The Indifference League (17 page)

SOLO

“I work alone.”

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

M
r. 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.

ORDER/CHAOS

“I'm an agent of chaos, and you know
the thing about chaos? It's fair.”

— The Joker, from the movie
The Dark Knight
, 2008

A
t the huge, rough-hewn dining table inside The Hall of Indifference, The Statistician sits in one of the two chairs that still has its cushion intact, in order to avoid aggravating his bruises. Behind him, rain pecks at the windowpane.

Although SuperBarbie is not anxious to face The Statistician after their argument this afternoon, she sits across the table from him anyway, because that's where the only other chair with a cushion is; her own undercarriage is also bruised and sore from her War Hero's civilian population-growth mechanizations. SuperKen wheels in beside her, wearing the smirk of the satisfied.

The Drifter and The Stunner sit at the end of the table nearest the door, holding hands. The Statistician pulls out the chair beside him for Time Bomb, but rather than joining her husband, she takes a seat next to Miss Demeanor. So, Hippie Avenger takes the empty seat beside The Statistician instead.

Mr. Nice Guy opens the Monopoly game board at the centre of the table top, distributes bottles of beer and glasses of wine, and then doles out the pastel-coloured play-money. He wedges a chair in at the corner of the table, between Miss Demeanor and Hippie Avenger. And once again, the Not-So-Super Friends are all gathered around the dining-room table of The Hall of Indifference.

“Prepare to pick your playing pieces, people,” Mr. Nice Guy playfully pontificates, the alliteration of the line causing him to spray spittle across the Monopoly board.

While Mr. Nice Guy wipes away the droplets with his sleeve, Hippie Avenger takes the piece shaped like a shaggy dog, like she always does. Nobody else wants the piece, anyway; as a symbol, it is the antithesis of financial success. And she would rather have a cute puppy than a race car or cannon, anyway.

Predictably, SuperKen grabs the battleship.

Miss Demeanor selects the boot, which reminds her of the Doc Martens she wore during her punk-rock days.

Time Bomb claims the horse and rider. She spent her pubescent summers at equestrian camp, which she attended not so much out of any great love for horses or sport, but because all the other girls in her neighbourhood were doing it, and because she looked pretty damned hot in those riding tights and tall boots. And she's feeling
very
hot today.

The Statistician reaches for the wheelbarrow, because he knows that he will inevitably be wheeling away everyone else's fake money at the end of the game.

The Stunner reaches for the wheelbarrow at the same time, believing it to be the one piece that no one else will want.

Her fingers touch The Statistician's. Both recoil.

Plump raindrops thump against the steel roof of The Hall of Indifference, like impatient fingers drumming on a desktop.

“You want the wheelbarrow?” she says. “You can have it.”

“No, no,” stammers The Statistician, “Please. You take it. I insist.”

“You can have it.”

“Take it. It's yours.”

The Statistician instead plucks the top hat piece from the middle of the Monopoly board. He is not superstitious about which playing piece he uses. Such things are irrelevant to the mathematics involved. He can carry all their money away just as easily inside a top hat. He lays it open-end up on the GO square.

As far as is geometrically possible from The Statistician's top hat, The Stunner places her wheelbarrow on GO.

“That's the piece he always plays with,” The Drifter whispers to The Stunner after she reluctantly picks up the wheelbarrow token, “You must have made quite an impression for him to give it up so easily.”

Give it up so easily.
The words ring in The Stunner's ears.

“Are you okay?” The Drifter says. “You're flushed.”

“Just a bit warm,” The Stunner says. “I'll take off my sweater.”

The Statistician feels warm under the collar, too. He trained The Stunner. She could have earned that A+ without his help. She is the one person at the table who can make the calculations just as accurately as he can. It might simply come down to chance, now. Sweat beads on his forehead.

There is no motorcycle-shaped piece, so The Drifter takes the race car. This is usually the token that Mr. Nice Guy wants, so he reaches for the cannon instead, but SuperBarbie gets there first. Maybe she wants this replica piece of artillery to show her support for her soldier husband, but perhaps the big, round wheels and long barrel cocked upward remind her of something else she's been after lately.

“Looks like you get to choose between the iron and the thimble,” SuperKen says to Mr. Nice Guy, in an effeminate voice. “Either way, you're doing the laundry, sweetie!”

Mr. Nice Guy was, in fact, washing everyone else's beach towels in the sink this afternoon, but he's miffed anyway.

“Well? Pick!” SuperKen squeals. “The thimble or the iron, honey?”

Hippie Avenger takes the thimble and places it open-end-up on the GO square.

“It's not a thimble,” she says to SuperKen, “It's a pint glass. He told you he was a beer man.”

Hippie Avenger smiles at Mr. Nice Guy, and pats him on the shoulder.

Maybe I
do
still have a shot with her
, he thinks.

“Roll to see who goes first,” Mr. Nice Guy says, throwing the dice across the table; when they tumble to a halt, one die shows five, and the other six. “Beat that!” he cries.

Everyone else rolls a lower number, except for The Statistician, who also rolls eleven.

“Tie breaker!” Mr. Nice guy says.

“It's okay,” The Statistician answers. “I don't have to go first to win. I'll go
last
if that makes you happy.”

“Tie breaker,' Mr. Nice Guy says again.

The Statistician shrugs and throws the dice again. Double sixes.

Mr. Nice Guy scoops the dice from the table, closes his eyes as he shakes them in his palm, throws again, opens his eyes. Another five and another six.

“What the hell is with all these elevens?”

“Two elevens,” SuperKen says. “Big deal! It's not like the Cubs won the World Series.”

“But I've been seeing elevens
everywhere
lately. Every time my stomach growls, it's 11:11 a.m. Every time I yawn and decide it's time for bed, it 11:11 p.m. Every other time I look at my watch, it's eleven minutes past the hour. I mean, is the universe trying to tell me something?”

The Statistician's eyes bug out.
“The universe?”

“Well,” Hippie Avenger says, “in numerology, the number eleven signifies …”

“Numerology?”
The Statistician yelps.

“My parents were into it for a while.”

“Peace, love, dope!” SuperKen grumbles.

“I didn't say that
I
was into it,” Hippie Avenger says, glancing at The Statistician, but not at SuperKen. “Anyway, in numerology, the number eleven supposedly represents balance, since one is supposedly the purest of the numbers, and the numeral eleven is the combination of two ones.”

She pauses for the expected interjection from The Statistician, but he doesn't say anything; he knows that she added the word “supposedly” for him. Twice.

“Hmm,” says Miss Demeanor.

“What?” says Hippie Avenger.

“Well, when an alcoholic or a drug addict enters into a Twelve-Step Program, the eleventh step is the stage of balance and meditation. It fits with what the numerologists have to say, actually.”

“Huh. Really.” Hippie Avenger continues, “So, anyway,” (she resists the urge to say “supposedly” again) “when the number eleven keeps appearing in your life, it's to encourage you to seek balance in your life, to right wrongs, to equalize work and play, thought and emotion, masculine and feminine …”

“He definitely needs to balance the masculine and feminine!” SuperKen snorts. “In fact, I think that you're on to something here. They give eleven-gun salutes to generals. There are eleven men on the field per team in football, soccer, and field hockey. And in rugby, the toughest game of 'em all, a regulation ball is eleven inches long. So maybe
the universe
is trying to tell you something, buddy — to grow a pair and be a fucking
man!”

“Language, sweetie,” SuperBarbie says.

The Statistician just shakes his head.

“Also,” Hippie Avenger says, “the number eleven is a ‘master number.' Ten is considered a perfect number, and eleven is one more than ten, so …”

“Ours go to eleven,” The Drifter says, doing a perfect imitation of Nigel Tufnel.

“
This Is Spinal Tap
!” says Miss Demeanor. “Nice one, dude.”

Mr. Nice Guy smiles. Eleven is better than ten. He
definitely
still has a shot with Hippie Avenger. “One more than perfect,” he says.

The Statistician can't hold back any longer.

“How are the numerals ten or eleven more
perfect
than any of the others? Every number does an equally
perfect
job representing the quantity that it symbolizes.”

“Well,
supposedly
,” Hippie Avenger says, putting extra emphasis the word this time, “as a symbol, the two ones are perfectly parallel. Balance again. And, in numerology, there is some significance in the fact that eleven looks the same upside down as right side up.”

“So does the number eight,” The Statistician says.

“Your favourite number!” Hippie Avenger says. It takes her a moment to realize that the echo effect was caused by The Stunner saying exactly the same thing at almost exactly the same time.

Time Bomb's eyes narrow, and her lips tighten.

The Drifter clears his throat.

The Stunner quickly adds, “Zero also looks the same when flipped along a horizontal axis. In fact, it's the same with
any
number containing the digits zero, one, or eight. So it really doesn't mean anything.” Then she nudges The Drifter and says, “Apollo
Eleven
was the first to land on the moon, though.”

A slight grin cracks The Drifter's serious expression; she knows that he wanted to be an astronaut when he was a kid.

“
Ben Hur
won eleven Oscars,” Miss Demeanor says, winking at The Drifter.

“So did
Titanic
,” he adds.

“
M*A*S*H
— the TV series, not the movie — ran for
eleven seasons
.” She winks again.

“So did
Cheers
! And, it had
eleven main characters
!”

“So did
M*A*S*H
!” Miss Demeanor licks her lips.

“We should go on a pop-culture quiz show together,” The Drifter says.

“We would totally kick ass,” Miss Demeanor says.

“We totally would,” The Drifter affirms.

They punch knuckles across the table.

The Stunner frowns.
Did these two also have a thing together? Would he even tell me if they had?

“Here's one,” SuperKen says, “World War I ended on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year.”

“You're all missing the point!” SuperBarbie says, suddenly animated, almost shouting. “Eleven is
not
a good number! It does
not
represent balance, or perfection, or anything like that. It's an
evil
number! Anyone remember
Nine-ELEVEN
? Anyone?”

“Oh, brother,” The Statistician mutters.

“On September
eleventh
,” SuperBarbie hisses, “terrorists flew an airplane,
Flight number eleven
, into the Twin Towers, which, side by side, look like the
number eleven
! The next plane to hit the towers was Flight seventy-seven. Seventy-seven can be divided evenly … by
eleven
!” She turns to Mr. Nice Guy. “So, if you're seeing elevens everywhere, it's a sign that something
terrible
is going to happen!”

Mr. Nice Guy stammers, “But, um, but …”

“There is no real meaning in any of that,” The Statistician says, in his full professorial tone. “There is no correlation between the number eleven and anything that happened on that terrible day.”

“The Twin Towers had 110 storeys each! Divided by ten, that's
eleven
! Flight eleven had 92 passengers. Nine plus two equals
eleven
! Flight 77 had 65 passengers. Six plus five equals
eleven
!”