The Gum Thief - Douglas Coupland [74]
“Wow,” said Leonard. “You people do take the cake.”
Kyle looked at Leonard. “They really do. They’re like a John Cheever novel. Except it’s set in hell. Check this place out—it’s like time stopped ten minutes before they cancelled the Apollo space program.”
“You’ve been snooping?” asked Steve.
“Browsing. Snooping would kick up too much dust.” He turned to Leonard. “The whole place is coated in dryer lint.”
Three streets away, a truck changed gears. A passing helicopter bunted at the night air.
“Right then,” said Leonard. “Enough for witty banter and formalities. I’ve come here to talk shop. I have news.”
DeeDee
Roger,
I’m worried sick about Bethany. She’s truly and totally not herself any more. To be honest, she’s . . . scary. She washed the dishes last night without being nagged, and then I went into the living room and she was sitting in a chair, not reading or doing anything else, **just sitting in a chair**—which sounds innocent and all, but it’s spooky. It was like a sci-fi movie where a body-snatched human being is sitting motionless while the invading alien incubates within. And the window was wide open. She thinks that if she stays cold her body will burn more calories and she’ll get thin.
Why does she suddenly care what she looks like? She obviously did during her Goth years, but that was an act of rebellion, whereas this new exercise and dieting craze feels like the worst sort of conformity. Nothing would make me happier today than to see Bethany walk into the living room eating a bowl of Creamsicle ice cream while lecturing me about my directionless lifestyle and wearing a black Cure tank top with her eyes blacked out like Alice Cooper. Alice Cooper isn’t strictly Goth, I know that, but you know what I mean. Where did the real Bethany go? What happened in Europe? She won’t discuss it. Okay, she got dumped, but if I try to use the I’ve-been-there tone of voice, she gives me the yes-but-you-always-get-dumped-in-the- end tone of voice. So who are you to offer advice?
Oh, her little broken heart! Now I’m crying, Roger. Imagine Bethany’s tiny little broken black heart, lying on some cobbled London thoroughfare like a piece of litter!
I can barely remember my first heartbreak. I used to fall in love so easily, falling out of love always emerged as an inevitable end product. Sometimes I remember being happy with someone, and then panicking and pretty much choosing to fall out of love just so I wouldn’t get dumped. Only a young person could do something that stupid. It’s only now that I’m past the point when I’ll ever again be loved that I know how sacred the whole process is. Ain’t life a kick in the teeth?
If you can think of some way to make her be herself again, please be a friend to me—and to her—and share the idea.
DD
PS: It’s funny how often I think about Steve and Gloria.
Roger
Bethany . . .
The last two weeks of the year are the worst two weeks of the year. Who the hell invented December? Curse you, Pope Gregory. It’s a disaster of a month, a complete waste of thirty-one days. And it’s not like early January’s much better.
I didn’t know about Kyle—I hope it’s not too weird, me mentioning him by name. He’s a creep, and he’s out of your picture. At least you saw his true colours quickly, albeit thousands of miles from home. Did you get anything out of Europe besides a theatrical backdrop for a bad personal situation? There’s a part of me that’s actually jealous that you got to go to Europe in love, and that you got to feel something intensely. I’m showing my age, but send me a postcard when you’re in your forties and see if you don’t agree.
The important thing is to not obsess on the dark stuff—I can imagine you saying, “Gee, Roger, thanks for the sage advice.” But it remains good advice. In twenty years you’ll remember the good and the bad more equally. And you will get over this. That’s the hardest thing of all to believe, that the hurt will dampen and shrink.
More advice: Don’t give a rat’s ass what your dim-wit co-workers think of any of this. All they care about