My Not So Super Superpower

My amazing ability is amazingly troublesome.

I am not Superman. Far from it. But I do have an unusual power. Some might think it a curse, but I’d rather stay positive, so yes, I’ll call it a superpower. What is this marvelous attribute, this magnificent peculiarity? I have…(drum roll please)… the ability to move objects without touching them. It is a form of what some people call “telekinesis.”

Now before you label me a con artist or pseudoscientist, let me explain. I have no power over this superpower. I can’t control when or where my special skill might appear. It often manifests itself at the most inopportune times, and when things around me mysteriously lose their balance and fall, my power is almost always blamed on clumsiness.  

Although “klutz” should be my middle name, the talent I’m talking about is something entirely different. It is an honest-to-goodness capacity to cause items near me to tumble to the ground completely without any human intervention. I’ll admit this kind of psychokinetic phenomenon is totally useless as a superpower, but nevertheless, it is very real.  

I first noticed the ability when I was in eighth grade band. The class met in a large hall at my junior high school, away from the other classrooms. At the back of the massive room were two sousaphones—giant instruments with huge forward-facing bells; tuba players wear them over their shoulders in marching bands. The brass behemoths are heavy, so in order for an eighth-grader to play one, the instrument has to sit on a special stand that holds it up while the student sits in a chair encircled by the instrument’s tubing.  

Also at the back of the band room was a pencil sharpener attached to the wall about ten feet away from the sousaphones. 

One day in class, my fellow students and I were all listening to a recording of a song we were trying to learn when I got up from my seat, headed for the sharpener. Standing at the machine and grinding away at my newest #2, one of the mammoth instruments near me fell off its stand without warning, hitting the floor with a reverberating clang. The teacher, along with the other adolescent musicians, immediately whipped their heads around toward me. Excited whispers filled the room. “Ooo Nicky!” “He knocked it down!” “It’s all bent!”  

But I had not touched the instrument. I couldn’t even reach it from where I was. Standing there red-faced, still holding the lead-laden yellow stick in my left hand. I vehemently proclaimed my innocence.  

The accusations from the other students grew louder. “Sure, pal, sure.” “Stop lying.” “You’re in trouble now.” 

The teacher finally said in a mournful monotone, “Sit down, Mr. Walker. Class, let’s continue to listen.” Then he started the record over as I silently slinked back to my seat in the trumpet section and he went to inspect the damage. The story of my “knocking over” the sousaphone was legend for the remainder of the year, but I swear to this day, the instrument was more than two arm’s lengths away from me when it fell.  

For a while I considered the incident a fluke, an unfortunate coincidence; that is, until a couple of years later when something happened that made me realize it was part of a pattern—that I evidently had some sort of kinetic energy emanating from my body that involuntarily reared its ugly head at the most inconvenient times and places. 

It was during my long-haired teen years when I found myself inside a drug store, waiting in an abnormally long line to make my purchase. The queue wound around the glass counter and was about eight people deep. As I inched toward the cash register with the other customers, I passed a three-foot tall display of costume jewelry filled with cheap necklaces, clip-on earrings and rhinestone brooches. While I was still at least four feet away from it, the whole rack abruptly tumbled onto the counter and then to the floor, scattering silver and gold baubles in every direction. 

Though the display had been out of my reach, I was the closest person to it. Everyone looked at me, scowling at this hairy, pimple-faced dolt and what they perceived to be his carelessness. A dozen other patrons from around the store quickly converged to see the source of the commotion and joined in the stare-down. The woman behind the counter, having recovered from her helpless shriek, began to verbally admonish me in front of the crowd.  

I looked around desperately for a friendly face, trying to explain that I had nothing to do with the display’s destruction. But the unbelieving gazes were all too familiar. Mumbling an apology, I dropped the item I had planned to buy onto the counter and quickly made an exit.  

Throughout my life, my unwanted superpower has made other occasional appearances, sometimes in public, sometimes when I’m alone. Potato chips have inexplicably fallen from convenience store shelves as I walked by. Tools have fallen from their hooks in my garage. Dishes have leaped from cupboards and shattered on countertops. More than once, a wall hanging or curtain rod has become bizarrely dislodged as I enter a room. And since my family members have never directly witnessed these events, they still write them off to my klutziness.

This amazing-though-dubious superpower has diminished a bit over the years, and until recently I thought that perhaps it had disappeared altogether, but apparently not. Just a few days ago I was wheeling my grocery cart toward the checkout stand, breezing past the magazine rack stuffed with multiple Peoples and Examiners. At that very moment, the magazines chose to succumb to gravity and slip from their wire holders. I turned and saw multiple cover photos of Will Smith and his wife Jada slap to the floor. Glancing around, I noticed other customers trying to avoid my eye, apparently embarrassed for this clumsy white-haired old oaf. But as I paused to pick up the periodicals, Will Smith did seem to look back at me with an accusatory stare. I dutifully rearranged the magazines so they would stay put before choosing a checkout aisle far away at the other end of the row. 

From what I have read, the scientific community has not produced any reliable research on telekinesis. I would offer up my experiences as evidence, but since years can go by without the phenomenon presenting itself, and since I cannot repeat it at will, I’ll leave it up to the few observers of the marvel (mainly me) to determine its validity. And I will tell you this: It’s not welcome, it’s not desirable, and it’s not fair, but this peculiarity of character is legitimate. And I’ll tell you this too; I am legitimately more than willing to give it up.

If only it weren’t so super-powerful. 

 © Nick Walker 2022