‘You have a lot of stuff,’ Tom told her. He was carrying a box filled with antique cookware.
‘I don’t have a lot of stuff,’ the Perfectionist said. She carried a box filled with dresses she’d worn in high school.
Not all of the Perfectionist’s possessions fit into the truck. Three-quarters did. The rest they left behind. They drove over to the new place and parked on the street. Excited, they ran inside. They were enjoying the view from the bedroom when they saw someone stealing their U-Haul.
By the time they’d finished with the police reports and convinced U-Haul to rent them a second truck, it was getting dark. Tom and the Perfectionist were tired. Without talking, they drove to Tom’s apartment. They loaded what remained. Then, still without talking, they drove to the Perfectionist’s apartment and loaded what was left on her lawn. All the objects fit easily into the van.
Tom started the truck. He sighed. The Perfectionist crossed her arms. They drove downtown, towards their new apartment, past the alley where they’d encountered Sleazy Jim just after they’d started going out together.
The alley was between two stores that had been vacant for years. Sleazy Jim always stood in front of it. One Wednesday, after fighting for seventy-two consecutive hours, Tom and the Perfectionist walked past it. Sleazy Jim was waiting.
‘Psssst,’ Sleazy Jim said.
Tom and the Perfectionist continued walking. They ignored him, ignoring the one button holding his trench coat closed and how he smelled like a hospital. They’d ignored him a hundred times before.
‘You wanna buy a myth?’ Sleazy Jim added. He’d never said that before. Neither of them could ignore it. They stopped. They turned and looked at Sleazy Jim. Sleazy Jim nodded. Tom and the Perfectionist followed him.
The wind blew sheets of newspaper around. Halfway down the alley was a dumpster. They all ducked behind it. Sleazy Jim stood with his back to the brick wall. Over his right shoulder, ‘AC/DC RULES’ was spray-painted in yellow. He unbuttoned the top and only button. He opened his trench coat. Inside, safety-pinned to the fabric, were three envelope-sized pieces of paper. On each card he’d hand-written a slogan using thick block capitals. Sleazy Jim pointed with a long, scabby finger.
‘I’ve got “Good triumphs over evil.” “All men are created equal.” “Love conquers all.” Whaddya want?’ Sleazy Jim asked.
Tom looked at the Perfectionist. He made his ‘no big deal to me’ face. The Perfectionist looked at Tom. She made her ‘same here’ face.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said. ‘We already own all of those.’
At that exact moment, Tom and the Perfectionist knew they should be together forever.
Their new apartment was another ten minutes past Sleazy Jim’s alley. They drove in silence. They unloaded everything. When they were finished, they had a green armchair, a white sofa, three potted plants, a kitchen table with four chairs, four complete table settings, a skillet, two knives, three pots of various sizes, a queen-sized bed, two sets of sheets, one comforter, seven collar shirts, seven blouses, fourteen T-shirts, fourteen pairs of pants (six jean, eight slacks), seven sweaters, fourteen pairs of socks, fourteen pairs of underwear, personal hygiene products and four large white towels.
The plane hits another patch of turbulence. Tom puts his head in his hands. The plane continues to descend. Tom visualizes the apartment he shared with the Perfectionist. He realizes two things: the 105 items they had fit their needs perfectly, and it was the Perfectionist who made this happen.
‘That’s it!’ Tom yells. Rows 25 through 29 turn and look at him. Tom smiles, unfastens his seat belt and leans forward.
EIGHTEEN
LANDING
The sound of the wheels extending startles the Perfectionist. She looks out the window. The glass and steel buildings of Vancouver are in the distance. She feels how steep the plane’s arc is. There’s a lightweight feeling in her. She puts her hand on her stomach.
The runway is in sight. The plane banks and becomes parallel with the runway. The Perfectionist looks to the right of the asphalt and sees, very tiny, the plane’s shadow. Nothing more than a blob. The plane continues descending. The shadow gains more definition. It starts to grow wings. Now she can see the nose of the plane, the tail.
She swears she can smell Tom. Her eyes mist.
She can do this. As soon as the wheels touch Vancouver she’ll move on. She’ll make it perfect. She’ll make Vancouver perfect. She has the power to do this.
‘Perf,’ Tom says. He watches her bend down. She slips her shoes back on. He leans down with her. The plane is four hundred feet from the ground. Tom leans very close to her ear. Three hundred feet. The passengers grab armrests. They take deep breaths. The nose of the plane tilts up. Tom licks his lips. The wheels are a hundred feet from the ground. Tom whispers into her ear.
‘What would make this perfect?’ he whispers.
The Perfectionist stops. She turns her head, slightly, in his direction. Fifty feet. Tom whispers again, even softer, even quieter.
‘Perf, what would make this moment perfect?’
He leans his forehead against hers. Their foreheads touch. Without making a sound, Tom mouths the words again, ‘What would make this perfect?’
And she sees him.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author wishes to thank:
Shirley Kaufman, Rolly Kaufman and Liz Kaufman for decades of support and encouragement. We are a family so nuclear we glow.
Zachariah Pickard, Suzanne Matczuk and especially Alana Wilcox whose brilliant ideas and insights into the editing of this book were so accurate and knowing the reader thinks it’s all me.
Allen Sherwood, Andy Pedersen, Tom Barkhouse, Stephanie Domet, Matt Tunnacliffe, Chris Boyce and everybody at DNTO, Rob McLaughlin and everybody at CBC Radio 3, Karrie North, Karen and Barry Miazga, Ian McInnis, Jason McBride, Sheila Heti, Nora Young and Marc Forrest for support over the long, long, long haul.
And, of course, Marlo Miazga (a superhero name if ever there was one).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andrew Kaufman is a writer, filmmaker and radio producer. His writing has appeared on the McSweeney’s website. He has completed a Director’s Residency at the Canadian Film Centre and studied under Tim O’Brien at the Humber School for Writers. His film Aberistiwith is distributed by Cinema Libre, and screened at festivals across Canada and Europe. Worst Date of My Life, a halfhour short film, was specially commissioned by CBC Television. He currently works as a producer for CBC Radio 3.
Typeset in Galliard and printed and bound at the Coach House on bpNichol Lane, 2003
Edited and designed by Alana Wilcox
Proofread by Gil Adamson
Author photo, page 111, is by Karrie North
Cover design by Ian McInnis
Cover photo is from the City of Toronto Archives (Fonds 1244, Item 1028G)
Coach House Books
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Toronto, Ontario
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1 800 367 6360
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All My Friends Are Superheroes Page 6
