ALL MY FRIENDS ARE SUPERHEROES
Andrew Kaufman
copyright © Andrew Kaufman, 2003
first edition
This epub edition published in 2010. Electronic ISBN 978 1 77056 010 9.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published with the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.
We also acknowledge the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program and through the Ontario Book Initiative.
NATIONAL LIBRARY OF CANADA
CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Kaufman, Andrew, 1968-
All my friends are superheroes / Andrew Kaufman.
ISBN 1-55245-130-5
I. Title.
PS8571.A8688A75 2003 C813’.6 C2003-904961-2
for Marlo
ONE
DESIGNATED WAITING AREA
Tom and the Perfectionist sit in the designated waiting area of Gate 23, Terminal 2, Lester B. Pearson International Airport. It’s 10:13 a.m. Tom watches the Perfectionist check the address on her carry-on luggage. She tugs the tag. It’s the third time she’s done this. She looks around the airport lounge. There are more people than seats. She can’t figure out why no one has taken the empty chair to her right.
The chair to her right isn’t empty. Tom sits in this chair. To the Perfectionist, Tom is invisible. He’s been trying to convince her he isn’t since August 14th, their wedding night, six months ago. Tom has whispered and shouted. He’s made phone calls and sent faxes, telegrams and e-mails. Mutual friends have tried to convince her that Tom isn’t invisible. They can see him. She can’t. Tom is invisible only to the Perfectionist.
They have fifteen minutes before boarding flight AC117 to Vancouver. The Perfectionist is completely unaware that Tom’s beside her. He touches the back of her head; the Perfectionist begins to hiccup. Whenever Tom touches her head, she hiccups. When he touches her leg she has muscle spasms. Touching her back makes her sneeze. Tom takes his hand away from her head and puts it in his lap. The Perfectionist stops hiccuping.
Their relationship has never been simple. The Perfectionist is a superhero. The source of her power is her need for order. She needs it so badly she can will it to happen with her mind. Tom isn’t a superhero, although the Perfectionist isn’t the first superhero he’s dated.
Tom’s first superhero girlfriend was Someday. She had red hair, a compact frame and two superpowers: an amazing ability to think big and an unlimited capacity to procrastinate. Someday had never used her superpowers in combination until one Sunday morning, three months after she’d started dating Tom. They were lying in bed. Someday was staring at the ceiling.
‘Imagine it all,’ Someday said.
‘Hmmm,’ Tom said. He kissed Someday’s freckled shoulder.
‘We’re going to get married and own a home. We’re going to have kids ... ’ she said.
Tom stopped kissing her freckled shoulder. He stopped moving his fingers. They could hear the refrigerator.
‘... someday,’ Someday quickly added.
The moment she said it, she shrank. It started happening all the time.
‘I’m going to paint the bathroom ... ’ she’d say.
‘Don’t say it!’ Tom would yell.
‘... someday,’ Someday would say. She’d shrink.
Every time Someday used her superpowers in combination she shrank, and every time she shrank, she shrank by a little bit more. When they’d met in March, Someday stood 5′4″. By May she was 4′7″. At the end of August she was 11″. By October she was sleeping on the cotton from a bottle of aspirin.
The last time Tom saw her was in December, through a microscope. She stood next to a dust particle.
‘Someday, I miss you!’ Tom told her.
‘Someday you won’t,’ she said.
She disappeared.
Tom’s second superhero girlfriend was TV Girl. As a child, TV Girl loved television. She could empathize with the people on television in ways she couldn’t with real-life people. She watched so much television, caring so much about the people she watched, that her connection with television became biological. She started crying televisions. When TV Girl was sad, little television sets would flow down her face.
Tom wasn’t very nice to TV Girl. He didn’t have a television. He’d go over to her apartment and be mean to her just to watch her cry.
At his own wedding reception, Tom was introduced to the Sitcom Kid. Tom didn’t know the Sitcom Kid was TV Girl’s older brother. Tom stuck out his hand to be shaken. The Sitcom Kid made a fist and punched Tom in the mouth.
‘She’s my sister, man!’ said the Sitcom Kid.
‘Who is?’ Tom asked.
‘TV Girl! You made her feel like Mallory when she dated Alex’s best friend at university.’
Tom held a paper napkin to his lip. He didn’t swing back. He knew he deserved that punch in the mouth – maybe not on his wedding night, but he deserved that punch. All the wedding guests circled Tom and the Sitcom Kid. Hypno knew this was his moment.
Only the Perfectionist noticed Hypno making his way towards her. She wasn’t afraid of him. She knew how he worked. He’d done it the first time they’d met. He’d come into the diner where she worked. He’d sat by himself at the counter, just as the noon crowd had her swamped.
‘I need coffee,’ Hypno commanded. He waved his hand in front of her face. He hypnotized her.
The Perfectionist dropped everything. Plates of hamburgers got cold under heat lamps as she made a new pot just for him. She filled a mug and took it directly to Hypno. She set it down in front of him.
‘How did you do that?’ the Perfectionist asked.
‘You’re a nice person,’ Hypno answered.
‘So?’
‘You wanted to give me good service.’
‘So?’
‘I hypnotized you. But you can’t hypnotize anyone into doing anything they don’t already want to do. I merely give permission,’ Hypno said. He tapped his spoon on the rim of his coffee mug and hypnotized her into believing that sex with him would be the best of her life. The Perfectionist dated him, intensely, for the next three months.
‘Just because you were hypnotized to think it was the best sex of your life doesn’t mean that it wasn’t,’ is how the Perfectionist remembers their relationship. For Hypno, the feelings went much, much deeper. He was still in love with the Perfectionist when he approached her at the wedding reception.
The Perfectionist stood still. His timing was perfect; a brawl had broken out by the shrimp table. If he made some sort of scene, nobody would notice. Hypno hugged her. She hugged him back. It was her wedding day. She didn’t need anybody’s permission to do anything.
‘Congratulations,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ asked the Perfectionist.
‘Congratulations,’ he whispered, even more softly.
‘What?’ the Perfectionist asked again. She couldn’t hear him. She turned her head. She offered her ear to Hypno. He leaned close and whispered.
Only the Ear heard what Hypno said. The Ear was in the bathroom changing the cotton in his ears. He’d just pulled our the used cotton. He had fresh cotton in his hand. His hearing was at its most sensitive.
The Ear heard the fight between Tom and the Sitcom Kid. He heard someone whispering behind it.
‘Are you worried that he’s not like us?’ the Ear heard. He recognized Hypno’s voice. The Ear didn’t know who Hypno was talking to. The other person wasn’t saying anything.
The Perfectionist wasn’t saying anything because she was thinking. She had never been a
sked that question before and she realized she’d never let herself even think about it. She bit her bottom lip. She nodded her head.
‘What do you see in him?’ Hypno asked.
‘I ... I ... don’t know,’ the Perfectionist replied. She knew she loved Tom but she suddenly didn’t know why.
Hearing the Perfectionist’s voice, the Ear rushed out of the bathroom. He tried to push through the crowd encircling Tom and the Sitcom Kid. He kept listening.
‘In fact,’ the Ear heard Hypno whisper, ‘I don’t think you see anything at all.’
‘Perf, no!’ called the Ear.
But the Ear was too late. The Perfectionist was hypnotized. Tom was invisible to her.
TWO
ALL HIS FRIENDS ARE SUPERHEROES
A group of children, all holding hands and wearing identical blue T-shirts, walks past Tom. He leans forward in the uncomfortable airport chair and watches them walk away. Careful not to touch her, Tom bends close to the Perfectionist. ‘Please see me,’ he pleads. ‘You have to see me by the time we land in Vancouver.’
This is true. The Perfectionist is moving to Vancouver. She’s shipped her belongings and rented an apartment. As soon as flight AC117 touches down in Vancouver, she’ll leave everything, Tom included, behind. All the pain, all the heartache, all the love she has for him, will disappear. She’ll make Vancouver perfect. She has the power to do this. It’s been six months since he disappeared. Six months is long enough.
It was the Amphibian who pulled Tom off Hypno that night. He let Tom get in five punches. Hypno was down and his nose was bloody. The Amphibian decided five was enough. He grabbed Tom’s arms and pulled him off Hypno.
Tom resisted. The Amphibian had to use all his strength to keep Tom’s arms pinned behind his back.
‘One more!’ Tom called.
‘It’s not going to help,’ the Amphibian said.
‘One more!’ Tom said.
‘It will not help,’ the Amphibian said.
Tom’s arms went limp. He stopped resisting. Hypno smirked. Tom spit in Hypno’s face. He hadn’t wanted to invite Hypno to the wedding in the first place.
The Amphibian and Tom are best friends now, but when Tom moved into town, he didn’t know anybody. He’d taken a job as a pool cleaner. The season was ending and Tom had nothing else lined up. He was draining a pool he hadn’t cleaned as scheduled. The water had a murky green hue. The people who owned the pool had been away for months and they were coming back the next day. The pool had to be dry and something was clogging the drain at the bottom.
Tom took off his shoes. He took off his shorts and shirt. He dove naked into the pool and swam to the bottom.
The chemicals made it impossible to keep his eyes open. He felt around with his hands. His fingers found something slimy. It was firm in the middle but the top layer felt soft. Tom pulled. Whatever it was was really stuck.
Tom put his feet on the bottom of the pool, got his legs into it and freed whatever it was. He squinted his eyes open. What he saw made him gasp. He swallowed a mouthful of chlorine pool water, then raced for the surface as fast as he could.
It easily beat him. It slipped out of the pool.
Tom didn’t want to get out of the pool knowing it was waiting for him. He swam around, trying to figure out what to do. Eventually he ran out of breath and had to break the surface.
‘Thanks!’ the Amphibian said.
Tom looked at the Amphibian’s green skin, webbed feet and webbed hands. He’d thought it was about to rip him limb from limb, and relief flooded through him when this didn’t happen.
‘No problem,’ Tom answered.
‘What’s your superpower?’ the Amphibian asked.
‘Superpower?’
‘Yeah, you know. Your superpower.’
‘I don’t have one,’ Tom told him. ‘I’m just regular.’
‘Really?’ the Amphibian said.
Tom swam over to the side of the pool. They shook hands.
The Amphibian introduced Tom to all his friends. All the Amphibian’s friends were superheroes. The Amphibian’s friends became Tom’s friends. Now all of Tom’s friends are superheroes. But because they all have a superpower, and everyone they know has a superpower, having a superpower is nothing special to them. What’s special to them is not having a superpower. They can’t imagine how anyone could get through life without having a superpower. It seems unbelievable to them.
‘Now boarding rows 14 through 34. Rows 14 through 34 now boarding,’ the airline representative announces.
The Perfectionist picks up her carry-on luggage. She stands in line. Tom waits in his seat. He hates standing in any line he doesn’t have to; the Perfectionist can’t watch any line she could be standing in. At this stage, they would have been separated anyway.
THREE
AMBROSE HEART-REPAIR SERVICE
For the first week of invisibility Tom did nothing but follow her around. There are perks to having your lover believe you’re invisible. He watched the Perfectionist dress and undress. He watched what she watched on television when she thought he wasn’t around – mainly game shows and reruns. He watched her separate the coloured laundry into shades. In ways, his invisibility let him be more intimate with her but safer at the same time, and he fell deeper in love with her.
Four weeks after the reception, a Wednesday, the Perfectionist came home with a package of cigarettes. She had never smoked before. She took to it quickly. She began smoking at the kitchen table, smoke rings floating through the kitchen. For four straight days the Perfectionist sat at the kitchen table blowing smoke rings across the room. Her fingers turned yellow. She did nothing else. She waited for Tom.
That night Tom started having pains in his chest. The first one came at ten in the evening. It was sharp and enduring. He doubled over but it passed. The next came two hours later; by morning they came every ten minutes. The Perfectionist was sleeping and he knew not to touch her. He called the Amphibian.
‘Hey,’ said Tom.
‘Hey,’ said the Amphibian.
‘Ahhhh,’ said Tom. A pain shot through his heart.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Pain in my chest.’
‘Sharp and enduring?’
‘Yes.’
‘But recurring?’
‘Yes!’
‘In greater frequency?’
‘Less than ten minutes now.’
‘I’m sending over a doctor.’
‘What is it?’
‘He’s the best there is.’
‘Tell me what it is!’
‘Your heart is breaking,’ the Amphibian said.
It took Ambrose, the Amphibian’s doctor, ten minutes to arrive at Tom’s door.
Ambrose’s hands were thick. His fingers were muscular and the knuckles bulbous, well oiled. He pulled a red rag from his back pocket and mopped his face. ‘You the guy with the heart?’ he asked Tom.
‘Yes.’
Ambrose took off his baseball cap. He put it back on his head. He raised his eyebrows. ‘I ain’t got all day ... ’
Tom backed out of the doorway.
‘Where’s the kitchen?’ Ambrose asked.
Tom led Ambrose through the living room into the kitchen. Ambrose’s eyes went to the kitchen table.
‘This sturdy?’ Ambrose inquired, leaning all his weight on the corner of the table. He kneeled and inspected the joints underneath. ‘It’ll have to do,’ he said and started clearing the breakfast dishes and newspapers. ‘Strip,’ he commanded.
Tom started unbuttoning.
Ambrose pointed to the kitchen table. ‘Face down,’ he said.
Tom climbed onto the kitchen table. He was naked. The linoleum tabletop was cold on his cheek.
Ambrose snapped a rubber glove over his right hand. He put one finger up Tom’s anus. Tom gasped. Ambrose pulled up and Tom felt a pop in his chest. Ambrose turned him over and Tom saw how his chest had released, come open like the hood of a car. Ambrose raised T
om’s chest, propping it open with a rib bone at a forty-five-degree angle. He started poking around in there.
‘Think about your girlfriend,’ Ambrose commanded.
‘My wife,’ Tom said.
‘Whatever, just picture her face.’
Tom pictured the Perfectionist’s face.
‘Now picture her best feature,’ Ambrose instructed.
Tom pictured the Perfectionist’s nose. He felt Ambrose’s hand on his heart. Tom took shallow breaths. Ambrose reached behind his heart. He squeezed from underneath and a quick line of blood squirted up, hitting Ambrose in the face.
‘That might be it,’ Ambrose said, reaching to his back pocket, grabbing the rag and wiping off his face.
‘What? What is it?’
‘When’s the last time you had this cleaned?’
‘I’ve never had it cleaned.’
‘Exactly,’ Ambrose said. ‘I’ll need the Stewart for this.’
The Stewart was a long, unwieldy tool Ambrose rarely used and kept in the back of his truck. Leaving Tom naked on the kitchen table, Ambrose left the room.
Tom listened to the apartment door open and close. Ambrose was gone for fifteen minutes. Tom lay naked on the kitchen table. He craned his neck down and to the right and watched his heart beating.
Ambrose returned carrying a long metal toolbox. He took out an instrument that was long and sharp and made of thin stainless steel. This was the Stewart. Ambrose used two hands to hold it.
‘Take a deep breath,’ Ambrose instructed. ‘And think of the first time you kissed her.’
Tom pictured the horrible basement apartment he used to live in. The worst thing was the linoleum floor in the kitchen. Boot scuffs and cigarette burns covered it. No longer white, it was a grey that always looked dirty.
The Perfectionist couldn’t stand it. One Wednesday, five days after their first official date, she showed up with two buckets of bright blue floor paint and two paint rollers.
‘Great idea,’ Tom said.
They set to painting the floor. They started where the carpet hit the linoleum. They worked backwards at a furious pace. They’d paint what was in front of them, then shuffle back a few feet and paint that. In no time at all their feet hit the back wall of the kitchen. They’d painted themselves into a corner. Tom looked up and the Perfectionist was smiling.
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