The Gum Thief (28 page)

Wait-I'm not sure if bones count.

Let me go ogle it.

Five minutes later: Know what? Bones don't contain DNA, but marrow
does,
thus skeletons minus the marrow would be left behind inside the 747. Hair, it turns out, contains no DNA either-only the roots-so hair would be left behind as well. And don't forget teeth, minus the pulp inside them. In fact, what we think of as our bodies is only partially "us." We're made of filler. We're hot dogs, Roger. DNA is basically this containment system required to hold all of the goop we flatter ourselves into thinking is so holy.

But .
..
it turns out I was wrong about the sperm thing. Sperm contains fifty times as much DNA as blood does. It's a forensic bonanza. Weird, huh? But here's something I could never figure out. I remember looking at my high school yearbook and thinking it was strange that there were an equal number of girls and boys. Let's face it-there ought to be one guy for every hundred women. One trillion sperm for every egg? What was nature thinking? It's always struck me as nutty. I remember watching documentaries about WWII, how in Germany in 1946 there were two women for every man, and even at the age of six, I thought,

Yeah, that sounds far more realistic.

Time to change the subject.

Random fact:
If
you chug a gallon of whole milk, within one hour you'll puke yourself clean. Interruption ... Yves from the printing counter was wondering if I've

seen his cellphone. He's one of those guys who buys all of his Christmas presents at a 7-Eleven on Christmas Eve his family members get copies of
Vanity Fair
wrapped in Reynolds Wrap.

Yeah, Bethany, like you're totally into Christmas or something.

Thank you, interior monologue. You are correct. I am being a hypocrite.

But what was the universe thinking when it came up with Christmas?
Hey, let's wreck six weeks of the year with guilt and loneliness and unnecessary cheesy crap! And then let's invent office superstores where they can take everyday stuff like pens and glossy printer paper and commit an emotional travesty by suggesting these items as gift ideas for loved ones!

I think Christmas is about that point where we as humans split off from the rest of the universe and became prisoners of ourselves instead of being unselfconscious and free like the animals and birds. Yes, we received cars and jets and Hollywood motion pictures, but we also got saddled with calendars and time-the fact that there's either too much of it, or too little. And we also got saddled with the knowledge that we can either make use of time doing worthwhile things or fritter it away watching
Partridge Family
marathons on satellite TV stations while drinking one of the countless new energy drinks that have appeared on the market overnight. I like Red Bull because it tastes like penicillin. Sick, huh?

Coffee break over. I have to go tidy up the bargain CD bin.

Joy to the world.

I'm going to show my mother the new chapters. She's your biggest fan.

And you still haven't told me how you are.

B.

ps:
It's five minutes later and I had to come back in and add this. I think Christmas celebrates the moment in our history as a species when we stopped being prey and began making weapons and traps and turned into predators like those apes at the start of 2001. There's never been another species that's done that. We
are
unique. We changed modes.

Glove Pond:
Kyle

The doorbell rang. Kyle wondered if he might learn why his hosts had taken five minutes to answer the bell when he and Brittany arrived. No such information was forthcoming. Gloria put down Kendall's plastic choo-choo train, patted her hair and went to answer it, revealing a tall, thin, generically aristocratic white-haired man in a tweed coat frayed at the elbows, his ears pink from the cold. She was thrilled. "Why-it's acclaimed theatrical director and curmudgeonly-yet-sophisticated man about town, Leonard Van Cleef! Hello, Leonard. Welcome to my charming and gracious home!"

"Yeah. Hiya, Gloria." Leonard rubbed his hands and walked in. Steve was still on the floor, idly playing with Kendall's Finding Nemo plastic scooter. "Hello, Leonard."

"Hello, Steve."

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Scotch, if you have any."

"Right."

Kyle sensed no warmth between the two men. Gloria, meanwhile, stood beside a chair, practising alluring come-hither poses. "What brings you out tonight?"

"I thought we might discuss the playa little bit."

"Really?" Gloria's eyes saucered. "Of course we can discuss the play. We must. Art must always come first." Kyle coughed. "Oh, I'm sorry," said Gloria. "Please let me introduce you to tonight's dinner guest-" Gloria's pose reminded Kyle of nineteenth-century kill shots of British lords brandishing muskets above gargantuan slain leopards. "This is acclaimed and rich young novelist Kyle Falconcrest. Kyle and his wife are here for dinner tonight. Nothing fussy-Chinese takeout. That's the way we like it here at our house: friendly, informal, casual, and yet charming and gracious at the same time."

"Jeez." Leonard looked at Kyle. "You a relative or something?"

"Nope."

"Small mercies. These two take the cake."

Steve handed Leonard his Scotch. Leonard swished it around in its tumbler, then
surveyed the room around him. "Nice digs. Been living here long?"

"Since my first novel came out."

Gloria burst in, "It garnered good reviews but didn't sell much." "Huh." Steve sipped his drink and Gloria said, "Kyle's last book sold ten million copies."

Leonard looked at Kyle as though Kyle had sprouted antlers. "Really?"

"Uh-yes."

"Would have to have been something pretty broad to sell that much. What was it-a batch of kittens secretly takes over a weight-loss clinic? And then the kittens turn a ragtag bunch of losers into skinny people with rich sex lives and unconditional love from their family members?"

"That actually
would
be a big seller," said Kyle.

"What's a weight-loss clinic?" asked Steve.

"Oh,
Steve,"
chided Gloria. "Everyone knows what a weight-loss clinic is. People go to them all the time. They're very popular. You use their scientifically designed programs to lose weight while Hollywood celebrities and members of the British royal family support you through posters and brochures, urging you onward with little homilies and bromides. Some of these centres also have tanning salons."

"How do you know so much about this?"

"Oh,
Steve.
Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve,
Steve."
Gloria gave her husband a wise, ageless smile, then looked at Leonard as if to apologize for Steve's inability to keep pace with the times. "None of his novels ever sold very well, you know."

"Wow," said Leonard. "You people
do
take the cake."

Kyle looked at Leonard. "They really do. They're like a John Cheever novel. Except it's set in hell. Check this place out-it's like time stopped ten minutes before they cancelled the Apollo space program."

"You've been snooping?" asked Steve.

"Browsing. Snooping would kick up too much dust." He turned to Leonard. "The whole place is coated in dryer lint."

Three streets away, a truck changed gears. A passing helicopter bunted at the night air.

"Right then," said Leonard. "Enough for witty banter and formalities. I've come here to talk shop. I have news."

DeeDee

Roger, I'm worried sick about Bethany. She's truly and totally not herself any more. To be honest, she's ... scary. She washed the dishes last night without being nagged, and then I went into the living room and she was sitting in a chair, not reading or doing anything else, ,:-':-just sitting in a chair':-':--which sounds innocent and all, but it's
spooky.
It
was like a sci-fi movie where a body-snatched human being is sitting motionless while the invading alien incubates within. And the window was wide open. She thinks that if she stays cold her body will burn more calories and she'll get thin.

Why does she suddenly care what she looks like? She obviously did during her Goth years, but that was an act of rebellion, whereas this new exercise and dieting craze feels like the worst sort of conformity. Nothing would make me happier today than to see Bethany walk into the living room eating a bowl of Creamsicle ice cream while lecturing me about my directionless lifestyle and wearing a black Cure tank top with her eyes blacked out like Alice Cooper. Alice Cooper isn't strictly Goth, I know that, but you know what I mean. Where did the real Bethany go? What happened in Europe? She won't discuss it. Okay, she got dumped, but if I try to use the I've-been-there tone of voice, she gives me the yes-but-you-always-get-dumped-in-the end tone of voice. So
who are you to offer advice?

Oh, her little broken heart! Now I'm crying, Roger. Imagine Bethany's tiny little broken black heart, lying on some cobbled London thoroughfare like a piece of litter!

I can barely remember my first heartbreak. I used to fall in love so easily, falling out of love always emerged as an inevitable end product. Sometimes I remember being happy with someone, and then panicking and pretty much choosing to fall out of love just so I wouldn't get dumped. Only a young person could do something that stupid. It's only now that I'm past the point when I'll ever again be loved that I know how sacred the whole process is. Ain't life a kick in the teeth?

If
you can think of
some
way to make her be herself again, please be a friend to me-and to her-and share the idea.

DD

PS: It's funny how often I think about Steve and Gloria.

Roger

Bethany ... The last two weeks of the year are the worst two weeks of the year. Who the hell invented December?
Curse you, Pope Gregory.
It's a disaster of a month, a complete waste of thirty-one days. And it's not like early January's much better.

I didn't know about Kyle-I hope it's not too weird, me mentioning him by name. He's a creep, and he's out of your picture. At least you saw his true colours quickly, albeit thousands of miles from home. Did you get anything out of Europe besides a theatrical backdrop for a bad personal situation? There's a part of me that's actually jealous that you got to go
to
Europe in love, and that you got to feel something intensely. I'm showing my age, but send me a postcard when you're in your forties and see if you don't agree.

The important thing is to not obsess on the dark stuff-I can imagine you saying, "Gee, Roger, thanks for the sage advice." But it remains good advice. In twenty years you'll remember the good and the bad more equally. And you
will
get over this. That's the hardest thing of all to believe, that the hurt will dampen and shrink.