The Amazing Adventures of Phoenix Jones: And the Less Amazing Adventures of Some Other Real-Life Superheroes: An eSpecial From Riverhead Books by Jon Ronson Page A

his skin. I’ve seen him with his mask off. I’ve been to his house for dinner. But that’s because of the level of trust he has in me.”
    And there are dozens more, like Salt Lake City’s Citizen Prime, who wears steel armor and a yellow cape and is in real life “a vice president of a Fortune 500 financial company,” says Peter Tangen. Like the majority of real-life superheroes, Citizen Prime undertakes basically safe community work, helping the homeless, telling kids to stay off drugs, etc. All are regular men with jobs and families and responsibilities who somehow have enough energy at the end of the day to journey into America’s more needy communities to do what they can. Phoenix is reputed to be by far the most daring of them all, leaping fearlessly into the kinds of life-threatening situations the other superheroes might well run shrieking from.
    Every superhero has his origin story, and as we drive from the hospital to his apartment, Phoenix tells me his. His life, he says, hasn’t been a breeze. He was raised in an orphanage in Texas and now spends his days teaching autistic kids how to read. One night last summer someone broke into his car. There was shattered glass on the floor. His stepson fell into it, badly gashing his knee.
    “I got tired of people doing things that are morally questionable,” he says. “Everyone’s afraid. It just takes one person to say, ‘I’m not afraid.’ And I guess I’m that guy.”
    So he retrieved from the floor the mask the robber had used to break into his car, and he made his own mask from it. “They use the mask to conceal their identity,” he says. “I use the mask to become an identity.”
    He called himself Phoenix Jones because the Phoenix rises from the ashes and Jones is America’s most common surname. He was the common man rising from society’s ashes.
    2.30 am . Phoenix says he wouldn’t normally invite a journalist to his Secret Identity apartment but they’re moving on Monday as their safety was compromised: “You walk in and out in a mask enough times, people get to know where you live.”
    It is a very, very messy apartment. Comic books and toys and exercise videos are strewn everywhere. He disappears into the bedroom and emerges in his full bulletproof superhero attire.
    “Let’s bust some crime!” he hollers.
    Downtown is deserted. We see neither his crew nor any crime.
    “How are you feeling?” I ask him.
    “I’m in a lot of pain,” he says. “The cut’s still bleeding. Internally and externally. A couple of my old injuries are flaring up. Like some broken ribs. I’m having a rough night.”
    I glance at him, concerned. “Maybe you’re going too hard,” I say. “Aren’t you in danger of burning out?”
    “Crime doesn’t care how I feel,” he says.
    Just then a young man approaches us. He’s sweating, looking distressed. “I’ve been in tears!” he yells.
    He tells us his story. He’s here on vacation, his parents live a two-hour bus ride away in central Washington, and he’s only $9.40 short for the fare home. Can Phoenix please give him $9.40?
    “I’ve been crying, dude,” he says. “I’ve asked sixty or seventy people. Will you touch my heart, save my life, and give me nine dollars and forty cents?”
    Phoenix turns to me. “You down for a car ride adventure?” he says excitedly. “We’re going to drive the guy back to his parents!”
    The young man looks panicked. “Honestly, nine dollars and forty cents is fine,” he says, backing away slightly.
    “No, no!” says Phoenix. “We’re going to drive you home! Where’s your luggage?”
    “Um, in storage at the train station . . .” he says.
    “We’ll meet you at the train station in ten minutes!” says Phoenix.
    Thirty minutes later. The train station. The man hasn’t showed up. Phoenix narrows his eyes. “I think he was trying to scam us,” he says. “Hmm!”
    “Can you be naive?” I ask him.
    There’s a silence. “It happens to the