The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [48]
I piped up: “Are you finding everything you’re looking for, sir?”
“Tell Mr. Microphone here to shut the heck up.”
(Me, ingenuously) “Sorry?”
Mr. Rant ignored me and directed his anger at the Happy Whistler. “I used to think that you guys who whistle or hum tunelessly in public were simply idiots, but I think the truth is that you were all molested by your Boy Scout leader when you were eleven, and you haven’t dealt with it yet, so instead you tunelessly whistle. Go get some therapy and leave the rest of us alone.”
The Happy Whistler was obviously a therapy junkie. “Sir, you know, if you could keep your opinions to yourself, that would be really great.”
Mr. Rant exploded: “ ‘ That would be great’? God, I hate that expression. It’s passive-aggressive, it’s condescending, and what you actually want to say is, ‘I want you to keep your opinion to yourself,’ except you’re too chickenshit to say it flat out, so instead you say, ‘That would be great.’”
The Happy Whistler went silent . . . a lone tumbleweed cartwheeled down Aisle 3-South.
Mr. Rant went for a hat trick: “Who designed the lighting in this place—the Nazis? Jesus, it makes everybody’s skin look like eggs Benedict. And how many different kinds of blue ballpoint pen does the world need? I think a whole aisle dedicated solely to blue pens is an unhealthy thing for society and the environment.” He looked at me. “Hey, I need a replacement toner cartridge for an HP LaserJet 1320. Where do I find one?”
Me: “Aisle 10-North, right-hand side.”
As Mr. Rant walked away, he began whistling a note- perfect version of the “Mexican Hat Dance.”
He made my day.
Roger
Hi DeeDee,
Bethany’s at an age where she doesn’t listen to anybody, so I don’t think my opinion counts for squat here. But isn’t it sick how she’s ended up dead-ending here at Staples too, even though our lives are so different? Laugh! That was a joke.
DeeDee, hey, I got to thinking about you back when we were in school. I remember you used to paint—you did that big mural with melting clocks and an angry winged unicorn in the stairwell that led down into the smokehole. How about following up painting again?
Here’s something: I’ve noticed that when you get older, you not only have a To-Do list but you could start making a Things-I-Used-To-Do list, too. Yesterday I found an old chunk of ski wax in the back of a drawer, and I could barely look at it because waxing my skis was a Thing I Used To Do—and then I finally took the wax out and threw it away. Which is all to say, if getting out the brushes and linseed oil freaks you out, I totally understand. It’s strange how things leave you one by one, isn’t it? Old friends. Enthusiasms. Energy. But Bethany inspires me to do something new. At the moment, writing keeps me sane.
R.
Glove Pond
Kyle was staring at his fork, Steve-like, trying to bend it by the use of his telekinetic rays. “You know, when we mentioned their kid, it was like we toasted Hitler at a bris or something.”
“There aren’t any photos of him anywhere in here,” Brittany said.
“They don’t seem like the kids type.”
“And they’ve been gone for ten minutes now. How long can it take to find a bottle of soy sauce?”
“I didn’t see any soy sauce in the fridge. Only that jar of pickle juice.”
They poked at the cold remains of the Chinese food.
“What do you want to do?” asked Brittany.
“Maybe we should just get out of here and cut our losses. These people are living car crashes.”
“Yes, but there has to be a reason they’re such disasters. I’ll go look for them. We can’t leave without saying goodbye.”
“Be my guest. In the meantime, I’ll be here reading a—” Kyle reached over for a magazine on a nearby table “—June 1971 issue of The New Yorker.”
Brittany went into the kitchen. It was empty, and the back door was open. She looked outside. The smell of rotting leaves was delicious, and she