The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [41]
Kyle turned to Steve. “Who on earth are you talking about?” He turned back to Brittany. “Brit, you look like a gold digger from a Cary Grant movie.” He cupped his right hand to his ear: “Hey, I think there’s a rich plutocrat in the kitchen who’ll give you a fifty to visit the powder room.”
“Thank you for supporting my new look, Kyle. And screw you. This is fun.”
Steve wolf-whistled.
“Thank you, Steve.” Brittany walked into the living room as Gloria plucked invisible dander from Brittany’s shoulder. She sat on the sofa. “I needed a change—and I need a Scotch. Steve?”
“Coming right up.”
Gloria asked for a Scotch as well. Kyle said, “Jesus, do you people douche with Scotch? I can’t believe you.”
“Kyle, be quiet. We’re talking about me, not you. And speaking of me, I’m sick of being me. I’m sick of my job and I’m sick of my point of view and I’m sick of the interior voice in my head that never really changes from one year to the next.”
“You hear voices?” Gloria asked.
“You know what I mean, Gloria—we all have it— that little voice that debates which bridge to take to get to work in the morning, the voice that narrates a book in your head when you’re reading. And I’m just so sick of it! So tonight I’m Elizabeth Taylor.”
“You look ravishing,” said Gloria.
“Here’s a Scotch.”
“Thank you, Steve.”
“Scotch, Kyle?”
“Brother.”
Kyle looked annoyed and Steve said, “Why so snippy? And besides, alcohol seems to be a big theme in your work. On page one of your new book, the main character’s already hitting the bottle.”
“What the hell—you read part of my new book? Is that where you were?”
Brittany looked at Steve. “Steve—did you plunder Kyle’s manuscript from his satchel and read part of it?”
Steve was caught.
Kyle shouted, “I can’t believe this—you stole a copy of my first chapter?”
“Don’t be testy,” said Steve. “We’re both writers. Is it wrong to want to share tips on craftsmanship with a peer?”
“How did you even know I had it with me?”
“I told him, Kyle.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“How could it hurt? And you could use the advice of someone other than me.”
“I like your advice.”
“Have you ever wondered, Kyle, what sort of burden your need for feedback puts on me? I have almost no free time, and when I do get some it’s all totally sucked into your bottomless well of writer’s neediness.” She looked at her two hosts. “I tell you, there are chapters lying around the house like autumn leaves. Everywhere. Always. On the couch. On the stove. On the toilet. In the car. On the StairMaster. In the breakfast nook. On the floor— especially on the floor. You’d think we decorated our house with an electric fan and a Staples gift certificate.” She turned to Gloria. “And all of these chapters are shingled with Post-it Notes, all of them highlighted in yellows and pinks and blues, and every little Post -it Note is asking me what I think or what I suggest.”
Gloria thought, What’s a Post-It Note?
“Fine,” said Kyle.
There was a pause. They could all hear each other sipping their drinks as they watched passing car headlights zoom up the living-room walls, only to vanish on the ceiling. Kyle broke the silence. “So—Steve—seeing as you read it and all, what did you think?”
“I think there’s Chinese food coming soon,” said Steve.
“Good,” said Gloria, making no effort to fetch plates or cutlery.
“What about the book?” Kyle asked. “I know you’ve read part of it.”
Steve paused. What did he think of Kyle’s book? All of the pop culture references had been totally lost on him, and with all of the technology it discussed, Steve had felt like he’d been reading a NASA manual on how to fix a lunar rover. However, “I do think you tapped into something universal,” he said. “The not wanting to get out of bed aspect of the first chapter. The notion of no longer wanting to go on with life and wondering what possible benefit could come of decades and decades of life past one’s prime when all of life’s big strokes have been made, when one is left only