Extra Ordinary
by John Willems
Born and raised in Arkansas and now working as an attorney in West Virginia, John Willems is a relatively new writer in the areas of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. However, he’s already had short stories published in Synthetic Reality Magazine on January 15, 2022, and in Quagmire Magazine in July of this year, along with a novella called Beer Run with Solstice Publishing. John lives with his wife Rachel and two sons, Francis and Tony, in South Charleston. John is passionate about writing speculative fiction, whether it be fantasy, science fiction, or even the occasional horror. And if you’re interested, his full-length novel, Christmas in Pandemonium, will be published this year sometime around Christmas by I Aint Your Marionett Press.
More TTTV Stories by John Willems
Michael Smith’s parents told him he was special as a child. They said he could take on the world. His mother would stay up late at night and show him pictures of astronauts, doctors, and scientists reaching new heights in human achievement. His father took Michael to the town square when the President came to town to deliver a campaign speech. He lifted Michael on his shoulders to see.
Michael then learned it was all bullshit one bright sunny day when he was four. Bongo the Chimpanzee, America’s favorite new child-entertaining puppet, would be appearing at the local mall. His mother took him to see Bongo. Michael and the other children sat cross-legged on the floor. After what seemed like an eternity, Bongo, a raggedy brown monkey doll with black button eyes and a white spot at the end of his tail, danced out on stage to the tune of his famous theme song “Everyone is Special.”
Everyone is Special
Everyone is a Shining Star in the Sky
You are Special
You are Bongo’s Favorite Little Girl or Guy
Michael watched Bongo open his show just like on TV. And just like at home, his eyes were glued on the monkey puppet, dancing his way across the stage. He cheered along with all the other boys and girls for their hero and close friend as Bongo affirmed that each and every one of them could achieve anything.
Eventually, it came time to get your picture taken with Bongo. Michael lined up with all the other children and patiently waited to sit down next to his puppet idol, who would put his arm around Michael and tell him how special he was. He watched Bongo hug all the other children very tightly, drawing them in close for the picture. Michael’s mind filled with anticipation.
The time came. Michael walked up to Bongo. Then, Bongo looked back at Michael. Michael, blushing at the attention his idol was giving him, opened his arms for a hug. Oddly, a look of frustration crossed Bongo’s face. The toddler icon awkwardly reciprocated, flinging his arms around Michael while remaining coldly detached from the boy. Michael wondered if something was wrong, and there was.
“Stop, stop, stop,” the ape puppet insisted.
Bongo stopped trying to hug Michael. Instead, he backed away from Bongo
“Okay kid,” Bongo said. “As you know, I’ve been saying for years that everyone is special. That being said, I am not going to lie to anyone.”
Now Bongo’s eyes concentrated on Michael’s face, and those eyes carried the weight of bad news.
“Look kid, I don’t know you, but I can see your condition,” Bongo said. “It’s clear from your face. Sorry to have to tell you this, but you aren’t special.”
You aren’t special. The words fell on him like an anvil. Michael didn’t feel his mother grab him and put him back in the stroller. He didn’t recover until they were out of the mall. Only then did he hear his mother cursing under her breath at the very rude monkey. Michael didn’t even cry. He just felt numb.
After that day, Michael began to notice he wasn’t like other kids. When he played in the park, while strangers would smile and wave at most children, people would go up to Michael and just shrug their shoulders. Doctors would often marvel at how Michael would always come in at the 50th percentile in height, weight, and intellectual and emotional development. His grandmother once called him “a precious bowl of oatmeal, without sugar.”
Finally, his father decided to come clean. Michael’s father sat his son down one day when he was five and explained to Michael his “condition.”
“Michael, we tried to hide this from you, but there’s just no point,” his father told him. “You have a genetic disorder: congenital mediocrity.”
“C-c-congenital mediocrity?” Michael asked.
“The doctor told us the day you were born,” his father said. “Oh, they conducted tests, but just like that damn puppet, the doctor said he could tell as soon as he saw you. You’re just really average at everything. Average height and weight. Your mother even spent an average amount of time in labor.”
Michael didn’t know quite how to feel about this. Average is okay. It’s the definition of okay. His father, however, knew exactly how to feel about it. He started to weep, burrowing his face into his hands.
“They told us that you’d go to a state school!” his father moaned. “And get a job in middle-management!”
His father really began to bawl. Michael ran up to comfort him, but he seemed inconsolable. The reality of Michael’s ordinariness shook him to his core. It all just seemed kind of odd. Ordinary wasn’t bad, was it?
***
Michael looked over his report card again and groaned. Another semester where he made straight Cs. First Grade, Cs. Second Grade, Cs. Third Grade, Cs. Now Fourth Grade, Cs. He once wondered what would happen if he intentionally tried to fail, but his self-respect wouldn’t let him do it. Michael looked at all the other kids in the class who were either celebrating or thinking of ways of hiding their latest failures from their parents. However, report card day always put the most ordinary 10-year-old in the world in an awkward position. Michael never made bad grades, but he never made an A. He once changed his grade on a math test from a C to a B, but, after initially being elated, his father started counting the questions he got wrong. He was never smart enough to get away with lying, so most of the time he just ended up telling the truth.
Riding the bus home, Michael wondered how he’d break the news to his parents. Probably the same way he did every time he came home with grades, just handing them the report card and watching their faces sag like an old coat on a hook. He saw it when he batted .250 in Little League, during the science fair when his volcano received a ribbon for “Most Cliched,” and when he played Frere Jacques for his recorder recital. He wished he could be an outright disappointment. A bad kid. A dumb kid. That would almost be better. It would probably mean he was good at something other than school. But Michael was always astoundingly average in every field of life.
Michael got off the bus a few houses down from his home. He kept staring at those Cs wondering how he managed to get those exact grades again. His brown bangs scratched the surface of that median report card. As he turned into his driveway, Michael stopped and got the mail, as his father instructed him to do. Michael sorted the mail into bills, junk mail, and a letter to him. Michael dropped the bills on the kitchen table and the junk mail in the trash before running to his room with the letter.
The letter had been packed in a very fancy envelope. He tore it open. The letter fell out. Michael picked it up and saw a rather cool school crest with a rocket ship, a cape, a magic wand, and a lightning bolt on it. He then read the letter:
Michael,
You have been selected as a student for Prometheus Academy, a highly selective school for unique young people with unusual powers. You may or may not realize that you have these powers. We have been keeping an eye on you through various means, and we know from our observations that you are special. Prometheus Academy trains young people to realize and use their hidden power to make the world a better place. Scientists, secret agents, wizards, and even superheroes are among our alumni. You may think these things are impossible, but we have seen amazing feats of power from our students. To begin your journey, call the number for the school administration posted in our letterhead. We look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Headmaster Cornelius Zeus
Michael was sure this was a fraud, but then he googled it. Rather than coming up on scam alert, what Michael found was a real school, with a location on Google Earth and a website that had a real number that matched the number on the letter. If this was a scam, it was a well-conceived one. He did a little more research and found news articles that confirmed the content of the letter: stories of people going to this school and then coming out able to fly or shoot a flea off a man’s head. It held classes where students went to space or traveled through time. This was like something out of a movie! Thinking he had nothing to lose, Michael dialed the number on the letter. After two rings, the other side picked up.
“Good afternoon, Prometheus Academy,” the voice of a woman said. “How can I help you?”
“Hello, this is Michael Smith,” Michael answered. “I got your letter.”
“Oh, you must be one of the recruits. Congratulations. You said your name was Michael Smith?”
“Yes,” Michael said, beginning to get his hopes up. “If you don’t mind, do you know what my special powers are?”
“Well, let’s see,” she said, audibly tapping on a keyboard. “Michael Smith….Hmmm…seems you would already know. As you’ve been using your super strength and agility to clean up the streets of Detroit.”
“What? The streets of Detroit?” Michael asked. “I live in Omaha. You even sent me the letter here.”
“Oh, just wait a second…. Oh my. This is awkward.”
“What’s awkward?”
“Well, Michael, that’s what your name is?” she asked, sounding nervous. “Michael, we super people make mistakes too. Sometimes we address letters to the wrong person.”
“The wrong person. But you had my address here. It doesn’t say Detroit.”
“Yeah, our system auto-fills based on Google. Shoot. I see what went wrong. You spell your name M-I-C-H-A-E-L, right?”
“Yes, that’s the normal way to spell Michael.”
“Well, there are variations. The guy in Detroit spells it: M-I-C-H-A-L. Looks like an autocorrect problem. I’m sorry to tell you that you have not been invited to the Prometheus Academy. Good-bye.”
The phone went dead. Michael stood there, holding the receiver, unable to speak. A minute passed. Michael finally processed what occurred and just screamed.
***
“Mr. Smith, no one has been more consistent than you,” Mrs. Darien said, reviewing Michael’s permanent record. “Cs for twelve consecutive grades.”
Michael rolled his eyes at this rather mundane observation. He sat there in a red polo shirt and jeans with the same short brown hair that made him look like an extra in a teen after-school special. Look lady, he thought, you’re supposed to help me apply for college. I could do without the commentary.
“My ACT score…” Michael began.
“Is a middling 20,” Mrs. Darien answered.
“And I have extracurriculars,” Michael said. “Chess club, Tennis, Audio-Visual…”
“Nothing you are noted to excel at,” the college counselor said.
Yes, old second-string Michael never made first team at anything, and that hadn’t changed since fourth grade.
“Can I get into a four-year university?” Michael asked.
Mrs. Darien looked at the relevant numbers and squinted her eyes through her petite, square glasses. Ms. Darien’s black domed hair and boney features always made Michael feel like she would call him “dahling” at any moment. Finally, she bobbed her head. Michael breathed a sigh of relief.
“You can get into Midland,” Mrs. Darien said. “Have you thought about a major?”
“Business,” Michael said.
“Of course,” Mrs. Darien said, rolling her eyes. “That’s a good, safe pick.”
“Can I go now?” Michael asked.
The school counselor waved her hand to dismiss him. Michael took his bags and left the room. He walked down the hall and saw James and Frederick, his school friends from the AV Club. He told them the good news, and they headed down the front stairs of the school with their arms around each other. At the foot of the building stood a white man with a greying crew cut wearing a rather formal grey suit complete with very dark sunglasses. Michael paid him no attention until the man held up his hand as if to say “Stop.”
“Are you Michael Smith?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Michael said, stopping. “Who are you?”
“Who I am is unimportant,” the man said. “Michael, we need you to be part of a special government operation…”
Before he could continue, Michael started to laugh. This response flustered the messenger, but then he pressed on.
“Only you can help us….”
“Do what?” Michael spat. “Come on guys, let’s get out of here.”
Michael stepped around the mysterious man, with Frederick and James in tow. As soon as they were out of sight, they all started chuckling.
“What a maroon,” Michael cracked.
***
Later that night, Michael and his friends were watching television in his parents’ basement. As an episode of Seinfeld ended, the news came on, and that same man from before appeared on the screen, with the caption “Killer Caught.”
“Tonight, a man has been arrested for the death of four people,” the blond-haired anchorwoman said. “Police say he lured unsuspecting teenagers into this van by telling them they were wanted for a special government operation before killing them, dismembering them, and then eating them. The suspect apparently found their names in a school year book. Police suspect there may be more victims, as they found several bags of strange ground meat frozen in his home.”
James and Frederick stared at the man’s picture, stunned. James turned to look at Michael who just leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
“Shit man, we nearly fucking died,” James said.
“No, we never came close to dying” Michael responded. “Tough to believe anybody else could ever fall for that.”
***
As always, Michael arrived five minutes early for his blind date. Mike texted his counterpart that he was there. The restaurant hummed with the sound of talking heads and smelled of fried onions. She texted back that she would be late and to get them a table. He did as instructed, getting a booth and ordering a beer. He thought about a Michelob Ultra but then reconsidered. Let’s have a Blue Moon. He’d had a long day.
About five minutes after their appointed meeting time, Michael got a text indicating his date had come through the door. Michael got up from his chair to go fetch her. He hadn’t seen her before, but she was looking around. He liked what he saw. Brown hair, brown eyes. A classic pint-glass figure, wrapped in a dark green dress. Thin-rimmed glasses perched on her mid-sized nose.
“Hey, are you–?” Michael began.
“Laura,” she said. “Yes.”
Laura. Yes, that seemed right. Michael led her back to their booth. She ordered a merlot and the chicken alfredo. Michael got the burger. Both cost the same. Something about this girl felt…just right. Like that bowl of porridge that so tempted Goldilocks to stay.
“So,” Laura started slowly. “Sorry for being late. My roommate had a mental breakdown and I had to drive her to the hospital.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that,” Michael said. “Are you doing, okay?”
“Yeah, it’s my roommate who decompensated over getting a C. Spending the night in a mental hospital,” she said. “Good grief. It’s the same C I got. Honor students, huh?”
“Hah, yeah, that’s what I’ve found,” Michael said. “Say, what’s your favorite movie?”
“Hmmm…Sleepless in Seattle,” Laura said. “And you?”
“Lord of the Rings. The third one,” Michael said.
“Favorite TV show?”
“Law and Order.”
“Mine’s Seinfeld.”
“Favorite Author?”
“John Grisham.”
“Michael Crichton.”
Michael liked this girl. Strange to find someone who just seemed so…ordinary. Kind of a turn-on.
“So, what are you majoring in?” she asked.
“Business,” he said. “And you.”
“Business administration,” she said. “I want to be an office manager.”
“That would suit you.”
“Thanks.”
All of a sudden, the televisions hanging from the wall of the Applebee’s they were at sounded off with a sudden report.
“This just in,” the anchor man announced in his finest blueblood accent. “A group of former students from Prometheus Academy are suing the school for the unique claim of ‘failure to thrive.’ It seems that 80 percent of graduates, often despite possessing special powers, never obtain any high position in government, academia, or business. Few Prometheus students actively fight crime or enemy government agents, instead using their skills in the private sector, where the average ‘super’ makes about $60,000 a year. The plaintiffs in this suit are claiming that Prometheus Academy set them up for a life of disappointment by raising their expectations to unrealistic levels.”
Michael tried to repress his instinctual response, but he could not help it. He allowed a laugh to escape his mouth. Laura smiled at him.
“You find the poor superhumans’ lawsuit to be funny?” Laura asked, her own mouth slowly curing upwards into an ironic smile.
“On the contrary, I find their own description of what Prometheus Academy did to them to be surprisingly accurate,” Michael responded. “A place where everyone is special, and that’s not just a slogan.”
“Is that Bongo the Chimpanzee?” Laura asked. “My mother never let me watch that show as a child.”
“I liked him when I was a toddler, but then I swore off Bongo after I met him,” Michael said. “Turned out to be a good decision given that the puppeteer was a little too into kids. Never meet your heroes.”
Michael and Laura looked at each other and smiled. Maybe, there was something to this relationship.
“So, what would you like to do for a second date?” Michael asked.
“Hmmm…how about bowling?” Laura asked.
“That’s a little too adventurous,” Michael said. “Let’s just catch a movie.”
“Perfect,” Laura said.
***
“You’re a part of the team. You work hard. You show up on time. You are competent. You admit fault when you are wrong. You accept compliments graciously.”
Michael’s boss looked down on the evaluations of Michael he received. He was pleasant, but something seemed to be bothering the man. It didn’t bother Michael. It was the same face he’d seen on every teacher, coach, and supervisor he’d ever had. An old coat hanging on a hook.
Michael stood up and shook the man’s hand. His boss returned a friendly, polite smile. Michael then turned around and headed to his car. Time to go home after a long day of selling insurance. Laura was making tacos.
Arriving at his ranch-style home in the suburbs, Michael noticed another car in the driveway. Maybe Laura had friends over. No, that wasn’t like her. Too…unusual. Michael parked his Chevy Impala and walked into the house. Oddly, he couldn’t smell the taco meat. He wondered why Laura hadn’t started dinner yet. Then he saw Laura in the living room, sitting on the couch, as a man in a grey suit spoke with her. That man noticed Michael as he got up and handed him a business card.
“Mr. Smith, thank you for being here,” the man said.
“Well, I should be here,” Michael said. “It’s my home. Why are you here?”
“Of course, Mr. Smith,” the man apologized. “My name is David Parker. I represent a collection of market research companies, political organizing committees, and media conglomerates. I am here because you are the most average man in America.”
“So, I’ve heard,” Michael said, rolling his eyes.
“That’s good, Mr. Smith, very good for you,” Parker continued. “I’m here to make your bank account very not average. The people I work for have employed me to survey the opinions, habits, and desires of people diagnosed with congenital mediocrity. Appealing to you people is like appealing to America at large.”
Oh, Michael thought, one of these people. He squeezed Laura’s hand, and she squeezed back as if to say “Let’s humor him.” After all, they were already a Nielsen family. How different could this be?
“Very well, ask away,” Michael said.
“Oh, we’ll be harvesting data from you for years,” Parker said. “Just wait until an election year happens. We’ll be on the phone with you every day. But for now, let’s start with a few preliminary questions.”
Parker rattled off a series of questions. Where do you like to eat? Applebees. What do you watch on Tuesdays? Reruns of Seinfeld. What do you think of Senator Snort? He’s not as bad as the other guy. Any new large expenditures you plan to make in the next year? Yes, Laura’s pregnant, so that will be a lot of new expenditures.
“That’s great! Congratulations!” Parker exclaimed. “One last question: on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your satisfaction with your current life?”
“Ten,” Michael said.
“Ten, yeah, we get that a lot from you congenitally mediocre people,” Parker said. “Funny, we expected you people to be miserable when you excel at nothing, but from what we can tell you are the happiest people in America. Everyone else hates the world. There are mass shootings every week. Suicide rates are through the roof. Trust in government is in the sewers. We’ve lowered the flags to half-mast and just left them there, but somehow you people are just content. What is with that?”
“I guess some people set out in life to be happy and others set out to be special,” Michael said. “I never really had a chance to be special, so I just settled for happiness.”
“That’s great,” Parker said. “I’ll have to tell my boss that. I’ve been hoping for a promotion. If I get this assignment right, I could be head of the department in five years. Any chance we can work on another appointment tomorrow evening? We can go to Applebees. My treat.”
Michael and Laura looked at each other and nodded. Sure, they’d take pity on this person.
“Yeah, we can do that,” Michael said.
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