Authors: Douglas Coupland
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ATF
Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms
AZT
Azidothymidine
BLT
Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato
BSE
Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy
CIA
Central Intelligence Agency
CMV
Cytomegalovirus
DMZ
Demilitarized Zone
DOA
Dead on Arrival
EEC
European Economic Community
EMP
Electromagnetic Pulse
FBI
Federal Bureau of Investigation
FTP
File Transfer Protocol
GMT
Greenwich Mean Time
GTO
Gran Turismo Omologato
HIV
Human Immunodeficiency Virus
HOV
High Occupancy Vehicle
IMF
International Monetary Fund
IRA
Irish Republican Army
JFK
John Fitzgerald Kennedy
KGB
Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti
KKK
Ku Klux Klan
LAX
Los Angeles International Airport
LSD
Lysergic Acid Diethylamide
MIA
Missing in Action
MP3
Moving Pictures Experts Group Audio Layer 3
NHK
Nihon Hoso Kyokai TV
NRA
National Rifle Association
NRK
Anarchy
OLE
Object Linking and Embedding
OPD
Officially Pronounced Dead
PFD
Photoshop File Document
PIN
Personal Identification Number
PSA
Prostate-Specific Antigen
PVC
Polyvinyl Chloride
QE2
Queen Elizabeth II
RGB
Red-Green-Blue
RNA
Ribonucleic Acid
SLA
Symbionese Liberation Army
SPF
Sun Protection Factor
SUV
Sport-Utility Vehicle
THC
Tetrahydrocannabinol
TNT
Trinitrotoluene
UPS
United Parcel Service
USD
US Dollar
VCR
Videocassette Recorder
VRE
Vancomycin-Resistant Enterococci
WTC
World Trade Center
WWW
World Wide Web
XML
Extensible Markup Language
XXL
Double Extra Large
XXX
Pornography
YTD
Year to Date
Y3K
The Year 3000
ZIP
Zone Improvement Plan
ZPG
Zero Population Growth
. . .
The next morning I slinked into a BoardX art meeting. Steve, Gord-O and staff from the loftiest links of the corporate food chain were trying to nail the essence of Jeff the Charismatic Turde, albeit without joy or enthusiasm. Prototype turde sketches were pinned onto a massive cork wall, all of them goofy and teensploita-tional: sunglasses, baggy pants and (dear God) a terry cloth sweatband.
"Does Jeff the Turde follow players around the entire time they manipulate their third person?"
"Almost. Like Watson is to Sherlock Holmes."
"Can you imagine how annoying that would be?"
"Maybe the buddy isn't such a good idea."
Steve more or less squashed what hope remained: "It's going to be a buddy. Players will love it."
"Isn't our turde supposed to be a bit more studly?"
"Turdes aren't studly by nature."
"What about that turde they used in the 1950s to pimp the atomic weapons program? He was kind of studly."
"No, he wasn't, and besides, he's dead."
"What?"
"Dead. Hung himself from the side of his posh midtown Manhattan terrarium. Left a note saying he couldn't handle the shame of what he'd done. Wrote it on a piece of Bibb lettuce."
"Can't anyone think of hipper turdes than the Department of Energy's uranium spokesreptile?"
"Spokesphibian.
''
"No one answered my question. Is our turde studly? Does he have huge pecs?"
"I don't think it's appropriate that a turde be
hot."
"Have you ever noticed how they never show the Ninja Turtles' shells if they can avoid it? They're always facing forwards."
"Hey—a thick, rich masculine shell. He could store a tool belt on it."
"If you look, you'll see that the Ninja Turdes' fleshy undersides are always overexposed, and the musculature is too steroidal. It's a reproductive strategy on their part, maybe."
"Are they gay?"
"I told you, Legal said we're
not
allowed to ask that, and besides, turdes are always straight."
"Hang on, we agreed to model the turde after Jeff Probst, so maybe we could make our turde wear Banana Republic summer wear. Maybe get a co-licensing deal."
"That could work."
"A tan?"
"I like the tan idea."
"Everybody, do we all like a suntan for our turde? Let me do a hand count and get it out of the way—okay, suntan it is."
"Can he have more hair?"
"I have one word for you:
mammal''
"If Donald Duck can have hands, Jeff can have hair. A litde brush cut—easy to maintain, and it can take him from the boardroom all the way into a palm-fronded yurt populated with dormant tarantulas."
"No beaches here. Sand gets into skateboard bearings. Game over."
"Is Jeff middle-class?"
"By Jeff, you mean the turde?"
"Yes. Can we all agree to just call him Jeff?"
"Okay, only so long as the real Jeff Probst never finds out we've been having this discussion."
"Is Jeff middle-class?"
"What you're really asking is,
What's Jeff's story?
What makes Jeff ?"
"Yes."
"I think Art did a fine job of depicting Jeff here. Let's look at their ideas and take it from there."
Silence.
"Ideas? Thoughts?"
Silence.
Everyone suddenly remembered they were supposed to look interested. "Is he an adult turde?"
"No. He's a teenager. Didn't I say that?"
"Where does he live?"
"Players don't need to know that."
"Is he the only turde in the game?"
"Yes."
"Does he have magic powers?"
"No. He has boarding skill."
"Does he have a weak spot?"
"Yes—being flipped onto his back and left to die in the sun, or to have his innards ripped out by rogue weasels."
"Please," Steve said. "I believe in joshing around as much as the next guy, but let's all be serious. We have to get Jeff locked in by tomorrow."
"Jeff's not going to sing or do rap songs, is he?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there."
. . .
Three hours later Steve walked into jPod while I was procrastinating by downloading car crash images from a gore site in the Czech Republic.
"Steve. Uh, hi. You must be lost. What part of the building do you need to get to?"
"Here is fine."
"Oh."
'Your mother's a nice woman, Ethan."
"Well, yes."
"You're a lucky fellow."
"Thanks, Steve."
"She's got a good sense of humour. And when she talks to you, it's like you're the only person in the universe."
"Steve, I think I left my car in the parking lot." I stood up to go.
"Don't be in such a hurry. So, uh . . ." Steve began buying time. 'Your brother sells real estate, right?"
"Sort of." I explained Greg's specialty.
"You think he'd sell me a place?"
"It's your money, Steve."
I gave Greg's information to Steve, and he left. I sat down, turned to look at my screen and then had a blinding headache. It was time to go home—eight o'clock—the earliest I'd left since the last game shipped.
Upon arriving at my stylish Chinatown shack, I walked in the door to see that all my new furniture was gone, and my original furniture hadn't come back.
Fuck.
I phoned Greg, but realized he was on Cathay Pacific 889, headed to Hong Kong. I phoned Mom.
"Ethan, you didn't even like the furniture."
"That's not the point. There's nothing in my place. Nothing."
"If you had a girlfriend, there'd be more possessions."
'You told me to dump my girlfriend."
"She was a mess. Good riddance. Greg said you really made that generous Chinese businessman angry."
"Who?"
"The one whose furniture you made fun of. Kam Fong."
"I didn't mock it. It's just not
me."
"Me?
Someone lavishes you with opulent furniture, and you simply dismiss it as
'Not me'}"
"Okay, I didn't
teject
it. I merely grudgingly accepted it."
"Which in Chinese culture is like piercing the heart with a freshly sharpened oyster shucker."
Silence.
"Ethan, I'm not supposed to tell you, but you might as well know. Kam Fong was hurt by your rejection of his gift."
"He doesn't even know me."
"He knew you well enough to give you over fifty thousand dollars worth of premium lacquered maple furniture. Here I am trying to breathe a bit of life into my old side table with Krylon spray paint, while
you,
Mister
Trading Spaces,
turn your nose up at a windfall from heaven."
"I can't believe we're having this discussion."
"All I'm saying is that he's probably not the sort of person you should tick off. Be nice to him when visits you."
"What—he's going to be coming here?"
"Of course he is. He wants to hear from you in person why you snubbed him."
"When is he coming?"
"When did you get home?"
"A few minutes ago."
"I imagine he'll be there any time now."
"What?"
I hear a large purring rumble outside the kitchen window. "Shit. That'll be him."
"Just don't tick him off any more. He's an important person who can do wonders for your career."
"In videogames?"
"Offer him something to drink the moment he walks in. If my business with the Asians has taught me anything, it's the power of a drink the first time you meet them."
I heard a knock at the door, and when I opened it, I found a chauffeur in an outfit imported from a 1930s drawing-room comedy. "Hello?"
"You're Mister Ethan?"
"Yes."
"Please wait. Mister Fong will be with you in a moment."
The car was parked at the foot of the stairs, a manly black brute of a machine, of unidentifiable manufacture and era. Precapitalist Red China? India? Munster mobile? A minute passed while the driver conferred through the car's rear passenger window slit. I was expecting Kam Fong to resemble that knife-throwing guy in a bowler hat from
Gold finger;
instead, when he climbed out of the car, he was a guy a bit older than me—friendly-looking and decked out in Kid robot chic with a shattered hairdo, wearing a set of fawn skin Puma reissued runners worth five hundred bucks—which is to say he looked like most of the kids at work who do low-level coding, the job that lands them the biggest salary and perks. 'You're Ethan?"
"Yes."
"I'm Kam."
We shook hands.
"Hi. Uh, do you want to come in for a drink?" I was wearing garments traded with his most recent cargo shipment, but if he noticed, he didn't show it. He also seemed to be unfaded by the absence of any furniture.
"Why don't we go somewhere else?"
Insert a funeral dirge here.
"Uh—it's been a long day. I think I just want to crash."
"No. Come on. What—like I'm going to hurt you? Don't be crazy. You're Greg's brother."
Nervous laughter.
"I never meet people who say no to me. I'm a bit curious to see what sort of person Greg's brother might be."
"I didn't say no to your furniture, I . . ."
I don't want to put an oyster
shucker through your heart.
"Okay. Sure. Let's go."
We got into his car. "Look, about the furniture, I don't know what Greg told you, but—"
"Let's not talk about that. Not now."
"Where are we going?"
"A club I like. You know, I once visited someone out in the building where you work. Out in Burnaby."
That was odd. "Really?"
'Yes. I had to, er . . .
influence
somebody."
"Somebody up high?"
"No. At the bottom of your food chain. In quality assurance."
"Oh, Q/A. Everybody tortures the guys in Q/A. It's like being hazed for a living. But you're pretty high up the ladder—why would you bother with some kid in Q/A?"
"His father transferred ownership of several loads of, um,
cargo
into his name without asking me first."
"Wait a sec—if his family is so hoity-toity, why does he bother working at all, let alone in Q/A?"
"He enjoys bug testing."
"Get paid to play videogames!
'It's how they sucker staff into working there every time."
The car purred towards Kerrisdale. I'd always wanted to visit one of the neighborhood's fabled Chinese nightclubs, where white ghosts like me are never permitted. Sadly, after a few minutes of small talk, we pulled up to a derelict medical-dental office building from the 1950s; my visions of pyramids built of champagne flutes, and costly drinks paid for by someone else, vanished.
"Here?" I asked.
"Yes. Let's go in."
So we entered a cool lobby, lit by a single fluorescent tube, the walls resonating with coundess dental tortures of yore. We passed through oversized cherry wood doors, and then down a hallway to another pair of doors. I said, "You know why videogames make you wait for doors and gates to open between levels?"
"No, why?"
"The computer's buying time while it generates the new worlds behind them."
"Is that funny?"
"It wasn't supposed to be."
"I have no sense of humour."
"Huh?"
"No. I really don't. I pretend to laugh when I know someone's said something that, from experience, I know is supposed to be funny. To people with no sense of humour, laughing is a very ugly noise. Like my grandfather coughing up a throat-squid."
"Come on. You must find
something
funny—"
"No. Medically, legally, I have no sense of humour. It's a rare variety of autism. It doesn't even have a name."
More doors.
"Really?"
"It's a fact."
I heard sociable noises behind the final door. "What's in there?" I asked.
Kam jumped and turned to me while pulling something out of his rear pocket. "Freeze, asshole!"
I just about had a stroke.
"Gotcha," said Kam. "Come on in. This is a place I like to visit when I'm in town."
Kam Fong opened the door, and we walked into the middle of a ballroom dance club. He clapped his hands and a table with chairs appeared. "Cocktail?"
This was one of those moments when I remember saying to myself in a calm, clinically detached manner,
Ethan, you should simply
go with the flow.