NEW YORK TIMES SUNDAY EDITION
Features Section
The measure of a man
By Anonymous
James Buchanan Barnes sits primly before me, mismatched hands folded on the table. Pushing a cup of coffee toward him, he unlinks his fingers, clasping them gratefully around the steaming mug.
"I don't really do interviews," he confesses. "Not sure what to say."
"That's okay," I tell him. "This isn't about being perfect or saying the exact right thing. It's just about being yourself."
He makes a face at that. "I don't think myself is something people want to hear about."
Looking into his nervous blue eyes, I give him a reassuring smile. "They absolutely will. People want to know the man behind the mask."
He doesn't like talking about himself, has never been overly comfortable in the limelight. Rolling his shoulders back, he takes a deep breath and gives me a tentative nod.
Like any good story, context is important, so we begin down the familiar route.
"Let's start at the beginning."
******
Crisp morning air wafts through the small kiosk, fluttering the bright covers of the magazines and newspapers lining the shelves. Taking a long drink of coffee, Riz smacks his lips and leans over his front counter, watching Manhattan's morning routine play out around him.
From out of nowhere, a giant stack of newspapers is hurled onto the counter and Riz tumbles back in surprise.
"What the - "
Bucky Barnes stands before him, wearing an old leather jacket and a delighted grin.
"Morning Riz, I need them all today. Oh, and by the way," he digs into his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper, tossing it carelessly on the stack. "Got something to show you."
The black ink is smudged in places, but there it is, the numbered boxes filled with careful block letters.
Last Sunday's New York Times crossword.
Completed.
Riz stares at the paper in astonishment. Looking up, he begins to laugh at the smug triumph on Bucky's face.
"I fucking told you I'd finish one," Bucky says, slapping his hand on the puzzle once more to reinforce his success.
Still chuckling, Riz reaches below the counter and produces a dusty rectangle wrapped in tissue paper. Bucky peels away the layers, grinning happily when it reveals a black picture frame. Riz gives him a friendly slap on the arm.
"My friend, I never doubted you."
*****
He needs no real introduction.
Familiar to anyone who cracked a grade school history book in the last seventy years, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes is a quiet enigma. The American public first met him in 1943 as Sergeant Barnes, Howling Commando and right-hand man to Captain America. His lopsided smile became so well-loved, a comforting staple in the news cycle, the women on the home front declared it a national treasure. America swooned for him, cheered for him, prayed for him, and ultimately mourned him when the reports came home of his KIA status in 1945.
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