The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [44]
And then yesterday she was back out front. I didn’t want to freak her out, and so I used my nice face and my nice voice and asked her if she’d like to come in. To be honest, I was curious about her, and I remember how happy it made me to see my family’s old place.
She was iffy about coming inside, and I was about to close the door, but then she said yes and came forward. I asked her if she used to live here, and she said no. I asked if she was selling something, and she said no, so I got exasperated and asked her what she wanted. She asked if I was Joan, and I said yes, and—she was so nervous—I felt sorry for her, whoever she was.
So that’s when she said she wanted to ask me about you, Roger. And I thought to myself, Dear Lord, please don’t tell me that he’s now into Harajuku death princesses, but she read my mind and said, “No, no, it’s not like that. I’m not his girlfriend or stalking him or anything like that.”
So I asked, “What are you here for, then?”
And she said, “To be honest, I was a little bit curious to see what you look like.”
I gave her my icy stare—yes, the one you know very well—and she said, “Actually, I think Roger’s in a bad way right now, and I don’t know what to do or who else to go to.”
I asked what sort of trouble, and she said, “Unhappy trouble—depression, maybe? Alcoholism? He hasn’t been to work in a week.”
I almost smiled. It was so sweet of her to believe that your disaster of a life was something brand new rather than something that had been playing itself out over many moons. She was so green that I asked her to sit.
I cleared away some of Zoe’s toys, and we settled on the couch. I got nostalgic, almost, because she’s obviously at that stage in her life where she’s living in the secondhand shops and has rings of RIT Dye in shades of black and blue and maroon all around her bathtub. I didn’t ask if she wanted coffee, because she was so fidgety. I simply told her I’d make herbal tea, but then I stopped myself and asked her if she wanted a glass of red wine. She said yes. It was two in the afternoon, but so what. Once a kid’s in school, Roger, the days drag on forever, and I’ve never been much for housework. Drinking in the middle of the day must be a habit I picked up from you. Ha!
So young Bethany told me about knowing you from work at Staples. Roger, you are truly the mayor of Failure City. The punchline? She says you’re in customer service. She also tells me you’re working on a novel, and that you’re well into it. That does come as a surprise: you actually started something? Snowballs in hell, and all of that. She said it’s a “sophisticated adult drama” featuring a pair of rival authors. You? Creative? Artistic? All I remember is you doing one failed walk-on in the local North Shore Players production of Same Time, Next Year. All you had to do was knock on the door and hand the lead her ice bucket, and you fucked it up. And then you had your fling with her. Oops, did I mention your fling? I guess I did. Well, that’s all in the past now, and I’ve got custody, so all’s well that ends well.
Roger, Bethany’s a sweet kid, and she’s smart, but she’s also young—young enough to think I might either care about you or want to help you. I told her that you go through “dark patches,” but the moment the words left my mouth I regretted it, because girls love helping guys through dark patches and I don’t want her lost in your orbit. I was then going to qualify my statement by saying, “There’s no hope in trying to help him,” but that would have been gasoline on the fire. So instead, I said, “He snaps out of these things almost like clockwork. You watch. He’ll be right as rain within a few days.” That cheered her up, and hopefully stripped your pity party of glamour.
Speaking of your pity party,