Hard by the river, the Steel Bridge, a long, sleek salamander, and the Burnside, functional and unlovely, rise above the streets of Portland.  At night, many of the city’s estimated 2,500 homeless converge here, beneath the bridges, on the sprawling lawns of the riverside parks and in nearby shelters.  Cocooned in sleeping-bags or spread across makeshift cardboard mattresses, they make their beds and settle in, the twin crystal towers of Portland’s Convention Center glowing from across the Willamette River like the Wizard of Oz’s emerald castle.

It is also here, emerging from spectral shadows reminiscent of Gotham City or Metropolis, that our hero lurks, Portland’s one and only real-life superhero, Zetaman.  Like his favorite superheroes, he has a costume: a black and blue spandex shirt emblazoned with a white Z, black fatigues, Army boots, and a utility belt. Like Batman, he has a sidekick, his wife Allison, who initially disliked this endeavor but now accompanies him and goes by the moniker Apocalypse Meow (Meow for short).

But unlike his favorite superheroes, Superman and Batman, he has no superpowers.  He has no Fortress of Solitude or Batcave, and because he works nights as a freight inspector at a package delivery center, he can only fight crime on Saturdays. In fact, the only way Zetaman resembles Batman, the Punisher or any other superhero is that he too was forged in a cauldron of personal tragedy. For the man behind the spandex, 31-year-old Illya King of Beaverton, Zetaman was an identity scavenged from the depths of despair, a persona that is leading him to new more hopeful life. 

Weekend superheroes like Zetaman patrol the streets of many downtown cities, and their numbers are growing.  “Costumed activism” is the formal term for the movement, but almost everyone in the spandex and body armor-clad subculture refers to themselves as Real Life Superheroes, or RLSHs.  Bound by a desire to do good and perhaps by a tinge of self-aggrandizement, they are nonetheless individualistic to a fault, their costumes and philosophies as diverse as those in the comic books and cartoon shows that have inspired them.

On this balmy August evening, Zetaman and Apocalypse Meow are downtown several blocks west of the river at the side of Jim, a homeless man, who’s sprawled on the sidewalk outside the upscale Benson Hotel. Light from the lobby baths the scene in a green glow, and the occasional car interrupts the otherwise quiet night with a swooshing hum.  Jim’s head lolls from side to side, his words rolling out slurred and gravelly as if he’s talking with a mouthful of stones.

“Do you want a hamburger?” Zetaman asks, showing a sack of Wendy’s steak burgers that he and Allison had bought from the dollar menu on their way from Beaverton. “Are you hungry?”

Jim’s eyes sharpen. His nose twitches above his thin gray moustache, and he scratches his tangle of thinning white hair.

“I haven’t eaten in two days,” he says. “It’s my stomach. It hurts.”

He grabs the hamburger from Apocalypse Meow anyway, unwraps it and starts eating, a big round bolus pressing against his cheek with every bite.

“Are you sure you’re okay, sir?” Zetaman asks, looking him over. The man is dressed in a T-shirt, dirty sweatpants and hospital slippers. Next to him is an immaculate Samsonite suitcase with wheels and duffle bag.

Zetaman hands the bag of burgers to Allison, and digs through his backpack, a voluminous inventory of socks, foot powder, hand lotion and other sundries needed by the homeless. He picks out a box of Rolaids and hands a couple to Jim.

“Here. These will help your stomach,” he says.  “Chew them up and swallow them.”

Jim takes the pills and looks up at his benefactor. While many of the homeless have come to recognize Zetaman, this is clearly Jim’s first encounter with Portland’s RLSH, though it’s doubtful he realizes it.  Zetaman has a sort of cherubic roundness to his face, and his silver spectacles and styled raven hair makes him look pensive, maybe even a little arty.  Quiet and unassuming by nature, he prefers to veil his disguise with a leather coat that obscures most of his shirt except for the Z.  He admits the spandex reveals more of his short, pudgy physique than he’s comfortable with.  But the extra coverage also stems from an unlikely humility.  Except for perhaps Batman, who likes to lurk in the shadows, few superheroes, fictional or real, show much interest in maintaining a low-profile.  Zetaman is one of those few. 

Apocalypse Meow is the more potentially intimidating figure. A striking, sturdily built woman with long dark hair and dusky, aquiline features, she has a fiery temperament.  But her costume is understated: black jeans and a T-shirt with a devilish kitty face on the front.  What Jim undoubtedly notices is not their appearance but rather their surprising generosity.

“I don’t know where I’m at,” Jim says with disquieting bluntness. Zetaman exchanges a look with his wife.

“We can help you get to the Portland Mission,” he says. “You can hang out there until 6 a.m. and they’ll feed you then.”

“What about the cops?” Jim asks.

“They’re not going to bother you if you come with us,” says Zetaman.

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