The Gum Thief by Douglas Coupland Page A
Authors: Douglas Coupland
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, Love Stories, Authorship, Diary fiction, Divorced men, Fiction - Authorship
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Steve said. "The doorbell's ring mechanism is directly beneath your makeup collection, and as sound travels more quickly through solids, chances are that you heard the doorbell ring first. And tell me, your Grace, why won't you answer the door?"
"Because it's my role to be walking down the stairs in a gracious manner while you answer the door. That way, I can work on my character of Lady Windermere too. My devotion, my dear, is to my craft. And, tit-for-tat, why won't you open the door?"
Steve was matter of fact: "I think it befits the director of a highly prestigious English faculty to be seated near the fireplace when his guests arrive, perhaps holding a snifter of highly exclusive brandy."
"Let me get this straight," said Gloria. "You'd put your petty vanity ahead of my need to be an artist?"
"Tell me, Gloria, does Lady Windermere actually descend a staircase in the play?"
Checkmate. "No."
Steve felt he could already taste Gloria's opening of the door. Then a voice inside his head said, Wait-can one actually taste the opening of a door?
Gloria, however, surprised him. "Steve-if I agree to discuss your five novels with you, would you consent to opening the door?"
It had been years since they had discussed his five critically acclaimed yet poorly selling novels. "Maybe." He was wary.
"Is that a yes?"
He chewed the lower knuckle of his right index finger. "Yes." Gloria climbed the stairs to position herself. "Not so quickly, Meryl Streep. You agreed to discuss my five novels."
Gloria shrugged. "Very well, then. Shall we go in chronological order?" "Please." "Okay, novel number one, Infinity’s Passion." Steve's face bore the expression of a kindergartner
just moments before the commencement of an Easter egg hunt. "Yes?"
"Potent but impotent. A cuckold's vagina."
Steve protested, "What the hell does that mean? Infinity's Passion established my career. Without Infinity's Passion, how would we have been able to live in a stately home built of Connecticut slate, with a steep staircase that allows you to descend to the front door like a hostess from another, more gracious era?"
"Novel number two: Less Than Fewer. Forced. Anticlimactic. Emotionally arid and repetitive."
"Nonsense. Critics compared it to Henry James."
"Yes," taunted Gloria. "If I remember correctly, an embalmed Henry James-inasmuch as words can be embalmed." "Jesus, Gloria," shouted Steve. "Why do you have to be so caustic?"
"Novel number three: Gumdrops, Lilies and Forceps."
"That was a good book!"
"Yes, well, whatever. Novel number four-Eagles and Seagulls-the story of my family, which you pilfered as easily as if it were a pack of gum."
"Not true. Merely because its heroine has copper tinted kiss-curls like your mother's does not mean I strip-mined your family for material."
"If you need to believe that, then please do. Let's discuss novel number five, Immigrant Living in a Small Town, which began your final decline into the creation of meaningless compost mounds of spew."
Steve removed his hand from the door handle. "How dare you! The Times Literary Review called it a masterpiece of miniaturization. 'A Five-Year Plan of the Microscopic.' "
"What have you written lately, my dear?"
"Oh, for God's sake, is it that important to you that I be the one to answer the door?"
"Yes, it is."
The doorbell rang again.
They looked at the door as though it were a coffin, with two bony claws about to crash through in pursuit of living souls upon which to feed. "You know I've had writer's block for a long time,
Gloria."
"Open the do01; Steve."
"Yes, dear."
Steve did.
DeeDee
I don't understand the human heart.
Only pain makes it grow stronger. Only sorrow makes it kind. Contentment makes it wither, and joy seems to build walls around it. The heart is perverse, and it is cruel. I hate the heart and it seems to hate me.
Roger, you stay away from my daughter. She tells me you've been writing letters or something back and forth. Well, put a stop to that
"Because it's my role to be walking down the stairs in a gracious manner while you answer the door. That way, I can work on my character of Lady Windermere too. My devotion, my dear, is to my craft. And, tit-for-tat, why won't you open the door?"
Steve was matter of fact: "I think it befits the director of a highly prestigious English faculty to be seated near the fireplace when his guests arrive, perhaps holding a snifter of highly exclusive brandy."
"Let me get this straight," said Gloria. "You'd put your petty vanity ahead of my need to be an artist?"
"Tell me, Gloria, does Lady Windermere actually descend a staircase in the play?"
Checkmate. "No."
Steve felt he could already taste Gloria's opening of the door. Then a voice inside his head said, Wait-can one actually taste the opening of a door?
Gloria, however, surprised him. "Steve-if I agree to discuss your five novels with you, would you consent to opening the door?"
It had been years since they had discussed his five critically acclaimed yet poorly selling novels. "Maybe." He was wary.
"Is that a yes?"
He chewed the lower knuckle of his right index finger. "Yes." Gloria climbed the stairs to position herself. "Not so quickly, Meryl Streep. You agreed to discuss my five novels."
Gloria shrugged. "Very well, then. Shall we go in chronological order?" "Please." "Okay, novel number one, Infinity’s Passion." Steve's face bore the expression of a kindergartner
just moments before the commencement of an Easter egg hunt. "Yes?"
"Potent but impotent. A cuckold's vagina."
Steve protested, "What the hell does that mean? Infinity's Passion established my career. Without Infinity's Passion, how would we have been able to live in a stately home built of Connecticut slate, with a steep staircase that allows you to descend to the front door like a hostess from another, more gracious era?"
"Novel number two: Less Than Fewer. Forced. Anticlimactic. Emotionally arid and repetitive."
"Nonsense. Critics compared it to Henry James."
"Yes," taunted Gloria. "If I remember correctly, an embalmed Henry James-inasmuch as words can be embalmed." "Jesus, Gloria," shouted Steve. "Why do you have to be so caustic?"
"Novel number three: Gumdrops, Lilies and Forceps."
"That was a good book!"
"Yes, well, whatever. Novel number four-Eagles and Seagulls-the story of my family, which you pilfered as easily as if it were a pack of gum."
"Not true. Merely because its heroine has copper tinted kiss-curls like your mother's does not mean I strip-mined your family for material."
"If you need to believe that, then please do. Let's discuss novel number five, Immigrant Living in a Small Town, which began your final decline into the creation of meaningless compost mounds of spew."
Steve removed his hand from the door handle. "How dare you! The Times Literary Review called it a masterpiece of miniaturization. 'A Five-Year Plan of the Microscopic.' "
"What have you written lately, my dear?"
"Oh, for God's sake, is it that important to you that I be the one to answer the door?"
"Yes, it is."
The doorbell rang again.
They looked at the door as though it were a coffin, with two bony claws about to crash through in pursuit of living souls upon which to feed. "You know I've had writer's block for a long time,
Gloria."
"Open the do01; Steve."
"Yes, dear."
Steve did.
DeeDee
I don't understand the human heart.
Only pain makes it grow stronger. Only sorrow makes it kind. Contentment makes it wither, and joy seems to build walls around it. The heart is perverse, and it is cruel. I hate the heart and it seems to hate me.
Roger, you stay away from my daughter. She tells me you've been writing letters or something back and forth. Well, put a stop to that
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