The Indifference League

Advance Praise for
The Indifference League
:

“A
Big Chill
for Gen X & Gen Y, this love letter to the new Lost Generation is funny, sexy, uplifting, and refreshingly free of pretentiousness and cynicism.
The Indifference League
is a wild ride and a compelling treat that reveals the inner superhero in all of us.”

— Heather J. Wood,

author of
Fortune Cookie

“
The Indifference League
is a perfect satiric cocktail: mix two parts hilarious send-up of pop culture with one part sharp observations about relationships, add a splash of sex and a twist of compassion. Don't miss this book.”

— Susan Juby,

author of
The Woefield Poultry Collective

“
The Big Chill
meets Marvel Comics in Richard Scarsbrook's smart, funny take on Gen Y's transition to adulthood. Who did we want to be and who did we become? are the hard questions at the heart of this coming-of-middle-age tale.”

— Allan Stratton,

author of
The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish

“
The Indifference League
sizzles with energy

and humour as it romps through the reunion

weekend of quirky high school friends.”

— Patricia Westerhof,

author of
The Dove in Bathurst Station

This book is for

Bluebell

and

for all of my real-life

Super Friends

“To fight Injustice. To right that which is wrong.

And to serve all mankind!”

— Slogan from the TV series
Super Friends
, 1973–1974

MR. NICE GUY

“Here I come to save the day!”

— Mighty Mouse, from the TV series
Mighty Mouse Playhouse
, 1955–1966

M
r. Nice Guy is typing an email invitation to the other members of The Indifference League:

To:
statistician; hippieavenger; missdemeanor69; thedrifter; theperfectpair

Subject: The Brat Signal™ is ON!!!!!!!!

Greetings, Lads and Lasses,

Given that our collective thirtieth birthdays are rapidly approaching, I am activating the Brat Signal™!!!!!

To commemorate this milestone year, all surviving members of The Indifference League ™ are hereby summoned to The Hall of Indifference™ for the upcoming holiday long weekend!

As so often happens these days, his mind drifts back nearly twelve years, to the night that they collectively became known as The Indifference League.

*

It is a warm, starry evening on the Sunday of the July long weekend, and Mr. Nice Guy and his friends are hanging out on the stony beach in front of his parents' cottage.

(He is not yet known as Mr. Nice Guy; none of them have their alter-ego names yet. It will happen later this night.)

They are gathered around a campfire that has been fuelled to ridiculous roaring heights by Psycho Superstar, with gasoline siphoned from the lawn mower, kerosene drained from the antique lamps inside the cottage, and flammable flotsam and jetsam scavenged from the beach.

On the end of a straightened wire coat hanger, The Statistician is holding a bratwurst sausage in the flames. He swings the crackling, blackened meatsicle over in front of Hippie Avenger and says, “Want it? I swear it's a veggie sausage.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Like, yuck.”

“Um, I'll take it,” Mr. Nice Guy intervenes, sliding the bobbing sausage from the wire with an enriched-white Wonderbread hotdog bun. The bratwurst crunches as he bites into it, and he says, “Mmmmmmm … gasoliney-delicious!”

“
Thankyouverrymuch
,”
says Psycho Superstar, in a voice approximating the already-dead Elvis Presley's. He tosses a cupful of kerosene into the fire.

(None of them are actually known by their alter-ego nicknames at this point, but this is Mr. Nice Guy's memory, and his mind can retroactively modify anything that it wants to. It's possible that it wasn't even Mr. Nice Guy who saved Hippie Avenger from that hot dog, but he remembers that it was.)

Hippie Avenger gazes up at the tiny lights blinking in the sky, and dreamily muses, “The pilots of those airplanes can, like, probably see this fire from up there.”

Psycho Superstar takes this as a compliment, and heaves a broken Styrofoam cooler onto the blaze, proclaiming, “I want this fire to be fuckin' seen from
space
!”

SuperBarbie, from her perch on SuperKen's lap atop an army-surplus Field Marshal's chair, says, “That is
not
good for the environment.”

“Tell that to all the industries your dad owns stock in, huh?” Psycho Superstar counters, as the Styrofoam begins to distort and melt. “Though you might have to settle for wearing cheaper shoes, then.”

SuperKen's deep voice resonates like a cannon blast. “The quality of the air we breathe is
everyone's
responsibility.”

As the captain of the Varsity football, soccer, and hockey teams at Tom Thomson High, the president of the Student Council, the lead tenor in the school choir, and the co-chairperson of T.N.T. (the clever acronym for Teens Need Truth, the Christian prayer club at school), SuperKen is the uncontested alpha male of the group. Usually, none of the other guys would ever contradict him, at least not to his face, but Psycho Superstar won't let it go this time.

“Remember your
responsibility to the environment
when you're dropping fucking
bombs
on it, dude. One bomb is worse than a
hundred
bonfires.”

SuperKen is attending the Royal Military College in the fall. He has already been fitted for his dress uniform.

“He is correct,” The Statistician says, after a moment of hesitation. He is normally reluctant to embrace any position taken by Psycho Superstar, but The Statistician has harboured a grudge against SuperKen since the graduating class awards were announced a few weeks earlier. Sure, SuperKen deserved to win Male Athlete of the Year, and probably even the school spirit award, but The Statistician suspects that one of the coaches or some starstruck female teacher must have exaggerated a grade or two for SuperKen to have beaten him for the highest academic achievement award.

“The airborne gaseous and particulate contaminants released by the detonation of a single conventional firebomb,” The Statistician explains, “would indeed outweigh those created by a burning Styrofoam cooler, by a ratio of about ten thousand to one.”

The Statistician has no idea if his estimate is even close to correct, but who is going to argue with him? He was careful to use that lovely mathematician's qualifier,
about
.

“Yeah,” adds Psycho Superstar, invigorated by The Statistician's unexpected support, “and burning forests and buildings … and
bodies
… that ain't so good for the air quality, either, Sergeant Rock.”

SuperBarbie glares at Psycho Superstar and The Statistician.

“Not every man can wear the uniform, y'know,” she snaps. “Not every man has what it takes.”

SuperBarbie has been SuperKen's girlfriend since grade nine. They've exchanged promise rings, and SuperBarbie has a hope chest in her bedroom, which she fills with the kitschy dust-collectors that SuperKen gives her as gifts.

Despite having a figure as similar as biology will allow to her anatomically impossible fashion-doll namesake, when SuperBarbie ties her hair back in a ponytail and squashes her breasts into a body-armour-grade sports bra, she is a tremendous athlete. In addition to being the captain of the women's varsity volleyball and softball teams, SuperBarbie also set new city records in the 100- and 200-metre dashes. She stood right next to SuperKen at the graduating class awards ceremony with her Female Athlete of the Year trophy in hand. She is also the treasurer and secretary of the student council, the lead soprano in the school choir, and the co-chairperson of Teens Need Truth.

SuperBarbie is SuperKen's female mirror image in every way, his ultimate counterpart. Although some of their inferiors have sarcastically referred to them as “The Perfect Pair,” they nevertheless earned enough votes to be named king and queen of the senior prom at Tom Thomson High.

“Not every man has the courage to stand up and fight for their God and their country,” SuperBarbie reiterates, flipping her ponytail at Psycho Superstar and The Statistician.

“Well, god
damn
it, Hot Lips,” says Miss Demeanor, drawing from her encyclopedic memory for pop-culture quotes, “resign your
goddamned
commission!”

“
M*A*S*H
, right?” The Drifter says. “Good one!”

“My
commission
!” Miss Demeanor bawls. “My
commission
!”

“Idiots!” SuperBarbie hisses through clenched teeth.

“It's okay, baby,” says SuperKen, patting her behind. “Let them have their fun.”

SuperBarbie emphatically kisses SuperKen, and for a moment they resemble the picture of Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart on that famous movie poster for
Casablanca
, or maybe Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable in
Gone with the Wind
. You can almost hear the orchestral soundtrack billowing up around them.

“Thanks!” Psycho Superstar says. “Permission for fun!”

He tosses more kerosene and beach garbage onto the fire and the column of flame roars skyward like the afterburner trail of a fighter jet.

“Your nickname should be ‘Smokey,' baby,” Miss Demeanor suggests.

“Well, there's already Smokey Robinson, Smokey Bear, Smokey and the Bandit,” the Statistician says. “Not too original, perhaps.”

They are all very concerned with being “original.” Hence The Statistician's professorial Harris Tweed jacket, the way he says “indeed” and “perhaps” all the time. Hence Hippie Avenger's sandals, her flower-printed smocks, and her, like, Flower Child way of talking. Hence Psycho Superstar's testicle-gripping, intentionally-ripped black jeans, his collection of heavy-metal concert T-shirts festooned with skulls and demons, and the way he uses obscenities like punctuation. Hence Miss Demeanor's blood-red lipstick, her needle-straight she-vampire hair, and the faux-leather miniskirt that barely covers her crotch, in which she sits with her legs slightly parted, daring you to look.

SuperKen and SuperBarbie feel no need to differentiate their appearances from others; their
accomplishments
set them apart from the crowd. The Perfect Pair dress themselves in the sort of clothing seen on any of the statistically perfect models from the current year's Sears catalogue. At the moment, they are wearing matching “cottage clothes,” with little ducks — or maybe they're loons — embroidered on their crew-neck sweaters and khaki pants.

“Too bad,” says Psycho Superstar. The handful of dry leaves he's thrown crackle and vanish in the orange roar. “I like the sound of ‘Smokey'!”

“What about ‘Pyro,' then?” Miss Demeanor says. “Nobody's taken that one yet.”

“Some comic book superhero's named Pyro,” The Drifter says. “One of the X-Men, I think.”

Of course, The Drifter doesn't
think
Pyro is one of the X-Men; he
knows
. But, as the youngest of the bunch, two years junior to the rest of the gang, he's not so sure that his encyclopedic knowledge of comic-book characters and plotlines is considered very cool anymore, especially since his older brother, The Statistician, just won all those university entrance scholarships.

“The X-Men
suck
,” says Psycho Superstar, as he searches around with a flashlight for more flammable items to throw on his Monument to Combustion. “Give me the good ol' Super Friends any day of the week. Superman, Batman and Robin, Wonder Woman …”

“Don't forget Zan and Jayna, the Wonder Twins!” Miss Demeanor interrupts.

She and Psycho Superstar punch knuckles, mimicking the ring-touching gesture that initiated the superpowers of the Wonder Twins; it's no secret that the two of them have been having a
thing
together.

“
Wonder Twin Powers, Activate!
” Miss Demeanor squeals. “Form of …”

“A Steely Dan Brand stainless-steel dildo!” Psycho Superstar hollers. “Form of …”

“A tube of KY personal lubricant!” Miss Demeanor responds.

It is also no secret that Psycho Superstar and Miss Demeanor have been having quite an
adventurous
thing.

“Zan and Jayna
sucked
,” The Statistician grumbles. “The chick always got to transform into something cool, like a jaguar or a falcon, while the guy always turned into something useless, like a bucket of water or a rain cloud.”

Of course The Statistician is trying to be inflammatory; he would normally never use a word like “chick”; as the former captain of the Tom Thomson High School intramural debating team, The Statistician is always up for an argument, even when he knows he's on the lower ground.

“Feminist bullshit,” SuperKen says.

“Hey!” yelps Miss Demeanor.

“Yeah, seriously,” Mr. Nice Guy adds.

“Look, guys,” Hippie Avenger says. “Feminism isn't a bad word, okay? It came along at a time when, like, women didn't have the
vote
, when we were considered, like,
property
, for Chrissakes.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Nice Guy reiterates.

“Feminists are just man-haters,” SuperBarbie says, rolling her eyes, and then tightening her arms around SuperKen's neck.

“I'm a feminist,” Hippie Avenger protests, “but I'm definitely not a ‘man-hater.'”

“Or women who can't
get
a man,” SuperBarbie adds.

“Hey,” Mr. Nice Guy says. “She's got me!”

“Exactly,” SuperKen says, flexing the muscles in his arms as he gropes SuperBarbie. “She couldn't attract a
man
.”

“Troglodyte!” Mr. Nice Guy wants to say (but doesn't).

“
I'm
a feminist,” Miss Demeanor says, raising an eyebrow at SuperBarbie. “Wanna insult
me
, chickie?”

“And she's into
me
,” Psycho Superstar adds.

“Well, I'm into your body,” Miss Demeanor says, pinching his ass.

“I'm okay with that,” he says. Then he turns and glares at SuperKen. “So, my lady here is a feminist, Seargent Rock … wanna tell me that
I'm
not a man?”