‘What the hell do we do now?’ Tom asked her.
The Perfectionist kissed him (perfectly).
Tom remembered this moment as he felt the instrument push down his aorta. The pain was unbelievably sharp. Tom opened his eyes. He craned his neck. He saw a tiny ghost coming out of his heart.
Tom recognized the ghost as Jessica Kenmore. Her head, then her chest, her hips and finally her legs squeezed out of his heart. She floated upwards, dissolving just before she touched the ceiling.
Ambrose pushed the instrument deeper. The head of Sally Morgan appeared. Sally’s chest, then her feet came clear. She floated up, dissolving just before reaching the ceiling.
Next came Nancy Wallenstine. Then Sara Livingston. Then Debbie Cook.
‘Christ, how many do you have in there?’ Ambrose called.
‘There should be one more,’ Tom told him.
Tom gripped the edge of the kitchen table. He clenched his teeth. Ambrose pushed the instrument deeper. The head of Jenny Remington popped out of his heart.
Jenny Remington pulled herself free. She floated over to Tom’s head. She stared at him. She looked so sad. She continued staring him in the eyes, then dissolved.
Tom closed his eyes. He took a deep, deep breath. He could feel the Stewart every time his heart beat.
‘Well, that didn’t work,’ Ambrose said, pulling the Stewart out of Tom’s heart.
‘What?’
‘Still broken. Good that you cleaned her out. You won’t be getting those pains any more, but she’s still broken.’
‘Can’t you fix it?’
‘Nope. The whole thing’s broken, and when she breaks like that, there’s nothing anyone can do,’ Ambrose said, wiping the Stewart clean with the cloth from his back pocket. ‘Maybe it’ll mend itself. Sometimes they do.’
Ambrose set the rib bone back into place. He held the hood of Tom’s chest with the tips of his fingers and let it drop. Ambrose packed up his tools. He shook his head, didn’t say a word, and left.
FOUR
REGULARS
‘All passengers are reminded to present proper identification with their boarding passes,’ the airline representative announces through the P.A. system. ‘Proper identification must be presented with your boarding pass.’
Tom reaches into his jacket pocket. He has proper I.D. and a boarding pass for flight AC117. His seat, E27, is beside the Perfectionist’s. But he hasn’t shipped his belongings to Vancouver. He’s paid another month on their apartment. His ticket is a return ticket.
Tom is so desperate he’s secretly hoping he’s a superhero. He’s never hoped for this before. There’s a chance he might be. All superheroes are born superheroes, but some of them, for part of their lives, appear regular. Their superpowers are inside them, dormant, waiting for the right event to trigger them. Tom doesn’t know how else he’ll make the Perfectionist see him.
He puts his I.D. and boarding pass back in his jacket pocket. He thinks about the Shadowless Man.
Before the Shadowless Man was the Shadowless Man, he was Henry Zimmerman. He was regular. He always knew when the toast was going to pop. He routinely opened the telephone book to exactly the right page when looking for a phone number and was always finding money on the street. But nothing incredibly strange, nothing that’d suggest he was a superhero, had ever happened.
Then one Wednesday he woke up at 6:34 a.m. This was early for Henry Zimmerman. His shadow was sitting on the edge of his bed.
‘I’m leaving you,’ his shadow told him.
Zimmerman leaned on his elbow. He studied his shadow. It looked so tiny.
‘Are you unhappy?’ he asked his shadow.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you should go.’
Zimmerman’s shadow hesitated. Almost imperceptibly, it nodded. It pushed itself to its feet. It walked across the room and closed the bedroom door behind itself.
Henry Zimmerman was now the Shadowless Man. That night he made his wife fettuccini alfredo. It was the first time he’d cooked for her in two and a half years. They had wine. He made her laugh. They’d opened a second bottle by the time they went to bed.
The Shadowless Man started jogging. Domestic chores like vacuuming became almost fun. On particularly sunny days, the Shadowless Man will look down and notice the absence of his shadow. He’ll remember his shadow fondly and briefly wonder where it could be. But it doesn’t happen that often.
Businessman was also once regular. He was Lewis Taylor until his BMW began billowing smoke during rush hour in the heart of the financial district. It was a cold Wednesday morning, –17 °C plus wind chill. Cars were conking out all over town. CAA was backed up.
Lewis sat in his car, waiting for the tow, rubbing his arms and stamping his feet. He didn’t listen to the radio. He was afraid of draining the battery. He had nothing to do but watch the pedestrians. He decided to guess how much money they were worth.
The first pedestrian who walked by was an elderly woman wearing a long wool overcoat. Lewis tried to guess her net worth and discovered he didn’t need to. He could see through her clothes, into her wallet and counted seventeen dollars in cash. He discovered he could see into her bank card, into her bank account. She had four hundred dollars in savings and was overdrawn in chequing.
Lewis Taylor had become Businessman. The tow truck still hadn’t arrived. Businessman sat in his car calculating the net worth of everyone who passed and he noticed something peculiar. While some people were worth millions and other people were deep in debt, they all looked stressed and worried. He concluded that there is only one amount of money – just not enough.
The only other once-regular Tom knows is the Impossible Man. The Impossible Man was Ted Wilcox until one Wednesday in April. Ted had spent the last thirteen months trying to build fires underwater. Before that he’d spent three years failing to develop methods of preserving steam. Before that he’d spent a year trying to walk on water. Ted was walking down the street when he suddenly realized that all these things were impossible. And he should stop doing them.
Tom sinks into his plastic designated-waiting-area chair. He wishes this were a Wednesday. But it isn’t. It’s Tuesday.
FALLING GIRL
Falling Girl won’t go higher than the second floor of any building. She’s never set foot on a balcony and the floor is the only place she’ll sit. A small sample of things she’s fallen from includes trees, cars, grace, first-storey windows, horses, ladders, bicycles, the wagon, countless kitchen counters and her grandmother’s knee.
Smoking beside the Ear one winter night, she wiggled deeper under the sheets and admitted the only thing she’s never fallen from, or into, was love. ‘If that’s how you do it, I would have done it,’ she said. Then she leaned over to butt out her cigarette and fell out of the bed.
THE BATTERY
All through her youth, the Battery had two things: an overpowering father and an over-rebellious mind. In combination, these forces gave her the ability to store great amounts of emotional energy and release it in one blinding bolt. But beware: the Battery’s allegiances aren’t to good or evil, but simply against whatever stands in her way. Friend, foe or innocent bystander – the Battery’s emotional energy bursts are unpredictable and she will strike at will.
THE COUCH SURFER
Empowered with the ability to sustain life and limb without a job, steady companion or permanent place of residence, the Couch Surfer can be found roaming from couch to couch of friends’ apartments all across the city.
The Couch Surfer is not only able to withstand long periods of acute poverty but is also able to nutritionally sustain himself with only handfuls of breakfast cereals, slices of dry bread and condiments. Mysteriously always has cigarettes.
THE STRESS BUNNY
If you arrive at a party and suddenly find yourself completely relaxed, there’s a good chance the Stress Bunny is there. Blessed with the ability to absorb the stress of everyone in a fifty-foot radius, the Stress Bunny is i
nvited to every party, every outing.
Her power originates from her strict Catholic upbringing.
THE DANCER
The Dancer has direct communication with God, much like a personal phone line. The telephone she uses is her body and she dials by dancing. As such, her dancing is a very, very sensual thing.
In the past, whenever she went out dancing, she got hit on and hit on and hit on. She didn’t like this at all. She hated it. It wasn’t what she was trying to do. She just wanted to talk to God. She almost gave up dancing altogether. Then she got an idea.
Now, just before she goes out dancing, the Dancer straddles a photocopier and makes copies of her vagina. When guys come up and hit on her, she just hands them a copy.
FIVE
THE ANXIETY MONSTER
The Perfectionist still hasn’t boarded. Tom watches her wait in line. She takes a baby step. She sets down her luggage. She waits for the man in front of her to take a baby step. He does. The Perfectionist picks up her carry-on, swings it over her shoulder and takes a baby step. She sets down her carry-on. She waits.
Tom squirms in the plastic chair and looks away. He could never do what she’s doing. It would fill him with anxiety, something Tom learned to avoid at the end of his first official date with the Perfectionist.
The dinner had been Italian. The movie had been black and white. On the walk home, their arms brushed three times. She invited him up and made coffee. They sat four inches apart on the Perfectionist’s white sofa.
The Perfectionist tilted her head slightly to the right. Tom swallowed. She leaned towards him. She closed her eyes. Someone knocked on her door.
‘Just ignore it and it’ll go away,’ the Perfectionist said. She leaned in closer. Tom felt her breath on his lips. There was another knock.
‘I’ll ... I’ll get it,’ Tom said.
The Perfectionist sighed. Tom wiped his hands on his jeans. He got off the couch and opened the door. He had almost no time to react – the monster at the door was struggling to claw his face off.
Tom slammed the door shut. He locked it. He put his back to it. The thing started screaming. It sounded like a blender.
‘Was it tall?’ the Perfectionist asked him.
‘What?’ Tom yelled. The thing was screaming very loudly.
‘Was it tall?’
‘Yes!’
‘Pointed fingernails?’
‘Yes!’
‘Long, scabby arms?’
‘Yes!’
‘It smelled like cigarettes and cough syrup?’
‘That’s it!’
‘That’s an anxiety monster,’ she said. ‘I’m having a bath.’
‘What?’ Tom screamed.
‘It’s for you, not me. I’m having a bath,’ she stated. Tom didn’t reply. His back remained firmly pressed to her front door. She saw the look of terror in his eyes.
‘Do you love me?’ she asked him.
Tom did love her. He’d been in love with her for four months. He could remember the day it had happened. It had snowed overnight and the linoleum floor was cold under his feet. Tom wore nothing but a terry-cloth housecoat. As he got to the door, she knocked again (perfectly). He knew it was the Perfectionist. Did he have time to shower? Brush his teeth? At the very least try to comb down his bed-head?
‘Tom?’ the Perfectionist asked through the door. Her voice was sad and worried and small. Tom opened the door. The Perfectionist looked up. Snow melted and fell off her boots onto the hallway carpet. She raised her hand and waved it over Tom’s head. Instantly, his hair was perfect. It was the best hair he’d ever had. He invited her in.
The Perfectionist sat down on the edge of the armchair. She started biting her thumbnail. She didn’t know why she was there. ‘Why Tom’s?’ she asked herself. She didn’t know him that well. Why hadn’t she gone to the Amphibian’s or to Hypno, her boyfriend?
‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asked.
‘It’s the snow,’ she said. ‘I can’t organize the snowflakes.’
Tom wasn’t in love with her yet; he just had a crush on her, so he wondered why she’d want to do such a thing. But he got dressed and they went outside to look at the snow. Four inches had fallen. Everything was covered. The sidewalks weren’t cleared and people were walking through the snow, leaving trails behind them.
‘I tried to organize them but I couldn’t,’ she said. Her eyes were full moons. She seemed to have stopped blinking. Tom didn’t know what to do.
‘Just close your eyes,’ Tom told the Perfectionist.
‘But I still see them,’ the Perfectionist told Tom. She started shaking uncontrollably.
‘Why don’t we try this,’ Tom said.
He motioned to his car. He helped the Perfectionist into the passenger seat. He started the engine, turned on the heater and brushed off the snow. Tom drove out of the city, into the country and stopped his car in front of a field completely covered in undisturbed snow. No animals or people – nothing but the wind – had been across it. Tom helped the Perfectionist out of the car. They stood looking at the field of snow.
‘Can you organize these snowflakes?’ he asked her.
‘They already are,’ she said. It was at that exact moment that Tom fell in love with her.
Tom remembered standing there beside her, in front of that field covered with snow, and falling in love. The Anxiety Monster screamed again.
‘Do you love me?’ the Perfectionist repeated.
‘Yes,’ Tom said.
‘Then trust me. I’m going to have a bath.’
The Perfectionist got off the couch. She walked around her living room collecting objects: candles, a lighter, a portable tape deck. She carried these things into the bathroom. The bathroom door closed.
Tom heard her filling the bathtub. The tape deck played Motown. He sat on the couch with his legs pulled up to his chest as the Anxiety Monster’s fingers ripped splinters from the door. It started throwing its weight against the door. The hinges came away from the wall. The Monster slammed into the door again. The door-hinge screws were three-quarters out. Tom was overwhelmed. He fainted.
When he woke up, two hours later, the Perfectionist was playing solitaire. She looked over at him. She smiled. She looked back at the cards.
‘Feel better?’ she asked.
He did. There was no sign of the Anxiety Monster.
‘What happened?’ he asked her.
‘It left,’ she said. She moved a black nine onto a red ten.
‘It just left?’
‘There are two ways to get rid of an anxiety monster, my friend – you either have a bath or a nap.’
Tom watches an airplane take off. The Perfectionist has finally boarded. He remembers asking the Amphibian about all the monsters.
‘I don’t remember a single monster before I met you,’ he’d told the Amphibian. ‘Now they seem to be all over the place.’
‘You mean there wasn’t anything you were afraid of?’ the Amphibian had asked him.
‘Lots.’
‘What did they look like?’
It was a funny question.
‘They didn’t look like anything. They were ideas,’ Tom told him. ‘Like not being able to pay rent, or being lonely.’
‘That’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard,’ the Amphibian replied.
Tom picks up his carry-on luggage. He shows his I.D. and pass. He boards flight AC117 to Vancouver.
SIX
TAKE-OFF
Tom lowers his arms to his sides after safely stowing his carry-on luggage in the overhead compartment. He looks at the man in the aisle seat of Row 27.
‘Um,’ Tom says, pointing to the middle seat.
The man reluctantly angles his legs to the right. Tom squeezes past. He sits next to the Perfectionist, who has the window seat.
The Perfectionist studies two men in orange coveralls throwing luggage onto a conveyor belt. The conveyer belt carries luggage into the airplane. She doesn’t feel Tom put his
hand over hers. Her arm begins jerking up and down like she’s being electrocuted. Tom pulls his hand away. The Perfectionist wishes her arm would stop doing that.
She keeps watching the men toss luggage. She is having one of those days where everyone she sees looks like someone she used to know. The man currently tossing a redframed knapsack onto the conveyer belt is the spitting image of an old boyfriend, Loudmotorcycle.
No one noticed W. P. Martin until he leaned too heavily on his motorcycle. He was trying to look cool in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. It was 11:30 at night and the parking lot was full of teenagers. The bike tipped over. W. P. struggled to remain standing. The bike hit the sidewalk and the muffler was knocked off.
The teenagers started laughing. They stood around, laughing, watching W. P. push his bike upright. Nothing but the muffler seemed to be damaged. W. P. straddled the bike, turned the key, pushed his foot down and the mufflerless motorcycle roared to life.
W. P. Martin was dead – Loudmotorcycle was born. No one could ignore him now.
Loudmotorcycle covered his arms with tattoos. He rode through narrow side streets late at night, gunning the engine and setting off car alarms.
The Perfectionist met Loudmotorcycle at the CNE. With three pitches he won a stretched Pepsi bottle and her heart. The Perfectionist linked her fingers through his belt-loops and he raced her through the city. She still has the hearing loss to prove it.
Then one night, a Wednesday, Loudmotorcycle swerved. A cat was sitting in the middle of the road, using its green eyes to stare at him. The cat survived. Loudmotorcycle hadn’t actually come that close to it. Still, his hands trembled as he pulled the key out of the ignition. The cat kept watching.