The Indifference League (13 page)

Just outside the window, the conversation is animated.

“But, but,” The Statistician stammers, “I thought something had
happened
between us.”

“It was just a blowjob,” says the girl for whom fellatio is but one step from a handshake on the intimacy scale, to the man for whom the Quest for a Blowjob has been the Holy Grail of his adult life.

“As far as the university is concerned, there's nothing preventing us from being together now,” The Statistician says, pacing back and forth in front of the half-assembled tent. “I've submitted the final grades!”

He gave her final theoretical paper a mark of 100 percent without even looking at it. He knew the calculations were perfect, because he'd done them himself.

“There
is
something preventing us from being together now,” The Stunner says, continuing to knock tent pegs into the ground, avoiding The Statistician's eyes. “I'm seeing somebody now.”

“Seeing
somebody?
You're
seeing
my little brother, for crying out loud! You're seeing my
little brother
.”

“How was I supposed to know he was your brother? We met in a Chinese noodle place. And he's really not so little.”

The Statistician continues pacing back and forth, rubbing his temples.

“But I thought …”

“It was just a blowjob.”

“But …”

“It was just a blowjob.”

The Statistician stops pacing.

“It was more than that to me.”

“Please,” The Stunner says. “I'm sorry, okay? Don't make it into more than it was. It was nothing.”

“Well, then,” he says, “I suppose you won't mind if I tell my brother about it, then. I'm sure he'll agree that it was
nothing
.”

“Please don't tell him.”

“Well, if it really was
nothing
, I don't see why …”

“Please don't tell him!”

“Why shouldn't I?”

“If you care about him, you won't tell him.”

“If I care about him, I
should
tell him.”

“Please don't.”

“Why not?”

“Because … because I think I might be falling in love with him.”

“You
think
you
might
be
falling
in love with him. There are a lot of variables in that sentence.”

“I think I'm in love with him.”

“You
think
you're in love with him.”

“I'm in love with him.”

“You're
in love
with him.”

“I love him.”

“You
love
him? Oh, come on! You just met!”

“I love him.”

“You love him.”

“Yes.” The Stunner kneels in the flattened grass beside the tent. “I love him.”

The Statistician straightens to his full height, feeling the pain in his back and buttocks from his tumble down the stairs.

“Well, then,” he says, “I guess that makes everything all right, doesn't it?”

The Stunner wipes the tears away, and says, “Okay. Listen. You don't tell your brother, and I won't tell your wife. Deal?”

The Statistician's breath catches in his throat. He hadn't even
considered
including Time Bomb in his calculations. How could he have forgotten to include that variable?

“And that, my Protégée,” he says, turning toward the cottage, “is an equation that balances.”

ALTER EGOS

“The Blue Raja is my name. And yes, I know I don't
wear much blue and I speak in a British accent, but if
you know your history it really does make perfect sense.”

— The Blue Raja, from the movie
Mystery Men
, 1999

B
reakfast has been served by Mr. Nice Guy, and all the current members of The Indifference League are seated around the dish-littered dining-room table, sipping coffee, poking forks at stray chunks of scrambled egg.

SuperBarbie is flipping through her dog-eared copy of
Name Your Baby.

“Y'know,” she says, “It's interesting how often the meaning of a person's name reflects their true nature.”

“Gee,” says Miss Demeanor, from across the table, “what does
your
name mean, Gilda Jane? Something good, I'll bet.”

“Hey, Miss Demeanor,” Mr. Nice Guy says, in a mock-scolding tone, “This is The Hall of Indifference! We use our superhero names when we're here.”

“Sorry, buddy,” says Miss Demeanor, resisting the strong urge to roll her eyes back into their sockets.

The Statistician, The Drifter, and Hippie Avenger glance at Miss Demeanor with eyebrows subtly raised in sympathy, then at each other, their eyes communicating the same message:
For how much longer are we going to go along with this?

“Well,” says SuperBarbie, missing the loaded-glance exchange, “according to the book, my first name means ‘Covered in Gold,' and my middle name means ‘God is Gracious.' Imagine that. Which reminds me … we all forgot to give thanks before we started eating.”

She nudges SuperKen, who is parked beside her in his wheelchair, shovelling a third helping of ketchup-slathered eggs into his maw.

“Good food, good meat, good God, let's eat!” SuperKen mumbles as he chews. “That ought to cover it.”

“Very funny,” SuperBarbie says to him in a stage whisper. “You can pray for forgiveness in church today.” Then she says to Mr. Nice Guy, “Does that cute little chapel up the road have a late-morning service?”

SuperKen mouths the words
no no no
at Mr. Nice Guy, who says, “Every Sunday at nine and eleven!”

That will fix him for those “queer beer” comments from last night
.

SuperBarbie claps her hands. “Then we've got plenty of time to make the second sermon!”

“Come on!” SuperKen protests, “We're on vacation! The Lord will understand if we take one weekend off!”

“Faith is a full-time duty,” SuperBarbie says. She flips open
Name Your Baby
again, and evangelizes to all gathered around the table, “Do you know what this book says about my husband? It says that his first name means ‘lofty or exalted.' It says that his middle name means ‘strong and manly.'”

She pats SuperKen on the shoulder. He will be going to church this morning whether he wants to or not.

“Does anyone else want to know the meaning of their given names?”

The other Not-So-Super Friends continue slurping and chewing.

“Well, let's start with the newest member of our little congregation, then,” SuperBarbie says to The Stunner, “It says here that your name means ‘Helper of Men' or ‘Disbelieved by Men.'”

The Stunner is seated at the opposite corner of the table from The Statistician, as mathematically distant from him as she can be. The Statistician sends a dubious glance across the hypotenuse, which she tries to ignore.

“I know the story,” The Stunner says. “My dad was really into Ancient History. It was the name of a Trojan princess. Her prophesies all turned out to be true, yet they were ignored by the men in power.”

Mr. Nice Guy and SuperKen share a similar thought:
Nobody is ignoring you now, baby.

The Drifter smiles at The Stunner and says, “‘The Helper of Men.' I like that.” Then he says to SuperBarbie, “Don't bother looking up my name. It won't be in there. As the second-born, I got saddled with Mom's maiden name.”

“
Maiden
name,” SuperKen taunts. “
That
explains a few things.”

“Good one!” Mr. Nice Guy laughs.
Better him than me.

“Was it the army that made you so homophobic?” The Drifter asks SuperKen. “Or did something else happen?”

“Homophobic? Afraid of
faggots
?” SuperKen retorts. “It'll be a cold day in hell when I'm scared of
fairies
.”

“Nice,” Miss Demeanor says, straightening her spine and pulling her shoulders back, like she used to do just before engaging Psycho Superstar in one of their infamous screaming matches. “What if one of your friends was secretly gay? How would you feel then?”

Mr. Nice Guy braces himself.
Is she going to tell everyone now? At breakfast?

“I'm pretty sure at least
one
of these guys is gay,” SuperKen chortles.

The Drifter runs his hand down The Stunner's back, and says, “You've met my girlfriend, right?”

Mr. Nice Guy adds, “I'm not gay, either, okay?” He notices Miss Demeanor clamp her teeth onto her blood-red bottom lip, so he adds, “Not that there's anything wrong with being gay. Although I'm not.”

“Maybe we should ask your ex-fiancée,” SuperKen says. “She must have called it off for
some
reason.”

Everyone stops slurping coffee. Silverware ceases to clink. Mr. Nice Guy looks down at his white tube socks. Everyone else glares at SuperKen.

SuperBarbie is desperate to break the vacuum her husband has created, so she says breezily to The Drifter, “Well, hey, if your
first
name isn't in here, then what about your
middle
one?”

“I haven't got one,” says The Drifter.

“Our parents believed that one name per child was sufficient,” The Statistician says.

“Let's look up yours, then!” SuperBarbie squeals. She flips through
Name Your Baby.
“Here it is! Your name means ‘spearman.' How interesting.”

“It means almost the same as
swordsman
,” SuperKen sniggers.

“Indeed,” says The Statistician. He avoids making eye contact with either Time Bomb or The Stunner.

As SuperBarbie flips the pages, Hippie Avenger says, “Like, don't bother looking up mine, okay?”

“Oh, I've already found it,” SuperBarbie says. “It says that your name is a derivative of ‘Karl,' which is itself a derivative of ‘Charles'. How very interesting. I suppose the feminine form of ‘Charles' would be …”

“It's a mistake,” Hippie Avenger says, shaking her head. “My name is a mistake. My parents meant to name me ‘Karma,' but someone misspelled it on the application for my birth certificate.”

SuperKen sniggers some more.
“Karma?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Hippie Avenger sighs. “It's a flower child name. I didn't get to choose it. Or my parents.”

“At least they didn't name you
Sunshine
,” SuperKen says. “Or
Rainbow
.”

“They were both on the short list,' “Hippie Avenger admits.

“What about your middle name?” SuperBarbie suggests.

“Aw, it doesn't matter.”

“Come on,” SuperBarbie coaxes, “this is supposed to be fun.”

Hippie Avenger blushes. “Look, it's just another dumb hippie name.”

“I can't believe I've known you for all these years, and I don't know what your middle name is,” The Statistician says. “Tell me.”

He catches a cold look from Time Bomb.

“Tell
us
,” he revises.

“Grace,” Hippie Avenger says. “My middle name is Grace.”

She waits for SuperKen to mock her. He doesn't.

“You don't have to look it up. It means what it means. I know it doesn't suit me.”

The Statistician says, “I think it does.”

Time Bomb huffs and rolls her eyes.

“As much as
anyone's
name suits them,” he hastily adds.

SuperBarbie turns to Miss Demeanor. “It says here that
your
given name is actually the feminine form of the male name Raymond.”

“Wow, Hipster,” Miss Demeanor says, her back arching, her eyes narrowing to slits, “you and me both have names that were originally
guys'
names. I guess that makes SuperBarbie here a lot more feminine than either of us, eh?”

“Hey, I wasn't implying anything like that!” SuperBarbie says.

“You're usually implying
something
,” Miss Demeanor says. She uncrosses and crosses her legs. As always, her short, tight skirt gives all the men a reason to look, but none of them do, for fear of getting caught.

SuperBarbie clears her throat emphatically and continues. “Anyway, your first name means ‘Mighty Protector.' And your middle name means ‘Warrior Maid.'”

“How about that,” says Miss Demeanor. “Not bad. I was expecting something like ‘Godless Harlot,' or ‘Faithless Slut.'”

“I … you … I didn't …” SuperBarbie stammers. “Y'know, I apologized a long time ago about that.”

“I remember,” Miss Demeanor says, clenching her fists. “Your apology was,
y'know
,
so
sincere.”

“Um, what does
my
name mean?” Mr. Nice Guy sputters, hoping to create a distraction.

This reminds him of the time when Miss Demeanor was working on her undergrad degree in psychology, and she had everyone complete Myers-Briggs Personality and Kiersey Temperament tests. Almost
nobody
was happy with their results. It was
so
tense.That was
supposed to fun
, too.

“What does
my
name mean?” Mr. Nice Guy repeats.

SuperBarbie flips to the front of the book, and says, “Oh. Right. Uh … ‘Dweller at the Thicket.' Whatever that means.”

Mr. Nice Guy has a vivid, high-definition memory of when Miss Demeanor was still furry down there. He feels the tickle on his lips and nose. That bittersweet scent fills his nostrils.

“More coffee, anyone?” he yelps. “I'll make more!”

He scurries into the kitchen with the carafe held at crotch level.

“And, last but not least,” SuperBarbie says, aiming the cover of
Name Your Baby
at Time Bomb, “your first name means ‘Wealthy One,' and your middle name means ‘Sorrow.' Well. I wonder what …”

“You know what?” Time Bomb erupts, throwing her cutlery down and leaping up from the table, “Fuck you, you patronizing cow!”

Name Your Baby
drops to the floor. SuperBarbie's jaw drops almost as far.

“I know you think I'm just some high-maintenance rich-bitch,” Time Bomb says, “but have the guts to say it to my face! You don't have to make shit up about my name!”

“But … I … but …” SuperBarbie stutters, reaching for the fallen book, “I was only reading what it says in here.”

“You know what else?” Time Bomb hisses, glaring at everyone seated at the table, “I know you all call me ‘Time Bomb,' too, okay? Insulting me behind my back is bad enough, but you don't have to do it right in front of me! Fuck all of you!”

Time Bomb storms out of the cottage, slamming the storm door so hard behind her that the glass cracks.

“Happy now,
‘Covered in Gold'
?” Miss Demeanor says. “Pleased with yourself,
‘God is Gracious'
?”

“But it says so right here!” SuperBarbie protests, frantically flipping pages. “Her name means ‘wealthy one,' after Shylock's daughter in
The Merchant of Venice
. And her middle name means ‘sorrow,' from the Spanish term for the seven sorrowful occasions in the life of St. Mary, Santa Maria de los …”

“Well, if that's what the
book
says,” Miss Demeanor says, “then I guess that makes it all okay. The
book
justifies anything you do or say, doesn't it?”

Then she turns on The Statistician.

“Are you going to just sit there, or are you going to go comfort your wife?”

The Statistician looks confused. Eruptions like this are everyday occurrences in their household. Trying to reason with her just makes it worse. She storms off, and eventually she returns, sedated.

“Fine, then,” says Miss Demeanor, “I'll go myself.”

She leaves the cottage to go find Time Bomb.

There is no sound, other than the burble of coffee brewing in the kitchen. There is no motion, other than the dust particles slowly drifting through the sunbeam that cuts through the window.