The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [39]
But here at Shtooples, there’s no chance of drama, period.
Thank you again, interior monologue. You are correct. So, then, what’s keeping you here?
Inertia. Laziness. Hormones. Habit.
Habit? I thought you said you wanted drama.
Yeah, well, aren’t we human beings screwy creatures? At least at Shtooples the worst thing that can happen to you is that you get fired. Nobody dies at Shtooples. Nothing can ever truly fuck up in Aisle 5-South. It’s safe. In its way.
Are you finally sick of death?
Please, don’t ask me.
But I have to, and I won’t stop asking until you answer me.
Okay, yeah, I am sick of it. Happy now?
Happy is a hokey concept at best, Bethany.
Okay, then, are you satisfied?
The truth is always satisfying.
Why is that?
I don’t know. It’s the way the universe is built.
Wouldn’t it be great if we all lived in a world where everybody believed everyone else’s lies? The lies would cancel each other out, and you’d be left with a massive ultratruth.
Snorrrrrrre. Are you baked on mushrooms too, Bethany?
No. I’m wondering how much longer I can handle working here at das Shtoop.
Nursing school?
I don’t know. Anything. Unemployment? Unwed pregnancy?
You’re too classy to take the easy ways out, Bethany.
Okay, interior monologue, if you’re so smart, provide me with a suggestion.
What’s wrong with school?
*No response*
. . . Bethany? . . . School?
I’m thinking.
Well, technically, I’m the one who’s thinking here.
I don’t have any money, and I don’t want my mother to sell her place merely to rescue me from prison.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Gee, thanks.
What would be so wrong with your mother selling her condo? The market’s good right now. She could rent a place.
Let’s stop right now.
Bethany?
Look, there’s Fahad, and he’s trying out a new pore-cleansing strip by the sink. Gotta go.
PS: Roger, my mother wrote you yet another letter?
PPS: I think about Glove Pond all the time. I’m trying to figure out who is who. Am I Brittany? Is Kyle Kyle? Are you Steve? Or maybe I’m partially Kyle or . . . you’re so lucky to have an imagination, Roger. You can sit down and make shit up. I can’t even make up my mind.
PPPS: As part of my efforts to help Kyle cope with death, we went to visit his grandmother’s grave. We were reading tombstones together, and I said it must be nice to be dead and not have to worry about how you look any more—as a joke. And Kyle said to me, “I saw this show on the Discovery Channel, and it said that beauty isn’t only about the traits you possess, it’s also about the traits you don’t possess.” He then said, “You’re really beautiful, Bethany, because there are so many bad traits a lot of girls have and you don’t have any of them.”
I asked him, “Like what?”
“You’re not greedy. And you don’t plot or scheme, and you don’t go all slutty or manipulative if you don’t get what you want.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything, but I’ve been floating ever since.
DeeDee
To: Roger Thorpe
c/o: Staples
Roger,
Me again. This morning I had a crown replaced ($$$!), and throughout the experience I read your Glove Pond. Bethany gave me a photocopy of your manuscript. I must admit, Roger, it’s too highbrow for me—all the talk about literature—out of my league. How do you have the patience to write? Me—I’m not calm enough to read fiction. I think you have to be in the right state of mind, and I haven’t been there since I was fourteen. I can read magazines and newspapers and other factual stuff. I’m actually leaving library books about science all over the house. It’s an obvious ploy to get Bethany interested in school, but it does work, especially the books I leave near the toilet. They always get thumbed through, and it gives us things to talk about besides reality TV and the past. There’s this one book on the stars that’s fascinating, and it got me onto Google, looking up all sorts of things. Do you have any idea how big the universe is, Roger? It’s terrifying,