Short Story – Hobart's Heroes

"Hobart’s Heroes"

Finished on 6 October 2024

    Hobart was, by most accounts, a rather average man. He grew up in one of the many suburbs of an entry-level big city. With a rather forgettable reputation, he’d occasionally lurk in the background of high school parties before it got too late and he headed home, the red solo cup in his hand mostly there just to fit in. His parents, in a marriage that was neither good nor bad, supported him every once in a while as normal parents do, but never tried to inspire him enough to have anything but the same, average trajectory in life as they did.

    At the same time, children are, by nature, more idealistic. Hobart’s mind ran free with possibilities, so he covered the walls of his room with all his favourite heroes – astronauts, superheroes, athletes, and even Army recruitment posters. But this was hardly unique, as most people had such untamed imaginations while growing up.

    Perhaps the only interesting part of Hobart’s upbringing was his ability to run. While not the fastest boy on the track team, Hobart did well enough on the 400m his senior year of high school to secure a slot in one of the legs of the 4x400 during the track meet against his school’s rival. The most anticipated race of the most anticipated meet of the year, the 4x400 culminated at the end after all the other events had finished, except for maybe the pole vault and throwing as they passively plugged away in the background. Every other person not competing would gather around the track and watch the final competition of the evening. The second the gun would fire and the racers would begin, the meet would come alive with a roar of motivational cheering and frenzied clapping.

    That energy inspired Hobart, the unassuming second leg of four, as he excitedly jogged out to the track for his part. He nervously got into his starting position as his teammate turned the final corner. With a quick breath, he took off when he was supposed to, his teammate handed off the baton, and he ran with everything he had. At that point, all the pieces had been laid out, the weeks of training kicked in, and Hobart’s mind found space to reminisce about the heroes on his wall, the ones who believed in him the most. They helped him pump his arms with every stride of his legs, keeping his posture optimal while he put every ounce of effort into achieving the maximum possible speed his body was capable of. Finally, the time came for him to hand off the baton, and he executed it without a hitch.

    Hobart ended up having the slowest lap time out of his team, but that didn’t matter because they still ended up winning the 4x400. Excitement erupted immediately afterwards, his teammates all hugging and pushing and patting him wherever they could. Empowered by his heroes who inspired him to run as fast as his body could take him, it might have been the happiest moment of Hobart’s life.

    But that’s not always how life goes, especially for those that peak during high school. College came, and perhaps under the influence of his rather average parents, Hobart chose a college close to home and a major that seemed safe. Hobart graduated with a degree he didn’t really care about, got a job that didn’t ever push him, got married to an equally unremarkable girl, started a family too quickly, and despite his efforts (although as admittedly lacklustre as they were), ended up in a situation oddly similar to his parents.

    Middle-aged with a bit of a gut, the life from Hobart’s eyes had gradually given way to the mundane monotony of his everyday routine. Wake up. Scroll on phone. Brush teeth. Make breakfast. Eat breakfast. Take lunch made by wife. Kiss, on cheek. Say goodbye to kids. Go to work. Take a lunch break. Scroll on phone while eating wife’s lunch in the breakroom. Go back to work. Go home. Howdy, neighbour. Watch a sports game with a beer. Put kids to bed. Wife is already asleep. Lie awake next to her, lightly sizzling over a life that has largely gone past him. Maybe it will get better in twenty years after retiring, right? Right??

    Then one day as unassuming as Hobart was, Hobart stopped to get gas on the way to work. He wanted to get a snack after filling his tank, so he went into the store and sought out some crappy treat that surely didn’t help his gut. But as he walked towards the storefront with a greasy bag of chips in his hand, looking down with his mind sifting about in the aether as it normally did, a bustle in front of him snapped his head up, locking his eyes to a shiny, silver, double-action revolver held by a man pointing it at the cashier.

    Hobart’s eyes widened. His mouth, agape. Aghast that something had disrupted his dull day-to-day life, the only reaction he could manage, minus dropping his greasy chips, was to freeze. He began sweating immediately under the armpits, then the hands, then the rest of his body. Sure of who he was, he thought about how he was perhaps the worst person to be put in such a situation.

    The man with the gun had a jitteriness about him that didn’t help with Hobart’s mood. He glanced at Hobart briefly before dismissing him as a threat, swinging his revolver freely and speaking with a rushed desperation about his voice, demanding all the money be taken out, stat.

    The cashier, a college-aged boy with a slight build, also glanced at Hobart and dismissed him as help. He stuttered, declaring he couldn’t open the register unless he made a sale. The robber didn’t buy it, slamming his revolver against the side of the register. The cashier tried to comply, typing something on the register, missing keys, having to do it over again, and again missing keys. The robber grew uneasy, glancing over his shoulder past Hobart and around the store for any perceivable danger before again slamming the register with his revolver. This didn’t help the cashier’s nerves, who just couldn’t get the register open.

    Hobart, knowing as much about guns as a typical suburban dad might, grew worried that every hit against the register with the double-action revolver risked slapping the hammer into the back of the bullet in the chamber, which would discharge a round at the cashier. That was even if the increasingly agitated robber didn’t plan on shooting the cashier to begin with. It all made something inside him begin to cook.

    For some reason, his brain drifted back to the heroes on his walls as a kid. The astronaut wouldn’t let a world like this take place on the ground while he dared to go into space. The superhero would stop the robber. The athlete would have the speed and agility to outpace a bad guy. And the Soldier, well, he wouldn’t be afraid of getting shot.

    Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the disenchantment with his dreary spot in life that overcame him. He’d much rather have something happen on the way to work than on the way back after finishing a full shift, anyway. Regardless of what it was, Hobart took a half step back with one leg and another half step forward with his other, inconspicuously resembling his 4x400 starting position. With the robber still preoccupied with the cash register situation, Hobart saw his opportunity, and launched forward as if his body hadn’t aged in decades.

    At that moment, Hobart knew exactly who he was supposed to be. The culmination of everything his life had put before him that, every lacklustre and unfulfilling choice paired with his childhood dreams and early accomplishments, lead him to end up exactly where he was at that moment. Nobody who knew Hobart would have expected him to make a move like he did, but perhaps nobody knew Hobart like his heroes did.

    The robber, tweaking even more as the register situation grew more panicked, whipped around when he heard the footsteps. His eyes grew as wide as they could go as he realised too late how drastically he underestimated the middle-aged, heavyset man with a fearful timidness about his face. The cashier made a similar look, having gone through a comparable line of thinking. Nothing, not even the revolver, could have stopped the momentum Hobart had already gained paired with the adrenaline pumping through his body.

    Hobart’s hefty frame came crashing into the would-be robber, slamming the duo into the counter. The robber’s head bashed against the register, spinning his eyes in circles as his revolver escaped his grasp and flung through the air. Either out of split-second decision-making or dumb luck, Hobart ended up directly on top of the robber even after bouncing off the counter and landing on the floor. The cashier snapped out of his trance after a moment of shock, frantically picked up the revolver where it landed behind the counter, and pointed it at the dazed robber until the cops came.

    Hobart didn’t move from atop the robber until the police moved him themselves. In fact, he never moved himself again. Nobody noticed that in the panic, the robber had squeezed the trigger. A single bullet through his centre of mass was all it took to end Hobart's most defining moment in life.

    But in those final moments before fading away, Hobart didn’t feel the fear or terror one would expect. Surprising as it may be, he didn’t even feel regret. Instead, he felt a similar feeling of accomplishment as when he helped win his 4x400. Perhaps he wasn’t the best person to stop the robber, but just like he wasn’t the fastest person on his team, he was enough to do what needed to be done. Despite all the odds against him, Hobart had shed the familiar yet unaccomplished shell he’d accrued through a convenient life that kept him awake at night as he yearned for something greater. It took him exactly a full lifetime to do so, but he finally became one of his heroes.

    A couple days later, the funeral came. Not even the largely forgettable existence of Hobart was immune to the gloomy faces and abundant tears from its attendees. Nobody expected anything to happen to the mild-mannered Hobart that early in his life. Not his wife, not his kids, not his friends, not his coworkers, not his parents, and especially not the cashier – not a soul that thought they knew him expected him to go out in such a flame.

    But regardless of the tragedy, perhaps it was because of Hobart’s defining moment that inspired the attendees to make just a fraction bolder of choices, to push themselves a little harder, and to squeeze just a bit more out of life than they would have otherwise. So just like Hobart had his heroes, those who knew him at the end had Hobart as one of theirs.