The Indifference League (9 page)

“Indeed,”
comes the shrill voice of Time Bomb from behind them, “It,
like
, was de Montaigne.”

The Statistician winces; his wife was only
pretending
to be asleep.

For the remainder of the trip, nobody says anything else.

THE PERFECT PAIR

“When Captain America throws his mighty shield, all those who choose to oppose his shield must yield!”

— From the theme song for the
TV show
Captain America
, 1966

T
he Perfect Pair's arrival at The Hall of Indifference is announced by squealing brakes and crunching gravel. After missing the back corner of Mr. Nice Guy's grey Honda Civic by mere inches, their white Chrysler minivan comes to a rocking halt in a cloud of dust beside Hippie Avenger's VW Microbus. SuperKen is expressionless behind the wheel, while SuperBarbie occupies the passenger seat, smiling-yet-terrified.

Hippie Avenger, The Statistician, and Mr. Nice Guy, who have been unloading the luggage from the back hatch of the Microbus, freeze in position, stunned by the Perfect Pair's meteoric landing. The racket even momentarily wakes Time Bomb, who had complained of a migraine and excused herself to lie down inside one of the cottage bedrooms.

Swinging from side to side in the back window of the minivan is one of those diamond-shaped yellow signs that usually read
BABY ON BOARD
, but this one says
VETERAN
ON BOARD!
Affixed below the window is a sticker shaped like a loop of ribbon, in green and brown camouflage colours, that reads
I SUPPORT OUR TROOPS!
A larger bumper sticker shouts,
IF YOU DON'T STAND BEHIND OUR TROOPS, TRY STANDING
IN FRONT OF THEM! There is a wedding-cake-shaped decal that proclaims,
GAY MARRIAGE IS
NOT MARRIAGE!, surrounded by several others, in red, white, and blue, that read:
FAMILY VALUES,”
PRO
-LIFE, and
JESUS IS MY CO-PILOT
.

“Wow,” says The Statistician, “that was a close one. Jesus must be their co-pilot, indeed.”

“Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs,” says Mr. Nice Guy.

“Did I say that they weren't?”

Also on display on the back of the minivan is one of those chromed-plastic fish-shaped emblems with the word
JESUS
inside the fish's body. The Statistician points at it and says to Hippie Avenger, “I thought it was
Jonah
who was swallowed by the fish, not Jesus.”

“Jonah was swallowed by a
whale
,” says Hippie Avenger. “But if I remember correctly from my World Religions course, the fish was a symbol that early Christians used to, like, secretly identify themselves to other Christians.”

“Perhaps it's not such a secret when you put the word
Jesus
in capital letters in the middle of the fish, hmm?” The Statistician muses.

“Don't be intolerant,” Mr. Nice Guy says.

“
I wasn't being
intolerant
!” The Statistician yelps, “I was just making an
observation
!”
He reaches up to pull the rear hatch of the Microbus closed.

“Um, just leave it up for now,” Hippie Avenger says. “Let it air out for a few minutes.”

The real reason that Hippie Avenger is reluctant to close the back door of her parents' former shaggin' wagon is the collection of faded decals that they slapped on it so many years ago. As a professional soldier, SuperKen will probably not appreciate the slogans such as
AN EYE FOR AN EYE MAKES THE WHOLE WORLD BLIND
, or
WHAT IF THEY HELD A WAR AND NOBODY SHOWED UP?
As the ex-Co-Presidents of Teens Need Truth, both he and SuperBarbie will likely take issue with the sticker declaring that
THE MORAL MAJORITY IS NEITHER
, or the one that says
A WOMAN'S BODY, A WOMAN'S CHOICE
, or especially
JESUS IS COMING — LOOK BUSY!

The Statistician, of course, pulls down the hatch on the Microbus anyway, making a point of studying the propaganda plastered on the rear ends of both the VW and the Chrysler vans. He declares, “Ooh! I feel a philosophical grudge match coming on!”

If SuperKen and SuperBarbie try to engage her in an argument, Hippie Avenger will fall back on her old excuse: “Hey, my parents put those stickers on, I didn't.” This explanation may be wearing thin, though, since she's driven the Microbus for nearly ten years and she still hasn't made any effort to scrape off any of her parents' stuck-on beliefs.

“Be nice, okay?” says Mr. Nice Guy, mostly to The Statistician. “Let's leave politics, religion, and philosophy out here in the driveway.”

“What's left to talk about inside, then?” The Statistician wonders.

SuperBarbie steps out though the passenger door of the minivan.

“Sorry about the dramatic entrance!” she chirps. “With his injuries, he probably shouldn't really be driving, but, y'know, he can just be so darned stubborn sometimes!”

“His injuries?” Mr. Nice Guy wonders.

SuperBarbie ignores the question and hands two books to Hippie Avenger, saying, “Hold these for a moment, would you please?” She scurries around to the other side of the Chrysler, followed by the sounds of the driver-side cargo door sliding open, grunting and sighing, scraping and clanging, and then more grunting and sighing.

Mr. Nice Guy calls out, “Um, anything I can help you guys with?”

SuperBarbie finally appears, pushing a wheelchair with SuperKen perched upon it like a King on Coronation Day. Both of SuperKen's legs are encased in robotic-looking titanium braces, and his knees and shins are crusted with scar tissue.

“Good Lord!” says Mr. Nice Guy. “What happened to you?”

“He's a War Hero!” SuperBarbie exclaims. “He was injured while serving in Afghanistan.”

“Afghanistan?” says The Statistician. “I didn't know you were in Afghanistan.” He turns to Hippie Avenger. “Did you know he was in Afghanistan?”

“Y'know,” SuperBarbie says, “we
did
mention it in our annual Christmas newsletter.”

This past December, The Statistician had continued his annual Yuletide tradition of carrying The Perfect Pair's star-and-cross-festooned summary of their personal successes and church-related activities directly from the mailbox to the recycling bin, while Hippie Avenger had stopped reading at their heartfelt appeal for signatures on their petition against sex education in schools. As such, both had missed the news about SuperKen's first actual combat duty since joining the military.

“I read it,” Mr. Nice Guy proudly declares. “How long were you there before …”

“It happened right at the beginning of my tour of duty,” SuperKen says.

“What happened?” The Statistician wonders. “Did you get shot?”

“Enemy anti-personnel initiatives were not a factor,” SuperKen says, with what Psycho Superstar would have described as his “Sergeant Rock” voice.

“Bomb shrapnel? Grenade? Did you step on a land mine? What?”

“Neither Aerial Ordnance, nor Improvised Explosive Devices, nor Area Denial Munitions were factors in my injury.”

“Well, Jesus, what the hell …?”

“Y'know, you could say ‘gee whiz' instead,” SuperBarbie interrupts.

“
Gee whiz
,” The Statistician continues, “What the
heck
happened to you?”

“My division was flown in to secure the area after a pre-emptive strike on a suspected insurgent threat, and I was injured during the preliminary stages of the operation,” SuperKen says. “However, I'm not at liberty to discuss any further details at this point in time.”

“Indeed,” says The Statistician.

“He's going to make a full recovery and rejoin the Good Fight soon,” says SuperBarbie, panting as she struggles to push the wheelchair through the driveway gravel. That SuperKen has gained about fifty pounds does not make her job any easier.

“Here,” says Mr. Nice Guy, “let me help you with …”

“No, no!” SuperBarbie insists. “It's a labour of love! He's my War Hero.”

Hippie Avenger positions herself between the advancing Perfect Pair and the back of the Microbus, to prevent them from reading the quaint anti-war sentiments plastered all over it. Desperate for a distraction, she holds up the dog-eared hardcovered books that SuperBarbie had handed her, which are titled
Nine Months: What to Expect During Your Pregnancy
, and
Name Your Baby
.

“So,” she says, “it looks like you two have, like, some
other
big news to share with us?”

SuperBarbie stops pushing the wheelchair and slumps over SuperKen's shoulder.

“No,” she sighs, “unfortunately not.”

Hippie Avenger's face glows red as she realizes that the round paunch hanging out over the waistband of SuperBarbie's lavender jogging pants is
not
being caused by a baby growing in there.

“Y'know, we tried and tried before he was sent to Afghanistan,” SuperBarbie says. “Every day, sometimes more, but no luck.”

“Well,
I
got lucky,” SuperKen says.

SuperBarbie slaps him on the shoulder (not playfully) and snatches the two books from Hippie Avenger.

“Well, y'know, according to the reading I've done,” SuperBarbie says, “positions that allow deep penetration and don't force the semen to work against gravity are best. Y'know, there's a reason the church advocates the missionary position!”

“Doggy-style is good, too,” SuperKen adds helpfully.

“
We don't call it that!
” SuperBarbie barks. “But yes,” she says, regaining her composure, “my honey is right. Both positions allow for the deep penetration and gravitational assistance required for of the sperm to reach the uterus. The missionary position increases the changes of conceiving a girl, and the, um, y'know,
hands and knees
position is what you do if you want to have a boy.”

Although he has no idea why SuperBarbie is sharing this information with the rest of them, The Statistician nevertheless feels obligated to say, “I doubt there's any meaningful correlation between the gender of a couple's offspring and how they …”

“I read it in here!” SuperBarbie says, brandishing her copy of
Nine Months: What to Expect During Your Pregnancy
(which was originally published in 1954). “Anyway, now with his legs injured, we can only use woman-on-top positions for intercourse, which don't really have the best chance for conception. So it's been a pretty rough road.”

Finally, Hippie Avenger sees where SuperBarbie has been going with all this.

“Wow. How difficult,” she says. “I'm sure it's been a trial for you both.”

“Yeah,” says Mr. Nice Guy. “How difficult.”

“It's been a real uphill battle,” SuperKen interjects, smirking.

“Indeed,” adds The Statistician, who slides his fists in his pockets to conceal his half-mast erection. Although he finds her
rah-rah, y'know
personality rather annoying, the image of SuperBarbie bouncing up and down in the Ride 'Em Cowgirl position is enough to activate his own underutilized baby-making tool.

“Well, y'know,” SuperBarbie says, “if we just keep trying, maybe, God willing …”

“It's been fun trying!” SuperKen says.

“Stop it!” SuperBarbie cries, slapping SuperKen's shoulder again. “It's not about having fun!”

“Actually,” Hippie Avenger says, “I was reading in a women's magazine the other day that the female orgasm actually creates a ‘sucking' effect that can draw the sperm through the vagina and into the uterus faster.”

“See?” SuperKen says. “It's not just a
duty
. Letting yourself enjoy it
helps
!”

A flustered SuperBarbie drops both books onto her husband's lap.

“Ow!” he cries, “Ow! Ow! My balls! Ow!”

“Oh, no!” SuperBarbie cries. “I didn't mean to! Oh, no! Are you okay, my honey? Are your testicles okay?”

While SuperBarbie prances around SuperKen, fretting that she has just inadvertently cluster-bombed his civilian sperm-manufacturing facilities, SuperKen winks at the others and points at the one war-themed decal on the Microbus that isn't at least partially concealed by Hippie Avenger's body.

“‘Make Love, Not War,'” he says. “Yep, one is
definitely
more fun than the other.”

SuperBarbie pounds SuperKen's back repeatedly with closed fists, then snatches the books from his lap. Clutching them to her chest, she elbows her way through the cluster of Not-So-Super Friends and scrambles up the wooden stairs into the cottage, crying “It's all for nothing! It's all for nothing!”

“Aw, honey!” SuperKen calls after her. “Come on, honey!”

She can be heard screaming, “It's all for
nothing
!
Nothing!
” until the door slams behind her.