“There
is no normal,” I retort. It’s an old argument for us. “All people are broken,
all situations are fucked up, all roads lead the Vandals straight to Rome. The
trick is figuring out what to do with that.”
“So the
trick is learning to live a trite truism like a douchebag; that’s good to know.
Maybe you could get a gig writing the ninty-fifth Chicken Soup book.”
“Ouch”
“Here,
apply for this one,” he
tells me. “Some giant Korean
videogame company needs a Community Relations hack.”
Community
relations is a special field of PR unique to the videogame industry; for the
most part, it involves babysitting the customer “player communities” on their
various messageboards, placating one faction and admonishing another. One of
the biggest problem with “persistent state” videogames, where the players
connect to centralized servers and socialize in the thousands, is that there is
a continuing responsibility on the part of the publisher to keep them happy.
You sell someone a book, a movie, a music CD, and they go home to enjoy it. You
sell someone a copy of Everquest, and they come over to your
house to play.
“Community
relations.” I state flatly.
“Yep!”
“For
a Korean game company?”
“Unhunh.
It gets worse, too; its based in Los Angeles. How desperate are you feeling?”
I
sigh. Starvation versus Los Angeles is a photo finish.
- - -
Every
year, I fly to Los Angeles for the Electronic Entertainment Expo, known as ‘E3’
to the fellow-fluffers of the game industry. Every year, I manage to hate L.A.
more. This last year was no different.
My
mental conception of this city is perfectly mirrored by the view one first gets
of the city from the air, banking through the smog on final approach. No amount
of exaggeration or hyperbole can possibly explain what a terrible, post-human
sight that it is to anyone not marred by lobotomy or the television industry;
the giant, bleak concrete anus of Western civilization, clenched futilely
against the rampaging thrusts of cultural capitalism. The view is only enhanced
by the exhaust fume cloudbanks, which have by now graduated from being a new
form of weather to possibly becoming the sentient overlords of their fleshy
fathers below, like some evil Arthur C. Clarke cloud monster normally found
eating a pig-blimp in the atmosphere of Jupiter. It doesn't help that the
object of this nightmare descent is LAX, the art deco berthing terminal of Hell
Itself, packed full of yammering, Anaheim-bound yokels and grubby Hare Krishna
madmen who would kill you if only the airport security wasn't so tight ('tight'
here is entirely subjective, given that 95% of all security in America is
performed by fat black women with voices reminiscent of the entire Kriegsmarine
casting off from their Teutonic port. But I digress).
After waiting half an hour at a baggage carousel that looked like a
Soviet-vintage tank tread pulled across a go-kart circuit, my bag was finally
disgorged, coated in motor oil and smelling faintly like a phlegmatic old man
who hangs around the park feeding mangy geese pieces of bread he found in his
attic. I would later find a note tucked deep inside the recessed of my
suitcase, humorlessly informing me that Uncle Sam had seen fit to paw through
my dainty unmentionables on the off chance that I had the extremely pale
Canadian version of jihad on my brain. I then waited for two hours for my tiny
airport hotel shuttle to arrive, which was driven by a psychotic man who spoke
an unfamiliar language- possibly Mongolian- and was obviously determined to
enter whatever passes for Valhalla on the steppes of his sheep-fucking
grasslands by wrapping himself, me, and my violated suitcase around the closest
telephone pole, Humvee, or Laker fan, respectively.
In other words, more or less par for the course for Los Angeles.
After checking into my hotel room, I flopped down on the bed, intending to
watch TV for the next few hours. All I could find was Telemundo, which was
showing four men in drag playing a ukulele and occasionally bursting into
hysterical laughter; it was at this point that I realized that Bumblebee Man
was not a caricature of Hispanic television, but is in fact a composite of what
people who speak this strange and frightening language actually laugh at.
But I don't judge, mind you; Americanss don't see what's on Quebec T.V., and
for that I'm thankful. God knows what the state of NORAD would be if one of
them flipped on late night television to see a man dressed like Aretha Franklin
do a tap dance and pull a live monkey from his rectum, announce "le
singe!", and for his troubles get a standing ovation and three encores.
The
only bright side to last year’s trip was meeting the co-editor of my website
for the first time in person. Joe and I had gotten to be very good friends in
the past year, and hit it off wonderfully in person. He suggested we should get
together again soon, and I whole-heartedly concurred. There was much Dostoevsky
to discuss.
After barely surviving the return trip to the airport (the first half of which
was spent with the back hatch of the airport shuttle flapping completely open,
while the death wish Mongolian angrily quizzed me about the brutal Vancouver
winter), I would vow to never again
return. Like a binge drinker’s hangover, this is a vow I make every year, and
one I gleefully break the next May like clockwork.
Los
Angeles is, after all, the mighty Queen of all the whores in the land.
- - -
His
advice was starting to make sense.
“Send
them a nasty e-mail. It’s been four fucking months.”
I
had, indeed, been four fucking months without a word. Four months since they’d
get right back to me, a third of a year since I was told that if they didn’t
want to hire me they’d let me know ‘right away’, nearly half the development
cycle of a human fetus since they’d started dicking me. It still wasn’t too
late for an abortion.
It
started out as a nasty e-mail… but this is me we’re talking about. After two
revisions, it was a paltry two sentences.
margin-left:0in'>From: poppin@telus.net
margin-left:0in'>To: assholes_who_dick_me@massiveconglomerate.com
margin-left:0in'>Subject: Imminent
Starvation
margin-left:0in'>
Hey
Steve,
Just
wondering if you guys were still looking to hire for that Community Manager
spot, as I haven’t heard back from you in a while and was curious as to what’s
up. As always, drop me a line at your convenience.
Ian
“That’s
the nastiest you can be? You are such a pussy,” He said. I had found that He was in the
habit of saying that a lot, lately. Whence had gone all the witticism of our
earlier exchanges?
“It gets
harder to be witty this far into the book without breaking the fourth wall,
doesn’t it,” he said,
smirking as he poured himself a Talisker from the bar on my dresser. Steven King
claims writers don’t need to drink; Steven King is so full of shit he should go
into the methane business.
- - -
The
opportunity to see Joe again would come sooner than I had expected.
“I’m
going to New York for a while, want to join me? We could visit Chad and Max and
Bobby, and get really drunk,” he said, listing three of my friends who I had
made while working on the web magazine that had cost me my post-secondary
education, who were now also his friends by virtue of our current venture and
my personal network of insanity.
Idea:
Mary was an hour away from New York, in Connecticut.
“I
like the sound of that, Joe. I do indeed like your thinking”
Mary
was amenable, wanting to assess me worth as a romantic entity in person, a
desire I concurred with. After all, there was no sense in tormenting ourselves
if there was no spark to speak of, and therefor no reason to risk a valuable
friendship, right? I’d stay with her for three nights, then drive up to Boston
with her and Joe to visit Chad, Max, Bobby, and Chad’s friend Shawn, another E3
friend Joe and I had met. All bases covered, old friendships renewed, a good
time had by all.
I
had just enough cash left from the contracting gig to cover a flight to
Montreal, where Mary would pick me up. We’d spend a day testing out my
increasingly-forgotten French, then drive down to Connecticut.
“Um,
I should ask The Marine if he wants to come. It wouldn’t be…”
“Yeah,
sure.” I almost managed not to sound disappointed, but as usual she was quite
right. She had prior responsabilities to respect.
“Come
up with something for us to all do in Montreal, and I’ll plan your stay in
Connecticut. I can think of a few very fun things I’d like to do,” she
hinted huskily.
Mixed
signals, ahoy.
“Er,
right, sure thing. Then you can come with us to Boston and meet the gang. Um,
did you plan on inviting the Marine for that, too?”
She
sighed. “I don’t know, Ian. We’ll see how it goes with… things.”
Oh,
right, things. Thanks for clarifying that, god damnit.
“I’m
sure everything will work out fine, Mary. I trust and love you, you trust and
love me, we’re two mature people. Out of that, we can solve anything.”
“I
hope you’re right, Ian, I really do.”
So
do I, Mary.
- - -
“That
self-loathing thing of yours,”
He says in a lazy drawl, leaning against the towel rack while I take a shit, “is entirely an affectation.”
“Oh,
really? In that case, perhaps I’m worthy of having you wipe my ass for me.”
“Very
funny. No, you force yourself to do it out of a sense of balance, because we-
you- are an egotist, or more accurately a narcissist. But you find that
insufferable in yourself, and therefor force yourself to hate it all.”
“How
insightful. Maybe you should write the Chicken Soup books”.
“No
thanks, got other plans. At any rate, isn’t it ironic that you set out to hate
all aspects of your personality in an effort to spite on particular aspect that
you hate? I mean, that’s just Shakespearean, man.”
Maybe
he’s right, but he’s such an asshole. I flick soapy water at him rather
than dry off my hands. “Move, I need to check my e-mail.”
“What’s
the point,” he
whines, drifting down the hallway behind me. “None
of them are going to hire us, they like the dicking too much. Fuck ‘em all, I
say.”
“You
would, you don’t need to eat.”
“Petty
details. Think those bastards have broken their marathon silence yet?”
“Huh.
Yeah, he sent me an e-mail.”
margin-left:0in'>From: assholes_who_dick_me@massiveconglomerate.com
margin-left:0in'>To: poppin@telus.net
margin-left:0in'>Subject: Re:
Imminent Starvation
Hey
Ian,
How’s
it going?
Steve
“Well I,
for one, am speechless. What more could we possibly ask for? That answers every
question I ever had!” my
echo cackled.
“I’m
not even going to bother replying. You’re right, they’re not just stupid,
they’re actually militantly retarded”, I said. I shuddered; human idiocy
on this scale was not just irritating to me, it was anathema. I could barely
remain civil to normals, let alone people who needed bibs to eat a peanut
butter sandwich like these 'homo rutabegas' I was obviously dealing
with. There was no hope now.
“Better
write an impeccable Three Day Novel if you plan on eating for the next little
while,”
we murmured.
“Yes,” we replied. “I’ll also need liquor."
“Indeed.”
“Indeed.”
- - -
There
was no specific moment when I had told myself when such-and-such was all going
to work out; as a creature of hope, that vision of success was simple reality
to me, and not even requiring further consideration. It was only ever in
retrospect that my dreams were loathingly decompiled for all their blind
faiths. Hope leads to disappointment, and the dissapointed must exact their
revenge. My soul was less a piece of ethereal real estate than a First World
War battlefront, with two factions struggling in a fury of violence that left
very little else standing.
But
that war had been going on for most of the formative years of my life, and I
had long since gotten used to the transformation of hope from something pure
into a grubbing, seedy dash for money by whatever means. Or love, for that
matter; anything to pull me out of this existentialist waiting room.
The
first potential job was tenative and shadowy, a mirage on the horizon. In
accordance, the amount of hope I accredited it was small; no fanfare, just measured
anticipation. As such, the toll when it never came to pass was small, a feeling
of faliure but little else.
The
problem, of course, was that as I became increasingly qualified for other work,
the offers got more serious, the interest more mature. Each time a new offer
came, the hope grew a little more, that 'this time' would be the one when I'd
finally break in, I'd finally justify years of contact-building, hand-shaking
bullshit and achieve a measure of success. Each time, the ludicrous song and dance
on their part would get more elaborate, like som elaborate raincaller ceremony.
Vague promises of 'something', combined with assuranced of a speedy reply;
followed then by lengthy silence, uninterrupted by any display of intent, be it
positive or negative. The most common words spoken by me in regards to these
job opportunities during this time was "Fuck, I wish they'd just tell me
'no' so I could get on with my life."
Hope
is the greatest sin of them all; from hope springs all the others, a thousand
tiny black spiders hatched from one small white egg.
- - -
No
amount of thesaurus abuse could possibly convey how hot and humid Connecticut,
New York, and the entire Northeast was by the time I got there. The comparisons
to Heart of Darkness would have been overwhelming had it not been for
one niggling detail; rather than chasing after my personal Kurtz, I was
bringing the smarmy bastard along with me, snug inside my head. I was not
exploring madness, or delving deeper into it; I was a willing lay, a ripe piece
of ass. I was not insane, I just immersed myself in insanity, a courtier to the
real show.
“He
means me, folks.”
Mary’s
life was like a finely-crafted duplication of the Martha Stewart existence. Her
mother was a caterer. They lived in a giant New England house with five cars
and a pool.
This
with Mary went more or less as I had expected them to; poignant longing,
interrupted by occasioanl bouts of romantic passion that would never go ‘too
far’ out of respect for The Marine, but nonetheless served to underscore the
mutuality of our feelings. Mine were blissfully uninhibited by the enormous
burden of past baggage, hers were tentative and tremulous, but trusting.
Our
days were spent wandering around Connecticut or New York, as she showed me all
her favorite things. Invariably, they had the dual effect of endearing her to
me further, and reminding me just how poor I was.
“He was
out of his league, folks.”
On
the third day, I could sense she was troubled, so I offered to take a train
into New York to meet up with Joe and Max, allowing her time to be alone with
The Marine, who was beginning to get darkly suspicious. Ironic, that a man
could get jealous with no evidence, when in reality he didn’t see the real
reasons to be jealous.
So
I met Joe and Max and their friend Daniel at Grand Central, and we wandered
around Manhattan at night, getting stoned on terrible American weed and
drinking a bottle of champagne Joe had brought for me. The subway tunnels were
well into the 115 degree range, and rather prophetically it seemed as though
the whole city were on the verge of a breakdown.
At
one point we stopped so Joe could find a bathroom and Daniel could buy some
vodka. Max and I stood on a street corner, chatting.
A
bum approached.
“Geez,
you fellas scare the crap outta me! This guy,” he indicated Max with a wave,
“looks like he wanna kill summun, and dis guy,” pointing at me, “… he just look
evil.”
I
smiled at the compliment, and Max gave him a quarter.
Just
as Joe and Daniel returned, the man began telling us about the local
neighborhood hotspots. I had noted some time before that we were well and truly
within the confines of New York’s gay district, so I smiled and nodded
politely.
“You
guys like clubs?” To my horror, Joe nodded enthusiastically. Weren’t there gay
people in Las Vegas? Was he that blind?
“There’s
this place just down the block, they have a big dancefloor and they spin good
tracks all night, you can have a good time dere.” He actually winked.
Joe
just nodded again. “Sounds like a good idea!”
Max
groaned behind his back.
The
bum continued. “Oh, and if you like, you know, women, there’s a club up
thataways you might like, too.”
“Oh,”
said Joe. “Oh, right, yes. I like women! Yeah! Carry on, then!”
An
unfortunate homosexual diplomatic situation thus averted, we carried on into
the welcoming New York night.
- - -
“I am
the American nightmare made flesh; the dirty, unemployed French Canadian writer
who seduces their soldier’s women whilst they are off defending freedom.
“He is a
cad. He is intelligent, affable, genial, well-dressed and spoken, and so very
young. He is a book promoter’s wet dream and a critic’s worst nightmare. So
perhaps a third camp is possible among those who read this work… a camp that
worships and adores him like some classical moon god. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
“I told
you he’s a narcissist.”
My
room is too hot, too small for two of us.
- - -
I
used to have friends. By that, I mean people in and around Vancouver who I drank
with. They were mostly artifacts from my highschool existance, but like any
other group I chose to associate with, they were peculiar.
One
time, we decided we were going to head to Pooker’s condo in Whistler, right at
the end of the ski season. Me, my longest-serving friend Alex, Dyke, Scott, and
noble Pooker as our chief instigator, all bound for one of the most pretentious
resort cities in the world with only one single, solitary goal in mind:
To
steal as much linen as possible.
Now,
this is obviously not the normal undertaking of a group of teenage boys, so let
me elaborate on our methodology. The first step was to fill a hockey bag full
of alcoholic beverages of one sort or another; Scott, being the group bitch,
was designated as the sherpa. Thus fortified with liquor, we would proceed
through downtown Whistler’s hotel districts, entering the ritziest
establishments under the guise of paying guest. We would head to these
extravagant palaces’ pool rooms, and make use of their hot tub facilities for
the purpose of getting drunker faster. On the way out, we would fill whatever
space had been cleared of alcohol incide the hockey bag with purloined towels.
This was the objective; Get Drunk And Steal Towels.
The
reason we were never caught while performing this amazingly obvious act of
theft was because the hotel industry, and its representative security, operates
on a parallel set of rules than those of normal figures of authority; a hotel
employee guard is under no circumstances allowed to call you on your bullshit.
Example: you are in the process of stealing a potted plant from that little
table that sits in front of every elevator door on every floor in every hotel
in the world. What does the security guard say?
“Hey,
stop stealing that plant!”
Of
course not; if there’s even a one-percent chance that you have some legitimate
reason for moving that plant from Point A to Point B, our poor guard is looking
at unemployment, and the hotel a very dissatisfied customer. Smile and tell the
guard you are watering it. Do not waver. So long as you keep your wits about
you and never admit you’re pulling a fast one, no hotel employee on the face of
the earth is going to call bullshit. Keep this in mind, its important.
Right
around when our duffel bag was at fifty/fifty towels-to-alcohol ratio, I told
Pooker that what we should really be gunning for is those nice fluffy
terrycloth bathrobes that they put in rooms at the fancy five-star places. He
concurred, but pointed out that the only real five-star hotel in town was the Chateau
Whistler.
“That’s
going to be hard, Ian. How do you figure we’re going to work it?”
“Maybe
they keep ‘em in the pool change rooms. It’s worth a shot, anyway.”
So
we trundled off to the Chateau Whistler, and their marvelous pool.
There
were no bathrobes in the changeroom. Pooker shrugged. “Let’s go swim.”
Horsing
around under the dubious eye of the pool attendant, we did just that, and
proceeded to drive a family out of the pool and back to their room. It was
during a spirited game of Throw Chairs In The Water that I first spotted our
salvation.
“Hsst,
Alex! Come here!”
Alex,
flushed from Sweet Lady Lager and a night spent in the sunshine, paddled over
sedately.
“Check
this out. But subtle! Don’t want the attendant to see. That family left their
bill for pool-side drinks out here.” I surreptitiously pointed to a small black
plastic tray with a bill sitting on it.
Alex
was slow to pick up. “Yeah, so?”
“So,
they didn’t use a credit card, they just signed it to their room account!”
“Yeah,
so?”
Pooker
overheard my last line, and swam over to join us. “What Ian is trying to say,
my inebriated companion, is that we can use their room account to requisition
some bathrobes.”
Dyke,
who had just returned from tipping an entire picnic table into the whirlpool,
spoke up. “I’ll go do it. Come on, Ian. The rest of you, get changed and ready
for a quick getaway.”
While
the others scampered off to the bathroom to change, Dyke and I approached the
pool attendant, who had never ceased to watch us. She knew we weren’t guests,
and were probably up to no good, but couldn’t call us on it.
“Madame,
my friend and I need five bathrobes for us and our friends,” Dyke stated
calmly.
“Yeah,
Room 356, we’re with Mr. Smith,” I added.
“Oh,
is that right?” She arched an eyebrow, a small, unpleasant smile twitching the
side of her mouth. “Well, Mr. Smith’s family just left the pool, and he got
bathrobes for his two daughters and himself. So there’s eight of you in that
one room?”
No
pool-bitch was going to make me crack. I made eye contact with Dyke, and he let
me handle the situation.
“Yeah,
that’s right. Eight robes.”
There
was a pause while she stared at us, her eyes two laser beams of pure hatred.
“I’ll
give you two for now while we figure this out,” she finally mumbled.
We
took the bathrobes graciously, and as she left to find a manager, we fled out
the emergency exit of the pool room.
Meanwhile,
Alex, Scott and Pooker were leaving by the front way, their hockey bag bulging
with towels. The manager saw them as he approached the pool room, and
intercepted them.
“Hello,
gentlemen. There seems to have been some… problems with some bathrobes. Do you
know the other two gentlemen you were talking to?”
Alex,
who is normally a terrible liar, was at once gifted with divine mendacity.
“Never
seen them before now, actually,” he rejoinded gamely.
“Oh.
Are you three guests of the hotel?”
Alex
smiled. “Nope. Our friend John Smendelson invited us to use the pool.”
“I…
see. And Mr. Smendelson is a guest of the hotel?”
“Nah,
I don’t think he is,” Alex said with a shrug.
His
brow furrowing in concentration, the manager paused to collect his thoughts.
This was dangerous territory for him. He could see the bag, he smelled
bullshit, but…
“Very
well. Have a good day, gentlemen.”
They
fled.
Later
that night, we found ourselves walking down the street of Whistler, smack into
the middle of a street party. It was the end of the ski season, and the
Australian ski bums were having one last hurrah before returning home.
Dyke
and I, clad as we were in bathrobes and an aura of victory, were greeted like
two Imperial generals returning in triumph to Rome. Women accosted us, men
handed us free drinks, and random strangers threw confetti at us from
second-story balconies.
“I
need to get me a bathrobe,” Pooker stated. The others concurred.
There
was only one more five-star hotel in Whistler, which had just opened that year.
We set off at a brisk pace, knowing that the RCMP would be out to bust heads
soon. We had some immunity due to Pooker’s status as a resident instead of a
tourist, but that wouldn’t last with a bag full of stolen linen.
There
was only one problem with this final assault on the bastion of five-star
terrycloth; the linen closet of our next target was in the main lobby, directly
across from the main door and the manager’s office. We quickly concocted a
plan.
Alex
and I, posing as German tourists, would head to the brochure rack in the middle
of the lobby, blocking the Manager’s line of sight and watching the main
entrance for traffic. Dyke and Pooker would raid the closet on our signal,
while Scott would wait outside with the duffel bag so as not to slow down our
retreat.
The
initial execution was flawless; Dyke and Pooker took up station near the closet
doors, and managed to look casual enough not to arouse suspicion. Alex and I
blocked the manager’s sight, and as soon as he left his office, signalled for
the attack to commence.
It
was at precisely that moment, as Dyke and Pooker were tossing shrinkwrapped
bathrobes out of the closet and into a small pile, that the head of hotel
security walked in through the front door.
Alex
pointed at the brochure he was holding and said, “Da, zeez eez ze place,” and
we left as fast as was possible, sprinting out the door to find Scott and alert
him.
Meanwhile,
Pooker had managed to convince the security guard that he and Dyke were guests,
and that they were merely seeking bundles of bathrobes so they could ‘play
football’. He accepted this explanation, and allowed them to walk out the door
unaccosted. They hurried over to Alex, Scott and I, and told us what had
happened.
Unfortunately,
the head of security chose this moment to make sure that Pooker wasn’t up to no
good, and came out the door. There he was greeted with the sight of the two
German tourists talking to the two bathrobe thieves and a kid with an emormous
hockey bag stuffed full of something soft. A lightbulb went off.
“Hey,
you kids! What’s in that bag!”
I,
like every delinquent teen in the world, knew that security guards only have as
much authority as you give them.
“Blow
it out your ass,” I said sweetly.
“Hey,
I can have the RCMP here in five minutes if I want,” he menaced. “Now show me
what’s inside there!”
Pooker
rolled his eyes. “Fine, here.” He unzipped the bag.
Obviously,
this poor security guard’s two-week training course hadn’t covered the official
hotel policy on what to do when faced with the largest linen-stealing operation
in Whistler’s history. Scratching his head in bemusement, the man gazed upon
dozens of towels, monogrammed with the initials of nearly every hotel in town.
Finally,
he cleared his throat. “Are any of these ours?”
Pooker
waved his hands placatingly. “Ok, let me level with you, buddy,” he said.
“Oh
god no,” Alex whispered. “We’re dead”
“Quiet,”
I hissed.
“…we
are”, Pooker continued, waving his hands to indicate the five of us, “a bunch
of total ass-clowns. But we did not steal your bathrobes.” He
grinned.
The
man nodded. “Ok then, don’t let me see you here again tonight.” He turned and
walked back to the entrance, shaking his head.
“Tonight?
What about tomorrow?” Alex murmured.
“Let’s
run now,” Pooker replied.
Act 3
