All My Friends Are Superheroes - Andrew Kaufman [8]
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.
Sitting on the grass, looking at his bike, he listened to the city. Loudmotorcycle couldn’t believe how loud it all was. Even at this time of night there were sirens and traffic and a vague industrial hum. Loudmotorcycle started to wonder what he was doing with his life.
The Perfectionist dumped him. It wasn’t because he never rode his motorcycle any more. It wasn’t because his tattoos suddenly looked stupid. It was his insomnia. Every night, all night, he tossed and turned. Loudmotorcycle tried prescription medications, non-prescription drugs, herbal remedies, soothing music and earplugs – nothing worked. He hasn’t been able to sleep since the day he swerved. Every night he lies in his bed, kept awake by city noise, wishing he’d killed that fucking cat.
The Perfectionist continues looking out the window. She sees a two-tone beige suitcase hit the conveyer belt. This is the last piece of luggage. There is nothing more to toss. The two men climb into a modified golf cart. The one driving looks exactly like her ex-boyfriend the Spooner.
Every night it’ll just hit the Spooner but he can’t predict when. Sometimes he’ll be asleep and it’ll wake him up. Other times he’ll still be reading or watching television. Every night the address is different. Sometimes it’s close enough to walk. Some nights he takes the bus. Some nights a cab.
He can visualize it long before he gets there. If it’s a house or an apartment, or some strange basement room you get to from around the back, the Spooner always knows. He always finds the door unlocked, or at least unlocked to him. He never stumbles, never trips over a chair or a coffee table, as he navigates this unknown space in the dark.
The Spooner always knows where the bedroom is. Someone sleeping alone in the fetal position always occupies the bed. He gets under the covers. He holds them. They never wake up. They always whisper ‘Thank you’ in their sleep.
One night the Spooner was drawn to a familiar address. He found the door unlocked, or unlocked to him. He didn’t need his superpower to locate the bedroom. The woman he found sleeping in the fetal position was the Perfectionist. He broke up with her the next day.
But this is the first time the Perfectionist has thought about the Spooner in a year and a half. She feels the plane taxi to the end of the runway. The engines hum. Her body is pushed back in her chair. She grabs both of her armrests. She reminds herself to take deep breaths. The runway is a grey blur. The front of the plane tips up. A roaring sound comes from