Generation X

by Douglas Coupland

  "Very coolly I stroll over to the pool bar—the one you used to work in, Andy—and order a most genteel cocktail of the color pink, then saunter back to my perch, surreptitiously checking out the guy on the way back. But I think I died on the spot when I saw who it was. It was Curtis, of course.

  "He was taller than I remembered, and he'd lost any baby fat he might have had, and his body had taken on a sinewy, pugilistic look, like those kids who shop for needle bleach on Hollywood Boulevard who sort of resemble German tourists from a block away and then you see them up close. Anyhow, there were a lot of ropey white scars all over him. And Lord! The boy had been to the tattoo parlor a few times. A crucifix blared from his inner left thigh and a locomotive engine roared across his left shoulder. Underneath the engine there was a heart with china -dish break marks; a bouquet of dice and gardenias graced the other shoulder. He'd obviously been around the block a few times.

  "I said, 'Hello, Curtis.' and he looked up and said, 'Well I'll be damned! It's Catherine Lee Meyers!' 1 couldn't think of what to say next. I put down my drink and sat closed legged and slightly fetal on a chair beside him and stared and felt warm. He reached up and kissed me on the cheek and said, 'I missed you, Baby Doll. Thought I'd be dead before 1 ever saw you again.'

  "The next few minutes were a blur of happiness. But before long I had to go. My client was calling. Curtis told me what he was doing in town, but I couldn't make out details —something about an acting job in L.A. (uh oh). But even while we were talking, he kept bobbing his head around to and fro looking at I don't know what. I asked him what he was looking at, and all he said was 'hummingbirds. Maybe I'll tell you more tonight.' He gave me his address (an apartment address, not a hotel), and we agreed to meet for dinner that night at eight thirty. I couldn't really say to him, 'But what about Sylvia?' really could I, knowing that she had a nine o'clock appointment. I didn't want to seem snoopy.

  "Anyhow, eight thirty rolled around, plus a little bit more. It was the night of that storm—remember that? I just barely made it over to the address, an ugly condo development from the 1970s, out near Racquet Club Drive in the windy part of town. The power was out so the streetlights were crapped out, too. The flash-flood wells in the streets were beginning to overflow and I tripped coming up the stairs of the apartment complex because there were no lights. The apartment, number three-something, was on the third floor, so I had to walk up this pitchblack stairwell to get there, only to be ignored when I knocked on the door. I was furious. As I was leaving, I yelled 'You have gone to the dogs, Curtis Donnely,' at which point, hearing my voice, he opened the door.

  "He'd been drinking. He said to not mind the apartment, which belonged to a model friend of his named Lenny. 'Spelled with an i,' he said, 'you know how models are.'

  This was obviously not the same little boy from Tallahassee. "The apartment had no furniture, and owing to the power failure, no light, save for birthday candles, several boxes of which he had scavenged out of Lenni's kitchen drawer. Curtis was lighting them one by one. It was so dim.

  I could faintly see that the walls were papered in a jetsam of blackand-white fashion photos ripped (not very carefully ripped, I might add) from fashion magazines. The room smelled like perfume sample strips. The models were predominantly male and pouting, with alien eyes and GQ statue bones that mouéed at us from all corners of the room. I tried to pretend I didn't notice them. After the age of twenty -five, Scotch taping magazine stuff to your walls is just plain scary.

  "' 'Seems like we're destined to always end up meeting in primitive rooms, eh, Curtis?' I said, but I don't think he got the reference to our old mobile love hospital. We sat down on the floor on blankets near the sliding door and watched the storm outside. I had a quick scotch to grab a buzz, but didn't want it to go past that. I wanted to remember the night.

  "Anyhow, we had the slow, stunted conversation of people catching up with time. Every so often, as there is with strained reminiscences, there were occasional wan smiles, but mostly the mood was dry. I think we were both wondering if we'd made a mistake. He was maudlin drunk. Maybe he was going to cry soon.

  "Then there was a banging on the door. It was Sylvia. " 'Oh fuck, it's Kate,' he whispered. 'Don't say anything. Make her wear herself out. Make her go away.'

  "Kate was a force of nature outside the door in the black black hallway. Certainly not the meek little Sylvia of that afternoon. She'd make the devil blush with the names she was calling Curtis, demanding that he let her in, accusing him of banging and getting banged by anything that breathes and has a wallet, then quickly refining that to anything with a wallet. She was demanding her 'charms' back and threatening to have one of her husband's goons go after his 'one remaining orchid.' The neighbors, if not horrified, must at least have been fascinated.

  "But Curtis just held me tight and said zero. Kate eventually spent herself out, whimpered, then soundlessly vacated the premises. Soon we heard a car roar and tires squeal down in the building's parkade.

  "I was uncomfortable, but unlike the neighbors, I could sate my curiosity. Before I could ask a question, though, Curtis said 'Don't ask. Ask me about something else. Anything else. But not that.'

  '"" 'Very well,' I said. 'Let's talk about hummingbirds,' which made him laugh and roll over. I was glad at least that some of the tension was gone. He then started taking off his pants , saying, 'Don't worry. You don't want to make it with me anyway. Trust me on that one, Baby Doll.' Then, once he was naked, he opened his legs and cupped his hands to his crotch, saying 'look.' Sure enough, there was just one 'orchid.'

  '' 'That happened down in—,' he said, me stupidly forgetting the name of the country, someplace Central America, I think. He called it 'the servant's quarters.'

  "He laid back on the blanket, scotch bottle at his side and told me about his fighting for pay in wars down there. Of discipline and camaraderie. Of secret paychecks from men with Italian accents. Finally, he was relaxing.

  "He went on at some length about his exploits, most of them about

  as interesting to me as watching ice hockey on TV, but I kept up a good show of interest. But then he started mentioning one name more than others, the name Arlo. Arlo, I take it it was his best friend, something more than that—whatever it is that men become during a war, and who knows what else.

  "Anyhow, one day Curtis and Arlo were out 'on a shoot,' when the fighting got life-threateningly intense. They were forced to lie down on the ground, covered in camouflage, with their primed machine guns pointed at the enemy. Arlo was lying next to Curtis and they were both hair-trigger itching to shoot. Suddenly, this hummingbird started darting into Arlo's eyes. Arlo brushed it away, but it kept darting back. Then there were two and then three hummingbirds, 'What the hell are they doing?' asked Curtis, and Arlo explained that some hummingbirds are attracted to the color blue and that they dart at it in an attempt to collect it to build their nests, and what they were trying to do was build their nests with Arlo's eyes.

  "At that point Curtis said, 'Hey, my eyes are blue, too—,' but Arlo's sweeping gestures to move the birds out of his eyes attracted the enemy fire. They were attacked. That was when a bullet entered Curtis's groin and when another bullet entered Arlo's heart, killing him instantly. "What happened next, I don't know. But the next day Curtis joined the mop-up crews, in spite of his injury, and returned to the battle site to collect and bag the dead bodies. But when they found the body of Arlo, they were all as aghast as anybody who picks up bodies regularly can be, not because of his bullet wounds, (a common enough sight) but because of a horrible sacrilege that had been performed on his corpse —the blue meat of Arlo's eyes had been picked away from the whites. The native men cursed and crossed themselves, but Curtis merely closed Arlo's eyelids then kissed each one. He knew about the hummingbirds; he kept that knowledge to himself.

  "He was 4-F'ed that day, and by nightfall was numb and on a plane back to the States, where he ended up in San Diego. And at that point his life becomes a blan
k. That's when all of the things he wouldn't tell me started to happen.

  "' 'So that's why you're looking at the hummingbirds all the time, then,' I said. But there was more. Lying there on the floor, lit by a sad triad of three birthday candles that also illuminated a sullen beefcake on the bedroom wall, he began to cry. Oh, God, weep is the right word.

  102 GENERATION X

  He wasn't crying. He was weeping and I could only place my chin on his heart and listen—listen while he blubbered that he didn't know what happened to his youth, to any of his ideas about people or niceness, and that he had become a slightly freaky robot. 'I can't even break into porno now because of my accident. Not and get top dollar.'

  "And after a while we just laid there and breathed together. He started to talk to me, but his talk was like a roulette wheel that's almost slowed down to a full stop. 'You know, Baby Doll,' he said, 'sometimes you can be very stupid and swim a bit too far out into the ocean and not have enough energy to swim back to shore. Birds insult you at that point, when you're out there just floating. They only remind you of the land you'll never be able to reach again. But one of these days, I don't know when, one of those little hummingbirds is going to zip right in and make a dart for my blue little eyes, and when that happens—'

  "But he never told me what he was going to do. It wasn't his intention; he passed out instead. It must have been midnight by then and I was left staring at his poor, battle -scarred body, under the birthday candle lighting. I tried to think of something, any thing, I could do for him, and I only came up with one idea. I put my chest on top of his, and kissed him on the forehead, grabbing onto his tattoos of trains and dice and gardenias and broken hearts for support. And I tried to empty the contents of my soul into his. I imagined my strength—my soul— was a white laser beam shooting from my heart into his, like those light pulses in glass wires that can pump a million books to the mo on in one second. This beam was cutting through his chest like a beam cutting through a sheet of steel. Curtis could take or leave this strength that he so obviously lacked—but I just wanted it to be there for him as a reserve. I would give my life for that man, and all I was able to donate that night was whatever remained of my youth. No regrets.

  Anyway, sometime that night, after the rains ended and while I was sleeping, Curtis disappeared from the room. And unless fate throws us together again, which I doubt quite strongly, I suspect that was it for us for this lifetime. He's out there right now, maybe even as we speak, getting pecked in the eyeball by a ruby -throated little gem. And you know what'll happen to him when he does get pecked? Call it a hunch, but when that happens, train cars will shunt in his mind. And the next time Sylvia comes knocking on his door, he'll walk over and he'll openit. Call it a hunch."

  None of us can talk, and it's obvious to us what Elvissa will re member earth by. Fortunately, the phone rings in my bungalow and definitively cuts the moment, as only a phone ring can. Tobias takes that moment to excuse himself and head over to his car, and when I enter my bungalow to pick up the phone, I see him stooped down and looking at his eyes in his rented Nissan's rearview mirror. Right then I know that it's all over between him and Claire. Call it a hunch. I pick up the phone.

  WHY A M

  I

  POOR?

  It's Prince Tyler of Portland on the phone, my baby brother by some five years; our family's autumn crocus; the buzz-cut love child; spoiled little monster who hands a microwaved dish of macaroni back to Mom and commands, "There's a patch in the middle that's still cold. Re heat it." (Me, my two other brothers, or my three sisters would be thwocked on the head for such insolence, but such baronial dictums from Tyler merely reinforce his princely powers.) 'Hi, Andy. Bag ging some rays?" "Hi, 'Too cool, too cool. World Trade Center, coming down to stay in January 8 for five days. We're going to have a with that?" 'Not that I Tyler. Actually I am." Listen: Bill-cubed, the Lori, Joanna, and me are your spare bungalow on That's Elvis's birthday. KingFest. Any problem can think of, but you'll be

  packed like hamsters in there. Hope you don't mind. Let me check." (Bill-cubed, actually Bill3, is three of Tyler's friends, all named Bill; the World Trade Center is the Morrissey twins, each standing six feet six inches.) I rummage through my bungalow, hunting for my reser vations book (the landlord places me in charge of rentals). I muse all the while about Tyler and his clique—Global Teens, as he labels them, though most are in their twenties. It seems amusing and confusing— unnatural—to me the way Global Teens, or Tyler's friends, at least, live their lives so together with each other: shopping, traveling, squabbling,

  REBELLION

  POSTPONEMENT: The tendency in one's youth to avoid traditionally youthful activities and artistic experiences in order to obtain serious career

  experience. Sometimes results in the mourning for lost youth at about age thirty, followed by silly haircuts and expensive jokeinducing wardrobes.

  thinking, and breathing, just like the Baxter family. (Tyler, not surprisingly, has ended up becoming fast friends, via me, with Claire's brother Allan.)

  How cliquish are these Global Teens? It really boggles. Not one of them can go to Waikiki for a simple one-week holiday, for example, without several enormous gift-laden send-off parties in one of three classic sophomoric themes: Tacky Tourist, Favorite Dead Celebrity, or Toga. And once they arrive there, nostalgic phone calls soon start: sentimental and complicated volleys of elaborately structured transPacific conference calls flowing every other day, as though the jolly vacationer had just hurtled toward Jupiter on a three-year mission rather than six days of overpriced Mai Tais on Kuhio Street.

  "The Tyler Set" can be really sucky, too—no drugs, no irony, and only moderate booze, popcorn, cocoa, and videos on Friday nights. And elaborate wardrobes—such wardrobes! Stunning and costly, coordinated with subtle sophistication, composed of only the finest labels. Slick. And they can afford them because, like most Global Teen princes and princesses, they all live at home, unable to afford what few ludicrously overpriced apartments exist in the city. So their money all goes on their backs. Tyler is like that old character from TV, Danny Partridge, who didn't want to work as a grocery store box boy but instead wanted to start out owning the whole store. Tyler's friends have nebulous, unsalable but fun talents—like being able to make really great coffee or owning a really good head of hair (oh, to see Tyler's shampoo, gel, and mousse collection!).

  They're nice kids. None of their folks can complain. They're perky. They embrace and believe the pseudo-globalism and ersatz racial harmony of ad campaigns engineered by the makers of soft drinks and computer-inventoried sweaters. Many want to work for IBM when their lives end at the age of twenty-five ("Excuse me, but can you tell me more about your pension plan?"). But in some dark and undefinable way, these kids are also Dow, Union Carbide, General Dynamics, and the military. And I suspect that unlike Tobias, were their AirBus to crash on a frosty Andean plateau, they would have little, if any, compunction about eating dead fellow passengers. Only a theory.

  Anyhow, a peek out my window while looking for the reservation book reveals that the poolside is now devoid of people. The door knocks and Elvissa quickly pops her head inside, "Just wanted to say bye, Andy." "Elvissa—my brother's on hold long distance. Can you wait a sec?" "No. This is best." She kisses me on the ridge at the top of my nose, between my eyes. A damp kiss that reminds me that girls like Elvissa, spontaneous, a tetch trashy but undoubtedly alive, are somehow never going to be intimate with constipated deadpan fellows like me. "Ciao, bambino," she says, "It's Splittsville for this little Neapolitan waif." "You coming back soon?" I yell, but she's gone, off around the rose bushes and into, I see, Tobias's car. Well, well, well.

  Back on the phone: "Hi, Tyler. The eighth is fine." "Good. We'll discuss the details at Christmas. You are coming up, aren't you?"

  "Unfortunately, oui."

  "I think it's going to be mondo weirdo this year, Andy. You'd better have an escape hatch ready. Book five different flight dates for l
eaving. Oh, and by the way, what do you want for Christmas?" "Nothing, Tyler. I'm getting rid of all the things in my life." "I worry about you, Andy. You have no ambition." I can hear him spooning yogurt. Tyler wants to work for a huge corporation. The bigger the better.

  "There's nothing strange about not wanting anything, Tyler." "So be it, then. Just make sure that / get all the loot you give away. And make sure it's Polo."

  "Actually I was thinking of giving you a minimalist gift this year, Tyler."

  "Huh?"

  "Something like a nice rock or a cactus skeleton." He pauses on the other end. "Are you on drugs?" "No, Tyler. I thought an object of simple beauty might be appro -priate. You're old enough now."

  "You're laffaminit, Andy. A real screamfest. A rep tie and socks will do perfectly."

  My doorbell rings, then Dag walks in. Why does no one ever wait

  CONSPICUOUS

  MINIMALISM: A life-style tactic similar to Status

  Substitution. The nonownership of material goods flaunted as a token of moral and intellectual superiority.

  CAFE MINIMALISM: To espouse a philosopohy of minimalism without actually putting into practice any of its tenets.

  O'PROPRIATION: The

  inclusion of advertising,

  packaging, and entertainment jargon from earlier eras in everyday speech for ironic and/ or comic effect: "Kathleen's Favorite Dead Celebrity party was tons o' fun" or "Dave really thinks of himself as a zany, nutty, wacky, and madcap guy, doesn't he?"

  for me to answer the door? "Tyler, that's the doorbell. I have to go. I'll see you next week, okay?"

  "Shoe eleven, waist thirty, Neck 15 and a half."

  "Adios."

  CELEBRITIES D I E

  It's three hours or so after Tyler's phone call, and people are weirding me out today. I just can't deal with it. Thank God I'm working tonight. Creepy as it may be, dreary as it may be, repetitive as it may be, work keeps me level. Tobias gave Elvissa a ride home but never returned. Claire pooh-poohs the notion of hanky -panky. She seems to know some thing that I don't. Maybe she'll spill her secret later on. Both Dag and Claire are sulking on the couches, not talking to each other. They're restlessly shelling pea remnants into an overflowFair ashtray. (That was a lot and where they of aluminum soda can : Elvissa gave him not one and Claire, because of nuts, tossing the burlappy ing 1974 Spokane World's the fair where it rained had buildings made out tabs.) Dag is upset that shred of attention today the plutonium, still won't