Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland Page A

by the sight of a plump woman and a crawling young man. “How long have you crawled so far?”
    “Not too far.”
    “Oh God.”
    He looked up at me and said, “Okay, here’s the deal: crawl along with me for a little while and I’ll stop.”
    “How long is a little while?”
    “From here to that hubcap up ahead.”
    It was about a stone’s throw away. “Deal.”
    And thus I crawled along the Trans-Canada with my son. I’ve heard that parenting can strip you of dignity; here was my crash course.
    He asked me, “How did you sleep last night?”
    “Not much. I felt great today, though.”
    “I’m glad. What did you do?”
    “I cleaned out my condo.” A few cars honked at us, while the absence of a police presence made me wonder about the fate of civilization. “And I bought flowers. I haven’t bought flowers in—well, ever , really.”
    “That’s nice. What kind?”
    “Peonies.”
    “What colour?”
    “White.”
    “They’re soft, aren’t they?”
    “They really are.”
    “I like peonies.”
    The cool softness of the peonies was the opposite of grit, pebbles and hot pavement.
    “You’ve really never bought flowers for yourself before?” Despite all his spying, I managed to surprise him.
    “For myself? No.”
    “How come?”
    “Because it’s like something they tell you to do in those books that try to teach you to cure loneliness. Buy flowers for yourself because you deserve it! I mean, a man is in a bookstore and he buys a book on loneliness—every woman in the store hits on him. A woman buys a book on loneliness and the store clears out.”
    “So you’re lonely.”
    “Yes, of course I’m lonely. Who isn’t lonely?” We were almost at the hubcap. “I think you’re too young to understand. And there’s our hubcap. Upsy-daisy.”
    Before I could rise, he bounced up like a Russian gymnast and reached out his hands to me. I was grateful for the lift. His hands were burning hot, and caked in blood and road grit. My hose were shot, and I’d somehow broken the heel on one shoe. I reached down and removed it.
    Jeremy said, “Give me your other shoe.” I did, and he broke off its heel. “There. Now you’re level.”
    “Thank you. Let’s just cross this highway without getting killed, and I’ll drive toward the sun of your choice.”
    Inside the car, air conditioning blasting away, I felt blood surging through my carotid artery, my head thumping away. “You need to eat,” I said. “I’ll make you something at my place.”
    He was holding my peonies in his lap, looking longingly at the sun. For the first time I let myself wonder: Is Jeremy really nuts? Come on, Liz, be practical. You’re a single woman. This is an unknown man you’re letting enter your life. I was also wondering about the depth and breadth of what appeared to be a religious streak. He certainly knew the language, and yet he didn’t seem like he was the mouthpiece for any particular sect. His upbringing, I imagined. We had yet to touch on that. And of course, I had to wonder about drugs. “Are you on any medications?”
    “No.”
    “Let me rephrase that: are you supposed to be taking something but you’ve stopped?”
    “No.”
    “Do you like pudding?”
    “Do I what?”
    “Chocolate pudding. I only have soft foods in the apartment.” I pointed to my jaw. “Wisdom teeth.”
    We got out of the car and quietly walked to the building’s front door. The inside lobby was as cool as it had been the afternoon I returned from the exodontist. In the elevator I said, “You push the button.” When we arrived on my floor, he already knew the number of my suite.
    He walked around the condo, checking things out. Unlike Donna from my office, Jeremy was no faker. “I’ve been in three orphanages in my life, and this place is more depressing than all three combined.”
    “I don’t care. I don’t understand beauty.”
    “But you like the flowers, right?” He placed the peonies in the sink.
    I fished around inside