The Gum Thief (26 page)

Thanks again for last week's flowers, Roger. You didn't need
to.
It
was very important that you did so.

I hope that you and your ex and your daughter and whoever else have a good Christmas this year. Around now, I'm normally a mess, but this year is different-I feel like I'm pregnant and due in three days.

Merry Christmas, DD

Roger, are you in your apartment but not answering the door? I could swear I heard someone move in there. Don't worry. You probably aren't dressed and shaved.
I
wouldn't answer the door either. But in the spirit of
Glove Pond,
I'm leaving you a selection of food: a box of pancake mix (no weevils), a dozen eggs, marmalade, butter and a loaf of bread you can use to make lots of toast.

DD

Staples

As you may have heard, Bethany is now back with us, filling in part-time during the holiday season.
If
any of you need time off before December 24 to help "Santa's Merry Elves" in your own life, we can work with Bethany to arrange a shift change.

Please note that the blank-CD bin at the end of Aisle 12-South has been temporarily moved to allow for retiling.

Fahad

PS: Don't forget this year's "Margaritas 'n' Madness"
(!!!)
on December 22, at 9:00. Fran has rented a table for twenty at the Keg
&
Cleaver, and if you could give her a five-dollar deposit, that would be great.

Bethany

Yes, I'm back at Staples, and there's no need for further comment. Pete was very kind to give me part-time work, especially after last month's hasty vanishing act. But after Europe and all its beauty, it's hard to handle the store's lighting and all the boring products we sell. It feels like we're working inside a photocopier. And the way people dress compared to in Europe? Here we all look like newsies in a Broadway play.

Roger, I'm sorry you got fired. You were the only part of Staples I was looking forward to. And everyone was all too eager to tell me the saga of
Glove Pond.
I am so sorry they did that to you. It physically hurt me when they told me what they'd done, and I had to ask them to stop. They're horrible, nasty little people, but I knew that already, so I can't claim to be surprised. They're pretty much indicative of the world at large. I come in and do my job and don't talk to people. I'm trying to rack up the hours and rebuild some kind of savings, and that's as far as my ambition goes. But I've been rereading
Glove Pond
and love it more than ever, and I hope you're going
to
finish it. You have to-you can't leave me in the lurch!

Another huge shock to me coming back here was I found a pile of my FedEx'ed letters to you that you'd never received. Shawn asked me why I'd be sending you packages from Europe, so on the spot I made up a lie about doing genealogical research for you. Her curiosity ended there. I guess you didn't know about Kyle and me splitting up. Or Paris. Or Greg. I've attached the unopened FedEx envelopes here. You may as well read about my emotional car crash in proper sequence. I don't want to go into it here.

On the plus side, if you saw me, Roger, you'd see a new, super-healthy Bethany. Mom bought me a Fitness World gym membership, and I go there twice a day. All I eat these days is fresh vegetables, lean meat and gum, but I'm much more clever about stealing it now that the Internet has turned gum thievery into destination viewing. I've washed off my makeup and am trying to go for a girl-next-door look. Maybe even a jock look. Maybe even a mountain climber look, with all those clips and fasteners and nylon fabrics and Velcro flaps everywhere. Europe walloped the Goth right out of me.

It's been a long week, Roger. Things with Mom haven't been so hot, and I'm tired from the gym and the jet lag and all the shifts I'm doing. Everyone knows I messed up majorly. Instead of getting, "How was your trip!" I'm getting, "Oh, uh, lookin' good, Bethany," followed by averted eyes. I suppose they'll forget this episode soon enough the gossip must be fading, though who knows what Kyle's been emailing them. God, has it been only four weeks?
It
feels like a year.
It
feels like-or
rather -
I
feel like a different person. So Europe worked its magic in the end, but ... this isn't the person I wanted to become.

Gotta go, Roger. Jamie's picking up a Maltipoo puppy for her father's surprise Xmas present and I'm covering her shift. I've never worked Aisle 9-South before. Life is such a rich buffet of experiences.

How are you, Roger? Tell me. I'm listening.

B.

DeeDee

Roger

I'm bringing you more
Glove Pond
theme food: Triscuits, orange cheddar cheese and (instead of Scotch) a $20 bottle of Sonoma Valley chardonnay. I'm assuming you won't answer the door when I ring, so I'll put it in this box outside your door and hope the raccoons don't steal it. There's no trace of the last care package I left you, so I think it'll be okay.

Bethany told me what happened at the store. What a disgraceful way to treat such an amazing piece of
work-Glove Pond
is marvellous, Roger, and you shouldn't pay attention to a bunch of ignorant fetuses. They're jealous. I mean, in an era when nobody achieves anything,
you
started a novel that's something huge. The only thing any of those twerps have ever started is lifelong credit card debt. Keep on writing. I'll be honoured to be your test audience if you let me.

Now-about
Bethany – Roger -
I'll go
insane mental bonkers
nuts if I don't vent about Little Miss Fresh Air and Exercise. What is
wrong
with her? She doesn't eat except bits of raw fish she removes from the rice part of sushi. And grapefruit juice. She sleeps with her windows wide open, and her room is like a deep freeze. She gave away all of her Goth clothing. I went to the drop box after she dumped it and retrieved it all. She doesn't know, but she'll thank me for it one day - Goth may look grim, but the stuff is expensive, let me tell you.

The biggest and strangest thing is that she won't argue with me anymore.
If
I say something to provoke her, like "Use a coaster for your coffee cup," she apologizes-I mean grovelling apologizing. She didn't even mock the Christmas lights and call me middle class or a religious victim. She said they were pretty and hugged me. I feel like she's been body snatched, and I don't have a clue who this new person is. The hardest thing was when I made popcorn for a late-night movie and I was wearing my aqua sweatpants and looked like a big fat Crisco-bitch. When I came into the TV area, I was hoping she'd make a wisecrack, but instead she said, "Mom, I think it's great that you're okay with the way you are." God, young people can be patronizing, but I don't think she meant it that way. I think maybe she
is
okay with the fact that I'm a disaster, which scares the shit out of me because I
must
be one, then. Cripes.

So I couldn't eat the popcorn, and during commercials I went into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror, trying to pretend I was someone else, and I was horrified. Roger, tell me that I was once beautiful. I need that. I know I'm fishing here, big time, but there's so little gas left in my tank. I'm running on fumes.

And what do I do with Sunshine Girl-any recommendations? Get her to a therapist? She reminds me of a girl in high school going through a nun phase. I ought to be happy that Bethany’s trying to slim down, but she's doing it for reasons I don't know, and a mother's instinct tells me they're the wrong reasons.

There.

I've gotten that out of my system.

Roger, if you could work some more on
Glove Pond,
it would really inspire and motivate Bethany. Is there any chance?

X

DD

Roger

DeeDee ... When Brendan was killed on his bike (Capilano Road at Canyon Boulevard; Sunday afternoon; no drunk driver, merely an accident), I knew life was over and something else was beginning. I'd still be alive and all, but it couldn't be called a "life." Joan knew it too. We never discussed it, but since that afternoon we've never been able to look each other in the eyes, not really. Joan went the therapy route, and she likes to think she can look me in the eye, but it's a fake look and she knows I know. Zoe was too young to remember any of it.

I quit my job selling off-season ski resort time-shares because I couldn't stand the sensation of everybody looking at me at my desk and whispering about what happened to Brendan. I stopped seeing everybody who knew me before Brendan's death. It's why I joined that goddam dinner theatre company, because it was a clean slate. I can't even act. I was just browsing through the
Weekend Shopper,
and I recognized it as a potential haven, full of strangers, and I could maybe get lost in it. It wasn't hard. As in any milieu, there's always an extra slot in the theatre world for somebody who's punctual and who doesn't gossip, so I was opening and closing curtains and stacking chairs right away.

Enter sex. Enter Diana Tigg. Enter the raging, self-absorbed hose-monster-the diseased harridan who played the lead in
Same Time, Next Year. (Thinking of dinner and a play? Think of the North Shore Players and the Keg
&
Cleaver's limited-time-only mid-week two-for-one
Bard's Buffet. Bravo!)
I don't expect any sympathy regarding the woman, because I don't deserve any-I deserve heaps of scorn. I briefly fell for an
actress,
a remorseless pulsing quasar of infinite joy-sucking neediness and petty vengeance.

Like any so-so actress,
fa
Tigg
was more interesting in real life than onstage. There's the old truism about how we're all poor actors strutting about a stage and then we die-well,
I
don't believe it. Next time you're out in public, watch every ordinary person perform even the tiniest of gestures with total grace and fluency-picking up their dry cleaning, say, as they mumble about the day's weather with the Korean mama-san who runs the place, all the while plucking coins from the recesses of their wallets and purses. Masterful. But if you'd beforehand given anyone of these people the same lines in a script? They'd flub it. They'd botch real life.

That's where Diana comes in. The woman was unable to be natural. She really treated everyday life as theatre, but instead of scripts she had only fragments she'd borrowed from other plays-words and mannerisms she'd copied from TV soap operas. She certainly couldn't write her own material, and she had the God-given absence of any ability to analyze the effect she had on people. She never knew when to slow down or speed up or shut up, but before I figured out her act, we met at her place and things went ... the way they did. Within forty-eight hours, she was leaving guess what kind of messages on my home answering machine, which Joan immediately intercepted, and out the door I went. And the worst part of it was that, in the end, Diana had made it with me only as pity sex-a ticket girl who used to temp at my ski office had blabbed my story about Brendan to the troupe.

So long to the remains of my old existence ... and hello to a basement suite, as well as to Staples, a workplace so incredibly anonymous and depersonalized that I revelled in its sterility-the total absence of community. And I had Mr. Vodka to help me.