The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [52]
This was all to say that I can put a face on your ex, and isn’t the world a small place?
I’m on the cash register until closing tonight and am going to be one grouchy little Goth at the end of it. Something about Wednesdays makes people cruel.
The Glove rocks. Keep it up.
B.
PS: Okay, I confess, I went to Joan’s house. She was easy to find. Google. I was worried about you—you vanished, dammit!—but I promise I didn’t come across as a stalker or a psycho, and I’ve seen enough nasty divorce shit in my life to know how to avoid accidentally inflaming people. So the encounter went smoothly, and you don’t have to worry that I messed your life up. She was nice, and didn’t say anything bad about you, and I was so worried about you, Roger.
There.
I feel better. But, Roger, you have a beautiful daughter you almost never mention. That’s pretty great!
DeeDee
Roger,
I’ve been doing some thinking, and what do you know about Kyle? It’s great that Bethany’s got a guy, but . . . okay, here’s what’s confusing me: he’s way too good- looking to be working at a pit like Staples (sorry, Roger). He seems to like Bethany, but—and this is so cruel, and I am a bad, bad mother—isn’t he really way out of her league? This from me, the thrice-divorced mess. But you know I have a point. Is he dumb? He doesn’t strike me as a druggie. Maybe pot, because he’s pretty mellow. Why couldn’t Bethany fall for some pimpled stick figure at a record store? That’s what I always had planned for her. But then, I don’t know if record stores still exist. Do they? Maybe that’s where my plan went wrong.
Okay, there was a triggering incident. Kyle was over at our place and we were watching TV. He opened the fridge door to look for something to eat or drink, looked at what was inside, and then closed the door and came back into the living room like he’d never gone near the fridge. He didn’t make a face or anything. He said nothing, as if he’d never looked inside it. So I got up (we were watching more reality crap, what else?) and looked for myself, and in my head I was seeing Kyle, raised by a succession of trophy wives, each of them primping in front of a mirror and selecting their daily sunglasses, and each of them saying words to the effect of, “There’s tons of expensive, nutritious food in the fridge, Kyle, but if you go to someone else’s house, for the love of God, don’t allow them to feed you crap. Otherwise, you’ll end up like them.”
Our fridge was filled with fatty, sugary crap, and no wonder I’m turning out the way I am. No wonder Bethany’s going in the same direction. Why couldn’t she have been a vegetarian? That might have whipped me into shape. But no, when this Goth thing began, we were at the IGA and she asked the butcher how to order blood by the quart. It was one of those few moments in life when you literally freeze. And now she’s dating way too high up the food chain and I’m at my wits’ end. Who is this guy? What does he want?
If you ever tell Bethany I wrote this, I will kill you.
DD
Glove Pond
“The soy sauce has mummified,” said Kyle.
“What do you mean?” asked Gloria.
He shook the La Choy bottle. “It’s turned into a little black hockey puck, bonded onto the bottom.” He handed the bottle to Gloria.
“It needs to be warmed up a bit is all. I’ll go put it in the double boiler for a few minutes. It’ll melt in no time.”
“There was no soy sauce in the fridge or cupboards,” said Kyle, under his breath. “I looked.”
“Of course not. This bottle was part of our honeymoon gift from Daddy’s lawyer. It was a Japanese home cooking kit, and I’ve been keeping it down in the nice cool basement so it would be fresh for a festive occasion such as this.”
“How long have you been married?” Brittany asked.
“Thirty-six years.”
“It’s okay,” said Brittany. “I don’t need soy sauce.”