Of all the superpowers, invisibility is my favorite. I used to love the 1970s show, The Invisible Man. There’s a Finnish children’s book I adored in which the protagonist eats some invisibility powder and walks through walls. I was a fan of another 1970s show the name of which escapes me, but in which the star, named “nobody”, would tug on his scarf, and turn invisible.

I like Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak, and often when I drive my car on a highway, I actually wonder what I would look like if the car was invisible – but not me. That’s a plot out of a Donald Duck cartoon I read back in the day, and it made an impression, because it’s stuck. Son and I like reading another Donald Duck comic in which the thief uses a chemical spray to makes him invisible.

And yes, I get it, it’s a reflection of my personality. (Except that invisible men have no reflections). Maybe I am the kind of person who likes to observe, not take part in the action. Maybe I don’t really want too much attention. Maybe I just like the idea of being invisible.

Of course, invisibility is one of those things that shouldn’t be taken to their logical conclusions. Is it permanent or is there a spray, a powder, a magical scarf or a cloak? If I’m invisible, are my clothes? (Easier with a spray that a radiation, maybe). That’s a problem with all superpowers. A friend of mine stopped reading Superman when he came across an adventure where Superman was tied somewhere and he escaped by blowing air through his nose. My buddy thought that was preposterous, since Superman can fly.

All that aside, when I see a pair of shoes like in the above photo, my mind would like to think it’s just the Invisible Man catching some sun. I was trying to get Son excited about that train of thought yesterday but he didn’t think it was that cool.

“Check it out, it’s probably the Invisible Man,” I said, pointing to the shoes.

“Uh-huh,” Son replied.

“See that? I think,” I said, pausing for effect, “that it’s the Invisible Man.”

He glanced at the shoes, then climbed the stairs, and hopped down before running to Daughter who was waiting for us with her friends. The three of us walked to the car, Son and Daughter got in the car, and just as I pulled out of the parking lot, I made my last attempt.

“I still think it was probably the Invisible Man sitting there on the steps,” I said.

The back seat was quiet.

I slid down my seat, holding onto the steering wheel low, while keeping my head down. Anybody watching us from the outside would probably have thought the Invisible Man was driving the car.