn't shown up when she did last night...” She shuddered. We stood there silently again for another long moment. I searched for something to say. Something supportive. Comforting. Anything. Finally, she broke the silence again. “I'm sorry, I'm probably making you late for something”
I watched as she hurried off toward the Brenner Art Center. In my mind I replayed the previous night, picturing the scene as Dee said goodbye to me at the Rail and then drove off on her Vespa. On the screen of my imagination, I watched Dee recede into the distance and disappear around the corner again, this time wishing my imagination could trail behind her and see all the hidden events that followed.
I don't think she was visiting sick children at the hospital.