JPod (13 page)

"A whisky sour."

"Two whisky sours."

We were surrounded by women dressed as Carmelit as and men dressed like bi-curious toreadors. As I'd grown up in this sort of space, I felt quite at home. I decided to push the furniture issue. "Kam, look, about your furniture—it's just that Greg never asked me, and—"

"Ethan!"

I turned around. "Dad?" He was dressed in his favourite Casanova outfit, a toreador's cap rakishly adhered to his skull.

"Ethan, I never thought I'd see you in a ballroom dance club of your own volition."

"Actually, me neither."

"You're wearing your ragamuffin clothing. Aren't you getting too old for fashion statements?"

"It's not just a fashion. It's a—never mind. Dad, this is Kam Fong."

I introduced him as someone Greg does business with.

Dad shook hands. "Real estate?"

"No."

"Hey, but aren't you the guy who gave Ethan all that great furniture? That was really nice of you."

"Thank you."

"Ethan, why the hell couldn't you just enjoy the furniture and shut the fuck up? Christ, Mr. Fong, I have to apologize for Ethan."

"Apologies accepted. You're quite a dancer, Mr. Jarlewski."

"Latin and modern. Not professional, mind you, but I nearly got a bronze in the 1999 Snowball Classic."

"The IDSF Open to the World Standard?"

"That's the one."

"You're
that
Jim Jarlewski!"

"That's me."

"This is so exciting! Please, join us for a drink. Ethan, your father is
the
Jim Jarlewski. Greg never mentioned it."

"Gee."

At the far reaches of my twenties, once again I was a ballroom-dance-club orphan. Dad and Kam Fong began talking shop and drinking heavily, while blousy women in their forties, radiating imminent divorce and sexual despondency, tried to get their attention. At one point, Dad laughed at something, and, in response, Kam Fong delivered a grim flak of ersatz chuckles. He says he doesn't have a sense of humour, but maybe it's just a pose.

"Ethan, isn't this guy the greatest?" Dad was smitten with Kam's gangster charm.

"Sure is, Dad."

"Enough talk, Kam Fong. Now we must dance!"

The two of them reached out their hands, and each grabbed nearby
Pinot Gris—
soaked floozies—it was a dance-off.

If I didn't know better, it would have looked like Dad and Kam Fong were falling in love. However, I'd seen my father batde like this before, and knew it was no different than two ruffed grouse fluffing their feathers in competition for a hen's attention. When their dance-off ended, clapping drowned the room. They returned to our litde table, flush with pheromones and the leftover traces of their respective partners' perfumes.

"I think I'll be going now," I said. "We're conceptually rejigging a new skateboard game to incorporate a charismatic turde who follows the player throughout the game like a Dr. Watson, offering ongoing banter while logging gameplay statistics."

If Kam Fong had had a reason for taking me to his club, his male bonding with Dad had long since obliterated it. He was drunk, and obviously mellow. He said, "My people will try to find you some furniture more suitable to your obviously picky taste."

The music kicked into the Razormaid remix of "Copacabana," and Dad and Kam Fong were back on the floor. I cabbed back to my place, where I slept on the floor after drinking a NeoCitran made with hot tap water. I hoped that God would shake my Etch-a-Sketch clean overnight.

Limited-edition hollow rotocast vinyl

Urban vinyl action figures

BeeKing and BugBoy

Ah Gum and Ah Aun

Blue Brother Sunni

Grey Brother Raini

Anti-Potato Wheel

Odajima Hitoshi

Da Team Bronx

RC-911 figure

Balzac in Red

Potato Wheel

BJ Hammer

King Green

CosMouse

Scarygirl

Cloudi

Grind the molten bucket

. . .

I found Bree, Cowboy, Evil Mark and John Doe in the cafeteria, feeding on cannelloni stuffed with confit of duck and wild rice. Evil Mark, obviously at the end of another rant, announced, "We're all clones."

"Huh?"

"Look at us. We're just clones working for the man."

"Oof. Take
that,
Dilbert."

"Working for the
man}"
Bree said. "Are you serious?"

"I was trying for ironic."

"You're always making these ironic comments that don't quite work."

"I think we're going to have to add 'humourless' to 'evil' in your nickname. But do tell us, why exacdy are we clones?"

"Because we all really
do
dress like junior IT clones."

"Huh?"

"Blue or black denim pants—unless you're a senior and over thirty-five, after which point you spot-weld khakis to your lower torso for life."

"Go on."

"Dark-coloured long-sleeved outdoor-wear shirts—blue or black preferred. Haven't you noticed how nobody ever allows their forearms to be exposed here?"

We looked around, and Evil Mark was right. "Spooky."

Cowboy asked, "Does anybody here at the table speak a dead language?"

"COBOL?"

"No. Greek or Latin."

"Some. Why?"

"What's fear of exposed forearms?"

"Popeyedactylophobia."

Bree said, "Long-sleeved dark-coloured shirts conceal both obesity and scrawniness. They double as pajamas."

I said, "Stop, I can't take any more of this identity crap."

"That's easy for you to say," said John Doe. "Now that you have a distinct fashion style with your refugee chic. Anyway"—he and Cowboy stood up to leave—"it's time we hit the malls."

"Is it Tuesday already?"

"Tis."

Tuesday is new shoe day, and Cowboy and John Doe are shoe-heads—cool new sneakers reduce them to drooling Homer Simpsons in a blink. As for Evil Mark, he went off to buy ammonium persulp hate to etch his motherboards at home. I must also note that calling Mark 'evil' may have started off as an arbitrary label, but now we're wondering if he really
does
make scary shit in his spare time.

Bree asked me, "How's the Kaitlin agenda going?"

"It's not. I think she could be worried I'm stalking her and she'll have to relive all that crazed next-door-neighbour nightmare shit again through me."

"Please. Have you tried talking to her?"

"No. I haven't even made eye contact with her since I read the Subway site. Have you?"

"No."

I was restless but couldn't figure out a good way to shirk my workload. I went online to see if there were any sneak previews of the new
Angel
—Wednesday is actually new comics day, but sometimes you can track down a tidbit the day before. I heard Kaitlin come into the pod space, and taking Bree's advice, I looked up to say hi, but my face collapsed—she was carrying a box of Krispy Kremes and a bag of the dreaded Taint.

"Hi, Ethan."

"Um, hi, Kaitlin." This would have been an optimum moment for her to offer me a donut, but she didn't. I got an instant message from Bree:

Oh.

My.

God.

She's going to

eat herself

to death.

. . .

The good news is that BoardX will be keeping a large number of its pre-turtle skating environments, including a massive shopping mall level in which players score points for trashing the place. But given the suckiness of Jeff's character, it's hard to imagine players will still get to raise hell. Personal dialogues with Jeff keep running in my brain . . .

"Gee, player. That was a super-duper wheelie."

"Thanks, Jeff. Now fuck off."

"No can do, player. You're stuck with me."

"No, I'm not. I have the option to play without you."

"Not for the first three levels you don't, and even then, my friend, my likeness and name will be embedded in all gaming levels: billboards, signage, windows and street names. Your boss, Steve, has ensured that my presence will be pervasive."

"There must be a way to kill you."

"Sorry, player, but no."

In my mind, Jeff was on his back, a drill press approaching his tender underbelly from above.

"Excuse me, player," the turtle said, "but did you just have a degenerate thought picture in your head?"

"Me?"

"You wouldn't hurt Jeff, would you?"

"No."

"I don't believe you."

"Then don't."

"I'm going to tell Steve about you."

"You do that."

"Ethan?"

"Whuh . . . ?"

"Ethan, wake up."

I opened my eyes:
Steve.
"Oh. Steve. Hi."

"I can see that was a doozy of a nightmare you were having."

He stood there staring at me.

"Steve, is there something I can help you with?"

"No. Nothing. Just thought I'd pop by."

"Okay. . ."

"How's BoardX going?"

"It's one smoking game, Steve."

"It is. And Jeff is going to be a big hit. I can feel it."

I looked at my screen: "Look! An email's come down the Chute! I'm going to have to answer this one, Steve. See you later?"

"Righty-o, pardner."

. . .

Comics day came and went. Another shoe day came and went. And another comics day followed that—the typical production and consumption cycles that help us survive our dismal, meaningless little lives.

Starting with that first Krispy Kreme box, Kaitlin's been collecting all her fast-food packaging and arranging it into a big stack. She takes cardboard and other greasy items to the bathroom, where (Bree tells me) she treats them with alcohol and another chemical that makes them ungreasy.

I'm still too freaked out to talk to her. When she comes in with ever more massive quantities of food, the five of us keep our heads bowed as we listen to the endless rumpling of bags and wrappers and clamshell containers and straws hiccupping their way in and out of plastic lids. She's like an alien luxuriously chewing away on a cocooned earthling. It gives us fear.

Doritos

Rollitos

Nacho Cheesier!

Bite-Size Tortilla Snacks

JL19

6 053 14027

09:51

Product enlarged to show texture

Ingredients: corn, vegetable oil (contains one or more of the following: corn, soybean, or sunflower oil), salt, mono glyceride, cheddar cheese (cultured milk, salt,enzymes), whey, mono sodium glutamate, buttermilk solids, Romano cheese from cow's milk (cultured pasteurized part skim milk, salt, enzymes), tomato powder, whey protein concentrate, onion powder, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, disodiumphosphate, lactose, natural and artificial flavor, garlic powder, dextrose, sugar, citric acid, spice, lactic acid, sodium caseinate, artificial color (including Yellow 6), disodiuminosinate, dis odium guanylate and non fat milk solids.

CONTAINS MILK INGREDIENTS.

made with non-hydrogenated oil

. . .

I won the third floor's intramural Tetris competition, which took place in the conference room this afternoon—a canister of liquid nitrogen! So afterwards we scoured the office for flash-freezables.

Effects of liquid nitrogen on office items:

"Cancer Cowboy." One only. Cool in a SteveMcQueen Kind of Way.

You are bidding on the fully functional IT worker "Cancer Cowboy," serial number: CASPER JAMES JESPERSON. 28 years old. Some scarring. What you see in the photo is what you get. Not responsible for congenital health issues or bastard children who may or may not appear on owner's doorstep.

Cowboy has been extensively reconditioned by a recently vacated ex-girlfriend, and has had a NEW wardrobe installed by overpriced designer boutiques that give you cappuccinos while you shop. Cowboy's hair has also been beautifully reconditioned by a pair of nail scissors, half a bottle of tequila and persistent self-esteem issues.

IT workers the world over know of Cancer Cowboy's manly prowess. Pilot your way through his many levels and bonus rounds, dodging STDs and provincial in-office cigarette smoking regulations. For double-gun firepower, acquire liquor, cleverly mixed CD song sets and antibiotics.

Most sellers will not tell you what I'm telling you because they want you to believe their product is "mint" and will never break. That's obviously impossible.

Click on picture to enlarge what is already large.

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Mega-Rare Tech Ho

Complete w/ Stalled Career

Bree
is 64 inches tall and has jointed arms and legs and a moveable head. Her hair is long, black and rooted, and her makeup is flawless, complete with mole on left cheek.

Bree
also sometimes wears a large sombrero hat, a style that was brought back into the limelight when The Rocketeer was released, starring Jennifer Connelly and Timothy Dalton.

Bree
is wearing a gold silk-look crop top with a daring neckline and black and gold shoulder straps; her 7 1/2-inch heels are so Dita Von Teese.

Bree's
inner life is one of burlesque, complete with singers and saucy strippers, including famed female impersonator Vickie Lynn. In her mind, Bree has even made a guest appearance in the greatest stripper movie of all time, Varietease.

Bree
was born on April 22, 1980, in Nanaimo, BC, where she was known as Dark Queen of Bondage. Okay, not really, but she knew what she liked at an early age. In 2002 she was discovered by her parents to have not enough concern for her future, so she was shipped to one of 400 videogame design schools in Vancouver, where it turned out she not only had a flair for game design, but was also but a mere gentle puff of a rotating nipple tassel away from four local strip clubs.

Bree
is awaiting your interest. She has just changed her outfit and is now wearing a fabulous "Bow" bustier by Bali, style #8211, c. 1940s, with a black satin torso. The cups are stunning and have black sheer-illusion lace with the famous "circle stitch" for that sizzling sweater-girl bullet-bra look. The size on tag reads 36D and will fit up to a 38" bust. Bree would like to know what you are wearing, too.

If
Bree
is something you've been looking for, don't let this pass you by!
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