18-ch11

And once again Mr. Nice Guy and his friends are hanging out on the stony beach in front of his parents’ cottage. They are gathered around a lakeside campfire, which crackles modestly under Mr. Nice Guy’s care. He built the fire from pre-split hardwood purchased from a nearby farm, and he got it going with only kindling, matches, and wind from his own lungs; no gasoline, kerosene, Styrofoam or stolen wood. It is an honest fire, thinks Mr. Nice Guy. A respectable fire. Yeah.

It is a cool, overcast Saturday evening, exactly twelve years minus two days from the night they first named themselves The Indifference League. All of the stars are hidden tonight, but the light of the moon, diffused through a thin, low layer of cloud, coats everything with a silvery glow.

When one of the Not-So-Super Friends forgets and refers to one of the others by their actual name, Mr. Nice Guy reminds them of the pact they made over a decade ago. They’ve grown a bit tired of this charade, but they go along with it anyway. The Hall of Indifference is his cottage, after all, and the poor guy has had a tough year, with Sweetie Pie calling off their engagement and all that.

They are a smaller group this time around, just The Statistician, Hippie Avenger, Mr. Nice Guy, SuperKen, and SuperBarbie. The Drifter is still en route, Miss Demeanor emailed to say that she wouldn’t be arriving until later, and of course Psycho Superstar is absent for obvious reasons.

Time Bomb, to the amazement of the rest of the League, actually made it through dinner without collapsing from a migraine or a fit of “Ah-shee! Ah-shee! Ah-SHAH!” sneezing. Mr. Nice Guy played it safe by eliminating the ground pepper from his “famous, trademarked” spaghetti, using only fried ground beef and canned tomato sauce with sugar and powdered garlic added in, none of which are on the long list of Time Bomb’s “migraine triggers” or “dermatological and respiratory sensitivities.” Nevertheless, Time Bomb spends exactly five minutes watching Mr. Nice Guy blow on the embers to get the fire going, then declares it to be “too fucking cold out here,” and retreats to her bed in the cottage anyway.

The Statistician offers to accompany her inside to “warm her up,” but the way she rolls her eyes tells him that he is in for yet another physical-intimacy-free evening. Fifty-seven nights, thinks The Statistician. A new record.

So, just five members of The Indifference League are present to enjoy the honest, respectable fire built by Mr. Nice Guy.

After pushing SuperKen in his wheelchair through the tall grass between the cottage and the beach, SuperBarbie wipes the sweat from her brow and plants their folding field marshal’s chair as close as possible next to her War Hero. She used to sit on SuperKen’s lap atop the ubiquitous army-surplus seat, but neither the chair’s frayed, camouflage-green canvas nor SuperKen’s damaged legs seem able to support the weight anymore.

Mr. Nice Guy and The Statistician have just unfolded their lawn chairs across the fire pit from The Perfect Pair, when Hippie Avenger arrives carrying a cooler full of beer and a couple of bottles of Chardonnay; she graduated from those puckeringly sweet vodka coolers around the time she started working at the art gallery, where complimentary wine is part of the sales pitch.

“Oops,” she says, “I forgot to bring myself a chair.”

“Take mine,” The Statistician says, springing up and heading back for the cottage. “I’ll go grab another.”

Mr. Nice Guy pushes his chair closer to Hippie Avenger’s right side, and says, “I would have gone to get a chair for you, you know.”

“You’re sweet,” she says.

“I try to be,” he says, admiring her behind as she leans forward to pour Chardonnay into the two red plastic cups she’s set up on the lid of the cooler. As Hippie Avenger stretches to hand a cup to SuperBarbie, the top of her dress pulls tight against her left breast.

It’s always bits and pieces with her, Mr. Nice Guy muses. Glimpses and suggestions. Man, I would like to see what her whole body looks like underneath those potato-sack smocks she wears. Oh, yeah.

“Hey,” he says, “could I have some wine, too?”

“Oh, sure,” Hippie Avenger says. She leans forward again, and Mr. Nice Guy holds his breath and watches. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah.

“Taste it and tell me what you think,” she says, handing him a sample of the wine. “It’s what I serve to potential customers at the gallery.”

Mr. Nice Guy makes a big show of swirling the wine around inside the plastic cup, sniffing it like he’s drawing his final breath, and then swishing the wine around in his mouth, wearing an expression like he’s trying to solve a complex equation.

It smells like cat piss and it tastes like rocket fuel, he thinks. With a hint of lemon.

“Sublime and delicious!” he declares. “Your taste is impeccable.”

“Sublime and delicious!” SuperKen mocks him. “Did you turn impeccably gay since the last time we saw you?”

If Miss Demeanor were here, Mr. Nice Guy would definitely tear a strip off SuperKen for that insensitive remark, but since she’s not, he decides to let it slide.

“Still a beer man,” he grunts, “just wanted to try some wine.” Then he bravely adds, “And a real man does what he wants. Without worrying what others think.”

“Says the librarian to the warrior,” SuperBarbie giggles.

“I’m not a librarian,” Mr. Nice Guy protests. “I’m an archivist.”

The Statistician returns and plunks his lawn chair down to the left of Hippie Avenger.

“Wench!” he cries, “A brown ale for this thirsty traveller!”

“Hey!” Mr. Nice Guy protests.

“He’s just kidding,” Hippie Avenger says. She reaches into the cooler and hands The Statistician a dripping brown bottle, then tosses a differently labelled brew to SuperKen.

“Light beer?” SuperKen protests. “Queer beer? Toss me-real one, okay? Mr. Nice Guy can drink this one when he’s finished with his wine.”

Mr. Nice Guy decides to let it slide this time, also.

Hippie Avenger’s second toss is more forceful than the first, and Tom Thomson High’s former Male Athlete of the Year fails to catch it.

“Don’t get up, sweetie!” SuperBarbie yelps. “I’ll get it!”

She chases the bottle as it rolls clinking over the pebbles, and she soaks her sneakers when the surf tugs it into the water. When she finally hands the beer to her War Hero, he says, “Thanks, babe.”

He’s popped the cap and chugged down most of the bottle’s contents before SuperBarbie has even settled back into the field marshal’s chair.

“Don’t get up, sweetie!” she says, jumping up again, and scrambling for the cooler. “I’ll get you another.”

“Thanks, babe,” SuperKen says, grinning absently.

“He sure developed a taste for that stuff in the Forces,” SuperBarbie says, almost apologetically.

After the beer-fetching routine has been repeated six times, SuperKen stands up from his wheelchair.

“Sweetie!” SuperBarbie says, “Please! Rest your poor legs. Y’know, whatever you need, I can do it for you!”

“I need to take a piss,” he says. “You can’t do that for me, honey. And, unlike Mr. Nice Guy, I don’t do it sitting down.”

Mr. Nice Guy doesn’t say anything this time, either, but his fuse is getting shorter.

SuperKen sways from side to side as he hobbles away from the fire, disappearing into the moon-shadow behind a clump of tamarack that serves as the traditional outdoor urinal of the male Not-So-Super Friends.

“Would one of you guys go with him,” SuperBarbie frets, “and make sure he’s okay?”

The Statistician heads for the Pee Tree. “I’ve got to go anyway,” he says.

“I would have gone with him, too,” Mr. Nice Guy reassures SuperBarbie and Hippie Avenger.

“You’re such a nice guy,” Hippie Avenger says.

The Statistician positions himself in front of the Pee Tree beside SuperKen, and is about to unzip his own fly when SuperKen makes some alarming noises.

“Ohhhh! Uhhhhh!” SuperKen groans. “What are you … uhhhhh! UhhhhhHHhh!”

The Statistician glances down and sees that SuperKen is, with military precision and timing, stroking a stubby erection.

“Uhhhhh! OOHhhHHHHMMmmm!” SuperKen snarls as he ejaculates onto a cluster of fragrant tamarack needles. When he’s finally caught his breath, he whispers, “Ahh, ahhmm … listen … don’t say anything about this to the wife, okay?”

“I understand,” The Statistician says. “A man needs to take care of himself sometimes when nobody else is doing the job.” Out of habit, he clears his throat and adds, “Indeed.”

“Hey, man, I’m being taken care of well enough. Lately she’s on top of me three times a day. It’s friggin’ great.”

“Oh,” says The Statistician. That would be great.

“She’ll probably want to ride me again soon, so I need to empty the magazine of the love gun beforehand, if y’know what I mean.”

The Statistician is forced to admit that he does not know what SuperKen means.

“Okay. Listen,” SuperKen whispers. “It was bad enough that I had to wait until we were friggin’ married to finally get into her. But, y’know, she’s was so friggin’ hot, I figured it would be worth the wait. And it was, my friend. Oh, my sweet Lord, it was. But she’s got this whole you-can-only-have-sex-if-you’re-trying-to-have-a-baby thing going on, right?”

“Um, I thought you had that you-can-only-have-sex-if-you’re-trying-to-have-a-baby thing going on, too. You two were the co-presidents of Teens Need Truth.”

“Do you remember the chicks in that group? Hotter than hell, every last one of ’em. As if Jesus was saying, ‘Come on! Look at these babes! What are you waiting for? Sign up today!’ So I did, man, I did.”

The Statistician marvels that SuperKen’s impersonation of Jesus Christ sounds a lot like a used-car salesman on a late-night TV ad.

SuperKen continues, “But, sure, of course I want to have a kid. Children are the future! But I also want to have as much sex as possible beforehand. Because as soon as she gets pregnant, it’s over.”

He pauses to shake a drop of pearly seminal fluid from the tip of his diminutive unit.

“So, y’know, I’ve gotta purge the baby batter from the barrel of the bazooka as often as I can, ’cause when one of my men eventually breaks through the perimeter, I won’t be firing the ol’ SSM launcher again for a while.”

The Statistician doesn’t bother asking what “SSM” stands for.

SuperKen looks down as he zips up his pants.

“Ah, shit,” he says, “I got some on one of my leg braces.”

The Statistician reaches into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and removes a handful of Kleenex, which he offers to SuperKen.

“Um, yeah, thanks,” says SuperKen, “but I can’t actually bend over to do it. Would you mind?”

With a furrowed brow and pursed lips, The Statistician obliges, tossing the Kleenex under the Pee Tree when the aluminum brace is clean.

SuperKen turns and limps back toward the fire. “Just between us guys, eh?” he says over his shoulder. “I don’t want to hear another lecture about the sin of ‘spilling my seed.’”

“Indeed,” says The Statistician, who is finally able to release his own hose from the confines of his trousers to urinate.

The bazooka. The love gun. The SSM launcher. I’ve never had a nickname for mine.

Then something occurs to him.

Maybe my own wife is secretly also the you-can-only-have-sex-if-you’re-trying-to-have-a-baby type. Maybe she would be more interested in having sex with me if she was trying to get pregnant.

I’ll ask her tonight.

On the end of a straightened wire coat hanger, The Statistician is holding a bratwurst sausage in the flames. “Want it?” he asks Hippie Avenger.

She wrinkles her nose like she always does. “You mean, do I want to eat a tube full of chemicals and fatty, nutrition-free flesh cut from an animal that was cruelly imprisoned and force-fed hormones and antibiotics?”

“Just checking,” The Statistician says.

“Why don’t you leave her alone,” Mr. Nice Guy says. “You know she’s a vegetarian.”

“I eat some meat now,” Hippie Avenger says, shrugging.

“You do?” Mr. Nice Guy gasps.

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

“She was anemic,” The Statistician says. “Her body needed the iron. And the protein, too.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Nice Guy, visibly hurt. He’s the one who listens to the women talk about their problems, not The Statistician.

“Listen,” Hippie Avenger says to The Statistician, “if you cook up any sausages made from free-range chicken, I’ll be first in line, okay?”

“I’ll go into town and get some for you tomorrow,” The Statistician says. “Nobody should have to go without sausage.”

“Believe me,” Hippie Avenger says. “I’ve gone, like, way too long without it.”

“I know what you mean,” mutters The Statistician, as he slides the bratwurst into the soft inside of a bakery bun lubricated with mustard.

Oh my God! Hippie Avenger thinks. “I’ve gone way too long without it.” Like, was I being flirty with The Statistician?

Then, an even crazier thought: “Nobody should have to go without sausage.” Was he being flirty with me?

She decides that this is impossible. The Statistician? Flirty? Come on. He’s all brain, no feelings. There’s a reason they called him The Android.

Still, her arousal response has a hair-trigger these days, and this maybe-but-probably-not flirtation is enough to stir that familiar warm, aching, tugging feeling inside her. Nobody should go without sausage, indeed. The Purple Pal will be seeing some action tonight.

“I can go into town and get some organic meat for you,” Mr. Nice Guy says. “I know a little butcher shop out on one of the concession roads.”

“Thanks,” Hippie Avenger says, patting his shoulder. “That’s sweet of you.”

“So then,” The Statistician says, waving the blackened bratwurst in its bun, “who wants to eat this tube full of chemicals, fat, hormones, and antibiotics?”

“I’ll take it,” says SuperKen, from his wheelchair. “They feed us worse stuff than that in the Forces.”

“My hero,” SuperBarbie says, fetching the sausage for him. “I’ll bet you’re hungry, poor thing. It’s been a tiring day for you, with all that driving and everything. Maybe we should go get some sleep now.”

SuperBarbie gives SuperKen a subtle look, the type of expression that The Statistician never gets from Time Bomb, but that he may have just received from Hippie Avenger. But probably not. It was likely just the shifting light from the fire deceiving his eyes, combined with his desperate libido playing tricks on his brain. It was probably nothing.

SuperKen munches on the bratwurst and winks at The Statistician as SuperBarbie wheels him around the fire and toward the cottage.

Mr. Nice Guy glances conspicuously at his Super G Digital Athletic Chronometer, which reads 11:11 p.m. He stretches, yawns, and says, “Well, it’s late. I think I’ll turn in, too.” He turns to Hippie Avenger, who is wearing an expression similar to the one demonstrated by SuperBarbie, and he says, “Care to join me?”

“That’s okay, dude. I think I’ll stay out here for a while.”

“Oh,” he says. “Okay.”

He slumps toward the cottage, sighing after every third step.

After Hippie Avenger hears the cottage door bang shut behind Mr. Nice Guy, she slides her lawn chair a bit closer to The Statistician’s.

“So, you work with numbers, right? So, like, what’s your favourite number?”

The Statistician laughs. “I don’t have a favourite number,” he says. “Numbers are numbers. One number isn’t better than another. A number is only a word or symbol, or a combination of words or symbols, used in counting or in noting a total, or a particular symbol assigned to an object so as to designate its place in a series, or …”

“My favourite number is seven,” she interrupts. “When I was a little kid and I was learning to draw my numbers, seven was my favourite. And it still is.”

“Why? Why is seven better than, say, thirty-one, or sixty-one, or ninety-seven, or one-hundred-thirty-one, or …”

He continues naming every seventh prime number after seven until she interrupts him again.

“I was only a little kid. I only knew the numbers between one and ten. And just the primary and secondary colours, too. Red, yellow, blue. Orange, green, purple.”

The Statistician almost says, “The correct scientific term is violet,” but he stops himself.

“Purple is still my favourite colour. I coloured skies blue and grass green and the sun yellow like I was supposed to, but any time there was a choice, I coloured it purple. Flowers, cars, clothing, houses, all purple. I had boxes of crayons with barely used red and oranges, but the purples were all worn down to stubs. And seven was my favourite number to draw. My parents’ refrigerator was covered in pages of purple sevens stuck up with random letter and number-shaped magnets.”

She pauses.

“Do you want to know why I liked sevens so much?”

“Indeed.” He really does want to know.

“Because seven was the number you could make the most choices about. You could draw it with clean, straight lines. You could draw it with a little arch in its back.”

She unconsciously leans forward, pushes her chest out a little, shakes her hair behind her shoulders.

“You could put a little horizontal line through the middle, to give it some girth. Or you could put a serif on the bottom to anchor it to the ground. Or a little overhang on top, like a tin cottage roof. You had the freedom do any, or some, or none of these things.”

She settles against the frayed back of the lawn chair.

“And no one would tell you that it wasn’t right.”

Hippie Avenger stares up into the sky. There is a slender break in the shell of cloud overhead, through which a few of the brighter stars shine.

“Pretty, eh?” The Statistician says. “Light from stars that might already be dead.”

“Might they maybe still be alive?” she wonders.

“Possibly,” he says. “Mathematically speaking, though, it’s likely that …” he stops himself.

She says, “They’re still alive to us, I guess.”

“I guess,” he agrees.

They both look up for a long time. Gradually, like fluff-edged theatre curtains, the clouds part until almost the whole glittering sky is revealed.

“Eight,” The Statistician says.

“Hmm?”

“Eight,” he repeats. “My favourite number is eight.”

“I thought you didn’t …”

“The infinity symbol is perfect for what it represents: a quantity without bound or end. It twists and turns in on itself forever. The set of real numbers is uncountably infinite,” he says, as if he is reciting ancient scripture from parchment. “That single, simple mathematical truth still fascinates me.”

He sighs.

Hippie Avenger actually heard The Statistician sigh.

“And,” he says, “if you draw it in one fluid motion, rather than two circles on top of each other like they tried to make me do it in school, an eight is like an infinity symbol rotated vertically.”

“Cool,” she says.

“Plus,” he adds, “when I was small they were fun to draw.”

“When were you ever small?” She is about to say something else, but she stops herself.

“What?” The Statistician says. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. You’ll think it’s stupid. You’ll say it’s a meaningless coincidence.”

“Try me.”

“Well,” she says, “my birthday is on the eighth of May.” She shrugs.

“Mine is December twenty-first,” he says. “Twenty-one is a multiple of seven.” Then, almost reflexively, he adds, “Not that this fact is statistically meaningful.” Then he turns his head to one side, and says, “But it is cool.”

“You called something cool,” she teases.

“Some things are.”

The Statistician smiles. Hippie Avenger can hear his breathing. It is slow and deep.

They both just stare up into space for a while.

“Hey,” Hippie Avenger says, “do you still get Friday afternoons off?”

“It’s the main fringe benefit of being an untenured professor.”

“I noticed that Star Wars is playing next week at the rep theatre up the street from the gallery.”

“I thought you hated Star Wars,” he says. “I thought that was the one thing you had in common with my wife.”

“I don’t hate Star Wars,” Hippie Avenger says, “I just never got around to seeing it. But I think I’d like to see it now.”

“It’s a date, then,” The Statistician says, who is slightly embarrassed that his voice cracked like that when he said it.

“Cool,” says Hippie Avenger, whose eyes are rimmed with tears from the smoke from the fire.