They gather under the LEDs, where the sky never goes dark and the asphalt pulses with tourists and TikTok.
Spiderman’s got a hole in his mask. He’s really Miguel, from Jackson Heights, twenty-two, ex-bodega stock boy, now stretching cheap spandex across muscle and rent anxiety. He charges $5 a photo, $10 if the kid hugs him. Smiles like it’s a secret identity he can’t afford to drop.
Bumblebee smokes Marlboro Lights behind a halal cart. Real name’s Tanya, Ukrainian, two kids in Brooklyn, once danced ballet in Kyiv. Now she wears a crown from Party City and sings “Let It Go” with eyes that never quite thaw.
Ironman’s older. Fifty-three. Bronx accent. He’s been doing this since before Instagram. He sharpens his eyeliner in the subway bathroom. Keeps hand sanitizer in his utility belt. Never breaks character. Ever.
They call themselves the square’s misfit Avengers, defenders of eye contact and awkward tips,
masters of posing with Midwest toddlers and dodging NYPD warnings about blocking traffic.
The days are long. Tourists shout, gawk, sometimes grab. One kid threw a soda at Iron Man last week.
He didn’t flinch. Just adjusted his foam chest plate and said, “Even Stark gets disrespected sometimes.”
At night, they count crumpled bills and split halal chicken over shared stories: dead-end auditions, eviction notices, dreams that once had agents. But when the lights hit right—when a little kid gasps,
when a tired mother smiles, when someone says, “You made my son’s day”—they stand taller in their dollar-store boots. Because in a city that chews and spits with no apology, they’re still heroes. Maybe not with powers. But with presence.
And in Times Square, that’s enough to save someone’s moment.