The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [73]
Coffee break over. I have to go tidy up the bargain CD
bin.
Joy to the world.
I’m going to show my mother the new chapters. She’s your biggest fan.
And you still haven’t told me how you are.
B.
PS: It’s five minutes later and I had to come back in and add this. I think Christmas celebrates the moment in our history as a species when we stopped being prey and began making weapons and traps and turned into predators— like those apes at the start of 2001. There’s never been another species that’s done that. We are unique. We changed modes.
Glove Pond: Kyle
The doorbell rang.
Kyle wondered if he might learn why his hosts had taken five minutes to answer the bell when he and Brittany arrived. No such information was forthcoming. Gloria put down Kendall’s plastic choo-choo train, patted her hair and went to answer it, revealing a tall, thin, generically aristocratic white-haired man in a tweed coat frayed at the elbows, his ears pink from the cold. She was thrilled. “Why—it’s acclaimed theatrical director and curmudgeonly-yet-sophisticated man about town, Leonard Van Cleef! Hello, Leonard. Welcome to my charming and gracious home!”
“Yeah. Hiya, Gloria.” Leonard rubbed his hands and walked in.
Steve was still on the floor, idly playing with Kendall’s Finding Nemo plastic scooter. “Hello, Leonard.”
“Hello, Steve.”
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Scotch, if you have any.” “Right.”
Kyle sensed no warmth between the two men. Gloria, meanwhile, stood beside a chair, practising alluring come-hither poses. “What brings you out tonight?”
“I thought we might discuss the play a little bit.”
“Really?” Gloria’s eyes saucered. “Of course we can discuss the play. We must. Art must always come first.”
Kyle coughed.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Gloria. “Please let me introduce you to tonight’s dinner guest—” Gloria’s pose reminded Kyle of nineteenth-century kill shots of British lords brandishing muskets above gargantuan slain leopards. “This is acclaimed and rich young novelist Kyle Falconcrest. Kyle and his wife are here for dinner tonight. Nothing fussy—Chinese takeout. That’s the way we like it here at our house: friendly, informal, casual, and yet charming and gracious at the same time.”
“Jeez.” Leonard looked at Kyle. “You a relative or something?”
“Nope.”
“Small mercies. These two take the cake.”
Steve handed Leonard his Scotch. Leonard swished it around in its tumbler, then surveyed the room around him. “Nice digs. Been living here long?”
“Since my first novel came out.”
Gloria burst in, “It garnered good reviews but didn’t sell much.”
“Huh.”
Steve sipped his drink and Gloria said, “Kyle’s last book sold ten million copies.”
Leonard looked at Kyle as though Kyle had sprouted antlers. “Really?”
“Uh—yes.”
“Would have to have been something pretty broad
to sell that much. What was it—a batch of kittens secretly takes over a weight-loss clinic? And then the kittens turn a ragtag bunch of losers into skinny people with rich sex lives and unconditional love from their family members?”
“That actually would be a big seller,” said Kyle.
“What’s a weight-loss clinic?” asked Steve.
“Oh, Steve,” chided Gloria. “Everyone knows what a weight-loss clinic is. People go to them all the time. They’re very popular. You use their scientifically designed programs to lose weight while Hollywood celebrities and members of the British royal family support you through posters and brochures, urging you onward with little homilies and bromides. Some of these centres also have tanning salons.”
“How do you know so much about this?”
“Oh, Steve. Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve.” Gloria gave her husband a wise, ageless smile, then looked at Leonard as if to apologize for Steve’s inability to keep pace with the times. “None of his novels ever sold