The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [15]
Then he heard two young women behind him restocking the CliffsNotes. One of them said to the other, “Tales of Mystery and Imagination was okay for someone who had the misfortune of being trapped in the nineteenth century. Back then, the range of metaphors was pretty limited. The only high technology they had was staircases. And windows. Windows were as high-tech in 1849 as nanotechnology is now.”
“Poor Poe.”
“I know. What he needed was a PlayStation and some Zyban.”
The doorbell continued not ringing.
Steve was drunk and decided to shift perspectives— now he could care less about the language. The sooner it was destroyed by geeks, mathematicians and TV producers, the better.
All the English language has ever netted me is five novels that never sold and a wife who worships literature the way deep-sea insects are drawn to the glow-in- the-dark dangling thingy that hangs in front of an ultra-deep-sea angler fish.
Steve took another sip of Scotch, which at last turned off the buzzing part of his brain. All that remained was the realization that his own written words were generic. They could have emerged from any creative writing workshop in North America in the late twentieth century. Hell, his words could have emerged from a creative writing program taught at the Department of Motor Vehicles. The critical praise he’d received—it wasn’t real. It was from people who merely needed to suck up to him. Poor Gloria—she wickedly resented his feeble book sales. She hated the way she and Steve consistently failed to garner dinner invitations from people in other cities who might somehow drag them out of their appalling yet prestigious university town.
Poor Gloria. She might as well be wearing a ball and chain, the way her husband’s failure has tethered her to this shithole.
Wait . . . can a ball and chain tether a person to a hole? Well, whatever.
More staring at the front door.
More willing the bell to ring.
Gloria called from upstairs, “Is the doorbell broken?”
Roger
I’d run into Bethany’s mother, DeeDee, one afternoon around two o’clock. It was last year, a few months after Joan left me and maybe ten minutes after I realized she wasn’t coming back. I was in Aisle 5-North, restocking highlighter pens, and DeeDee asked me where she could take her toner cartridge for recycling. She asked without looking at me—which is pretty insulting and oh so common. I knew it was DeeDee Twain from high school, so instead of ignoring her as I would have done with other people, I told her I’d show her the recycling bin but first she’d have to fondle each of my butt cheeks. To see her face! When she realized it was me, she smiled and swatted me with her purse, and it was sweet, like we were both cutting class. I seized the moment and asked her out to dinner.
It started out well—a few drinks and each of us blowing off steam about our jobs. Halfway through the meal, she was drunk enough to be lighting the wrong end of her cigarette, but not drunk enough to become indignant when told that smoking in the restaurant wasn’t allowed.
Of course, we discussed changes in our lives and the world. In particular, we discussed all of the ugly houses and apartment buildings that had been built here in the city in our lifetime. Back when I was young, I told her, I assumed that within my lifetime they’d all be quickly demolished and replaced by something newer and better. “Imagine all of our dumb, ugly, contractor-built little houses standing there long after we’re gone.” “You’re being depressing, Roger.” “All they’ll ever do is draw attention