All My Friends Are Superheroes (8 page)

SIXTEEN
INVISIBILITY

Tom isn’t considered invisible since his invisibility is isolated to the Perfectionist. But there are invisible superheroes, who can be divided into two groups: those who can switch from visible to invisible at will, and those who are invisible at all times. David Duncan falls into the second group. After five months of Tom’s isolated invisibility, the Amphibian wrote David Duncan’s phone number on a piece of paper. He gave that piece of paper to Tom.

‘You should call him,’ the Amphibian urged. They were drinking beer at the Diplomatico on College Street.

‘Why?’ Tom asked.

‘Because he used to be the Blue Outcast and he’s one of the few invisibles who’ll talk to you.’

‘What would I talk to him about?’

‘Being invisible.’

‘But I’m not invisible.’

‘He might have, you know, a perspective. He might have advice for you.’

Tom took the number. He folded it into his wallet.

Three days later, just after the Perfectionist stopped smoking, Tom found an airline ticket to Vancouver sitting on the kitchen table. He understood the consequences and became desperate. He called David Duncan. Duncan agreed to meet him at Pauper’s Pub, a fake English pub on Bloor Street.

David Duncan had come out of the womb invisible. The nurse washed away the blood and afterbirth to find nobody there. As a toddler he’d wiggle out of his diaper. His parents had to wait until he cried from hunger to find him. They almost died of worry. They took the drastic step of painting him blue.

Using a water-based non-toxic paint, they kept him painted until he was five years old. On his first day of school his parents left the decision with him. He could choose to remain blue or to return to his natural invisible state.

David went up to the bathroom. He had an hour until the school bus arrived. He filled the sink with water. He washed all the blue away and looked at himself in the mirror. Lifting his toothbrush, he watched it float through the air. It terrified him. He decided to remain blue.

David attended public school painted blue. He made no friends. He became the Blue Outcast.

All during high school the Blue Outcast resisted the temptation to sneak into the girls’ changeroom. Not once did he steal into a teacher’s desk. He always paid to see a movie.

Graduating with average marks, the Blue Outcast got a job at a call centre and a one-bedroom apartment just east of Church Street. He led a solitary life. Every morning he would paint himself blue like other men shave. No one ever suspected he was invisible. They just thought he was weird.

Then one day, a Wednesday, the Blue Outcast worked late at the call centre. He waited for the 6:04 streetcar. Normally he got the 5:15. This is where he saw her. She was hard to miss. She was orange.

The Blue Outcast was in line for the front doors of the streetcar. The Orange Exile was exiting through the rear doors. They made brief eye contact, but nothing more.

The Blue Outcast changed his routine. He took that streetcar, the 504, at 6:04 every day. The Blue Outcast and the Orange Exile noticed each other more and more. They made eye contact for longer periods of time. The Blue Outcast made sure to be at the end of the line for the front doors of the streetcar. The Orange Exile made sure to be first out the back doors. They began waving to each other as they passed on the street. They still hadn’t chatted or exchanged names. That didn’t seem to be the point.

Six weeks after they’d become aware of each other, a thunderstorm rolled across the city. The rain backed up the storm drains. Lightning struck close to the Blue Outcast’s call centre. It was 7:30. He’d missed the 6:04. He was the only one in the office. The sound boomed through the room. He looked out the window to see if there was any damage.

At that exact moment, the Orange Exile was looking out the window of her apartment. The call centre and the Orange Exile’s apartment were directly across from each other, on the second floors of three-storey buildings.

The Blue Outcast looked at the Orange Exile. Lightning cracked again. She put her index finger in her mouth. She pulled it out. It wasn’t orange any more. It was invisible. She held it up for the Blue Outcast to see.

The Blue Outcast cried. His tears cut streaks of invisibility down his face. He stepped back from the window. He undressed. Naked, he left the call centre. He walked to the ground floor, stepped into the rain and looked across the street where orange feet and orange legs were standing in an orange puddle.

They stood in the rain. The Blue Outcast looked up at the sky and held out his arms. He let rain fall on his face. He looked down at his hands and didn’t see them. He looked back across the street and couldn’t see the Orange Exile.

Neither of them has been seen since.

Tom arrived at the pub ten minutes late. He searched
for an empty table. He found one where a glass of beer was drinking itself and sat down.

‘I’m Tom,’ said Tom. ‘Thanks for meeting me.’ He held out his hand and David Duncan shook it.

‘I don’t know how I can help you,’ David Duncan said.

‘Neither do I,’ said Tom. Tom didn’t know where to look. He focused on a beer ad where David’s voice seemed to be coming from.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘I want to know how to convince my wife that I’m not invisible.’

‘But you’re not invisible.’

‘I am to her,’ said Tom.

‘Yeah,’ David Duncan said. ‘I was invisible to my wife, too.’

‘Was?’

‘It didn’t work out.’

The waitress came over. Tom ordered a beer. He slid the ashtray between his hands. They didn’t say anything. David Duncan emptied his glass.

‘Sometimes these things happen for a reason,’ David said.

‘Yeah.’

‘We’re not together any more, but if I hadn’t met her, I’d still be blue.’

‘Yeah,’ said Tom.

‘Maybe you just weren’t ready for it.’

‘Yeah,’ Tom repeated. The waitress brought his beer. Tom pushed it across the table. He pulled a twenty from his wallet, set it down and walked home.

SEVENTEEN
MINIMALIST APARTMENT

Turbulence bumps the airplane. Tom and the Perfectionist bounce as high as their seatbelts let them. Tom looks at his watch. He has four minutes left. He thinks about the return portion of his ticket. He contemplates going home to the empty rooms he used to share with the Perfectionist.

In their apartment Tom and the Perfectionist had 105 articles (plus personal hygiene products). Before they moved in together, they had many more. On moving day Tom rented the largest truck U-Haul offered. The Amphibian helped him move.

‘You’ve got a lot of stuff,’ said the Amphibian. He carried a box of books. On top of the box of books were a stool and a crate of vinyl
LP
s.

‘I don’t have a lot of stuff,’ Tom answered. He carried a vintage microwave oven and a rice maker.

‘You have a lot of stuff,’ the Amphibian repeated. They tried to fit everything from the basement apartment into the truck. It didn’t fit. The truck was full and a quarter of Tom’s possessions remained behind.

Tom and the Amphibian locked the truck. They drove over to the Perfectionist’s. When they arrived, they had a beer. The Perfectionist looked into the back of the truck. She reorganized. The truck was now half-empty.

The Amphibian left for ball practice. Tom and the Perfectionist started loading her possessions into the truck.

‘You have a lot of stuff,’ Tom told her. He was carrying a box filled with antique cookware.

‘I don’t have a lot of stuff,’ the Perfectionist said. She carried a box filled with dresses she’d worn in high school.

Not all of the Perfectionist’s possessions fit into the truck. Three-quarters did. The rest they left behind. They drove over to the new place and parked on the street. Excited, they ran inside. They were enjoying the view from the bedroom when they saw someone stealing their U-Haul.

By the time they’d finished with the police reports and convinced U-Haul to rent them a second truck, it was getting dark. Tom and the Perfectionist were tired. Without talking, they drove to Tom’s apartment. They loaded what remained. Then, still without talking, they drove to the
Perfectionist’s apartment and loaded what was left on her lawn. All the objects fit easily into the van.

Tom started the truck. He sighed. The Perfectionist crossed her arms. They drove downtown, towards their new apartment, past the alley where they’d encountered Sleazy Jim just after they’d started going out together.

The alley was between two stores that had been vacant for years. Sleazy Jim always stood in front of it. One Wednesday, after fighting for seventy-two consecutive hours, Tom and the Perfectionist walked past it. Sleazy Jim was waiting.

‘Psssst,’ Sleazy Jim said.

Tom and the Perfectionist continued walking. They ignored him, ignoring the one button holding his trench coat closed and how he smelled like a hospital. They’d ignored him a hundred times before.

‘You wanna buy a myth?’ Sleazy Jim added. He’d never said that before. Neither of them could ignore it. They stopped. They turned and looked at Sleazy Jim. Sleazy Jim nodded. Tom and the Perfectionist followed him.

The wind blew sheets of newspaper around. Halfway down the alley was a dumpster. They all ducked behind it. Sleazy Jim stood with his back to the brick wall. Over his right shoulder, ‘AC/DC RULES’ was spray-painted in yellow. He unbuttoned the top and only button. He opened his trench coat. Inside, safety-pinned to the fabric, were three envelope-sized pieces of paper. On each card he’d
hand-written a slogan using thick block capitals. Sleazy Jim pointed with a long, scabby finger.

‘I’ve got “Good triumphs over evil.” “All men are created equal.” “Love conquers all.” Whaddya want?’ Sleazy Jim asked.

Tom looked at the Perfectionist. He made his ‘no big deal to me’ face. The Perfectionist looked at Tom. She made her ‘same here’ face.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said. ‘We already own all of those.’

At that exact moment, Tom and the Perfectionist knew they should be together forever.

Their new apartment was another ten minutes past Sleazy Jim’s alley. They drove in silence. They unloaded everything. When they were finished, they had a green armchair, a white sofa, three potted plants, a kitchen table with four chairs, four complete table settings, a skillet, two knives, three pots of various sizes, a queen-sized bed, two sets of sheets, one comforter, seven collar shirts, seven blouses, fourteen T-shirts, fourteen pairs of pants (six jean, eight slacks), seven sweaters, fourteen pairs of socks, fourteen pairs of underwear, personal hygiene products and four large white towels.

The plane hits another patch of turbulence. Tom puts his head in his hands. The plane continues to descend. Tom visualizes the apartment he shared with the Perfectionist. He realizes two things: the 105 items they had fit their needs
perfectly, and it was the Perfectionist who made this happen.

‘That’s it!’ Tom yells. Rows 25 through 29 turn and look at him. Tom smiles, unfastens his seat belt and leans forward.

EIGHTEEN
LANDING

The sound of the wheels extending startles the Perfectionist. She looks out the window. The glass and steel buildings of Vancouver are in the distance. She feels how steep the plane’s arc is. There’s a lightweight feeling in her. She puts her hand on her stomach.

The runway is in sight. The plane banks and becomes parallel with the runway. The Perfectionist looks to the right of the asphalt and sees, very tiny, the plane’s shadow. Nothing more than a blob. The plane continues descending. The shadow gains more definition. It starts to grow wings. Now she can see the nose of the plane, the tail.

She swears she can smell Tom. Her eyes mist.

She can do this. As soon as the wheels touch Vancouver she’ll move on. She’ll make it perfect. She’ll make Vancouver perfect. She has the power to do this.

‘Perf,’ Tom says. He watches her bend down. She slips her shoes back on. He leans down with her. The plane is four hundred feet from the ground. Tom leans very close to her ear. Three hundred feet. The passengers grab armrests. They take deep breaths. The nose of the plane tilts up. Tom licks his lips. The wheels are a hundred feet from the ground. Tom whispers into her ear.