Douglas Coupland - Miss Wyoming

«John, the LAPD tried locating Susan's mother and they couldn't find her. And besides, Susan and her mother hate each other. I've had two solid years of Sue Colgate trivia drizzled onto my brain. I've had to drive Ryan to the twenty-four-hour Pay-Less at two-thirtyA.M. to buy two-sided mounting tape for his shrine. I've been forced to watch Meet the Blooms reruns on tape instead of going to chick flicks since around the death of grunge. Sure, I know all that stuff I pulled out of databases. But I know the tabloid stuff, too, and Sue Colgate hates her mother.»

A neighbor's leaf blower turned off and John marveled at how quickly the world became silent. He walked back inside the house with the cordless phone. «Vanessa, please. Wherever the mother is, we'll find Susan. You know it, don't you, Vanessa?» Vanessa didn't answer. «I know you know it, Vanessa. You're the professional finder, not me.» He sat down on a couch and watched sun break through woven slots in the curtain, like a cheap hotel in Reno back in the seventies. An unwashed dish in John's sink settled with a clank. John took a breath.

«You're smart, Vanessa. You're pretty. You could easily pass as a human being if you wanted to. It gives you a kick to fool the others. But I'm worried about Susan Colgate, and I'm worried about her in a way I haven't been worried about anything before. You may not be worried, but I know you care. I know you do.»

Vanessa was quiet a moment and then said, «Okay.»

John sighed and looked at the ridges in his fingernails as he continued. «Susan. Shit — she's been around the goddam block so many goddam times that it makes me cry. And yet there she is, still this glorious creature.»

The sun went behind a eucalyptus tree and John's room became cool and gray. He could hear the leaves rustle behind him and through the phone line he could hear occasional office noises from Vanessa's end.

«I need you to help me, Vanessa. You're my agent of mercy. My oracle. You may be a space alien, but you're a good space alien. Superman was a space alien, too. And this afternoon — this is the chance fate's throwing your way to replace that uranium heart of yours with blood.»

Someone called Vanessa from across the office. She called back, «In a second, Mel.» John could hear her breathe. Vanessa said, «Her name's Marilyn, right?»

«Yes.»

John went outside and lay back and basked in the sun. This was his first real solar exposure since the day he was sick in Flagstaff.

Ryan phoned him. «John, how'd you get Vanessa to agree to do an MSP?»

«A what ?»

«I have to call Vanessa. I'll call you right back.» Both men speed-dialed Vanessa, but Ryan got to her first. John's body began to throb with curiosity, with an urge to know that felt like an urge for sex. He walked back inside the guesthouse, picked at a piece of cold pizza in the fridge and tossed some Chinese food flyers into the trash.

The phone rang. Vanessa said, «So I see that Number 11 has gone and blabbed about the MSP.»

«Not really,» said John. «But you know what? Here's my guess. You and your egghead palsy-walsies have some scary new gizmo that can locate a lost hamster from outer space. Am I correct?»

«You're a smart one. Meet me for lunch at the Ivy by the Sea. I don't want to leave Santa Monica. Use your big macho clout and get a table for three.»

John was there early, then Vanessa arrived. They were surrounded by chattering dishes, tinkling glasses, car noises and seagulls screeching outside. Both were slightly twitchy with their own worries. Vanessa was speaking her thoughts aloud. «I'm going to lose my job if I get caught. What am I saying? I will get caught. It's only a matter of how many minutes before they catch me.»

«Caught doing what, Vanessa?»

«You'll find out soon enough.» She made a tetrahedron of cutlery, using the tines of her forks to join a spoon and a knife. John knew she wanted to ask him something, and he was right. «John …»

«Yes, Vanessa?»

«Do you think I'm — »she took a big gulp of breath — «cold?»

«What? Oh Jesus, Vanessa, please don't go taking me too seriously. It's not a good idea.»

«Don't flatter yourself, John. But I mean it. Do you think that I'm capable of — .»

«Of what?»

Vanessa blushed. «This is so embarrassing. Okay, I'll say it: of being loved. » Vanessa looked as if she'd suddenly discovered she was naked in public.

«Yeah, of course you are, Vanessa. But — »

«But what ?» Vanessa's voice expressed weakness for the first time John had noticed.

«You're lovable, Vanessa.» John tried to think of how to phrase what he said next. «But you've gotta rip your chest open and expose your heart to the open air, let it get sunburned, and that's bloody scary.» He bit an ice cube. «Even still, most people seem to do it automatically. But you and I — it makes us balk.»

«And … ?»

«Shit. Like I'm the person to speak? Thirty-seven and single. But I did make The Other Side of Hate, and you know why it bombed?»

«Why?»

«Because I thought I could fake it. It was so humiliating when it tanked. People think I don't care, but I do. Those reviews were just — ouch .»

«But now?»

«I guess the thing about exposing your heart is that people may not even notice it. Like a flop movie. Or they'll borrow your heart and they'll forget to return it to you.»

The air between the two of them was thick and warm like in a tent. Neither knew what to say next. Ryan came in out of breath. «Try finding a taxi in L.A. My car battery's dead.» He made does-he-know? eyebrows at Vanessa. She shook her head. John had the desperate look of somebody who's about to quit a job they've held for twenty years.

Vanessa explained to him what an MSP was — a complex computer program, the opposite of a SpellCheck — a MisSpellCheck. The premise of the MSP is that all people consistently misspell the same words over and over, no matter how good a typist a person might be. Misspelling patterns are idiosyncratic — unique like fingerprints, and the MSP also takes into account punctuation patterns, rhythms and speeds.

«You could log on as Suzanne Pleshette or Daffy Duck, but the MSP will identify you after about two hundred fifty words. It's so finely tweaked, it can tell you whether you're having your period or if your fingernails need trimming.»

John asked why the cops hadn't run an MSP already. Vanessa said: «This is hush-hush stuff, John. They only do it if they think you might be linked to a missing plutonium brick or to trace you if they think you're violating your position in the witness protection program. It's not a standard security check, let alone for a starlet missing a few days. It also sucks up so much memory that all the in-office computers develop Alzheimer's while it's in use.»

John slapped a $100 bill on the table. «Come on,» he said. «We're going to Vanessa's office.»

John and Ryan were in the car following Vanessa. John phoned Ivan to see if he'd fly them in his jet stowed not far away at Santa Monica Airport. John could feel Ivan's sigh on the other end. «To go where, John-O?»

«Wyoming, probably — I'm only guessing. For Susan.»

Ivan hesitated. If nothing else, the Susan Colgate fixation had brought John back from the dead after Flagstaff. «There's the European marketing meeting for Mega Force this afternoon. You said you'd be here.» Ivan was silent a moment, then spoke. «Okay, John-O.»

«Great. We'll be on the tarmac in a half hour.»

It was a brainless sunny day, and the high noon sun flattened out the world. The trees looked like plastic and the pedestrians like mannequins. Patches of shade formed deep holes. As arranged, Vanessa parked her car in her company's lot while John and Ryan parked across the street. «It's Security City in there,» said Ryan. «They don't just take your picture when you drive in there. They take your dental X-ray.»