The Indifference League (7 page)

THE DRIFTER

“
Clark
is who I am.
Superman
is what I can do.”

— Clark Kent (a.k.a. Superman), from the
TV series
Smallville
, 2001–2011

T
he Drifter cranks back the handgrip, and the big air-cooled engine of his 1968 Norton Commando responds with a roar. There is no hesitation or sputtering; his most recent tune-up effort has been successful. He grins behind the helmet's face-shield.

Accelerating into one of the long, sloping curves so common in this part of the country, he grips the gas tank between his knees and leans with the bike like it's an extension of his body. His passenger shifts awkwardly on the seat behind him, and he automatically compensates, keeping the turn smooth and even.

It occurs to him that carrying a passenger on a motorcycle is a lot like sustaining an intimate relationship; when one person makes a move that threatens to unbalance the ride, the other has to make a counter-move to keep things going, to prevent the crash. Since meandering through Europe and Asia atop the old Norton, lovingly tuning and repairing it along the way, The Drifter has seen metaphors and analogies everywhere while gripping its vibrating handlebars.

The road straightens ahead of them and the bike rights itself. The Drifter's passenger tightens her grip around his chest, clenches his hips between her thighs, pulls her chest tight against his back. The Drifter relishes the contact, believing that he can see their future in the tarmac that streaks toward them.

His passenger is living only in the present, closing her eyes and enjoying her unexpected physical reaction to the perfect frequency of the vibration between her legs.

He calls out to her over the rumble of the engine, “We're almost there!”

She
certainly is.

*

She had felt a similar tingling when she met The Drifter for the first time at that cheap Chinese noodle joint on Spadina. She'd been sitting alone atop a tall stool facing the rain-streaked window, dwelling on something she'd just done that she wished she hadn't. She had just given herself permission to cry about it when The Drifter appeared beside her, his black motorcycle helmet in one hand, a cardboard container of steaming rice noodles in the other.

“Is this spot taken?” he asked in that raspy voice, nodding at the empty stool beside her.

“It is now,” she replied, trying to sound less pathetic than she felt.

His battered leather jacket was speckled with beads of rain, and strands of wet hair were plastered across his forehead like the tributaries of a deep, black river.

They both ate in silence, until she mustered the nerve to say something.

“Looking for some shelter from the weather?”

“I don't mind the rain,” he said.

He didn't. This storm was a mere spring shower compared to some of the monsoon downpours in Southeast Asia. On his journey to see Angkor Wat in Cambodia, so much water poured from the sky that it knocked him right off the bike. The road became a rushing, muddy river, and he could do nothing but lie there and grip the Norton's handlebars to keep from being swept away. It was like being towed behind a speedboat.

He held on tight, and, for the first time in his life, he prayed. He still isn't sure whose version of God he was reaching out to, but he prayed intensely and sincerely that his life might continue after the deluge. It did. And The Drifter was grateful.

“Little changes in the weather don't bother me much anymore,” The Drifter said, shaking a droplet of rain from the end of his nose. “I was just hungry for some noodles.”

Her heart beat faster. Her cheeks flushed hot.
Don't be an idiot
, she told herself.
There is no such thing as love at first sight.

After they had both finished eating, and they'd made all the small talk that can be made before moving on to bigger topics or just moving on, she asked him, “So … do you live around here?”

“For the moment I do.”

He had just moved into one of the U of T student residences. They rented them out during the summer months, when most of the undergraduates went back to their hometowns. The Drifter's older brother, an associate professor, had made the arrangements for the dorm room, and even paid the security deposit, which was the sort of thing that made him feel Big Brotherly and In Control of Things. For The Drifter, suffering some mild condescension from The Statistician was fair exchange for a cheap place to stay for a couple of months.

“Want to give me a ride back to my place?” she ventured. “You could come up for a coffee.”

“Well, I don't …”

“Seriously, I make great coffee. I make this perfect blend from a nice, earthy single-estate from Southeast Asia, and a dark, fruity roast from South Africa. Warm you right to your bones.”

“It sounds great, but I don't …”

“If you don't like coffee, I've got tea, too.”

“I'd love a coffee,” he said, “but I can't give you a ride on my bike. I don't have my extra helmet with me.”

“Oh,” she said, looking away. “Okay.”

When The Drifter saw the dark look in this stranger's eyes reflected back at him from the rain-spotted window, he wanted nothing more than to make her smile, to make her happy, to do whatever she wanted him to do.

“But, tell you what,” he added, “if you really want to ride in the rain, you can wear mine, okay?”

He stood up and placed his helmet on the counter in front of her. Then he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

“You should wear this, too. The rain is cold.”

She followed him out into the crackling, hissing evening, reminding herself,
There is no such thing as love at first sight.

*

Given her magnetic power over men, The Stunner was baffled that The Drifter didn't try to steal even a
glimpse
of her naked body as she stripped off her wet clothes. He just sat there on her futon bed and stared at the old iron radiator under the window, over which she had draped his rain-soaked leather jacket. He spoke just once, to say that her coffee was the best he'd ever tasted. He never once looked over his shoulder.

She was about to slip into the lacy little teddy, designed specifically to amplify and focus her magnetic power, but then she felt unusually self-conscious, so she pulled on her comfy fuzzy pajamas instead. Then The Stunner sat cross-legged on the futon beside The Drifter, and asked him, “So why didn't you look at me while I was changing? You're not gay, are you? That would be my luck.”

“Um, no. Definitely not. I come from a long line of men with legendary heterosexual libidos. Before birth control, the women in our clan had an average of a dozen children each. I'm amazed that my brother and his wife haven't got five kids already.”

He paused to enjoy the rainforest smell of her damp hair, then took another sip of that delicious coffee.

“I
wanted
to watch you undress. Rather
badly
, actually. But you asked me not to. So I didn't.”

“Wow,” she said. “A real gentleman.”

Did that come out sounding sarcastic?
She hadn't meant it to.

“If we're going to have a relationship,” he said, “I want you to know that you can trust me.”

“A relationship?” she scoffed.

She hadn't meant to scoff, either.

“I've travelled a lot of places,” he said, “and I've seen a lot of things. And this sort of thing doesn't happen every day.”

“What sort of thing? Two people randomly sitting beside each other in a Chinese noodle joint?”

“Nothing in life is random,” said The Drifter. “Life brings you exactly what you need, if you let it. The trick is not wanting what you don't need, and recognizing what you need when it shows up.”

“Wow. Nice line.”

“It's not a line. It's what I believe.”

“You can undress me now if you want to,” she said, raising her arms in the air so he could more easily lift off her top.

“I'd rather wait.”

“You'd rather
wait
? You
are
a
human male
, aren't you?”

“Oh yes,” he says, “I
am
a human male. And it hasn't escaped my notice that you have a terrific body.”

“I was dressed like a frump at the noodle house, and my pajamas make me look like a monster Muppet. So how do you know I have a
terrific body
? ”

“You asked me to look away while you changed your clothes. You didn't say I couldn't watch your reflection in the window.”

She felt strangely shy, wanting to burrow under the sheets and hide. At the same time, she wanted him to rip her pajamas off, to ravage her, to lick and kiss her skin, to grab and hold every curve and contour that would fit into his large hands. But she also wanted to just sit here beside him, still and silent, and watch him sip her coffee. She wasn't sure exactly what she wanted, but she knew that she
wanted
.

“The window is pretty dirty. I didn't see much of you,” he said. “Just enough.”

The polarity of The Stunner's magnetic power flip-flopped from positive to negative to positive to negative to positive again.

“It's not just your body, you know,” he finally said. “You have an exquisite face. You have an intoxicating voice. You
smell
fantastic. You are maybe the sexiest woman I've ever met. You are absolutely
stunning
.”

Stunning.
She liked that. She'd been called
hot, smokin', wicked, sexy, foxy,
and
babe-licious
, but nobody had ever described her as
stunning
. She liked it.

The Drifter drained the last sip of coffee from the mug, quietly, without slurping. She liked that, too.

“This really is the best coffee I've ever had,” he said. “And I've had a lot of good coffee in my travels.”

Her heart was racing again. Her cheeks were hot.

“Would you like some more?”

“I would.”

She carried his cup to the tiny kitchenette, returned it to him full and steaming.

“Tell me about the places you've been,” she said.

He did.

He told her about trading two weeks labour knocking down walls in East London for the already-battered Norton Commando, and about all the places it took him from there: Birmingham, Liverpool, Dublin. To Paris, Bordeaux, and Marseilles. Through the Italian Riviera, around the Mediterranean Sea. Along the Blue Danube, into Prague and Vienna. Past the Black and Caspian and Aral Seas. Through Calcutta, Rangoon, to the Temple of Angkor Wat.

The sound of The Drifter's sandpaper voice scratching over the beautiful names of the places he'd seen made The Stunner want to push him back on the bed and straddle him, ride him until he couldn't stand the pleasure anymore. But she also wanted to close her eyes, hold her breath, and just listen.

He described the frustrations of a dozen mechanical breakdowns, the pain of a hundred acidic growls from his empty stomach, the horror of the flash flood, the delirium of the long, scorching drought, the terror of staring down the barrel of an angry soldier's rifle. He was thankful for it all, even the terrifying parts, the moments when he thought his life was over.
Especially
those parts. Those moments showed him what sort of material he was made of, exactly how much he could withstand if he had to.

“Now tell me about the places you've been,” he said.

She did.

Her story took less time to tell, and had fewer stops along the way, but more splendid adjectives. Glints of copper in the steel-grey rocks. Snow banks painted pink by the setting sun. The rippling, ghostly sheets of colour that are the Northern Lights. A thousand little silver lakes viewed through the windows of Cessna and Piper single-props. And then, her recent explorations of the lights and shadows of Toronto at night.

And that was it. That was all she had.

Eventually, the orange light of a new day diffused through the single dusty window.

“Where are you travelling next?” she asked.

“I'm going to ride up to an old friend's cottage next weekend. It's a high-school reunion kind of thing. Want to come?”

As she reminded herself again,
There is no such thing as love at first sight,
she heard herself saying to him, “Yes, I would.”

*

As The Drifter eases the Norton Commando though another gentle curve, The Stunner is still telling herself,
There is no such thing as love at first sight. There is no such thing as love at first sight. There is no such thing as love at first sight.

She closes her eyes, feels the warm wind stroke her body and enjoys the vibration of the engine beneath her.

“Just a few more miles to go,” The Drifter calls back to her.