Masked Mosaic Read online

  I sink onto the bed and watch her get dressed. “Okay,” I lie.

  “Do you think you’ll get the job?”

  “Maybe,” I lie.

  “That’s good. You look like crap, babe. You really should think about going to a sleep disorder clinic.”

  “Yeah,” I say, rubbing my eyes. My hand comes away sandy.

  She pouts in the mirror above the dresser and applies her lipstick. She never wore makeup when we were in school. “Don’t forget we’re going out tonight with Nicole.”

  “Is it Friday already?” I yawn again.

  “Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll text you where we’re meeting.”

  I shrug off the sleeping bag and find that I’m wearing my grey hooded sweatshirt and jeans. The hoodie smells like clean sweat and ozone, as if I’d spent the whole night running a marathon in it.

  “I’ll see you later, babe.” She gives me a quick kiss, and then wrinkles her nose and gestures at my clothes. “You really should do some laundry,” she says, and then she’s gone.

  After working the evening shift I end up at some dive on Queen West or West Queen West or however far west the nigh-trendy stretch has shifted. We’re so far west on Queen West we’re practically in Vancouver. The bar’s name consists of two randomly paired words that have nothing to do with the bar itself, like Pineapple Stalin, as if it’s an indie band.

  We’re apparently here because some Toronto blog extolled the virtues of their organic beer and artisanal poutine. Nicole has brought her boyfriend Brandon, whom I’ve never liked. He wears hats too much, and the frames of his glasses are so dark and thick they suck in the light like a black hole. Knowing Brandon, they were probably designed in Japan and assembled by fair trade African orphans in an organic carbon-neutral facility. I’ve always thought that men shouldn’t like accessories so much, but this past year has taught me that everything I knew while in school is wrong.

  Nicole, I don’t mind so much. She’s a brunette version of Chelsea, also long-haired and banged and fond of thrifted men’s shirts and patterned tights like she’s an extra in a John Hughes movie.

  “Did you guys see the Grey Hoodie video?” Brandon says when a table frees up in the back. Tonight he’s wearing a straw fedora with a black ribbon, black as his glasses.

  Chelsea and Nicole nod. “It was all over the office,” Chelsea says. “How do you think he did it?”

  “Did what?” I ask, putting on my guileless Doug Wolochuk, Nice Boyfriend, face. It’s for Chelsea’s sake; I know she wants me to get along with her new Toronto friends. “And who’s he?”

  “You didn’t see it?” Nicole said.

  “Oh, of course not. He was at work,” Chelsea says.

  “No computers behind the counter at Starbucks,” I say, with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

  “You didn’t even watch it on your phone?” Brandon asks. “On your lunch break?”

  “I was eating lunch,” I say.

  The irony is lost on him. Which is ironic, because I thought hipsters were all about irony. “So this guy comes out of nowhere,” he says, “saves a kid from an ass-kicking, and then flies away. The kid posted a video online. Dude actually jumps in the air and flies away. Here.”

  Brandon pulls out his phone, taps it a few times, and then passes it over to me. I set down my beer and take it. Chelsea leans over my shoulder. “I’ve seen it a million times,” she says, “and it still blows my mind. How does he do it?”

  “He’s a superhero,” says Nicole. “He’s an honest-to-God, motherfucking superhero.”

  “Do you think he’s from another planet?” asks Chelsea. “I mean, he can fly.”

  “He could just have some high-tech gear,” says Nicole.

  “No way. He’s definitely from another planet,” Brandon says. “No-one from Toronto would ever step in to help a stranger.” Brandon grew up in Montreal, if I recall correctly. “He probably dances at concerts, too,” he adds. Nicole punches him in the shoulder.

  Chelsea says something else, but I don’t hear her. The video loads up, and there’s the man in grey from my dreams, rocketing from the ground as if launched upward by invisible wires. There are no wires, though. I know that the flying man in grey doesn’t need them.

  “Why do they call him the Grey Hoodie?” I ask. They’re arguing now about which Canadian city the superhero could possibly be from, St. John’s, Newfoundland, being the top contender.

  “Because he’s wearing one. Duh,” Chelsea says, and I remember the sweatshirt I’d woken up in that morning.

  “And other reports of a vigilante in a grey hoodie came out of the woodwork after this video went viral,” Nicole says. “Seems he was pretty busy last night.”

  I blink; and I remember other faces, other neighbourhoods besides St. Jamestown. That cabbie in the Financial District, and those girls in Kensington Market. And there were more, but it’s all a dreamlike blur of cloud-shaped shadows and flying fists and the wind striking the man in grey’s face.

  “It’s a genius costume,” Brandon says. “None of that cape and tights shit. Sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers—dude can just land on the ground and look like everyone else. No need to find a phone booth to change in.”

  “Anyone see his face?” I ask.

  Nicole shakes his head. “Nope. Had that hood over his head the whole time.”

  “I bet he’s white,” Brandon says.

  Chelsea shoots him a dirty look. “Seriously? How can you tell?”

  “Because, if he were black, someone would’ve shot him.”

  Nicole snorts. “In Toronto?”

  “Okay, well—no-one would have stopped their cab to pick him up late at night,” he says.

  Chelsea laughs. “Does it look like he needs a cab?”

  “Speaking of late nights,” I say, passing the phone back to Brandon, “were you also doing work for that big client last night, Nicole?”

  Nicole’s brow furrows. Chelsea says, quickly, “She’s staffed to a different project.”

  “Yeah,” Nicole says, smiling. “I don’t have to work crazy hours like Chels does, thank God.”

  My answering smile is just as fake. Doug Wolochuk, Nice Boyfriend, would never suspect his longtime girlfriend to be cheating on him. “Lucky,” I say, and then a massive yawn overtakes my face. Chelsea frowns. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Doug never sleeps well,” Chelsea says. “Always tossing and turning, and then he gets up and ends up falling asleep somewhere else, like the sofa or out on the balcony.”

  “Too much noise, I guess,” I say. “I’m not used to the city. I should go.” I yawn again, gulp down the rest of my beer, and set down the bottle.

  “Really?” Nicole gives me a puppy-dog face. Brandon makes some kind of faux-protest sound. Chelsea’s mouth thins.

  “I have to work tomorrow morning,” I say.

  “He’s no fun anymore,” Chelsea says. “When he’s not working, he’s sleeping. Because he doesn’t sleep well. It’s a vicious cycle.”

  I stand up. Chelsea proffers her cheek. I dutifully kiss it.

  “See you back home, babe,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say. Eventually.

  The Grey Hoodie plans to save Toronto, one night at a time.

  He saves cyclists and pedestrians from reckless drivers. He saves reckless drivers from irate cyclists and pedestrians. He swoops down to carry stalled streetcars out of the way. He hands out bottled water and Tim Hortons gift cards to the homeless.

  On Friday and Saturday nights, he helps people find their housekeys when they stumble home at four in the morning. He stops women from going home with unsuitable men, and men from going home with unsuitable women. He breaks up bar fights. When someone pulls out a gun in the middle of the Entertainment District, he’s there to melt it with his heat-ray vision.

  When the guy behind you at the ATM peers over your shoulder to get your PIN, the Grey Hoodie is there.

  When you stagger out of the Dance Cave and none of your friends have followed you out to hold your hair back when you puke on the sidewalk, the Grey Hoodie is there.

  When you’re walking your dog on Church Street and a group of drunken frat boys follow you around and call you a dyke, the Grey Hoodie is there.

  The Grey Hoodie wants to save the city. The Grey Hoodie wants to save you.

  The neighbours are fighting again. I leave the sleeping bag on the chaise longue and plod into the bedroom, trying to listen to the ruckus over the sound of Chelsea’s hair dryer. Mostly shouting this time; less bodily contact.

  Steam puffs out of the bathroom as the door swings open. “Gross, you fell asleep in your hoodie again,” Chelsea says. “You really should wash it. It smells. I’m almost glad you sleep outside. Have you taken up jogging again?”

  “Um, yeah,” I lie.

  “That’s good; the exercise will probably help you sleep better. Oh! I have something to tell you.” She perches on the foot of the bed. “So Nicole and I went back to Mango Lenin for a quick drink last night, to take a break from the pitch, and you’ll never guess who we just missed.”

  “Who?” I say.

  “Guess!” She bounces excitedly on the mattress.

  I shake my head. “I’m not awake enough to guess.”

  “The Grey Hoodie!” she says.

  “The what?”

  “The Grey Hoodie! The superhero, remember?”

  “Oh,” I say. “Right.”

  “Apparently there was this obnoxious customer who’d drunk too much and was hitting on a waitress. The Grey Hoodie just—whoosh!—appeared out of nowhere and dragged him outside.”

  “Did he beat the crap out of the guy?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. I don’t remember that part from my dreams.

  “No, just shoved him into a cab,” she says. “It was pulling away when we got there. People were still standing on the sidewalk looking up. Videos are online already. Actually, there’s a ton of them from last night. The guy was everywhere. He really gets around.”

  “He is a superhero,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Isn’t that exciting?”

  She’s never looked that excited for anything that I’ve ever done. “Look, Chelsea,” I say. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. . . .”

  “Oh?” she says in an overly light voice, and I think, You’re afraid I’m going to ask you about your work BFF, Tyler.

  “I don’t know how to say this . . . but I have a grey hoodie.” I stick my hands in the kangaroo pocket for emphasis.

  “I know. I bought it for you.”

  “It’s not just that,” I say. “I’ve been having these dreams lately. Dreams about flying—”

  She laughs. “What, like you think you’re the Grey Hoodie or something?” At the expression on my face, she laughs again. “Oh my God, you do think you’re the Grey Hoodie!” She laughs so hard that she falls off the bed, which makes her laugh even more.

  I don’t know what to say.

  Finally Chelsea picks herself up, but there’s still laughter in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Doug. I love you,” she says, which she hasn’t said in months, “but you, an ass-kicking urban superhero? I don’t think so.”

  “But the flying dreams,” I say. “They’re so real, so vivid.”

  “Everyone has flying dreams. And everyone’s got a grey hoodie. I’ve got two.”

  “But you said so yourself—every morning I smell like I’ve been out jogging.”

  “Doug, your sleeping habits have you so mixed up you’ve probably forgotten when you last showered.” She shakes her head. “Fine. Fly. Fly for me now.”

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath and lift both arms in the air as if I’m about to dive into a swimming pool. I close my eyes and launch myself up on my toes.

  Nothing.

  I can tell Chelsea’s trying hard not to laugh again. I sink back on my heels. She’s right. Me, a superhero? Absolutely ludicrous. I’m Doug Wolochuk, Nice Boyfriend. I’m only good for pouring espresso shots and dozing off while waiting for her to come home from the office.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say. “Anyway, you’d notice if I were out all night fighting crime.”

  Chelsea suddenly walks over to the mirror above the dresser and picks at a clump in her mascara. “Oh, Nicole says that Brandon says there’s a marketing internship opening up at the agency he works at. You should apply.”

  “I don’t want to work with Brandon. He’s always telling me I should quit Starbucks and work for an indie coffee shop instead.”

  “Well,” she says, turning back to look at me, one hand on her hip, “if you get the job, he won’t be telling you to quit Starbucks because you’ll have already quit. Anyway, he’s a designer, you probably won’t have to talk to him at all.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Do you want to be a barista for the rest of your life?” she says.

  “No, but—”

  “Then I’ll get the deets from Nicole.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?” she demands. “What happened to all the plans we made together before graduation?”

  “I don’t—”

  Chelsea throws up her hands. She huffs out the door, probably to run to Tyler and complain that she’s saddled with a delusional sad sack of a boyfriend.

  “I don’t know,” I say to the empty room.

  I tell Chelsea I have to work an evening shift even though I actually finish at five. I don’t feel like hanging out at home, waiting for her to text and tell me that she’s going to be working late yet again. Instead, I wind through the streets between the coffee shop and home, waiting for night to fall, waiting for something to happen.

  Kensington Market buzzes as the sun sets. It’s the start of patio season. They say that in Toronto there are two seasons, winter and construction, but if you live downtown it’s actually winter and patio. Even though the city hasn’t thawed completely—it’s chilly even in May—people happily shiver outside ancient mom-and-pop bars that woke up one morning and found themselves trendy. All the girls look like Nicole and Chelsea; all the guys look like Brandon.

  Kensington spits me out onto Dundas. I continue on Spadina through Chinatown, weaving through tourists and locals. Surely any minute now I’ll come across an urban misdemeanour, and either the flying man in grey will appear or I will find myself rising to the occasion. Someone will dine and dash out of a pho restaurant. Someone will threaten a streetcar driver. Someone will harass a dozing panhandler. And I’ll know for once and for all whether my dreams have just been dreams or not.

  I zip up my hoodie. I’m not that cold, but I pull the hood over my head anyway. I’m not the only one. Chelsea was right; everyone has a grey hoodie—and suddenly seems to have decided to wear theirs tonight in imitation of their hero. Men, women, even the few sleepy-eyed children being hustled home to bed. An apple-cheeked blonde wearing nothing but a grey hoodie zipped down to her navel smiles up at me from the cover of the Toronto Sun. Someone has spray-painted Grey Hoodie 4 Mayor over the window of an abandoned video rental shop. A man in an unzipped grey hoodie and Santa hat does pushups next to the giant thimble at Spadina and Richmond.

  “Yes yes yes!” he shouts. The zippered edges swing against his muscular bare chest. He seems more likely to be a superhero than me. His face is all sharp angles and he’s got that wicked movie villain goatee. Furthermore, he’s got the alpha male swagger, like Dylan Gomi, First-Class Asshole. Even Brandon, being an alpha douchebag, would be a likelier candidate than me.

  Me, I’m all sandy hair and soft edges, nondescript and inoffensive, like a Doug should be. When we first started dating, Chelsea used to say I was cute in a boy-next-door way.

  But now that I’m twenty-three I’m no longer a boy. I don’t know what I am.

  Or maybe I’m still that boy.

  It all seemed easier when I was a kid. Being a grownup seemed easy. Adulthood was going to be your secret identity, the time in your life when you would finally shine and that kid who used to rough you up behind the portables would be sorry.

  I thought was going to be a cop or a firefighter or mechanic, because I thought that’s what men did. Fixed things. Saved things. Made things better for people. Instead I majored in Marketing and Business Communications at a second-rate university in a small Ontario town. Which qualifies me to steam milk and tell customers that it’s venti, not large, and would you like whipped cream with that?

  Night has fallen. Someone’s shouting in the parkette down the street from the condo. I can make out two figures: one large, one thin. The larger one, of course, is doing the shouting. The thin one just stands there, still and small, as if he or she is trying to make themselves as invisible as possible. A small dog, like a Jack Russell, dances around their feet. Between its yaps I catch words like worthless and stupid.

  The shouter raises his fist. I should do something. I should step forward and say something like—what do men say in situations like this? You oughta pick on somebody your own size!

  Something like that. In a John Wayne voice.

  I bet Chelsea’s boyfriend-in-waiting, Tyler, would know what to say.

  I bet the Grey Hoodie would know what to say.

  I count to ten, expecting him to descend like an avenging angel. He’ll step in. I know he will. I’ve been him in my dreams.

  Nothing.

  At least call the police, I tell myself. My hand curls around the phone in my hoodie’s pocket, but the shouting man scoops up the Jack Russell terrier and slips into the shadows. The smaller figure scurries after them.

  It’s too late. At least I tried. I breathe a sigh of relief and disappointment and continue on my way home.

  Then I remember, as Dylan Gomi, Motherf*cking CEO, had said, trying hard isn’t enough to win a prize in the real world.

  The flying man in grey isn’t flying tonight.

  He dashes faster than a cheetah through a warren of hallways, honing in on the noise with his super hearing.

  There. A torrent of angry words floods from the penthouse unit. You useless, no-good little bitch. You’re nothing without me. Do that again and I will kill you, Robin. I mean it.