“Being Stan Lee,” Part II

Originally published December 31, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1363

“Being Stan Lee” (Part Two)

As Stan Lee roared up to the First Savings and Loan bank, Gregor Samsa—a helpless spectator within Stan Lee’s mind—watched in amazement. Stan slammed his Range Rover to a halt and had vaulted from the car before the engine noise fully faded. Crowds of people had gathered at the police barricade and, when they saw him, an excited buzz began to work its way through them. Applause began to ripple and then built, moment upon moment, to a full-fledged ovation. Stan Lee waved to them all, moving with confidence, as the barricade was parted to let him through.

Walking toward him briskly was a plainclothes, older cop who Greg immediately assumed was the “Captain Tangretti” who had summoned Stan Lee. “Thanks for coming so fast, Stan. Break any traffic laws getting here?”

“Only all of ’em,” said Stan. “So what’s the story, Jimmy?”

“Young guy. Nasty piece of work. His name’s Ruben.”

“How much is he packing?”

“Enough to kill everybody in there 20 times over. Hold on a minute; we’ll get you a flak jacket.”

Stan Lee laughed at that. “We always go through this, Jimmy. I’ll be right back.”

“Stan—!”

Too late. Stan Lee was already sprinting toward the bank doors. Inside his mind, Greg cringed, bracing himself for the bullets that he was sure would slam into Stan’s body. Would he, Greg, die along with Stan? He didn’t want to find out.

As it turned out, he didn’t find out, for Stan’s jogged path to the bank’s entrance was uneventful. Stan threw open the door and called, “Hey, hey, True Believers!”

The one who had to be Ruben was readily visible, standing in the middle of the large room with a machine gun tucked under his arm, aimed straight at a crowd of cringing hostages. Ruben jumped slightly, startled at the unexpected intrusion, and he swung the gun around and took a direct bead on Stan Lee. Greg muttered unheard prayers inside Lee’s head—and then Ruben’s eyes went wide.

“Oh, my God—you’re Stan Lee.”

Stan Lee’s name was quickly repeated in hushed reverence among the hostages, and he strode forward, apparently completely unconcerned about his own safety. “That’s right. And you must be Ruben. Looks like you got a situation here, huh, Ruben? Or should I call ya Rascally Ruben? Or how about Rockin’ Ruben?”

“You—you better get outta here, Stan,” said Ruben, his voice wavering. “This is no place for you. This  is—”

“This is exactly the place for me. Helping you. Making the world better. It’s what I do,” said Stan Lee in his jovial tone but suddenly he sounded different, more serious. “Big gun you got there, Ruben. Now, how about you put it down and end this?”

“I can’t, Stan…”

“Can’t!” Stan Lee laughed disdainfully. “No one who grew up on my comics—and, that’s anyone who’s anyone—knows the meaning of the word ‘can’t.’ And I’ll tell ya somethin’ else, o Rockin’ one. That gun you got there—it gives you power over all these people,” and he gestured broadly at the hostages. “Great power, in fact. But with that great power comes—what? You can say it.”

“Great responsibility,” said Ruben, looking downcast.

“And is what you’re doing responsible, right here? Well? Is it?” When Ruben didn’t reply, Lee stretched out a commanding hand.

“But—but I’m no one without the gun, Stan. I’m—”

“No one! I can take care of that. If you give me the gun—right now—and let these good people go—I shall confer upon you the title of Fearless Front Facer.”

Ruben gasped, as did the others nearby. “I… I always wanted to be one… ever since I was small… but… but how did you know?”

“I’m Stan Lee, True Believer. It’s my job to know.”

Without another word, Ruben handed the gun over—and then collapsed, sobbing, into Lee’s arms. Within minutes, Lee had escorted him out to the waiting arms of the police, but before they converged on him, Stan Lee said, “Treat him gently, officers. He’s a Fearless Front Facer!”

The police took a step back, acknowledging the impressiveness of the title, and Ruben was handled with appropriate respect, as they eased him into the nearest squad car.

With the cheers ringing in his (and Greg’s) ears, Stan Lee barely took the time to accept the grateful thanks of the police before he was speeding away. He urged the Range Rover forward with even greater speed and managed to get to Beverly Hills in 11 minutes flat. The valet stepped forward to take his car to the parking garage, and Gregor saw several men dressed in black, with sunglasses, coming forward to meet him. Something about them seemed to scream “Secret Service.”

“Mr. Lee,” one of them said, “this way, please.” Without slowing, Stan followed them in and was whisked to an elevator at the far end of the lobby. Gregor Samsa felt as if the world was spiraling beyond his already-meager ability to follow it.

They were escorted from the elevator, down a corridor past more dark-suited men, and into a room, and Greg’s mind almost melted down. A familiar, gray-haired individual turned to face him, a smile splitting his face. “Stan,” he said. “Glad you could make it.”

“Sorry I’m late, Billy. Had a crisis.”

“Well, you’ve had an infinite number of them, right? On other Earths?”

Stan chuckled. “That’s the other company, Mr. President.”

He’s talking to Bill Clinton. His appointment with “Billy” was with Bill Clinton. The silent voice of Greg didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

To be concluded

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.