“It’s fucking beautiful,” I said.
“Isn’t it? And out back …” Holding my hand, she brought me around behind the tent, where three sub-tents were set up. “We have Spam, water, fuel and every other sort of supply you can imagine.”
“Sarah, I am in awe. How did you manage to get all this out here?”
“You’ve noticed I’ve not been around much the past few days, right?”
“Well, yes. But I thought it was just that you and Stuart were screwing each other’s brains … I mean, that you were having private time together.”
“Nonsense. Stuart’s a workaholic. But because he’s high enough up the food chain, nobody questions me about anything, so I can do whatever I want. Now let’s go and …” She became coy and took my hand, and we scampered to some blankets spread before a fire that was ready to light. There was a silver bucket with a bottle of bubbly and some fresh fruit and cheeses. She knelt and put a match to the kindling. Whoosh.
“Sarah, this is heaven!”
“I’m so glad we’re finally together. Since the moment we met, I’ve been dreaming of this.” She pulled me down onto the blankets, and we began to make out like teenagers. And sometime during all this foreplay, a little voice ran through my mind—it was my voice, of course, but one I don’t use too often. It was my nice voice, and it said, Well, Raymond, good things come to all good people who wait. You’ve got your Cure T-shirt and a custom-carved red plastic knoon. You’ve got a year’s supply of Spam and booze, and you’ve got Sarah. Life doesn’t get better than this, Ray, it really doesn’t—so enjoy it all!
I was enjoying it, by God, and we finally got down to the real business there on the blankets. Sarah’s singlet was gone and then her bikini top and then her pants. I could barely keep myself together.
Wait—was I hallucinating?
Wait—what the hell?
Wait—what the fuck?
I jumped back about five feet, and a pickaxe of pain dug into my forehead and skull. I felt like I was burning up. Sarah looked at me, giggled and said, “Now, Raymond, are you telling me that nobody told you … that you didn’t know?”
“I … I … I …”
“Oh, Raymond, this is truly, truly funny. You mean you really didn’t know that I’m a man?”
55
“I figured you’d probably be out here.”
“Yes, well, whatever.”
Fiona was in the Zodiac on the foaming sea, along with Kyle and Emma, both of whom were delighted to find me perched on a coral cluster on the north side of Sarah’s island. The kids obviously had no clue of what had happened to me and, with Fiona in charge, most likely never would.
Emma shouted, “Come for a ride, Dad! It’s so much fun!”
Kyle added, “We’ve seen a barracuda and everything.”
Fi looked at me pointedly. “Seen any barracudas lately, Raymond?”
“Fu—ha, ha, ha.”
“I’ve made sandwiches,” Emma cajoled. “And we have some delicious lemonade. It’s a sea picnic. Climb in, Dad.”
“You may as well get in the boat, Raymond,” Fiona offered.
Bloated hag. “Well, okay.”
I climbed in and Kyle asked, “What’s that amulet you have around your neck?” He was referring to the knoon, which I had made into an amulet with a piece of nylon netting I found snagged on the coral. “Can I see it?”
I handed it to Kyle. Meanwhile, Fiona was her usual bullying self. “Raymond, you take that Cure T-shirt off right now and put it on top of your head. Your scalp’s so red you look like a preemie baby.”
“Okay, okay. Probably not a bad idea, even if it does make me look like a Gumby.”
“What’s a Gumby?” asked Emma.
“Just a character from an old TV show, sweetie,” said Fi. “But don’t worry, you’ll never have to watch it, or any other TV show, because TV is crap and the people in it are dreadful and I will work myself to the bone to ensure that both you and Kyle find careers as far away from TV as is possible within the constraints of civilization.”
“Okay, Mum, sounds reasonable.”
“Speaking of civilization, Raymond,” said Fi, “you’ll be happy to hear the nuclear crisis is over.”
“It is?”
“And not one city blown up in the end.”
“Great.” I couldn’t find the energy to muster any vitriol for my idiot species.
Emma piped up, “Shall we have some sandwiches now, Mum?”
“Excellent idea, Emma. Get them out of the cooler.”
Emma opened the cooler, removed the sandwiches and let out a small gasp.
“What is it, Emma?”
“Oh, Mum. I forgot to cut the crusts off. I’m terribly, terribly sorry.”
“No problem, sweetie. Hand them to your father. Kyle, give your father back the red spoony-knifey thingy.”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Raymond, please use your red plastic thingy and cut the crusts off the sandwiches.”
I looked at her and she looked at me.
Fucking hell.
“Yes, Mother.” And so I trimmed off the crusts.
Douglas Coupland (pronounced KOHP-lend) (born December 30, 1961) is a Canadian writer, designer and visual artist. His first novel was the 1991 international bestseller Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture. He has published fourteen novels, two collections of short stories, seven non-fiction books and a number of dramatic and comedic works for stage, film and TV. In June 2014, Coupland will have his first solo exhibition at the Vancouver Art Gallery, after which the exhibition will tour internationally.
Coupland is left-handed, is allergic to sulfa antibiotics and has never purchased anything from a duty-free store or eaten a peanut butter sandwich. Being born on the second-last day of the year, Coupland was always the youngest in his school classes, and until he turned thirty he was painfully skinny, which is why there are so few photos of him between the ages of eighteen and thirty. He now looks back on those few photos that exist and wishes he’d taken more, as he was, for a short window of time in the mid-1980s, technically hot.
Does he have any regrets about his twenties? Oh sure, everyone does. Coupland wishes he hadn’t worried so much and had relaxed a little. But, like most people with this mindset, he believes that his life would have gone nowhere had he not worried so much, and that it was the worrying itself that got him out into the world, hustling his ass and doing stuff. Coupland is quite certain, however, that he had a protective coating of youthful cluelessness that allowed him to make life decisions that, upon mature reflection, are utterly horrifying. For example, attending art school and then, in the few years afterwards, having made a modest go of things in the visual world, discovering writing and deciding to become a writer. Talk about a surefire career path! And yet it all kind of worked out in the end, and we must thank nature specifically for loaning us all a protective coating of cluelessness in our youth.
Worst. Person. Ever. Page 24