The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [13]
Roger’s skin is okay, but only barely. It’s all that booze he soaks up. And he’s the world’s worst shaver. Women have to spend half their lives indignantly shaving hair off legs and armpits, while guys only have to shave their faces—how hard can it be?
It’s weird shaving your legs when you’re not in a relationship, or there’s not even a possibility of becoming close to someone. Who’s going to see me? My mother, I suppose. Did I mention that I’m in my twenties and still living at home? Yes, that is correct, I am a loser.
Here’s something weird: Roger went to high school with my mother. That’s how old both of them are. I wonder if they jointly won the yearbook award for Most Likely to End Up in Depressing Lifestyles?
Oh God, I just imagined the two of them on a date, at some generic place like Denny’s, and they’re both trying to be nice to each other, and they’re both trying to figure out how much booze they can order, and how quickly, without looking like lushes. And then they stare at the menus—the laminated ones where all the food in the photos is pumped on steroids and sweating nervously, like it’s lying to you. My mother knows that if she eats one and a half pounds of food, she will gain one and a half pounds; she has no metabolism. She’s trying to see if she can order only a celery stick, and then realizes she can order a Bloody Mary with a celery stick, so she’s happy. Roger picks up on this momentary happiness and uses this little happy window to order a double rum and coke. The two of them are practically dancing like Snoopy in their orange banquette seats.
But then they have to make conversation and the mood vanishes. They talk about where their old friends are— divorces, money woes, surprise careers, the odd death— and they both feel sadness not simply for themselves but for the planet. They feel sad because life is over so soon. They feel sad because they’ve blown it. They feel sad because they have to order food, except suddenly the photos on the menu aren’t food any more. They’re dead animals and chunks of starch. The two of them aren’t vegetarian, but they’re off meat for the time being. But back to me.
I had a thought today—not an original thought, but it’s better than no thought at all. Wouldn’t it be great if stars turned black during the day—the sky covered with dots like pepper?
Bethany (for real)
Thanks for being me again, Roger. Does my mouth really look like a black olive? My mouth is too small. I hate it.
It’s weird to describe how it feels, walking around the store knowing that you’re walking around these same aisles imagining your way into me—like being possessed— the sensation that there’s a ghost or something slipping in and out of my body whenever it wants. I don’t mind it. It’s what people probably felt like all the time before TV and the Internet. People probably tried harder to get inside each other’s heads in the old days.
So you’re that guy my mom dated last year. She came home piss drunk and howling like she’d lost her favourite piece of jewellery. You took her on a date to Denny’s? That’s so recovering alkie. What were you thinking?
She can’t help but admire my frugality?
Hubba hubba! Sexy, Roger!
For that matter, what was my mother like in high school? Was she always angry? Was she the goody-goody she always pretends she was? If I saw her at seventeen, would I be able to imagine the way she turned out? Pink eyeballs. Sno-Kone cellulite. Mood swings like a Slinky pulsing between left and right hands.
Last New Year’s we both sat on the TV room carpet and finished