The Indifference League (14 page)

“Fortress of Solitude?” The Drifter says to The Stunner.

“Definitely,” she says.

They jump up, grab their helmets, pull on their riding boots, and a few minutes later they roar away on the Norton Commando.

SuperKen winks at SuperBarbie. “Hey, babe … would you like to go for a ride with
me
?”

“It's time for church, now,” SuperBarbie snaps. She stands up and wheels her husband away from the table. SuperKen still has his fork in his hand.

Only The Statistician and Hippie Avenger remain at the table when Mr. Nice Guy wanders in from the kitchen with the refilled carafe. “More coffee?” he offers.

Hippie Avenger says, “Maybe tomorrow you should serve decaf.”

SUPER HEROINES

“We've always been ready for female superheroes. Because
women want to be them and men want to do them.”

— Famke Janssen, about playing Jean Grey
in the movie
X-Men
, 2000

B
oth Hippie Avenger and The Statistician offer to help Mr. Nice Guy wash the breakfast dishes, but he insists, “No, no, no, I'll take care of it! You guys just go have some fun!”

So now they are lounging in the living room, waiting for everyone else to return to The Hall of Indifference: SuperKen and SuperBarbie from church, The Drifter and The Stunner from their motorcycle ride, and Time Bomb and Miss Demeanor from wherever they are.

The Statistician is perched awkwardly at one end of the musty, bowed cottage sofa. The lumpy cushions are uncomfortable against his bruised back and butt. Hippie Avenger is lying on the couch beside him, her head on the opposite armrest, her knees up, her toes dug in under his right leg. She's reading a copy of
Harrowsmith
magazine.

The Statistician is trying to read the title article in the
National Geographic
called “What Darwin Didn't Know,” but Hippie Avenger's long cotton dress has fallen back onto her thighs, and he's distracted by her lean calf muscles, her perfect round kneecaps, her
café au lait
–coloured skin.

Terrific legs
,
The Statistician muses,
absolutely terrific. Top ten percentile.

She pushes her toes in farther between The Statistician and the plaid sofa cushion.

“Mmmmm,” she says. “You're warm.”

The hem of her dress slides further down, revealing the sort of smooth, tapered thighs that The Statistician adores.

Revision
, he thinks.
Top
five
percentile. And she shaves them, too; that's a pleasant surprise.
How has it taken me so long to notice? It's those damn smocks she wears. Like hanging cheap motel drapes over a Monet.

Time Bomb and Miss Demeanor storm up the stairs of the deck facing the lake, and then they burst into the living room through the sliding glass door.

“We're
baaaaaack
!” Miss Demeanor cheers.

“Hey!” Time Bomb shouts, “What are you guys up to?”

Hippie Avenger tugs her toes out from under The Statistician's thigh, bolts upright on the sofa, and smoothes her dress down over her legs.

Why did I do that?
She wonders.
We weren't doing anything wrong. We were just reading.

Time Bomb's hair hangs in wet strands. Miss Demeanor's eye shadow blackens the trickles that drip from her lashes. Their dripping clothes cling to their bodies. Their skins are speckled with goosebumps, their nipples painfully erect.

Mr. Nice Guy hears the commotion and emerges from the kitchen.

“We found an inflatable raft on the beach,” Time Bomb says, suppressing giggles.

“Oh, that raft has a leak,” Mr. Nice Guy says.

“No shit,” says Miss Demeanor. “We kinda found that out the hard way. In the middle of the freakin' lake. Good thing we can both swim.”

“Sorry,” says Mr. Nice Guy. “I was going to patch it today.”

“Well, get it patched, then, mister,” Miss Demeanor cheers, “‘cause me and Time Bomb are going back out!”

The Statistician looks quizzically at his wife.

“I don't care anymore,” says Time Bomb. “Call me Time Bomb. I don't give a shit.”

She grabs Miss Demeanor's hand. “Let's go get our bathing suits on!”

“I didn't bring a bathing suit.”

“I brought four.”

And nine pairs of shoes
, The Statistician muses.
To a cottage.

“You can wear my one-piece,” Time Bomb suggests. “We're about the same size and shape.”

“What you mean is, we're both totally sexy hotties! Let's go, girlfriend!”

They scramble up the stairs together, laughing maniacally.

“Have they been drinking already?” Mr. Nice Guy wonders.

“My lovely wife usually gets into the champagne just after breakfast,” The Statistician says.

“And you remember that song Miss Demeanor used to sing,” adds Hippie Avenger,
“‘Happy hay, happy hay, smoke it any time of day!'”

After much squealing from upstairs, Time Bomb and Miss Demeanor reappear.

Time Bomb descends the stairs first, wearing the impossibly slight two-piece that she bought while on vacation with her mother in the Bahamas. The Statistician had joked that it cost her over a hundred dollars per square inch, and he'd laughed at the prominently displayed brand name: “Wicked Weasel.” According to Time Bomb, the brand was “all the rage.” The Statistician suspected that she just wanted to be able to tell her Spa Buddy that she owned one, too; he never thought he would actually see her
wear
it. Nevertheless, here it is: the banana-yellow bikini top covers her nipples and not much else, and the thong-style bottom hides nothing of her Stairmaster-toned behind, and barely covers her professionally manicured pubic patch in the front.

“I hope you put on sunscreen,” The Statistician says. “You know how sensitive your skin is to sunlight. And some of it has, um, never been exposed before.”

“Oh, I slathered half a bottle of SPF-90 onto her body,” Miss Demeanor says as she steps into the room. “I don't think a blowtorch could burn her now.”

As usual, Miss Demeanor manages to shock everyone, even more than the nearly-naked Time Bomb has. It is strange enough to see the Goth-styled Miss Demeanor crammed into a flamingo-pink one-piece with a caricature of Miss Piggy across the abdomen, but that isn't what surprises her friends. Nor is it the nipple-piercings that are visible through the stretchy pink material. It's the tattoos.

The only body art Miss Demeanor used to display was the tiny Chinese symbol on her wrist, which Psycho Superstar bought her as a high-school graduation present. Now, her arms, shoulders, and back are covered with Chinese and pagan symbols, as well as detailed depictions of Bettie Page, Marilyn Monroe, Betty Boop, and other curvaceous icons from a bygone era.

Mr. Nice Guy's mouth hangs open just like The Statistician's, but not because of Miss Demeanor's tattoo display; he saw them earlier at the Cross/Fire Cabaret. Rather, Mr. Nice Guy is mesmerized by the sight of Time Bomb's nearly naked butt. He almost faints when she bends forward and says, “Miss Demeanor thinks a tattoo of Wilma Flintstone would look cute on my right cheek. She thinks I look like Wilma Flintstone. What do you think, honey?”

The Statistician's eyes bulge. “A tattoo? Seriously?”

“See?” Time Bomb laughs. “I told you he'd react like that.”

“It's
your
body, not his,” Miss Demeanor says, raising an eyebrow in The Statistician's direction. “Do what
you
want to do with it.”

“But your ass is perfect the way it is!” The Statistician protests. “Why wreck it with a tattoo? Why not spray-paint graffiti on a Raphael? Why not build a roller coaster around the Taj Mahal?”

Miss Demeanor crosses her arms tightly, flexes her biceps and triceps, and squints at The Statistician.

“Oh, but they look good on
you
, though,” he says.

“Rodney Dangerfield in
Caddyshack
,” Miss Demeanor says. “Maybe you should get a tattoo of Rodney on
your
ass, buddy.”

“Oh, right!” Time Bomb laughs. “Other than his wedding ring, he won't even wear
jewellery.
He doesn't even wear
cologne
.”

In a squeaky voice, Miss Demeanor says, “We're going to pause here and we'll be right back with Gonzo, the Geek Who Fell to Earth. Miss Piggy.
Muppets from Space
.”

“Oh my God!” Time Bomb says. “You're a pop-culture encyclopedia.”

“And I look fucking hot in pink, too. Who knew?”

Mr. Nice Guy is unable to unlock his stare from Time Bomb's nearly naked buttocks as she and Miss Demeanor sway together like runway models through the sliding-glass door,

“Well,” he says, “I guess I'd better go patch that leaky raft for them.”

“You're a truly selfless man,” says Hippie Avenger.

From where he's standing beside the sofa, Mr. Nice Guy can see most of Hippie Avenger's right breast though the neck opening of her smock. This gives him a fantastic idea!

“Hey, Hipster,” he says, “why don't you throw on your bathing suit, too. There's room in the raft for four.”

“I don't have a bathing suit,” she says.

“Borrow one of Time Bomb's, then.”

“Like, I'm not sure that's my style, dude.”

“Just go in your underwear, then.”
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah!

“Um, I can't swim, buddy. Remember?”

Mr. Nice Guy had forgotten about that. “Oh. Right. Just a thought.”
Oh, well, two out of three ain't bad
. He bounds through the living room and down the outdoor stairs, to catch up with Time Bomb's ass and Miss Demeanor's pierced nipples.

Hippie Avenger stretches out on the sofa again, kicks her legs free from beneath her long dress, and then submerges her frigid toes beneath The Statistician's warm legs.

“I could never wear either of those bathing suits, anyway,” she says. “I just don't have the body for it.”

“Sure you do,” The Statistician says. “You've got terrific legs. You should show them off more.”
Did I really just say that out loud?

“Really?” she says.

“Really. They're mathematically perfect. Top five percentile.”
What's wrong with me? I should have just stopped at “Really.” The Geek Who Fell to Earth, indeed.

“You think so?” she says. “Still, I'm just not like those two. I'm a pretty Plain Jane sort of girl.”

“Well,” The Statistician says, “Some of us would rather discover a beautiful gift inside a plain paper bag than a useless trinket wrapped in sparkles and ribbons.”

Hippie Avenger leans forward and sniffs The Statistician's neck.

“So,” she asks him, “you don't wear cologne?”

“No. I'm not inclined to slather corrosive chemicals on my skin just to smell like a pine tree. Or a saddle.”

“Then how come you smell so good?”

“Just clean, I guess.”

She sniffs again. He feels the cool tip of her nose on the back of his neck.

“Mmmmmm,” she says. “Just clean.”

Then she leans back and opens her
Harrowsmith
magazine again, wiggling her hips a little so the hem of her dress slides almost to her panties.
I guess my legs are kind of nice
, she thinks.

The Statistician resumes reading the
National Geographic
, inhaling deeply, noticing his own clean scent for the first time.

Both of their skins are speckled with goosebumps, too.