As these things do, it started out simple. A gag gift from Greg. Greg was my boyfriend through most of high school. We never really clicked, though that might have just been me, and broke up shortly before graduation. His gift to me was a hero mask. We had dressed up as super heroes for Halloween and he had given me a mask. It was just a simple domino mask, one that covered the bridge of your nose and around your eyes. Supposedly it made you harder to recognize, but I never believed that. The mask had a weird felt outer skin and a smooth plastic interior. This first mask was uncomfortable as hell.

It was after the breakup, during the post relationship moping, that I came across the mask. I don’t know why it didn’t end up in the trash with the rest of the crap he bought me. Instead I hung it above my computer. My ancient computer sat, in all its grayish green glory, in the darkest corner of my room. Without this lack of light I would never have seen the writing. ACME HERO EQUIP INC™ was printed in bold type all around the shiny plastic interior of the mask.

The letters gave off an interesting light that, I have since learned, was a specially engineered bio-luminescent bacteria. The bacteria was made to glow at a certain time during its life-cycle. The night I saw the writing was the very first day of summer vacation. I had just finished my junior year and was looking forward to another summer working at my dad’s hardware store. The light caught my eye and I, as any true geek would, immediately googled it.

Initially I didn’t get anything. The website that loaded was completely blank. There was nothing on it. At first I thought that the site just hadn’t loaded correctly, so I refreshed it. Still nothing. I sat on my chair thinking and fiddling with the mask. I reloaded the screen again, got frustrated and got up. I sat on the edge of my bed still holding the mask. I was annoyed that I had wasted my time looking for something that was obviously not there. Getting out my phone I decided to take a selfie with the mask on. I put it on my head, where the elastic immediately pulled my hair, and slid it over my eyes. I struck my best super pose and snapped the picture.

While getting ready to post it on instagram, #GREGSUCKS, I caught a glimpse of my computer monitor. The website had finally loaded. I took the mask off as I walked to the computer. When I sat down I noticed that the screen was blank again. WTF computer. Curious I slid the mask back over my eyes. The screen came to life. There was a full website on the screen. The banner across the top was a stylized star with one of the arms underlining Acme Hero Equip, Inc. As I explored the site I became more and more excited.

Acme Hero Equip, Inc. was the proud recipient of every penny I made that summer. I was lucky that my parents didn’t ask a lot of questions about where I was spending my money, I think they were just happy that I wasn’t moping around my room all day. I even made an effort to cultivate good relationships with my parents by working extra hard. As it says in the Acme Hero Manual™, “Having positive relationships will help hide your secret identity and create allies.” I also tried to apply this to my everyday life and found that some of my friends that I had drifted away from while dating Greg were more then happy to be friends again.

One of the first things I did when I started becoming The Correspondent was rent a P.O. Box. That way I could ship things to myself without my nosey parents finding out. I actually had to have one of my friends rent it since I was not yet eighteen. I also lied to Acme Hero Equip, Inc. about my age. They have a strict don’t sell to minors policy, but I wanted to get the jump on this heroing business.

The first order I placed was just for the manual. The Acme Hero Manual is a four-hundred page how-to book. It covers everything from costume design to arch-nemesis problems. I spent my first month reading it cover to cover. Then I started over at the beginning. I took copious notes on everything. I rewrote those notes, gleaning the smallest meaning from the texts. I spent more time on my notes on being a hero then I ever spent on my homework.

I learned that there are three main types of heroes; Sneaks, Tanks, and J.O.A.T.s. Sneaks are typically smaller in frame, weaker and rely on trickery to defeat their enemies. Tanks are big, strong and go head to head with bad guys. J.O.A.T.s, or Jack of All Trades, are those who don’t fall into either of the other two. I was clearly a sneak. I was nearly five foot tall and weighed just over a hundred pounds. I was built like a gymnast, which had been a goal of mine until my parents couldn’t afford it anymore, and I lacked greatly in the fear department.

I worked hard during the day and spent my evenings planning out my dream costume. With the sheer number of gadgets offered by Acme Hero Equip, Inc. it was easy to spend all my money. I set up a payment plan with the company and waited for everything to arrive. The packages would arrive piecemeal, as things were paid for. I tracked the items everywhere I went, constantly checking the status during any break in my day. I think this was one of the things I did that summer that really upset my parents.

The day the first package arrived was amazing. It was a busy Tuesday afternoon when my phone beeped, notifying me of a package’s arrival. I had been busy all day at work, stocking shelves while dealing with customers, so I had forgotten to check in on the packages. Looking at my phone I saw that I had a package waiting at the post office, which I had to pick up by five or I would have to wait until the next day. There was no way I was going to be able to wait until the next day. So I picked up the pace.

I slipped my earbuds in and stocked shelves like I had never stocked the shelves before. Product was flying out of my cart and onto the shelves. My parents store is moderately sized. There are about ten aisles on each side of the store filled with typical hardware stuff. I have been helping around the store since I could walk, which meant I knew where everything was supposed to go. I was rocking out, starting to get excited about my package, when I was tapped on the shoulder.

I almost flew out of my skin. I had been so focused on the shelves in front of me that I hadn’t noticed Mrs. Candide standing behind me. After I crawled back into my skin I helped her find the correct stem for her faucet. I then had to listen to her talk about her grandchildren’s, two of which I attended school with and hated, wonderful perfect summer. The Candide family was a big deal in my small town. Mrs. Candide’s husband, who was dead, had turned his family’s cattle ranch into a successful packing plant. The Candides were rich, and the Candide children liked to flaunt it.

I was able to make it through our interaction without rolling my eyes, which I was quite proud of. After Mrs. Candide had paid and left, my dad walked over.

“Nice work with Mrs. Candide, Ellie,” he said, smiling at me.

“Thanks?” I said, trying to figure out if I was in trouble.

“You have been working really hard this summer so I thought you might like to have the rest of the day off. Go do whatever it is kids your age do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, your mom and I can handle the rest of the freight. Go, have fun.”

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth I headed to the backroom. Stopping by the break room I took off my apron, grabbed my bag and headed out the backdoor.

I kept my scooter parked behind the store. My parents had helped me get the scooter when I turned sixteen. Initially my father had been against it, swearing up and down that I would probably get irreversible brain damage. My mom and I convinced him that I would be safe and after making me promise that I would always wear a helmet, he agreed. I had spent some time going around to flea markets and surplus stores to find the perfect helmet, a jet fighter’s helmet with a flip down visor. Last summer I had paid to have it painted lime green with orange and purple polkadots.

My scooter is a 1972 Vespa. The goldenrod paint is faded and the seat is torn but it is all mine. I have put hundreds of miles on it in the almost two years that I have had it and the thing has never given me any trouble. I love my scooter. As usual the scooter started right up, I put my helmet on, slid the visor down and I was on my way to the post office.

Typically I am a safe driver, but I was so excited to get my package I zipped in and out of traffic in a way that would make my dad’s eye twitch. The post office was on the other side of town but on the same street so it was a straight shot. I cursed every red light that impeded my trip and whooped with glee going through every green. Twenty minutes later, which was five minutes sooner then legal speeds allowed, I pulled into the post office parking lot.

I should mention that this is the new post office, which means that it is full of all sorts of security measures including: metal detectors, security cameras and a guard who glares suspiciously at anyone who enters the building. I felt like I didn’t deserve his glare, since I was just a teen girl, but I think the guard was from the “all teenagers are gang members” school of thought.

I was even wearing my work clothes which consisted of khaki pants and a white polo shirt. My red hair was pulled back in a ponytail and, since I hadn’t put in my contacts, I had my glasses on. Maybe he just hated gingers or something, but my hair was more blond then red.

First I checked my P.O. Box, which was stuffed full of junk mail. There was a cream paper that told me that I had a package that was to big to fit in my box. That meant I had to go to the counter, which meant waiting in line. Like all post office lines this one moved at a snails pace. When I reached the counter I handed over the slip and the mail person handed me my package. 
I showed real control by not tearing open the package right then and there. I walked out to my scooter, secured the package to the rear rack, and headed home. I couldn’t wait to open the package.

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