The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [63]
And Kyle said, “Sorry. But I have to go. Goodbye, Bethany. Like I said, I didn’t plan for this to happen. And some day you’ll be in the same spot. So save your judging for then.”
And so here I am now, and I don’t know what it is I actually am. Loser? Dupe? Dropped bitch? Sucker cow? Royally-screwed-over loser chick who thought she was such hot stuff? My mother was right. That’s what kills me here. My mother, the 3X-married DeeDee monster, was on the money about Kyle, and I’m this ungrateful bitch who didn’t see wisdom when it was offered, and now I’m marooned in some weird fake crack den in a middle-class English suburb.
And the only person I have to tell this to is you, Roger. I can’t tell DeeDee, not yet. And I don’t have any friends. Haven’t you noticed that? Shawn from aisles 6 and 7? Hardly. I’d phone you, but I don’t know your number, and the operator back home says you’re unlisted.
There’s this old David Bowie song on the radio right now, “Fame”—“Is it any wonder I reject you first?” Fuck you, Kyle.
I’m going to take the Chunnel to Paris, dammit. I’m going to be a woman who took the train to Paris by herself when her lover dumped her outside some shitty pub restaurant in Hampstead.
This is one of those letters best put in the mail right away before the mood leaves me.
Roger, how the hell can you be unlisted? Who do you think you are, the fucking Beatles?
B.
Bethany
VIA FEDEX
Roger,
I wrote you a letter yesterday that I didn’t send and won’t be sending. Kyle dropped me, and I’m now by myself on the Eurostar to Paris. My head is in a place it’s never been before, and I don’t have any instructions to tell me what to do next. I’m going to have to come home soon, but I can already see Mom’s gloating face.
We just got out of the Chunnel and now we’re doing three hundred miles an hour into Paris. I spent a bomb on a first-class ticket—you’d be surprised at how much I’ve stashed away since my first job bussing tables at a cheesy Mexican restaurant years ago. The car’s empty but for me, and they served a nice meal with heavy steel cutlery that someone else will bus. Once I’m in Paris, I’m going to spend another bomb on a good hotel with hot water and clean sheets, no young people, and a concierge who knows how to fill out French FedEx forms.
Outside the window the sky is that deep blue colour that means true night is ten minutes away. Everything outside the window is old, and I ought to care more, but everything over here is old. I hate the past.
Roger, I don’t know how I could have been so clueless.
I remember in elementary school walking home once, and this car ran into a cherry tree and all its petals fell at once. That’s me right now.
Bye, Roger.
Write me—but I don’t know where I’ll be, so there’s no address to give you. Isn’t that all of life compressed into a sentence?
B.
DeeDee
Hi, Roger.
Your friends at Staples said you weren’t working there any longer—that you’d left to finish your novel. Wow, what guts, Roger! I’m impressed. Not everyone could make such a courageous move for their art. Fortunately, this time they gave me your home address so I can leave this thank-you note in your mail slot.
Now, let’s talk about the flowers you sent me . . . Thank you! I’ll take flowers any way I can get them! I felt like a star when they showed up at the office. I felt like Meg Ryan before the perky thing wore off. Yes, there were some white daisies with blue dye in them, like your grandmother would order—but screw it, I got flowers! And Roger, your letter wasn’t at all too depressing. It was honest, and that’s nice.
I got another “I’m okay, don’t worry” email from Bethany. Again, if there’s anything you know that would make me feel better about her European voyage, please tell me. I know it’s a weird position for you to be in, and will understand if you simply want to stand back and not be involved in another family’s issues.
Bye, Roger.
Thanks again,
DD
PS: Before Bethany and I had our scene and she left, she mentioned that you were taking Claritin for some allergies. She