Obituary for the Invincible Man

by Wyatt Robinette

I used to be friends with the Invincible Man. I knew him before the bridge collapsed, when he was scared of everything. When he was a skinny 24-year-old named Fogel Luntz. Fogel. Luntz. Nothing about him was built to survive anything. His hands always shook, even when he laughed. And his laugh was clipped, like it hurt coming out.

And you wonder why they called him the Invincible Man?

Sometimes I still do.

Anyway, I was at his house when reporters first showed up. If you rewatch the footage you can see me in the background with his family when he takes his shirt off to show there wasn’t a mark on him. I started clapping too soon, before I understood what I was clapping for.

Like most young people trapped in a viral sensation, Fogel tried to make a living from it. He became a Catastrophe Survivor Influencer. Whatever that is.

His first video was a retelling of the bridge collapse, synced with slow-motion footage so viewers could see exactly where they were in the disaster during his story time.

It went mega viral. He immediately started selling shirts that said I GOT LUCKY. They sold out in hours. Even my parents bought one.

Of course, he had haters. They commented things like: “Jump off a bridge,” “take a bullet,” and “get run over by a bus.”

It didn’t take long for one of their wishes to come true. Two months after the bridge collapsed, Fogel was hit by a truck.

Not even a scratch. The video of the truck driver recounting the story—played over slowed-down dash cam footage—also went viral. Someone slowed the footage even more and claimed to see Fogel smiling just before impact. For weeks, conspiracy channels argued about how his body bent wrong and didn’t break.

This shut up some of his haters. The rest demanded he up the stakes.

And, to my surprise, he did.

He survived a small plane crash. They found the wreckage scattered across a cornfield, glittering in the sun like confetti. On the news, the plane looked like a folded soda can in the grass. The smoke was still curling from the cockpit when his first selfie appeared online.

Three of my close friends, the pilot, and everyone on Fogel’s team died. Their names never trended. Their families weren’t interviewed. Luckily, nothing happened to Fogel. He was unscathed.

After that, his followers multiplied. He also began consulting people about their luck—how to keep it, how to spend it. Some said he was selling it off, piece by piece. Whatever that meant.

Around this time, a negative campaign that had been in the background began to pick up and take up more and more of the headlines. Fogel was bad luck. Or he was somehow causing the accidents. No one could believe there was someone that lucky. Foul play had to be involved.

When he walked into a terminal, people left. When he stepped onto a bus, riders got off. Elevators too. Some people didn’t even ride the same escalator as him. I used to think it was superstitious nonsense until the train crash—when a handful of my friends died and he didn’t. After that, I started avoiding him.

After the next catastrophe, the backlash really grew. I think it was a ferry crash. Maybe it was a freeway pile up. Anyway, a lot of people died. He became toxic. Dangerous. More and more people turned against him. Eventually the FBI opened an investigation. An agent even called me to ask what he’d been like before. I told them he was afraid of everything. The agent laughed, like I’d told a joke.

After that, people started un-following in droves. He left a confusing message on my phone during that time. He said he’d finally figured out why he lived and he wanted to tell me why in person. I never called him back. Sometimes I wish I did. Maybe things would be different. Maybe it would have changed nothing.

The next time I saw his name in the headlines, I didn’t read it. I couldn’t. I already knew what it was going to say.

BIO: Wyatt Robinette lives and works in Tucson, AZ with his two cute cats. Previous work can be found at Bourbon Penn, CityWide Lunch, Blood + Honey Lit and the Superlative Literary Journal. Twitter: @vvyattrr