I walked up the grand staircase and selected a large bedroom with an ensuite bathroom and a magnificent view of the forest out back. But I sensed something weird going on. I couldn't put my finger on just what until I began sneezing. I looked more closely and realized that every surface in my room—and all of the other rooms—was covered in a gende felt of dust. Sunset beams coming from the west hit windows caked in dirt, spiderwebs, birch leaves and guano streaks. Down in the kitchen, Greg was on his phone. I went to the stove, turned the electric burners on maximum and watched as the dust on them burned away.
Greg clicked shut his cell. "Ethan, what are you doing?"
"Greg, when was the last time anybody was ever actually in this house?"
"Here? Let me see—" From the kitchen counter he picked up a yellowed, desiccated newspaper. "August 10,1993."
"Nobody's been here since 1993?"
"Why would they? On the other hand, if Taiwan or China or Singapore implodes, there'll be a family of thirty living here in a flash."
Suddenly the house felt like a coffin. "I have to go get some fresh air."
"You do that."
. . .
Sometimes what at first seems like a coincidence isn't really one at all. I say this because I decided to walk over to the Maui North project and check out the lots. I heard Lot 49 before I saw it: a roaring stream. I was walking there to have a magic moment between nature and myself, when who popped out from behind a boulder? freedom.
She looked at me. "Well, well, if it isn't the Penis come to rescue Mumsy-wumsy from being brainwashed."
"freedom, what 2xeyou doing here?"
"I might ask you the same question. Me? I'm here because I'm buying this lot."
"What?"
"Kam Fong put me on to this place. I can already taste the wattage this little trickle is going to give me. You?"
I was too confused to say anything cogent. "Where's Mom?"
"Over there."
freedom pointed to a patch of moss embedded with pine needles and chipmunks. A cinematic sunbeam lit my mother in end-of-day magic light.
"Ethan! Come feed a chipmunk!"
And then, from behind me, I heard Greg calling to freedom, "freedom! Glad you could make it." Greg looked at Mom and said, "Mom, what are you doing here?" Gathering his wits, he said, "freedom—have you met my mother?"
. . .
Before I forget, Bree came up with this new trick—how to create your name if you become a stripper. Basically, just figure out the least expensive form of sugar or sweetness you ate today . . .
. . .
We decided to let Dad sleep it off while the four of us went to a coffee place that catered almost exclusively to astonishingly attractive young people from Australia and New Zealand, all of whom were baked on local weed. In the middle of the cafe, freedom gave Mom a lusty back rub while Mom explained to Greg, "I know what you're thinking, but I am not a lesbian. I just need to reclaim my ovarian inner landlord."
This was too much for my brother. His form of denial is to begin speaking like a real estate ad. "Lot 49's such a honey of a property—a prestigious ski-in ski-out location with Whisder Village close by—it's ideal for a luxury chalet. Think vaulted ceilings! Think river-rock fireplace and wraparound decks! Think Ultraline professional appliances and beautiful detailed log work—a chalet to be proud of!"
"Greg, you know how bored we get when you talk like a brochure," Mom said. "And besides, don't sell something that's already sold."
freedom was cackling. "I'm certainly the chalet type, aren't I? Ha! I'm going to make a box out of concrete and pack in as many plants as I can. High style is for pantywaists." Her hands were disturbingly close to Mom's chest.
"Greg," said Mom, "as a favour to me, be sure you never ever sell that lot to anyone but freedom. I know how cannibalistic real estate sales are in Whisder. Even if someone offers you twice the asking price. You promise? On my grave? And that if you sell it to someone else, it means you don't love me?"
Greg promised.
An awkward silence ensued.
I was miserable. I saw no way to get Greg to ditch the sale to freedom.
More unnerving was the sight of Mom possibly being turned on by freedom's body rub. What a mess.
freedom barked, "Okay, we need to go now. We have just enough time to make it to The Passion Cycle of the Mons. I'm working the breast puppets this season."
Neither Greg nor I had the will to pursue that gambit.
"Give your father my love, boys." With that, Mom was gone.
Greg turned on me. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me Mom was freedom's—"
'freedom's what? Her shag bag? Her meat treat?'
"'Nothing."
'Let's not tell Dad about what just happened."
'Deal."
Rank
2
Skill
1579
Skill bonus
134
Total kills
585
Total deaths
245
Suicides
0
Souls crushed
4
Rounds survived
190/411
Life expectancy
46.73%
Kill streak
14
Death streak
5
Kills per death
2.37
Kills per minute
1.08
Kills per round
1.43
Deaths per round
0.60
Skill increase per round
1.08
Teammates killed
0
Death by teammates
0
Last man standing
4
Play time
8h59m
Longest session
1h5m
Terrorists joined
35
Killed VIPs
0
Planted bombs
33
Bombed targets
(91.38%) 31
Killed hostages
2
Killed terrorists
156
Saved VIPs
0
Defused bombs
(33.33%) 1
Grabbed hostages
9
I'm so fucking sick of Google.
. . .
In the end, the chalet's dust overwhelmed my sinuses, and I caught a bus back to the city. I was alone in jPod, looking up gory websites at which to park my brain for a few hours. Around eleven o'clock, everybody arrived back at work in high spirits.
"He's so funny, isn't he?"
"I know—it's like he has no OFF button."
"He can take anything and just run with it."
They saw me and clammed right up. "Uh . . . hi, Ethan."
"Don't tell me—it's Coupland, right?"
Bree went over to her desk and began Swiffering her shrine. "It's as if he knows everything about us—he listens to us and cares about us."
"Let me guess again—you've been at a shareholder meeting."
"Did you have a nice trip to Whisder?" Kaitlin asked.
"I would have told you about it already if you'd been around."
"Don't get pissy on me, buster, because I can tell with one glance that you've been having a gorefest. Even if I'd been here, I might as well have been a stacking chair."
She had a point.
My phone rang, and everybody dissolved into their own spaces. It was Bruce Pao: "Hey, Ethan, buddy—how did things go?"
"Hi, Bruce."
"So, how did things go?"
"I'm working on it, Bruce."
"He's not going to sell it to me, is he?"
"Nothing's final yet, Bruce."
"You have twenty-four hours or your game dies."
Crap.
. . .
I phoned Greg to plead my case. "Greg, come on—pleeeeez. This guy, Bruce—he'll top anything Mom's girlfriend pays."
>
"Ethan, no. Mom asked me specifically not to sell it to anybody else, so I can't."
"You'll get double your regular commission."
"No can do, bro."
Shit.
Kwantlen College Learning Annex
Course 3072-A
Assignment: Discuss Love with an
Unlikely Person
"Dial 888-LOVE"
by Kaitlin Anna Boyd Joyce
Kam Fong, thirty-four, is a friend and international businessman operating in most countries of the Pacific Rim.
Kaitlin:
Hi, Kam, thanks for agreeing to be interviewed.
Kam:
No problem.
Kaitlin:
The topic for this assignment is love. Have you ever been in love?
Kam:
No.
Kaitlin:
In like, then?
Kam:
I like people, but I have yet to love one.
Kaitlin:
Do you wonder if you're missing out on something?
Kam:
No.
Kaitlin:
How old are you?
Kam:
[Pauses.] Thirty-four.
Kaitlin:
Thitty-four? That's bad luck in Chinese, isn't it? Three is okay, but four is a terrible number.
Kam:
It is. Forty-four is considered the worst year of your life; thirty-four is second-worst.
Kaitlin:
When was your birthday?
Kam:
The day of the hug machine's launch.
Kaitlin:
You never told us!
Kam:
It's okay. That's why I put a quarter-pound of uncut medicinal-grade cocaine into Cowboy's cola—as a celebration of life.
Kaitlin:
That was so great, by the way. Everyone had a blast, and nobody had a clue why. I'm still finding glitter in my keyboard.
Kam:
I try to bring joy to people.
Kaitlin:
You really do.
Kam:
[Makes motions indicating he's about to do an impersonation.] If caring about your friends is a crime, then come and arrest me right now.
Kaitlin:
That's a perfect John Doe! [Another friend.]
Kam:
Thanks. Did you meet John's mother?
Kaitlin:
Yes.
Kam:
Believe it or not, of all the people I've ever met, I think I could actually fall in love with her.
Kaitlin:
Really? Now this interview is truly getting somewhere. You mean to say you could make it with freedom? [freedom (lower case f) is an ultra-lesbian.]
Kam:
She's a powerful, confident woman in a way that Chinese women aren't.
Kaitlin:
If things work out, freedom could end up as my mother-in-law.
Kam:
What?
Kaitlin:
You don't know?
Kam:
About what?
Kaitlin:
Ethan's mother ran off to live with freedom in a rural lesbian communal love shack with no A/C, electricity or running water.
Kam:
[No response.]
Kaitlin:
Kam?
Kam:
Really?
Kaitlin:
It's true. Ethan's dad is a mess because of it. He sits in the house, drinking rum and Gatorade with the lights turned off.
Kam:
He did miss dance class. [Kam and my boyfriend's father are professional-level ballroom dancers.]
Kaitlin:
In desperation, Ethan even allowed this stalker named Ellen, who's been hounding Jim forever, into the house. She got so bored that she left and quit the stalking.
Kam:
I see.
Kaitlin:
Let's go back to love. If you don't think you're capable of love, you must be doing something with all that love energy inside you.
Kam:
[Pauses.] I like to play matchmaker. If two people are right for each other, I hook them up. If things aren't working out, I can come in and help . . . ensure that things end peacefully.
Kaitlin:
So you're like the Internet then—except you're a real person.
Kam:
You flatter me. But yes.
Kaitlin:
What about your family? Where are they?
Kam:
Pffft. I don't really have one.
Kaitlin:
You're an orphan?
Kam:
In a way.
Kaitlin:
That's so adorable! You should let word get out—girls would swarm you. It's even better than walking around shirdess holding a puppy.
Kam:
I prefer the dignity of silence. I've actually made you numskulls in jPod my family.
Kaitlin:
Oh God, I'm getting teary.
Kam:
Here . . . [Reaches into pocket in search of Kleenex, finds none,
then brings out wallet and removes a scarlet wad of fresh fifty-dollar bills.] Use these.
Kaitlin:
Thanks, Kam. [I blow my nose.] Hey, are these real?
Kam:
No. Pretty good forgeries, huh?
Kaitlin:
They're great. I'm impressed. My parents got hosed with a suitcase of fake fifties on this shipment they sent down to the States via Spokane. I took one look at the bills and then looked at my parents and said, "How could you be taken in by such pathetic forgeries? You deserved to be shtupped! They look like they were done by a toddler running a tonerless Lexmark Pro they found in a garage sale."
Kam:
What did your parents say?
Kaitlin:
My mom said, "Well, they had a bumper sticker that said PROUD TO BE AMERICAN, and someone had just blown up an embassy somewhere, and we felt sorry for them."
Kam:
Parents.
Kaitlin:
Tell me about it. So for Christmas that year I gave them a Samsung Model CPC 993C-1 banknote counter with built-in forgery detection system. It can do over a thousand notes per minute.
Kam:
Is that the one that has banknote-width sensors that detect undersize notes to prevent accidentally mixed notes from being counted incorrecdy?
Kaitlin:
No, that's the Model OMAL 75D.
Kam:
Of course. What was I thinking?
Kaitlin:
So, if we're discussing love, we really do have to discuss your parents. Can you tell me anything?
Kam:
I was the second male child from Wife Number Four.
Kaitlin:
Is that good or bad?
Kam:
I suppose bad, because all alone I had to claw my way up and out of Beijing's unlubricated pre-capitalist sphincter, cockfight by cockfight—but, then, it was also good because I found my own way in life. I think that's important.
Kaitlin:
What about the first male child from Wife Number One?
Kam:
His life is so boring.
Kaitlin:
What does he do?
Kam:
He runs a chain of maybe five hundred massage parlours across the southern provinces. I went to one once. He cuts the baby oil with canola, and they charge you extra for a shower, and even then the water's the temperature of spit.
Kaitlin:
And he gets repeat customers?
Kam:
You'd think he'd simply offer better service to withstand a free market, but instead he kills his competitors. Where's the challenge in that? But I take some satisfaction in selling him his canola oil from here in Vancouver.
Kaitlin:
You're always helping people.
Kam:
I try. I really try.
Kaitlin:
Did you ever spend time with your father?
Kam:
No. Number One Son took care of him.
Kaitlin:
His own father?
Kam:
I know—where do you draw the line? But in all fairness, it was an accident. They were at the launch of his five hundredth parlour, and Dad showed up and got whacked out on Japanese apricot sake and some leftover date rape drug from a Chanel fragrance launch the night before in Hong Kong.
Kaitlin:
And . . . ?
Kam:
Suddenly someone wheeled out a helium canister and a stack of party balloons, and Dad thought it would be really funny to do a squeaky voice. He inhaled the helium, and all the capillaries in his lungs exploded, and he died on the spot.
Kaitlin:
!!!!!!!!!!
Kam:
What?
Kaitlin:
!!!!!!!!!!
Kam:
What?
Kaitlin:
You don't know?
Kam:
Know what?
Kaitlin:
That's how somebody from jPod died once.
Kam:
No shit. Fuck off. You're spooking me.
Kaitlin:
It's true.
Kam:
!!!!!!!!!
[NOTE: Kam excused himself here and went to his room for a few minutes. He came back in a much better mood.]
Kaitlin:
Sometimes drugs help us deal with our problems.
Kam:
I agree. Can we end the interview now? Too many painful memories.
Kaitlin:
No problem. Thanks, Kam, and thanks for helping everybody in so many ways.
Kam:
It's my job in life.
. . .
I was wondering what electrons are actually doing when they sit in your hard drive in an old laptop at the back of your closet. I mean, how does an electron sit still—4s it like a cartoon M&M leaning back in a folding beach chair? Is it like an angry little steel ball bearing hovering there, just waiting to go nuts on protons? What's the mechanism that starts and stops the electron? Who's its dungeon master? And if an electron has only a negative electrical charge, how can it possibly even exist? It'd be like a bar magnet with only a north or only a south pole. A monopole. It's impossible.
I voiced these concerns in the pod one day, and Bree didn't even look up, just said, "Quarks, aisle three."
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