loped across the field. When it caught sight of Hope, it swerved around and came over to rub against her ankles for a moment. Then it suddenly took off again to resume its feline business.
“Hey—my mother’s had some news from the Randall family.”
“Really?”
“My cousin Dan went berserk at the beginning of the month.”
“When was he expecting the world to end?”
“March. Theoretically, the planet was supposed to get sucked into a black hole.”
To emphasize how mistaken her cousin was, she pointed to the stadium with a sweeping gesture and capped her mute commentary with a shot of vodka—the last.
“He shut himself in his cellar with a crate of dynamite and sent the bungalow into orbit.”
“No kidding?”
“My mother received the clipping from the Chronicle-Herald , if you don’t believe me. There’s even a picture of the crater. A nice big hole that’s probably still smoking as we speak.”
The Randall family was always full of surprises, most of them not very good. There was an awkward silence while I tried to calculate the time remaining before July 17, 2001. Hope read my mind.
“Don’t worry. There are still 3,984 days left.”
Very comforting.
Hope had stepped up to the plate with the bat resting on her shoulder, ready to send a perfect pebble flying over Greenland, when the floodlights suddenly went out. As our eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark, the turquoise throb of the northern lights reclaimed possession of the sky.
Hope sighed.
“There is a time to gather stones together and a time to cast stones away.”
In conclusion, the effects of vodka were the following: Bolshevik breath, slurred speech and cryptic statements. As for learning exactly what was cooking inside Ann Randall’s head, we still had no idea. The experiment was a failure—so much for basic research.
40. TELEVISION IS THE ENEMY
One morning in August, without warning, Ann Randall chucked her miserable job and announced that she had resolved to start her life over again in the Dominican Republic. She was going to be a barmaid in a hotel on the Caribbean seashore. Sun, palm trees, coral beaches and rum.
“It’s time I rounded out my education,” she declared as she poured a measure of Moskovskaya into her orange juice.
Seeing that her daughter was unconvinced, Ann Randall produced the application for employment at the Club Playa de Puerto Plata, including the duly completed forms, the stamped envelopes and two passports sent away for early in the summer under the pretense of needing them for an unspecified vacation. There could be no doubt: she had embarked on a career of alcoholism with the efficiency of a model student.
Incredulous, Hope examined her brand-new passport. A grown-up discussion was called for. She made it clear that she would not let herself be dragged along to the Third World. That she would soon be entering junior college. That in a few months she would legally be an adult. That she had absolutely no intention of being Lada’d a second time. That she had plans of her own, which happened to be incompatible with the Dominican Republic and piña coladas. That, that and that.
Her mother looked at the passports, grumbling a little, but willing to give some ground. So she began immediately to search through the Yellow Pages for a local watering hole.
Our summer contract at the cement plant had just ended and we had, without missing a beat, resumed our daily TV marathon: hours upon hours of watching the news, The Price Is Right , Three’s Company and all the memorable trash that, as Hope put it, made up “an enlightening snapshot of North American civilization on the eve of its annihilation.” Whoopee.
Meanwhile, my own mother was overpowered by a peculiar attack of orientalism. She’d started cooking with tofu, studied guidebooks to Zen meditation, bought Buddhas and bonsais at Zellers. What’s more, she plonked one of those pint-sized evergreens on the TV set as a declaration
“Hey—my mother’s had some news from the Randall family.”
“Really?”
“My cousin Dan went berserk at the beginning of the month.”
“When was he expecting the world to end?”
“March. Theoretically, the planet was supposed to get sucked into a black hole.”
To emphasize how mistaken her cousin was, she pointed to the stadium with a sweeping gesture and capped her mute commentary with a shot of vodka—the last.
“He shut himself in his cellar with a crate of dynamite and sent the bungalow into orbit.”
“No kidding?”
“My mother received the clipping from the Chronicle-Herald , if you don’t believe me. There’s even a picture of the crater. A nice big hole that’s probably still smoking as we speak.”
The Randall family was always full of surprises, most of them not very good. There was an awkward silence while I tried to calculate the time remaining before July 17, 2001. Hope read my mind.
“Don’t worry. There are still 3,984 days left.”
Very comforting.
Hope had stepped up to the plate with the bat resting on her shoulder, ready to send a perfect pebble flying over Greenland, when the floodlights suddenly went out. As our eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark, the turquoise throb of the northern lights reclaimed possession of the sky.
Hope sighed.
“There is a time to gather stones together and a time to cast stones away.”
In conclusion, the effects of vodka were the following: Bolshevik breath, slurred speech and cryptic statements. As for learning exactly what was cooking inside Ann Randall’s head, we still had no idea. The experiment was a failure—so much for basic research.
40. TELEVISION IS THE ENEMY
One morning in August, without warning, Ann Randall chucked her miserable job and announced that she had resolved to start her life over again in the Dominican Republic. She was going to be a barmaid in a hotel on the Caribbean seashore. Sun, palm trees, coral beaches and rum.
“It’s time I rounded out my education,” she declared as she poured a measure of Moskovskaya into her orange juice.
Seeing that her daughter was unconvinced, Ann Randall produced the application for employment at the Club Playa de Puerto Plata, including the duly completed forms, the stamped envelopes and two passports sent away for early in the summer under the pretense of needing them for an unspecified vacation. There could be no doubt: she had embarked on a career of alcoholism with the efficiency of a model student.
Incredulous, Hope examined her brand-new passport. A grown-up discussion was called for. She made it clear that she would not let herself be dragged along to the Third World. That she would soon be entering junior college. That in a few months she would legally be an adult. That she had absolutely no intention of being Lada’d a second time. That she had plans of her own, which happened to be incompatible with the Dominican Republic and piña coladas. That, that and that.
Her mother looked at the passports, grumbling a little, but willing to give some ground. So she began immediately to search through the Yellow Pages for a local watering hole.
Our summer contract at the cement plant had just ended and we had, without missing a beat, resumed our daily TV marathon: hours upon hours of watching the news, The Price Is Right , Three’s Company and all the memorable trash that, as Hope put it, made up “an enlightening snapshot of North American civilization on the eve of its annihilation.” Whoopee.
Meanwhile, my own mother was overpowered by a peculiar attack of orientalism. She’d started cooking with tofu, studied guidebooks to Zen meditation, bought Buddhas and bonsais at Zellers. What’s more, she plonked one of those pint-sized evergreens on the TV set as a declaration
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