The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [54]
Highlights:
We saw a Punch and Judy show in the park, which was depressing because it’s November and cold and cloudy, and the kids are all in school, so I don’t know what the puppeteers were thinking—unless it was only a practice run. But good Lord, it’s nothing but wife beating. Have you ever seen one of these? They obviously didn’t have women’s shelters in the Middle Ages. What a disaster to have been born before 1980.
We’ve gone to a few pubs, and they’re actually not as pubby as I’d hoped. I’d been expecting sawdust on the floors, crusty factory workers playing darts and an eccentric woman in a tweed coat sitting in the corner with a duck on her lap. Instead, everything is digital, high-tech and beautifully lit, and when you order a beer, it’s like being at Lord Twindlebury’s beer smorgasbord. It’s all so deluxe and polished, even the dives, though people smoke here and every night before bed I have to rinse out my hair.
Oh! I had jet lag for the first time, and it was almost fun—it made things that were weird to me feel even weirder—enhanced. It’s like MSG.
There aren’t nearly as many girls here my age who are into pursuing Johnny Depp as a husband. Everybody’s so rich-looking. And how can somebody be rich in a place where everything is so insanely expensive? The people my age all have their money act together. I’m feeling a bit freakish right now and may tone down my look a notch. Or maybe I’ll amp it up. No idea.
Enough already. I have yet to meet Count Chocula and his jewel-encrusted dildo from the Crusades.
Keep working on Glove Pond. Kyle is jealous I’m writing you, so maybe I’ll write you more than ever.
Ta for now,
B.
PS: As you can see, I’ve moved up in the world and am using FedEx. There’s a storefront down the street here in Hampstead and, even better, in my address book I’ve got the account number of Mom’s creepy boss, who stuck his tongue in my ear at their office do three years ago. He’s a perv, and I’m not going to let it wreck my life, but I’m certainly going to use his account while I’m here. ;)
Joan
Roger, the wedding is this weekend, and rather than throw five hundred bucks into the shredder and have my lawyer draft you something, I’m sending you this myself instead. I know the past years have been rough on you, but they’ve been rough on me, too—and I don’t count, it’s Zoë who counts, and frankly, this wedding is mostly about Zoë having some nice pictures in her head when she thinks of the word “marriage.” I’d have been quite happy to go to the counter where they issue dog tags at city hall and fill out a form and have it done with. So yes, I’m asking you not to rent the Fuji Blimp and print scary shit on its digital sign board, or rent a WWI Sopwith Camel with a crude message trailing after it, or hire a jet to skywrite a skull and bones over the church. Please leave us alone and get on with something else. Okay?
I want to confirm that Zoë’s coming with us on the trip to Hawaii after the service (you’ll notice I didn’t use the word “honeymoon”? Honeymoons, like Trix, are for kids), so your three hours with her will be postponed for two weeks.
That’s about it.
Oh, I forgot to remind you that you’re the one who had the affair with the cheesy actress in the local dinner theatre production of Same Time, Next Year, and that’s what started this whole ball rolling.
Joan
PS: I never heard again from young Lily Munster who showed up on my doorstep a few weeks ago.
PPS: It kills me that you won’t be making