The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [32]
Mr. Rant began talking to his twelve-pack of pens: “How did society ever function without you, little Sharpies? Your nibs have the precise amount of give to create a line quality with character, yet not so much character as to be smushy. Thank you, little pens.”
I told Kyle the product code number, Mr. Rant bought his pens, and then he was gone.
What a freak, but he made my day.
Roger, I’ve never known anybody with Alzheimer’s. Can you tell if you’re going to get it? Also, how did you learn so much about books and writers and writing? I thought you didn’t finish college. I am in awe.
Speaking of school, I’m thinking of going back. You’ll shit, but I think I might like to be a nurse. Thinking of Kyle alone in that room with his dying grandmother flipped a switch inside me. What do you think?
Before I forget, the other night I told my mother that we were still exchanging words and she said, “You know, maybe Roger’s not the ogre I made him out to be.”
I will never understand that woman.
B.
Glove pond: Britiny
It was hard for Brittany to be both a respected surgeon and the wife of literary sensation Kyle Falconcrest. This evening was a perfect example. Neither of her hosts had, as of yet, asked her anything about her life; they’d clearly dismissed her as ornamental. For the first half-hour after they’d arrived, she’d watched the others talk while a part of her observed Steve and Gloria’s strange living room. It reminded her of her grade-two time capsule project in which a small office safe, not unlike those sold at Staples, was filled with newspapers, canned goods, a Walkman, a Nirvana cassette and a flannel grunge shirt.
Steve and Gloria’s living room seemed to have been sealed somewhere between Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor’s first and second divorce. Magazines on the coffee table touted new fiction by John Cheever. The Plexiglas cover of the turntable in the corner had become fully opaque from dust, while the spines of nearby vinyl records were illegible from solar bleaching. Brittany had also noticed the total absence of any sort of personal imagery—family photos, portraits, drawings. And if she squinted, she could see a slight nicotine glaze coating all surfaces in the room. She had absentmindedly picked up a small figurine from a side table, and it made a small clicking sound as she removed it, severing its decade-long bonds of wax buildup, dust and stasis.
Since the megasuccess of Kyle’s novel the year before, Brittany had become accustomed to her new invisibility. During the years Kyle had laboured in obscurity, Brittany had supported him—and had been sure of her place in the world. Now he was famous, and their lives had become filled with expensive trips and meals and visits with the rich, witty and renowned, all of which was beginning to bore her.
Then Steve had surprised Brittany. Just when she was feeling her most invisible, her favourite writer in the world took almost an hour to provide her with copious, thrilling background information on each of his five novels. She felt drunk with privilege as he spoke and spoke and spoke. It was almost as if he was speaking only to her, ignoring Kyle and Gloria completely. Kyle could never understand Brittany’s love of Steve’s work— nor, for that matter, could Brittany—but love and admiration can’t always be explained.
When Steve had finished, Brittany was dazed and happy. She was mostly content to listen when Steve and Kyle went on to have a manly discussion of literature. When Steve went into the kitchen to see about dinner, Brittany followed him, noting in passing that there seemed to be no evidence of food in the offing. Steve was poking about inside a cupboard.
“Steve,” said Brittany, “do you ever read works in progress?”
Steve looked surprised. “Sometimes.”
“Kyle has a working draft of his new novel with him. Would you give it a peek? I’m sure he’d love to hear your opinion. It’s in his satchel, over with our coats.”
“Brittany, Kyle is such a young writer, and the opinion of an éminence