19

SOLO

“I work alone.”

— Superman, to Batman, from the
TV series The Batman, 2004–2008

Mr. Nice Guy applies the waterproof glue to the nylon patch and carefully places it over the leak on the rubber raft.

The English instructions that came with the Chinese-manufactured patch kit instruct: “Importantly! To must allow correctly patch glue seal positively, dry approximate 15 minute to hold.”

Mr. Nice Guy interprets this correctly, and sets the timer on his Super G Digital Athletic Chronometer. When the beeper sounds, at exactly 4:11 p.m., he roots around in the shed for the foot-pump, but he can’t find it anywhere. Rather than risk missing out on a raft ride with the happily stoned Miss Demeanor and the nearly naked Time Bomb, he drops to his knees and begins inflating the raft with air from his lungs. Then he tosses the plastic oars inside and carries the inflated boat to the water’s edge, stumbling, dazed from oxygen deprivation.

“All right!” Miss Demeanor cheers. “Our hero!”

Mr. Nice Guy smiles dimly.

Time Bomb shoves the raft into the water, and her wet ass squeaks against the rubber as she slides in. Miss Demeanor climbs in after her, leans back, hangs her legs in the water over the inflated sidewalls, her legs spread wide.

Oh my God oh my God oh my God, thinks Mr. Nice Guy.

He kicks off his sandals and splashes into the lake. He doesn’t have to take off his watch — the Super G is waterproof to fifty metres.

As he is about to climb in between them, Time Bomb says, “Girls only, buddy!”

“This is an exclusive cruise,” Miss Demeanor says, “No Y-chromosomes allowed!”

“Ah,” Mr. Nice Guy says. His mouth is dry and tastes like rubber. “Okay, then. Have fun.”

They paddle out into the lake without him.

So, instead of bobbing up and down in a rubber vessel with two wet, scantily clad women, Mr. Nice Guy sets to work collecting sticks and dried leaves to use as starting fuel for tonight’s bonfire.

He builds a multi-level tepee of branches and logs almost as tall as himself.

He drags the picnic tables down to the beach.

He arranges the lawn chairs around the fire pit.

He lugs coolers full of beer and ice down from the cottage.

Finally, as the sun is setting on the western horizon over the water, Mr. Nice Guy pauses to admire his work.

This will be the best bonfire ever witnessed at The Hall of Indifference.

Tonight’s fire will roar like trapped spirits released.

The flames will reach up to the heavens.

This fire will be seen from space.

Just as he is about to strike the first match, a fat, cold raindrop strikes his cheek. He looks up. Dark, purple thunderclouds are rolling in. Lightning flashes in the distance.

There will be no bonfire tonight.

Oh well, he tells himself. It’s okay.

He glances at his watch again. It reads 5:11 p.m.

Almost every time I look at my watch, there is an eleven on it. Almost every time. Weird.

He shrugs, and begins folding up the lawn chairs as the rain begins to fall.

It was a good day, anyway.

He is happy. All is well.