Read Online Generation A by Douglas Coupland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Douglas Coupland
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Science-Fiction, Satire, Computers, Information Technology, Bee Stings
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and nothing, rebirth and sterility, good news and bad news, the difference between sanctuary and its opposite.
It was not the way I expected to visit New England, but I will take what I am given. Connecticut! Land of stately homes, bored UNESCO housewives and a middle “C” that remains resolutely silent. When my military transport plane landed there, I felt like phoning Sri Lanka to order a waffle-knit Henley with double-reinforced collar buttons, in cream fabric (if available) and with emu-coloured trim. Or perhaps I could locate one of my company’s many customers and ask them if I was correct in guessing that they secretly wished they were dead.
We landed at the New London Naval Submarine Base, on the east bank of a river near a town called Groton. “Don’t you worry, Apu. We’re almost there.” My guide was Dr. Rick, an American military physician who joined my journey in Guam.
The moment I said hello to Dr. Rick, he nicknamed me Apu, and I knew there was no point in fighting it, so for my great adventure I became Apu. I believe Americans can only absorb one foreign-sounding word or name per year. Past examples include Häagen-Dazs, Nadia Comaneci and Al Jazeera. I am too humble to ask these Americans to make “Harj” their official foreign word for the year.
Since Guam, I had not been allowed to have visual contact with the land or ocean, but after much pleading on my part, Dr. Rick decided that some scenery couldn’t hurt and had promised me a window view on the journey’s final leg.
On the ground in Groton, there was some discussion as to how I would be transferred into a helicopter. In the end, owing to biohazard protocols, I had to be carried like a corpse, with Rick holding my hands and a private holding my feet. They placed me into a Bell 206B3 JetRanger III helicopter.
“Wait! I never even got to touch the ground!”
“Can’t let you touch the ground, Apu. It’s the rules.”
“But I wish to set foot on Connecticut.”
“Too late, my friend. You’re going to Hyattsville, Maryland.”
Maryland? Such a bitter disappointment. I had no pictures in my head of Maryland. No snow-covered trails filled with rosy-cheeked Caucasians. No cocoa. No grandmothers knitting scratchy cable-knit sweaters to compete with those sold by Abercrombie & Fitch. I knew nothing of Maryland.
Rick said it was going to be a choppy ride and buckled me into my seat. I restated that the weather seemed beautiful—perhaps seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit?—and Rick said, “You got it, Apu: seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, with a chance of a blizzard. You’ve gotta love this century.”
“Snow?”
I’d never seen snow, and my bitterness at not setting foot in Connecticut eased. Although, a chance of snow did seem odd, given the gloriousness of the day.
We lifted off and flew east over the Atlantic Ocean. I asked why this was, and was told it was to minimize any contamination between land-borne germs and me—and thus I missed seeing the great cities of the Eastern Seaboard.
After an hour or so we flew in from the Atlantic over some estuarial flatlands to Hyattsville and then over a maze of concrete and highways and large rectangular boxes arranged in clusters: suburbia! Factory outlet malls! Now this was interesting—I imagined teenagers having sex to loud music and parents with no morals having flings inside unnecessarily large vehicles. All of these people below me with a calm, elegant death wish, wearing Abercrombie & Fitch garments.
Ahead of me I saw Washington DC in a raging blizzard. Dr. Rick said, “Sorry ’bout this, Apu,” and sprayed me in the face with a narcotizing mist, and when I awoke I was in a clean, attractively furnished room with invisible lighting and no-name furniture and bed linens.
“Rick? Anyone?”
There was no answer, nor did I expect one. I felt quite alone, and how could I not? But since the tsunami, solitude is my natural condition, so I didn’t worry too much. A good rest in
It was not the way I expected to visit New England, but I will take what I am given. Connecticut! Land of stately homes, bored UNESCO housewives and a middle “C” that remains resolutely silent. When my military transport plane landed there, I felt like phoning Sri Lanka to order a waffle-knit Henley with double-reinforced collar buttons, in cream fabric (if available) and with emu-coloured trim. Or perhaps I could locate one of my company’s many customers and ask them if I was correct in guessing that they secretly wished they were dead.
We landed at the New London Naval Submarine Base, on the east bank of a river near a town called Groton. “Don’t you worry, Apu. We’re almost there.” My guide was Dr. Rick, an American military physician who joined my journey in Guam.
The moment I said hello to Dr. Rick, he nicknamed me Apu, and I knew there was no point in fighting it, so for my great adventure I became Apu. I believe Americans can only absorb one foreign-sounding word or name per year. Past examples include Häagen-Dazs, Nadia Comaneci and Al Jazeera. I am too humble to ask these Americans to make “Harj” their official foreign word for the year.
Since Guam, I had not been allowed to have visual contact with the land or ocean, but after much pleading on my part, Dr. Rick decided that some scenery couldn’t hurt and had promised me a window view on the journey’s final leg.
On the ground in Groton, there was some discussion as to how I would be transferred into a helicopter. In the end, owing to biohazard protocols, I had to be carried like a corpse, with Rick holding my hands and a private holding my feet. They placed me into a Bell 206B3 JetRanger III helicopter.
“Wait! I never even got to touch the ground!”
“Can’t let you touch the ground, Apu. It’s the rules.”
“But I wish to set foot on Connecticut.”
“Too late, my friend. You’re going to Hyattsville, Maryland.”
Maryland? Such a bitter disappointment. I had no pictures in my head of Maryland. No snow-covered trails filled with rosy-cheeked Caucasians. No cocoa. No grandmothers knitting scratchy cable-knit sweaters to compete with those sold by Abercrombie & Fitch. I knew nothing of Maryland.
Rick said it was going to be a choppy ride and buckled me into my seat. I restated that the weather seemed beautiful—perhaps seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit?—and Rick said, “You got it, Apu: seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, with a chance of a blizzard. You’ve gotta love this century.”
“Snow?”
I’d never seen snow, and my bitterness at not setting foot in Connecticut eased. Although, a chance of snow did seem odd, given the gloriousness of the day.
We lifted off and flew east over the Atlantic Ocean. I asked why this was, and was told it was to minimize any contamination between land-borne germs and me—and thus I missed seeing the great cities of the Eastern Seaboard.
After an hour or so we flew in from the Atlantic over some estuarial flatlands to Hyattsville and then over a maze of concrete and highways and large rectangular boxes arranged in clusters: suburbia! Factory outlet malls! Now this was interesting—I imagined teenagers having sex to loud music and parents with no morals having flings inside unnecessarily large vehicles. All of these people below me with a calm, elegant death wish, wearing Abercrombie & Fitch garments.
Ahead of me I saw Washington DC in a raging blizzard. Dr. Rick said, “Sorry ’bout this, Apu,” and sprayed me in the face with a narcotizing mist, and when I awoke I was in a clean, attractively furnished room with invisible lighting and no-name furniture and bed linens.
“Rick? Anyone?”
There was no answer, nor did I expect one. I felt quite alone, and how could I not? But since the tsunami, solitude is my natural condition, so I didn’t worry too much. A good rest in
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