Like I Care

By Stephen Guppy

Welcome to family life in 21st century Vancouver! Arnold is a struggling real estate agent who's going through a divorce. Linda, Arnold's ex, is inordinately fond of G&T's and worships Princess Diana. Their daughter, Christiana, is trying to break into modelling, but her head shots have already been morphed, packaged, and up-loaded without her consent—she's now the goddess of globalization. Lawrence, their neighbor, is a consultant who specializes in writing pointless mission statements. He's plotting an affair with a young woman who belongs to a cannibal cult led by a chef who has created the perfect modern cuisine—eating the corrupt. Lawrence's step-son, Thomas, has dropped out of college and come adrift; his only interests are cult movies and soap operas. Then there's Emily, a scooter-riding Ultra-chick who models her life on the Yé-Yé girls of the swingin' sixties, and Katelyn, who is coming to terms with the realization that her waitressing gig may be her destiny and not just a temporary job. They're all about to be transformed through the influence of legendary new-age financier Mitchell Morphus. Jumping on the Morphus bandwagon, Arnold finds himself in Taiwan just in time for the Communist invasion, while Lawrence loses his shirt—literally and figuratively—and Thomas becomes the protégé of the sinister financier and short-sells the only commodity that really matters in the modern world—coolness. Fear, uncertainty, disinformation—that's the holy trinity of the 21st Century, and Arnold and his friends are living it to the hilt.

"A fast moving (and fast reading!) romp of a novel, and it does a great job of keeping lots of balls in the air as it follows a large cast of connected characters of different ages over the course of a couple of days in (mostly) Vancouver. Some of the plotlines are more absurd and active than others, which was fun, but what really propels the novel is the overdriven language of technology, slang, abbreviation, and late (post?) postmodernity. It's a cracklingly vivid portrait of an exaggerated time and place, of strained families and young people struggling to find a direction…a smart, funny, and enjoyable depiction of the quotidian impacts of rapid technological change..."—Steve Himmer, Necessary Fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Guppy
• Release date: Mar 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781926639536

Stephen Guppy

Stephen Guppy has published two novels, The Fire Thief and Like I Care, as well as two collections of short fiction, three books of poems, and a textbook for creative writing workshops. His stories and poems have been published internationally, and his books have been short-listed for the Journey Prize for Fiction and the Dorothy Livesay Award for Poetry. He lives in Nanaimo on Vancouver Island.

Book preview

[Barbarella and the Great Tyrant are in a small bubble inside the swirling lava-lamp-like Mathmos.]

Barbarella: Where are we?

Great Tyrant: In the Mathmos, and alive!

Barbarella: I can see that, but why?

Great Tyrant: It seems the Mathmos has created this bubble to protect itself from your innocence.

[The women's bubble is deposited on solid ground, breaking open.]

Great Tyrant: You are so good, you made the Mathmos vomit!

GET A LIFE

Arnold pulls the S-Type over to the curb and kills the engine. He fingers a smoke from the pack on the burl walnut console and punches the lighter. Celine Dion trills from the Blaupunkt. When he's ignited the cigarette, he leans back into the accommodating plush of the Connolly leather and stares at the view from the cul-de-sac. It's a gorgeous August day in Vancouver. From his perch high above the inlet, Arnold can see the whole city sprawled out below him—the Angkor Wat terraces of British Properties, the fragile spine of Lion's Gate, tufts of firs on Prospect Point, little Brio freighters labouring up the harbour. To his left, there are the obelisks of West End business towers, the crustacean ribs of Pacific Place, then Mt. Baker levitating brilliantly above the smoggy Burquitlam sprawl. The beauty of the view gives Arnold a stab of panic: on a day like this, he ought to be showing properties, not sitting in a leveraged Jag in a desert of unsold real estate.  In better times, when the market was booming, he'd have been leading a little knot of retired Bavarian plumbing contractors or superannuated Yokohama sararimen around on the glittering leash of his practiced rhetoric, and that million-dollar view out there would have been the choice wedge of brie in his trap.

Arnold's half way through his cigarette when Annagrete arrives. The sight of her wine-red 300S makes Arnold feel tight in his chest. They've been partners—business partners, he always feels compelled to add—for several years now, but in the last six months the real estate market has totally, irredeemably tanked. Annagrete, Arnold believes, secretly blames him for this disaster. It's his fault that the markets have flat-lined. He's to blame for the government's penchant for taxing developers for everything from breaking ground to breaking wind. The high-tech bubble? 911? The credit crunch? Al-Qaeda? All down to him. He, Arnold Sonnenberg, and he alone, made lumber so expensive that two-by-fours are auctioned at Sotheby's. It's all his fault.  Annagrete, to her credit, has never actually said anything to Arnold about his complicity in the plot to put them both in a Lifelong Learners program, but he can sense her disapproval in her manner. She gets this incipient-migraine squint every time she sees him.

Wonderful place for a meeting, Arn, Annegrete says when she's disentangled herself from the seat belt of her Mercedes. Are we going to hang-glide down to Park Royal and cruise the mall? Or do you have a potential buyer trussed up in the trunk of your car?  

Just thought we might check out the sites. These lots are going move pretty quick.

Yes, of course, Arn. They might, for example, move down the slope and crash into the inlet. Actually, I'm surprised they haven't done that already.  Annagrete's holding her wind-blown hair away from her face. That's probably more likely than anyone paying half a million for 4,000 square feet of vertical rock in this market.

Hey, you never know, Arnold says. He can't very well tell her that he wanted their meeting outdoors because he's terrified of being alone with her. Annagrete's a great agent, a real closer, and Arnie knows he's lucky to have her as a partner, but whatever her strengths may be she's still 1.) female; 2.) a friend of his wife's; 3.) almost as cash poor as he is. Which makes her 1.) a walking harassment suit; 2.) his delusional ex's enabler; 3.) a loaded pistol aimed between his eyes. 

A few years ago, a real estate guy Arnie knew vaguely was accused of luring his woman partner into a display home and tying her up with designer bath towels. Symbolic bondage, or something like that. According to the woman, he'd neglected to ask her if she was interested. Or possibly she'd changed her mind after the fact.  Either way, he'd wound up doing federal time in a forestry camp, cutting cedar shakes with crackheads and kiddie-porn aficionados. To make things even spookier, Arnie's wife, Linda, seemed to believe that he and his (business!) partner were screwing each other instead of their clients, while Annagrete clearly assumed that Arnie was getting a divorce because, like every other man on Earth, he was dying to get into her pants. Granted, Annagrete wasn't exactly the professional-victim type—if she wanted you to tie her up, she'd fax you the Eagle Scout's Guide to Advanced Knot-Tying and grade you on the neatness of your sheepshank. Still, the fact remained that she could nuke Arnold's career, future security, entire life, etc. any time the spirit moved her. She had to be handled with caution.

So look, Arnold says. He takes off his Raybans. I've been working on an idea I wanted to run past you. I mean, we need a new angle, right? Something to get us back in the game. Hey, it's a last-quarter, long-yardage situation.

Annagrete turns away from Arnold like a sunflower seeking light, trying to keep her back to the shifting winds that roar up the side of the mountain. Arnold finds himself having to dance sideways a few steps at a time as he speaks in order to stay in her line of vision.

Oh good, a sports metaphor, she says. I love those. Well, don't keep me in suspense, Arn. Let me in on your latest vision.

What we do is, Arnold says, we pitch the whole city as a Feng Shui location.  He do-si-does sideways as Annagrete turns. Take display ads in the Hong Kong dailies. Taiwan too, what the heck. Blanket the Pacific Rim. Get a web page in Chinese and Japanese. There are high-school kids who can whip one up in no time.

A whole city can't be Feng Shui, Arn, Annagrete says. She rotates another forty-five degrees, Arnold prancing along beside her like a horse on a merry-go-round. There has to be some shitty luck somewhere.

Hey, no. I mean, really. It's perfect.

The entire lower mainland or just metro Vancouver? Make up your mind, Arn.  Be specific. Annagrete smiles, but her attention is slipping. 

There's plenty of shitty luck, Annagrete. And most of it is right where I'm standing. That's exactly what I'm trying to change.

This gimmick of yours... She seems to be stifling a yawn as she speaks.  Come on, Arn. It's all been tried. Feng Shui houses. Pacific Rim promotions. The money people are already here, and they've already bought or built their houses.  Some of them have even gone back. You're trying to ride a horse that died last year.  The wind dies, and she finally stops revolving.

Arnold paces right, arcing along the vacant cul-de-sac. Then he stops, spins on his heel, and arcs back to the left. Annegrete watches him warily, as if he were a robot in Doom.

What's that place in Taiwan called? he finally says. The city?

Taipei, Annagrete tells him.

"Right, Tapei. Well, I was watching this news thing on Tapei a couple of days ago. Newsline, Nightline, whatever." 

Annegrete goes back to twirling in slow motion, a phototropic dandelion with a frizz of wind-sheared blonde. She appears, however, to be paying attention, her face set in the bored-but-compliant grimace of a child being lectured at school. Arnold dances to the left and presses on. 

"Apparently there's some threat of the PRC trying to take the place over.  Anyone with portable assets will be looking to bail out real soon. If we can get there first with an attractive promotion...Well, a chunk of feng shui security on the far side of the water might look pretty sweet to them." 

Maybe, Arn, maybe.  But I have to be honest... She stops her revolutions and stares at the toes of her spectator pumps, then raises her head and locks her blue eyes on his, being honest. ...I've really begun to wonder if it isn't time for me to move on.

Move on..? The shock of Annegrete's announcement stops Arnold in his tracks.  By the time he's recovered his composure, Annegrete has already rotated forty-five degrees counterclockwise, and he's forced to dance around her before he can answer.

What do you mean 'move on'? Try another city? Leave Vancouver? He skids to a halt and begins to trot back in the opposite direction as the wind shifts and Annegrete starts to revolve to the right. You're not thinking of Vegas, are you? That market's ridiculously glutted. There are agents in Caesar's parking lot flogging time-share condos out of their cars.

I'm not thinking of leaving Vancouver, Arn. It's the business I want to get away from. I'm sick of making nice with creeps who just want to take up my time.

"But that's what we do, you know, Arnold mutters, real estate. He realizes he's sounding defensive. I mean, it's what we've always done, isn't it? Ever since college. And we've done pretty darn all right for ourselves, by and large." 

We used to, Arn, we used to. Annegrete's voice is filled with fatigue. The wind blows her ten degrees clockwise. "But there's a built-in problem with real estate, you know. As the name implies, it's distressingly real. And interest in real stuff is on the decline. Real commerce is going the way of real manufacturing and all those other old industrial dodos. You and I are a pair of Atlantic cod fishers. We're obsolete as steel mills. The market is for pure information. That's where I need to be, too."

Arnold stops pacing and looks around at the ground at his feet as if he's expecting it to evaporate or turn into a whirlpool. That's completely ridiculous, Annagrete, he says. "People still have to live somewhere."

I suppose so, Arn,Annegrete sighs. But they're parking their savings in biotech and nanotech futures these days, not in a white picket fence. She fishes around in her jacket pocket and produces her cell, which has apparently been giving off inaudible vibes. Got to run, I'm afraid, she announces. She places her hand solicitously on the sleeve of Arnold's jacket, causing him to jump back a foot. "Do call me if anything turns up, all right?  But only if it's really worth pursuing." She strides back toward her Mercedes, and in a moment she's driven away.

Oblivious to the jet-stream winds, Arnold wanders to the edge of the cliffs and looks down on the road that twists almost vertically beneath him. He watches Annegrete's wine-red car as it negotiates the complicated switchbacks. First my wife, now my partner—what's next?  A heart attack?  A natural disaster? He imagines the cliff giving way beneath his feet, the empty subdivision crumbling down the hill, the towers across the sparkling harbour toppling to the ground, the whole of Vancouver leveled by an earthquake. 

Arnold closes his eyes and wills himself to step forward into space without thinking. To walk out of this planet of unwanted real estate and into...what?  A new world of pure information? He takes a few steps backward, vertigo swirling his stomach, turns and walks back to his Jag.

2. LIVE IN YOUR WORLD, PLAY IN OURS

Lawrence opens his Personal Bookmarks. Clicks the Free Gothik Sexxboards ikon.  Logs on with his Password. Scrolls down the page, scanning message after message.  Stops.

<

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Lawrence's own message is next in the hierarchy.

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Lawrence clicks the Back button on his browser and then scrolls down the list of messages until he comes to the last one in the thread.

<

This time, at last, there's an e-mail link glowing pure celestial blue beneath her signature. Lawrence smiles in anticipation. Points the mouse at . Shifts his weight in the ergonomic chair Dorothy bought him to celebrate his early retirement. Takes a sip of his coffee from the GONE FISHIN' joke mug the support staff at the Ministry gave him. Reaches down to adjust his incipient erection, which is in danger of getting tangled in his boxers. Clicks the button. Begins to type.

*  *  *  *  *

While Lawrence is plotting assignations, his stepson, Thomas, is calling a friend. This is Thomas's pre-weekend ritual. Every Friday night, he and his Old School buds from John Turner Secondary get together for a DVD and pizza then head out to reconnoiter the clubs. Selecting the flicks is Zachary's mission, and it's the Zee-man himself on the phone. Zach's a Film Studies major, and the B-movies of his parents' generation are his particular obsession. Last week was a double-bill: Beyond the Valley of the Dolls backed up by Barbarella. This week it's a Disney film, Moon Pilot.  The stars, if you can call them that, are Tom Tryon, Brian Keith, and someone named Dany Saval.

Emily recommended it, Zachary says. Well, she mentioned it, at any rate...

Yeah? You run into Emily? What's up with her?

Hard to say, dude. Have you noticed she's developing an accent?

An accent? You mean since she moved downtown? Do West Enders have their own tribal dialect?

This sounded a lot like French. I thought I was experiencing some sort of auditory hallucination, but when I called to invite her over, the Gallic tinge was even thicker than before. You think it’s nonconsensual immersion? Like she's being taken over by wandering Francophone spirits?

No clue. Did she say, 'I see French people' or anything like that? Maybe she's just losing it, dude.

Could be, man. I'm totally beginning to wonder. Is it possible to develop schizophrenia and separatism at once?

Shit, I don't know. I'm starting to admire anyone with an agenda, even if it's only mental illness.

Life can get like that, Tee-dog. Listen, let's talk about it later. What time do you want us tonight? 

Seven sound do-able? That'll give us time to do the movie and then hit the clubs before the vulgar masses guzzle all the shooters.

Cool. I'm going to head out at six and scoop up Maricio at Amazonia. He's applying for a job there after work.

Down on South Granville? By Chapters?

That's the one. Guess he's pissed off with the bussing gig at Puccini's.

Really? He's going to bag his job and leave Katelyn to the tender mercies of Anton the Growling Gastronome? That seems a little harsh.

Kate can look after herself, dude. Take more than a bi-polar chef to rattle her cool. Anyway, I guess she wants to stick where she is. 

Weird. I thought Maricio and Katelyn did everything together. He tell you why he's packing in the job? 

Just the usual shit about needing to re-focus his objectives.

Translation: MYOB

Exactly.

So is Kate going to make tonight or no?

"No clue, dude. Maybe Jordan will bring her. He's bringing Chris and Lily, I think. Emily, I'm not so sure. When I told her I'd picked up the movie she'd recommended, she just kind of sniffed and said it wasn't Dany Saval's best work.  Didn't capture 'Le vrai Yé-Yé'. That make any sense to you?"

Not a bunch, dude. Emily can be deep. Thomas cups his hand over the receiver and listens to his mother's approaching footsteps. She's been prowling around the house all morning, looking for an excuse to get on his case. He wants to get the inevitable parent/child confrontation over with so he can move on to more important matters, such as daytime TV, leftover pizza, and sleep. I'm going to have to hang up now, Zee-man, he says. Parental module's hovering. I think she needs some quality time. Just message me if anything changes. 

Life is change, dude. Get used to it, right?

Whatever, man. Don't forget you're bringing the dip.

Thomas kills the phone. He hears Lawrence and Dorothy talking softly in the entrance hall. Something about appointments and lunch dates and meetings, the usual old folks jive. Then the door closes as Lawrence goes out. Thomas picks up the remote and flicks the TV into being. There's a prime Knot's Landing rerun coming on.

3. FOLLOW THE MONEY

Rick is maybe thirty-five. He's settling into his stomach. He opens the button on his jacket and sits. Flips the Hermès tie over his Molson muscle, leans back and does a quick neck-roll.

What is it with these business guys, Lawrence wonders. Even the young studs look jowly and thick in the flanks. It's a status thing, he surmises, some unconscious biological imperative. That roll of fat bubbling out around the collar equals prosperity, the ability to make it through winter. The other bucks follow the dude with the food.  Females, as well, are attracted to chubbiness in potential mates. Stick with this guy, their hormones keep telling them. He'll gather up seeds and insects for your offspring.  And if he turns out to be an embarrassment or a bore, you can always bite his head off and eat him.

So what are we into? Remind me, Rick asks.

Those GICs in the CIBC, Lawrence tells him. They're maturing this April. We need to roll them over or something.

Right!  Right! Rick yelps. He