VIVIAN WAGNER
The Six Million Dollar Man Speaks to His Fans
I wasn’t as powerful as I looked, okay? Sure, I could leap over buildings and run as fast as a car, hear conversations on the other side of walls, that kind of thing. But you really think that’s power? You think I liked that? No, you’re mistaken. See, I had all the physical power in the world, but I didn’t have what you might call emotional smarts. Remember all the issues I had with the Bionic Woman? Things didn’t go smoothly there, not at all. I wish I had more of a bionic heart, to be honest. A way of dealing with the slings and arrows of relationships. That would be true power. But no, what they did was make me even more of a man, even more masculine in a certain way of thinking about that term. I couldn’t cry after the operation, for one thing. Not a tear. I wonder if they actually did some kind of operation on my tear ducts. Not that I would have cried if I could, because I was always under observation. I would have done everything I could not to cry, just so they wouldn’t see me. But still, I wish I could have. I wish I could have retreated into a far corner of my room after a busy week and just let it all rip, you know? Just cried my eyes out, bionic-style. Because here’s the other thing you don’t realize: I was depressed. They brought me back to life and I could be strong and handsome and powerful, but inside I had this hole that couldn’t be filled. I’d been ripped from my old life and thrown into this new one, where I was expected to be better than I’d ever been, a cyborg for a new age. And sure, I played that role. Sure, I fought crime and uncovered mysteries, and all that. But I felt more like a weapon than a person. More like someone’s toy than a real flesh-and-blood being. And that can wear on a man. We didn’t have anti-depressants as much back then, especially for men, and even if we did I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to take them, but still, I needed to do something. Maybe meditation. Maybe breathing exercises. Hell, maybe yoga. I had stiff muscles, after all, where they met with the metal. No one ever thinks of that – how did my body feel? Let alone my mind. Because here’s the thing: I was a wreck. I was a walking, talking wreck of a man, filled with engineering marvels and accompanied by an awesome soundtrack, but a wreck nonetheless. Well, anyway, I have it a little better now. No one has watched my movements much lately, but I’ve retired from government work and hauled my metallic ass up here to a mountainside outside of Portland. I go into town for the farmer’s market once a week to get a nice cup of coffee, but the rest of the time I’m up here, breathing the fine, thin air of later life. I’m stiffer than I used to be, but I have been doing my own yoga out in the forest behind my house. I do that each morning, and then I have a cup of tea. Once in a while I decide to run at car-speed around the property, or use my laser eyes to spy a deer out in the midst of the pines. But mostly I’m letting my bionic body have a rest. It’s well-deserved, if you ask me. I’m just trying to be as normal and weak as I can be. I like weakness. It’s relaxing.
I wasn’t as powerful as I looked, okay? Sure, I could leap over buildings and run as fast as a car, hear conversations on the other side of walls, that kind of thing. But you really think that’s power? You think I liked that? No, you’re mistaken. See, I had all the physical power in the world, but I didn’t have what you might call emotional smarts. Remember all the issues I had with the Bionic Woman? Things didn’t go smoothly there, not at all. I wish I had more of a bionic heart, to be honest. A way of dealing with the slings and arrows of relationships. That would be true power. But no, what they did was make me even more of a man, even more masculine in a certain way of thinking about that term. I couldn’t cry after the operation, for one thing. Not a tear. I wonder if they actually did some kind of operation on my tear ducts. Not that I would have cried if I could, because I was always under observation. I would have done everything I could not to cry, just so they wouldn’t see me. But still, I wish I could have. I wish I could have retreated into a far corner of my room after a busy week and just let it all rip, you know? Just cried my eyes out, bionic-style. Because here’s the other thing you don’t realize: I was depressed. They brought me back to life and I could be strong and handsome and powerful, but inside I had this hole that couldn’t be filled. I’d been ripped from my old life and thrown into this new one, where I was expected to be better than I’d ever been, a cyborg for a new age. And sure, I played that role. Sure, I fought crime and uncovered mysteries, and all that. But I felt more like a weapon than a person. More like someone’s toy than a real flesh-and-blood being. And that can wear on a man. We didn’t have anti-depressants as much back then, especially for men, and even if we did I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to take them, but still, I needed to do something. Maybe meditation. Maybe breathing exercises. Hell, maybe yoga. I had stiff muscles, after all, where they met with the metal. No one ever thinks of that – how did my body feel? Let alone my mind. Because here’s the thing: I was a wreck. I was a walking, talking wreck of a man, filled with engineering marvels and accompanied by an awesome soundtrack, but a wreck nonetheless. Well, anyway, I have it a little better now. No one has watched my movements much lately, but I’ve retired from government work and hauled my metallic ass up here to a mountainside outside of Portland. I go into town for the farmer’s market once a week to get a nice cup of coffee, but the rest of the time I’m up here, breathing the fine, thin air of later life. I’m stiffer than I used to be, but I have been doing my own yoga out in the forest behind my house. I do that each morning, and then I have a cup of tea. Once in a while I decide to run at car-speed around the property, or use my laser eyes to spy a deer out in the midst of the pines. But mostly I’m letting my bionic body have a rest. It’s well-deserved, if you ask me. I’m just trying to be as normal and weak as I can be. I like weakness. It’s relaxing.
Princess Leia Tells Off the World
Why, you stuck up
half-witted
scruffy-looking
Nerf-herder.
I'd just as soon
kiss a Wookiee.
I don't know where
you get your delusions,
laser brain.
I guess you don't know
everything about women yet.
You don't have to do
this to impress me.
Let go, please.
Let go.
Why, you stuck up
half-witted
scruffy-looking
Nerf-herder.
I'd just as soon
kiss a Wookiee.
I don't know where
you get your delusions,
laser brain.
I guess you don't know
everything about women yet.
You don't have to do
this to impress me.
Let go, please.
Let go.
Vivian Wagner is an associate professor of English at Muskingum University in New Concord, Ohio. Her work has appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Creative Nonfiction, The Atlantic, The Ilanot Review, Silk Road Review, Zone 3, Eyedrum Periodically, 3QR, and other publications. She's also the author of a memoir, Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music (Citadel-Kensington), and a poetry collection, The Village (Kelsay Books).