Flyboy Action Figure Comes With Gasmask | Page 5

a contemptuous curl to her lip, and they'd laugh together.*
So to avoid that almost-tangible possibility, I took a seat at the counter.
"Can I get some fries?"
The cook nodded. I had a novel in my bag, but I took out my agenda book instead. I looked over the stuff on tomorrow -- I was going to a seminar on bug catching that the library was putting on for free, and I had also told Ken that I'd watch a movie with him. I was thinking I might be able to convince him to do the bug thing when my fries arrived.
"Well done, right?"
"Yeah, thanks!" I was always caught off guard when people recognized me. I figured I was pretty anonymous, bland even. Yet this was the second time in Toronto anyone at a public place had recognized me -- maybe I was in Sok more than I thought. I was a "regular," I realized with pleasure -- not a "fixture" like Frank, but a "regular." I ate my fried potatoes with a new relish, remembering all my past plates. I looked over at the bags of fries, covered in icy frosting, and gauged that I had probably bought two bags' worth in my combined visits. I was wondering how much coffee I had bought when Cass came in, complaining about the sleet.
The cook smiled to himself and flipped a burger like a coin, as if he was passing the time rather than working.
I went back to my agenda book, staring at it blankly in mid-chew. I had been prepared to be bored here for a while, then leave, and mark it up to penance for wanting Cass. But now she was here, lively and damp and cursing. I honestly felt my nerves tingling.
I tried to hide my happiness, only let a bit out on my face, but she grinned widely and smacked me on the shoulder and I felt my face burning. Luckily she went rooting for her apron behind the counter, and my blush had cooled by the time she popped her head up again.
"What's your name, anyway?" she said as she tied a bow behind her back.
"Ryan," I said, closing my agenda book. I wished I hadn't. I felt like that action said, *Let's have a conversation, now that you have disrupted me* . And that the book itself (University of Toronto emblazoned on the cover) singsonged, *Look,I'm a smarty-pants stu-dent!*
"Cassandra," she said, offering a hand that was chilled and damp. I mentally rewrote Cass as Cassandra in the blackboard of my brain.
"Ahh, your hand is so warm," she said. "So, Ryan, have you lived in this frozen wasteland all your life?"
I thought she meant Canada. "Um, yes. What about you?"
"Vancouver, until about two years ago." I could tell that she was going to regale me about the beauty of Lotusland, where it never snows and pot grows between cracks in the sidewalk. I steeled myself, waiting for the Cliché Train to pulp me.
"Only on the nastiest of days do I miss the weather there. Van winters are hell. It's dark and wet for four months, and it's like this mass experiment in light deprivation. People wilt."
She looked around the diner. Except for me, it was empty. "'Course, mean-ass days have their plusses."
"Why'd you come to Toronto?" I said. She sat down and spun around on a counter stool two away from me.
"Well, my band broke up here, mid-tour. Plus I wanted to live for a while in a place other than Vancouver, and Toronto seemed as good a place as any."
"What band?"
"Fuck You, Mr. Man."
I stared at her.
"Never heard of it, eh?"
"Oh! That's the name! I thought I was being too nosy."
She laughed. "It's funny we didn't get that reaction more often, but we were well known in the hardcore scene."
"Like hardcore punk rock?"
She nodded.
"What happened on tour?" I asked, thrilled to have her ear for so long. I had the uncanny sensation of being the shy guy in the movie, who, because of a disaster or an alien invasion or some other happy circumstance, is trapped with a beautiful girl in a diner or an abandoned cinema. They pass the time by telling each other stories, dancing to old jukebox tunes, and necking.
Then Frank shuffled in and ruined it all. He pulled his Maple Leafs toque off his pink head and despite my mental command of *counter, counter, counter,* he took a table. Coot.
The stool squeaked when she stood. My plate glinted greasily under the lights, as a good diner plate should, and I tilted my head slightly to see if the refraction would reveal small things about the future.
* * *
The man held up a jar with a label reading "Bug Cemetery." It even had a little gravestone on it.
Ken laughed and whispered, "This guy is