JPod

by Douglas Coupland

  . . .

  On the way home yesterday I stopped at a Ricky's Pancake Hut for a cheeseburger, fries and Coke. It's not what I usually order, but for a short while I wanted to pretend I was living inside an Archie comic—don't we all feel like that at some time or other?

  When my food arrived, the Coke glass had a slogan on the side in cheerful fake-1950s lettering:

  Coca-Cola

  Free Will!

  I thought to myself, Wow, it's great that Coca-Cola is now sponsoring independent thinking at the most grassroots of levels. Maybe global corporations aren't evil at all. Maybe they represent the future of knowledge and the transmission of culture to future civilisations. Maybe I've been too hard on them all these years!

  I looked more closely at the glass, and realized it didn't actually say Free Will!, but rather, Free Fill! I asked the waitress what that meant, and she said I could drink as much Coke as I wanted on that one drink order.

  I told John Doe, who had an interesting thought. "I used to yearn for Coke when I was growing up in the lesbian commune. And I yearned to try Pepsi as well. I thought that being a cola virgin was a great opportunity to offer the definitive taste test. So I snuck out and walked to the bait shop, which was maybe three miles from home, and bought a Coke. They didn't have Pepsi, so I brought the Coke home and hid it in the backyard beneath a stump beside the communal talking circle, and the next week I was able to hitch into town, and I found a Pepsi and brought it home. I snuck out into a birch glade, opened them up and had this big woo moment when I tasted them."

  "And?" We were all curious to find out which was better.

  "They both tasted like crap."

  "But wasn't one better than the other?"

  "Does cat shit taste better than dog shit? The weird thing was that neither of them tasted as sweet as I'd anticipated. So that afternoon, when my mother was going into town to do her monthly 'Look, I don't shave my armpits' challenge to the locals, I went along and snuck into a diner and stole sugar and NutraSweet packets. When we got home, I took two glasses and a spoon into the glade and added sugar to what was left of the two colas."

  "What happened?"

  "The weird thing is, nothing happened."

  "Huh?"

  "It doesn't matter how much sugar or aspartame you add to a Coke or Pepsi, it can't get any sweeter than it already is. That's their secret formula. It's not some secret ingredient —which, by the way, would have to be registered with federal food and drug administrations, so let's scotch that little urban legend about Secret Ingredient X7—it's that their beverages are already supersaturated with sweeteners."

  . . .

  The RCMP interviewed everyone on the BoardX team about Steve. Did we notice anything odd before he disappeared? I decided not to mention what had happened months ago—finding Steve at the bottom of my parents' driveway at 4:45 in the morning with a huge gift on top of his car. But I began to wonder if . . . no. No way. Not possible. No.

  . . .

  I was reading my old Inuyasha comics on the campus soccer field, trying to renegotiate my relationship with this particular manga franchise. I don't know if I did. Maybe it's an age thing, but it suddenly dawned on me that, in general, I'm really sick of crystals and jewels and swords and rings that have woo-woo magic powers. I mean . . . it's really not at all different from being at a beach and throwing sticks to your dog. Master, oh master, which stick possesses the magic power of "it" that makes me want to chase that one stick and no other?. . . Until, of course, you choose another stick and that stick becomes "it."

  Jewels and rings are basically nothing more than the human equivalent of a stick being "it." It's hokey: Gee, the ring is mine. I have all the power.

  It's also lazy. Instead of learning skills and knowledge, characters merely have to obtain the magic token. Gee, here I thought I was just a statistically average John Doe, and suddenly it turns out that I'm not—I own THE RING! I AM THE CENTRE OF THE UNIVERSE!

  I was feeling pretty pleased with myself about this litde observation until I misplaced the copper Haida bracelet Kaitlin had given me for my birthday. Boy, did the fireworks fly. Guess who was sleeping on the floor until he remembered leaving the bracelet in the basement on top of the box the new furnace filter came in. Now I can appreciate what it must have been like for Frodo, carrying that ring around.

  New Rebel

  Strategy!

  Against the terrifying might of the Imperial forces, the Rebels must constantly devise new and moreingenious methods of combatting their relentless foes. . .

  Suddenly...

  Starfire!

  BLAMMM! WHOOSH! PA-TOOMMM! The Rebel base is under attack! Young warriors dart back andforth as titanic warships of the Imperial Alliance begin a devastating frontal assault!

  "But, Sir, I—Mmh

  . . . Mffh . . ."

  An impatient Han Solo decides to set out on his own to rescue Luke. When faithful droid Threepiovoices some concern, Solo cuts the conversation with one decisive gesture.

  Examined: Luke's

  Tauntaun

  At the Rebel base, a surgeon droid examines the carcass of Luke's Tauntaun, the latest victim of themysterious ice creature known as the Wampa.

  Surgeon DroidTM

  Tending the critically ill Luke Skywalker in the rejuvenation chamber is a surgeon droid, Too-Onebee, one of many such droids designed to nurse ailing humans back to health.

  General Rieekan™

  A man of exceptional intelligence and military skill. He is the perfect choice to lead the Rebel Allianceagainst the untold evils of the Empire.

  . . .

  Everyone was invited to my place to watch an episode of a Hong Kong TV program called White Ghost—a weekly show in which they present North American people doing crazy embarrassing shit. It was my night to appear—they were going to show the webcast clip of me singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart." It went viral, and pretty well every human being on the planet with a high-speed connection has seen it a dozen times. But at least on White Ghost I was up for a prize, and frankly, dammit, I deserved it and wanted to win. (Please note that I'm now at peace with the karaoke issue, and have learned to be gracious when the subject of that unmentionably demonic song by premiere Welsh song vixen, Bonnie Tyler, arises.)

  All of jPod was in my living room.

  "Any news about Steve yet?"

  "Nothing."

  "Pass me another Zima."

  "Why are we drinking Zima? It's beyond irony. It's not funny or anything. It's just gross. Why not just serve us jugs of Hider's piss instead?"

  "Drinking Zima is something Douglas Coupland would make a character do."

  "To what end?"

  "It'd be a device that would allow him to locate the characters in time and a specific sort of culture."

  "Is that all we are—Zima drinkers? Zima is so nineties."

  Mom and Dad came in the door just then. The cops had busted the guy who sold Dad boodeg satellite computer cards, so they had to come to my place to watch the show on my own paid for satellite system.

  Mom said, "Look at all you clever young people."

  Dad was jolly, too. "It's good to hang out with the folks who are going to be wiping spit off my bib a few years down the road. Ethan, are you ever going to stop wearing those ragamuffin clothes? Is Kam Fong here yet?"

  "He went to get more Zima. He lives for it, and he can't find it in Hong Kong."

  Everyone chimed in, "So that's why we're drinking it."

  "You got it."

  Mom asked, "Are you excited to see your episode, dear?"

  I said, "The producers didn't tell me much."

  "Is young Steven still missing?"

  "Yup."

  "Hmmm."

  Okay, I'm not stupid. But how do you ask your mother what she might have done to the guy? Hi, Mom, I know that every guy who gets sweet on you ends up in a grim situation, but could we put all of that aside for a second?

  Dad asked, "How's Kam working out?"r />
  "Actually, not too badly. I'm surprised. Best roommate I ever had."

  Here's what happened: Kam screwed up and accidentally put not just smuggled people but a smuggler into a Nedlloyd freight container. They spent eight days lolling about the Pacific with almost no food, water, light or sanitation. Kam had to hide out at my place for a few weeks until things calmed down. He was philosophical about the mistake: "I had to give the bastard a freebie on that particular shipment, and I also had to buy a McMansion for his mother in West Van, one bordering the golf course. Of course, the mother's gaga and could live in a Maytag box for all she cares."

  In any event, Kam ended up staying with us in Chinatown—the poverty nostalgia factor—and Kaitlin and I couldn't be happier. He makes no noise at all when he's home, and the fridge is bursting with tons of free food, renewed daily.

  Greg walked in with Kam. "Zima for all!" He threw everybody a botde, and since Kam can sometimes get snarky towards people who don't appreciate his generosity (p.s. all of Kam's shiny Chinese furniture reappeared the day he moved in), botdes were listlessly accepted and opened. "Isn't this stuff great?" Kam insisted.

  Evil Mark led the chorus. "Woohoo!"

  John Doe surprised us. "I actually know a few facts about Zima."

  "Why on earth would you?"

  "From my efforts to figure out what normal guys ate and drank. I thought Zima was it for a while, so I researched it. Zima was developed in the early 1990s, during our culture's love affair with clear products. Remember Crystal Pepsi? And Ivory Liquid Clear? I'm glad I was around for that craze, which was my first exposure to mass consumer culture. Anyway, the Coors Brewing Company developed Zima as a beer alternative. The word means 'winter' in Russian. It was supposed to be cool and fresh, lacking the bitterness of hops, or vodka's high-alcohol punch. It went national in 1994. It's a niche beverage with no real competition, and—this will surprise you—it's drunk mostly by men in their early twenties. Mock it as you will, but Zima is fresh and sassy and here to stay."

  Kam said, "I read in an in-flight magazine once that members of Generation X like to drink Zima."

  John Doe said, "Ahhh . . . yes . . . Generation X."

  Everyone looked awkward, as if Angela Lansbury's aging collie dog had noiselessly passed wind.

  "What did I say? Why is everyone so quiet suddenly?"

  I said, "Let's change the subject to something better."

  Then, in one of life's great coincidental moments, a Zima commercial appeared on TV, and we all shrieked.

  . . .

  Years ago I read in a psychology book about this experiment in which people were asked to spit into a saucer and then drink back the spit—still warm from their mouths. Most people couldn't do it, because the moment spit leaves your body, it's not you any more. That's what it's like seeing yourself on TV—it's like drinking your own spit. It's not nice. I was bracing myself for this sensation when, just before the show started, the local network affiliate inserted a news teaser between commercials:

  The RCMP have new evidence in the case of missing man Steve Lefkowitz—tune in to the evening news after . . .

  My mother and Kam Fong exchanged a glance that lasted a microsecond too long. Nobody noticed it but me.

  The show's introductory music began. Beneath the music was a jump-cut montage of morbidly obese people with bad hair, skin, teeth and posture driving cars off bridges, catching on fire, walking into lampposts—that kind of stuff. Meanwhile, Dad, clueless as always, didn't realize that what we were seeing was the actual show.

  He demonstrated this by picking up the remote and pushing one of its buttons, making the TV blare out shrieking blue fuzz.

  "Dad, whatthefuck do you think you're doing?" Greg shouted.

  "I only wanted to see if tonight's Taw & Orderly a rerun or not."

  "Put it back to where it was. Our show just started!"

  "How was I to know?" Dad fiddled with the remote. "I can't find the right button. It's a different satellite system than mine."

  "How useless can you possibly be? Ethan, put the channel back on before the show starts again."

  Dad somehow managed to push another button, and the TV volume blasted like 150 freight cars loaded with plywood shunting in hot weather. "Jesus, Dad, what button did you push?" Greg shouted.

  "Be quiet. Your brother and I are trying to fix this."

  "I am not, because you won't let me," I said.

  "Where did I put my glasses?"

  "Dad, give me the remote."

  "Ethan, no. I can fix this."

  Everyone in the room was trying to conceal their inner glee at witnessing my family enter major fuck-up mode. Any of my podmates could have solved the fracas with the remote with three brain cells, but no way were they about to engage in this mess.

  Seconds ticked by. Mom said, "Jim, you're always doing this. You won't simply admit you can't see the buttons. Ethan, take the remote away from your father."

  Dad dropped the remote. It hit the tabletop and shattered, sending its batteries cartwheeling between Kaitlin's legs, and then into the coat closet by the front door.

  'You've damaged Ethan's coffee table," Mom cried.

  Greg shouted, "Dad, you're a total fuck-up. The show's started, and we're missing it."

  "Greg, it's not my fault."

  "It is-fucking-too your fault."

  "Ethan's system is Mickey Mouse." Dad went over to the TV and touched one of those little black knobs beneath the screen that nobody ever touches. Big mistake: we got a choppy satellite porn channel with heaving, thrusting, pulsating, thwomping and gushing. The noise that accompanied it was like shattering glass. It was shocking. Greg went to shoo Dad away and bashed his shin on the sharp edge of the coffee table and started screaming shitshitshitSHIT

  I got mad. "Dad, get away from the TV set."

  "I'm not going anywhere until your brother apologizes to me."

  "Greg, just apologize to Dad, okay?"

  "Like hell I will. Do you know how hard Kam and I worked to get you on that show? And numbnuts here just waltzes in and fucks up the system by pushing the one button in the whole fucking universe that makes the TV self-destruct."

  "I was only trying to see if Law Order was a rerun or not tonight."

  "Wait a second, Dad," I said. "Law Order is on right after White Ghost..:'

  "Yeah, so?"

  "You mean to say that the moment White Ghost ended you were going to hog the TV to yourself and watch Law Order with no regard whatsoever for the nine other people in the room?"

  "What's your problem?"

  I lost it. "That is so fucking rude! You came into my house already planning to zap to another show the moment this one ends?"

  "Ethan, watch your mouth," Mom said.

  There was a green and purple fellatial funfest on the screen, and suddenly the sound became perfect. We could hear slurping, glurp-ing and god-knows-what slapping against all forms of membrane. Dad said, "Turn that off, right now."

  Greg said, "No way is Dad getting off the hook by unplugging the set. He's going to have to fix his mess first."

  Dad turned it off. My ears felt cool and relieved.

  Mom moaned, "A great big gouge in the middle of Ethan's table."

  "My shin's bleeding all over the place!" And it was true—Greg's wound was pulsing away in Monty Python splendour. My podmates discreedy pulled away from him.

  "Oh, Greg," Mom said. "First the table, and now you're spraying blood all over the beautiful carpeting."

  Dad went to get his coat, but Greg plugged the TV back in. "You're not leaving until you clean up the mess you made."

  I said, "It's my house, Greg. I'll decide."

  "Well, you agree with me, right?"

  "Of course I do. Dad, you're not leaving here until you fix what you screwed up."

  Mom decided to rescue Dad, and used her silent-but-deadly voice. "We're leaving. You're awful, all of you. We're leaving." She stormed out the door, and Dad followed her. Greg limped o
ff to the bathroom in pursuit of a Band-Aid or a tourniquet or a cauterizing tool.

  The room was suddenly appallingly quiet.

  Kaitlin said, "I keep forgetting that your family runs on Microsoft software."

  Evil Mark walked over to the TV and touched one button, just as my segment on White Ghost was ending to thundering audience applause. I ended up finishing second to some guy in Arizona who was juggling five kittens, but then, when they threw in the sixth kitten, it went horribly wrong.

  . . .

  Bree was at her desk and briefly forgot to mute her audio, so we all heard a few seconds of that old Morrissey song, "Everyday Is Like Sunday." This set Kaitlin off. "That song always puts me in a crappy mood because Sundays are actually the worst day of the week. Nobody's answering the phones or dressed properly or doing anything productive. If I ruled the world, every day would be a Thursday."

  "Huh?"

  "Look at it this way: Mondays suck because you're resentful that you can't sleep in, and it's also the day on which sixty percent of life-sucking meetings occur. Tuesdays suck because the week has four more workdays left; you hate yourself and the world because you're trapped in this wage-slave hamster wheel called life. Wednesdays are bad because you realize around noon that the work week is half over, but the fact that you're viewing your life in this manner means that you're nothing more or less than the third panel of that old, unfunny comic strip Cathy, where she realizes she's a fat lonely spinster and her hair flies out and she makes the augghhhhhh! noise. Fridays are bad because you feel like a rat waiting for a food pellet to come down the chute, the food pellet being the weekend. Saturdays are okay, but only barely. And Sundays, as mentioned before, are like the day that time forgot, when nothing happens and when, perversely, you start wishing for Monday again. So give me a week of Thursdays any time. Everyone's in a good mood, people actually get stuff done, and a glint of Saturday puts a sparkle in your step."

  . . .

  I just realized that us jPodders are becoming quite different from other workers here. Our quirks are increasing, while non-jPodders seem to be more and more . . . normal. I realized that other employees our age have hobbies, legally wedded mates and, more eerily, children. Instead of pulling all-nighters, they leave the premises, ride a bike, eat wholesome food, discuss non-work-related activities, have a nap and then return to work the next day. . . not that same night! Older staffers don't even bother coming in on weekends. Where is the sleep-crazed, Pepsi-fuelled one-point-oh tech environment that can only be created by having no green vegetables, no sex and no life?