Read Online Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Coupland
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I saw curtains being raised, an orchestral fanfare, flocks of dyed pigeons released on cue, and a long ramp lit by thousands of strobing flashbulbs.
Jeremy started clearing the dishes. I was immobilized by a small humming noise in my head. I sat at the table in this trancelike state and waited for Leslie to show up, which she did, maybe eight minutes later. She buzzed me from the front door and I let her in.
“Hello, Leslie.”
“Lizzie, who was the man that answered your phone? You never have men here.”
“Thank you, Leslie.”
Holding her cellphone, she whispered, “Should I call the cops?”
I said, “Is it really that odd that I should have a man at my place?”
“Of course it is.” She walked into the kitchen, expecting to see the man in my life. I followed her, but he wasn’t there. I heard water noises from the bathroom.
Leslie whispered, “What’s his name?”
“Jeremy.”
“Jeremy? No one our age is called Jeremy.”
“He’s not our age.”
At that moment Jeremy emerged from the bathroom, shirtless, saying, “Liz, do you have a shirt I can borrow? The one I was wearing is kind of shot.” He spotted Leslie and casually said, “Hi. I’m Jeremy.”
To judge from Leslie’s reaction it might just as well have been a dancing Snoopy emerging from the bathroom. She took the hand he offered, saying, “I’m Leslie,” in a voice that betrayed total inner confusion.
Jeremy asked, “Liz, let’s have some dessert. What do you have?”
“You know the kitchen better than I do.” I threw him a T-shirt from a cupboard, a HARD ROCK CAFE HONOLULU shirt William had given to me.
Jeremy looked at Leslie. “Dessert?” She nodded feebly as he slowly pulled the shirt over his head. He looked like a call boy; poor Leslie was a mess.
All we found in the kitchen was chocolate pudding in plastic tubs. Jeremy took them and began whipping them into something mousse-like and French. “So this is your sister, then?”
Leslie said, “Why do I feel like I’m dreaming?”
I said, “Leslie, there’s something you need to know …” I watched Leslie’s pupils shrink to the size of pinpricks. What an odd thing to notice at that moment. I took a glass from the counter, and the nearly empty Baileys bottle. “Drink?”
“Sure.”
I poured a glass and gave it to her. “Leslie, this is my son, Jeremy. Jeremy, this is your Aunt Leslie.”
Leslie sat down on a stool, and her face looked as if she had remembered where she placed something precious she’d lost many years before.
Jeremy said, “Nice to meet you.” Leslie still couldn’t speak, so Jeremy said, “Well, no need to let a beverage go to waste.” He topped up Leslie’s glass and took a sip.
Leslie looked at me, and I said, “Yup. It’s true.”
* * *
The day after we landed in Rome was a Sunday, and we were driven to Vatican City in our Albanian motorcoach. All I knew about the Vatican was that my dad was annoyed I’d be going there, and, well, that’s about it—I still have no idea what the Pope is supposed to do. Given my limited knowledge of office politics at Landover Communication Systems, I can only imagine what a political viper’s nest the Vatican must be.
Alain, the only Catholic in the class, kept his distance from us, knowing that our heretical energy might easily consume him. To paraphrase the warning he gave us before we arrived: “Religions are designed to outlive individual people, and so what looks evil and bizarre from the outside is actually just a long-term survival system.”
On a practical level, the girls on the tour were ticked off that women weren’t allowed to live within the City’s limits, and that knowledge made our jaunt to St. Peter’s Square seem like time travel. We hated it. Memory of our charming Elfs, as we called them, evaporated amid thousands of old people holding beads, looking ancient and mad. Colleen kept asking where the witch-dunking tank was. None of us felt at all
Jeremy started clearing the dishes. I was immobilized by a small humming noise in my head. I sat at the table in this trancelike state and waited for Leslie to show up, which she did, maybe eight minutes later. She buzzed me from the front door and I let her in.
“Hello, Leslie.”
“Lizzie, who was the man that answered your phone? You never have men here.”
“Thank you, Leslie.”
Holding her cellphone, she whispered, “Should I call the cops?”
I said, “Is it really that odd that I should have a man at my place?”
“Of course it is.” She walked into the kitchen, expecting to see the man in my life. I followed her, but he wasn’t there. I heard water noises from the bathroom.
Leslie whispered, “What’s his name?”
“Jeremy.”
“Jeremy? No one our age is called Jeremy.”
“He’s not our age.”
At that moment Jeremy emerged from the bathroom, shirtless, saying, “Liz, do you have a shirt I can borrow? The one I was wearing is kind of shot.” He spotted Leslie and casually said, “Hi. I’m Jeremy.”
To judge from Leslie’s reaction it might just as well have been a dancing Snoopy emerging from the bathroom. She took the hand he offered, saying, “I’m Leslie,” in a voice that betrayed total inner confusion.
Jeremy asked, “Liz, let’s have some dessert. What do you have?”
“You know the kitchen better than I do.” I threw him a T-shirt from a cupboard, a HARD ROCK CAFE HONOLULU shirt William had given to me.
Jeremy looked at Leslie. “Dessert?” She nodded feebly as he slowly pulled the shirt over his head. He looked like a call boy; poor Leslie was a mess.
All we found in the kitchen was chocolate pudding in plastic tubs. Jeremy took them and began whipping them into something mousse-like and French. “So this is your sister, then?”
Leslie said, “Why do I feel like I’m dreaming?”
I said, “Leslie, there’s something you need to know …” I watched Leslie’s pupils shrink to the size of pinpricks. What an odd thing to notice at that moment. I took a glass from the counter, and the nearly empty Baileys bottle. “Drink?”
“Sure.”
I poured a glass and gave it to her. “Leslie, this is my son, Jeremy. Jeremy, this is your Aunt Leslie.”
Leslie sat down on a stool, and her face looked as if she had remembered where she placed something precious she’d lost many years before.
Jeremy said, “Nice to meet you.” Leslie still couldn’t speak, so Jeremy said, “Well, no need to let a beverage go to waste.” He topped up Leslie’s glass and took a sip.
Leslie looked at me, and I said, “Yup. It’s true.”
* * *
The day after we landed in Rome was a Sunday, and we were driven to Vatican City in our Albanian motorcoach. All I knew about the Vatican was that my dad was annoyed I’d be going there, and, well, that’s about it—I still have no idea what the Pope is supposed to do. Given my limited knowledge of office politics at Landover Communication Systems, I can only imagine what a political viper’s nest the Vatican must be.
Alain, the only Catholic in the class, kept his distance from us, knowing that our heretical energy might easily consume him. To paraphrase the warning he gave us before we arrived: “Religions are designed to outlive individual people, and so what looks evil and bizarre from the outside is actually just a long-term survival system.”
On a practical level, the girls on the tour were ticked off that women weren’t allowed to live within the City’s limits, and that knowledge made our jaunt to St. Peter’s Square seem like time travel. We hated it. Memory of our charming Elfs, as we called them, evaporated amid thousands of old people holding beads, looking ancient and mad. Colleen kept asking where the witch-dunking tank was. None of us felt at all
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