his powers had been more useful.He was a victim of his own success, in a way, unable to resist the celebrity after so many years of anonymity.
Even now, my grandfather resents being ignored. He has had his 15 minutes of fame many many times over, but there is a part of him that was starved for attention as a boy, and that can never be fully sated.
Most superheroes are flawed in some way, and it's up to the villains to ferret it out. As a young girl I was always more interested in the villains because they were the clever ones, and I related to that more than being "special".
Grandpa -- AKA The Hour Glass -- was never brought down as spectacularly as the triple A heroes, because he did it to himself. He became his own nemesis.
Most people remember his spectacular successes. The way he cracked the Marchisi drug ring: even a ruthless mobster couldn't turn away a baby on a doorstep, not with his moll staring daggers at him. The information he gathered in the steam baths about the four corrupt state judges: just another sagging octogenarian enjoying the schvitz. But the element of surprise was lost when he allowed himself to be photographed. He was able to change his age at will, but his appearance stayed the same. As a baby, tow-headed, and as an old man, bald and saggy-jowled.
So the bad guys learned to look out for him, and for his familiar tricks. Same as how Hypnoto lost his edge -- when Boss is speaking in a weird monotone and ordering you to do weird stuff, criminals learned to check his eyes for the tell-tale spirals. So the baby-in-the-basket and old-coot gambits only worked once after the exclusive interviews came out.
But even though he had to retire early, he had a good life. He got to hang out with us kids a lot, and spent a lot of time being my age, as the big brother I never had -- playing hide and seek, tag, cards. Most of the games were the same from when he was a boy. At dinner time, when he needed to be an adult, he would go into his room and come out his natural age. He was shy about changing in front of anyone, no matter how much we begged.
Now that I'm in my twenties, I know why. His alzheimer's is getting worse. His moods and appearance shift in sync. It's not like those cool time-lapse pictures. It's like watching a face melt. His hair jerks and snaps and finally settles. His shoulders roll as if he's ready to vomit. The first time was the worst: Dad didn't hear him ask a question and grandpa became a petulant child: I said, did you get the part you ordered?
Dad choked on his soup. I stared at a playmate I hadn't seen in twenty years. And grandpa himself saw the young hand that gripped his fork and quickly turned back into his normal self, his old cheeks burning red.
Over the years we've become used to it. It's easier, because he's not ashamed of his lack of control: free of his moorings, he slides freely up and down his life.