All My Friends Are Superheroes - Andrew Kaufman [6]
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 invited 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