Eleanor Rigby. Douglas Coupland

bet you something.”

      “What? What do you bet me?”

      “I bet you think I’m street trash.”

      I sighed. “Well, Jeremy, let me check my data so far: drugs; overdose; mesh stockings; cheese theft …”

      “I used to be street trash.”

      “Okay. Sure.”

      “But I stopped being trash a few years ago.”

      “I’m glad to hear that.” I considered this. “Can you do that? I mean, just stop that whole way of life?”

      “Yes. Or I thought I could. Until last night. My friend Jane got me all dragged up for the Rocky Horror show.”

      “So your doctor told me.”

      “Tyson? Man, from what I just saw, she needs a morphine drip and a lost weekend with a tennis pro. She’s one of those doctors who overdoes it. I can tell with one blink.”

      “I think you may be right.”

      “What’s with the puffy face?”

      “I had my wisdom teeth taken out four days ago.”

      “Pain?”

      “No. They gave me lots of drugs.”

      “Any leftovers?”

      “No!” I pretend-swatted him.

      “Never hurts to try.”

      I asked him how he felt. He went quiet. I said, “Hello?”

      He pulled into himself, just like that, his shine gone.

      “Jeremy? Here you are, sick and all, and we’re discussing … stolen cheese. That’s stupid. Sorry.”