A therapist’s office. Two people sit facing each other in padded, straight-back chairs. One is the therapist, an older woman. The other is Arthur, a patient of hers who has been coming to see her at the suggestion of his parole officer. He is in his late 20s, slightly nervous, fidgety and tired. Arthur speaks.

So there’s this guy – this man – who I’ve been having some trouble with lately. He’s, um, he’s my girlfriend’s guardian, I guess. I mean, he’s really a combination of, like, a mentor, and a trainer, and a boss, and, um, a sensei, I guess and, plus, he’s legally adopted her and made her one of his heirs, so he’s also kind of her father, even though she has one already. I like him, too, her dad – her real dad, not the adopted one – he’s, um, he’s a really nice guy. Likes checkers. Anyway, this guy, her mentor-trainer-boss-sensei-fake-father – well, when he adopted her and became her employer or whatever, he wrote her into his will. And, well, this guy has a lot of money, like old money, from his parents who got it from his grandparents and so on, the kind of money that’s so much money that you don’t have to think about the price of things or how you’re going to make more money, not ever. Money just isn’t something you think about. Which is totally surreal.

And my girlfriend, she’s written into his will, and this huge part of her life – in fact, several huge parts of her life, well. It’s pretty obvious, there’s not a chance in hell that he’s ever gonna take to me. A degenerate, that’s what I am to him, even though I’m not much of one. (Pause.) And I guess the worst kind of degenerate is a mediocre one – the worst thing’s to be a small-time villain. Which is what I am. At best. And – (He’s getting overworked and mixed up about what he’s trying to say.) Okay. Okay. Hang on, gimme a minute. (Pause. He sighs.)

So I guess I’d better explain a little better. After all, Rodger sent me to talk to you, so you must talk to guys like me all the time - you must be some kind of trustworthy. You already have a pretty good idea of the situation I’m in, and it’s not like any of the people I’m talking about lead quiet, private lives. So. I’m talking about Elliot Lawrence Carter-Hawk. And, I mean, you know all about him. Dashing Old Hollywood charm and a genius for marketing. Guardian Emeritus of the city.

Before I started dating Catherine, I knew as little about the guy as it’s possible to know, which is still a lot. I mean, he’s everywhere, you know that. But I guess I really never knew his, his back-story or any of that. I knew about the heroics, I guess, and not the hero. The first time I met him, he asked me if I knew how he got into the business of heroism, and I said no, and he looked a little surprised, and then he told me. Have you heard this? (Therapist wiggles her hand back and forth.) Yeah, me too.

So Hawk’s born, and he’s his parents’ only child, and his parents just happen to be the heirs to the great Carter and Hawk fortunes, built over generations on the backs of thousands of common people, working in factories and building railroads and logging the forests, and on their wallets, too, off the automobiles and the train tickets and the lumber and God knows what else. He told me, but I don’t remember. Anything he can imagine, and plenty of things he doesn’t, are showered down on him by his wealthy, doting family; his education’s the best that money can buy and that his short, spoiled attention span will allow. He’s real into pranks and inventions and adventures and about the only things he takes interest in are the ones that are going to help him build things like hang gliders, surprise. He travels all over the world for years without actually noticing it, until he’s about 17 or so. He’s filled with (imitating him a little) a simply unspeakable ennui His father had a heart attack a couple of years before, and his mother’s gotten real reclusive, and though they’ve always been lax with him, any semblance of management falls away completely. He starts traveling alone, wandering around brooding on the dullness of life, and starts actually noticing the world around him, the people who he sort of glazed over before. And he’s appalled at the general state of things around him, all the bad things he simply hadn’t bothered to notice all those years swaddled in luxury. So here he is, seventeen, bored and suddenly beginning to realize the number of troubles one world can hold.

So he decided the solution to both problems is to become a hero. You know, with the name and the gimmick and the costume and everything.

That’s why he became The Aviator, because he was seventeen and bored with the eat, drink and screw approach to life. (Trying to make clear just how insane this is to him.) He re-invented the whole costumed crusader thing, turned it into the organized method of police work and justice it is today, because he was bored and thought maybe things shouldn’t be quite so bad. Because he thought it would be amusing to run around in a ridiculous pair of bullet-proof jodhpurs and a big old silk scarf, swooping in with jet packs and biplanes or whatever to save the day. Just like that. Monday, he’s just another bored rich kid, and Tuesday he’s a superhero. It’s just that easy for him

So, you know, kinda weird for me, dating the heiress to this grand tradition of fighting crime and boredom, what with the whole tunnel incident being so big and in every paper and all. I guess I’m not really the kind of guy you want dating the heir to your eminent crime-fighting empire. (Checks the clock.) Huh. I guess it’s time for me to go. (Therapist nods and smiles. They shake hands.) See you next week, then. (He leaves.)