Shelby (2 page)

2: Lacking in strength or vitality
.

My stomach cramped. I closed the dictionary and whimpered—and what happened next can only be described as pathological. I sprinted out of the dorm, down six flights of stairs, out into the open air and all the way to the parking lot, and before I could compute I found myself in my old Datsun 510, rattling out of the endowment lands towards the city centre with an exhilaration comparable to that which a child would feel sneaking out in the middle of the night and somehow winding up at Disneyland riding the Matterhorn. I gazed at the neon lights and the domed stadium, passing cars and prostitutes, the winds of freedom bursting through my window. I recalled my freshman year when a gang of ne'er-do-wells dragged me from my desk to the Town Pump—my first and still only visit to a night club—to see three bands I can't forget despite all efforts; Skin The Green Monkey, Terminally Dead and Peachfish. The end result was hearing loss lasting the better part of a week and a contempt for University of British Columbia engineers that remains to the present day.

But despite all that, as if by destiny or maybe like a car accident victim whose only catharsis is to get back in a car and drive, there I was again. I opened the door and peeked in. To my surprise, the barrage of guitar noise and the turbulent sea of bobbing heads that had attacked my senses two-and-a-half years earlier had since left. Canned music drifted from speakers barely loud enough to make conversation difficult. The tables were empty. The dance floor was bare. I took a seat to the side, rebelliously dropped my feet upon another, and watched the band set up. What was I doing? It was adventuresome, yes. But practical? I had an exam in less than twelve hours. Contemplating leaving, my guilty pangs were soon alleviated by an awareness that visits of this sort (i.e. into the urban underworld) could well enhance my bedside manner in the coming years. I ordered a beer like it was my nature to do so.

SMEGMA BOMB! was the band's name, as indicated by those words splattered in black capital letters across a pukey green backdrop. On stage was a psychedelically painted chest of drawers with a bedside lamp on it. I observed the guitarist and the drummer in what appeared to be an impassioned tête-à-tête—perhaps, I thought, on the subject of unusual time signatures or musical rhythms from the Middle East. Right then the guitarist threw a quick jab that snapped back the drummer's head and left him clutching his nose with both hands. The bass player turned around, yelled in what sounded like Japanese, and attempted mediation. The guitar player kicked over a cymbal stand, spat and turned away. The bass player walked over and picked it up as the drummer let go of his nose and pulled out a set of sticks. He pointed at the guitarist while exchanging with the bass player what appeared to be words of disgust. Then the bass player stepped into the red spotlight at the front of the stage and to a house empty save a scattering of employees mumbled into the microphone something indecipherable. I smiled, stunned, intrigued—at first unsure. But the more I looked, the more it was clear: The bass player
was
Eric Winlaw, a high-school Drama classmate known predominantly for reciting defeatist yet joyful lyrics against the backbeat of bongos and bass in the cafeteria during lunch hour. Being a poetry enthusiast myself, I had always found his expression courageous if uninspiring. Most meaningful, however, was the fact that although we had never engaged in dialogue per se, Eric's gestures to me in the form of glances and one-liners had always been friendly.

As it turned out he was the band's lead vocalist, too, and for forty-five minutes howled as though shot in the leg. The drummer and the guitar player were equally discordant and I found myself wondering how music had come to this: from Gregorian chants to the troubadours to baroque, classical and, finally, horrible noise. It was like anti-evolution, and I wondered if perhaps Homo sapiens
wasn't
natural selection's cherry on top after all. Could we be just the latest thing, as opposed to the best thing? Then the drummer toppled backwards off his chair, the band came to an awkward halt and I lost my thought. One song and a brief argument later, they were finished. I approached the stage and nervously tapped Eric on the leg. He looked down and smiled.

“Shelby,” he said. “Drama 11. Dug poetry. Couldn't act.”

“Wow. I … I'm amazed and touched. No one remembers me from high-school.”

“I got a thing for faces,” he said. We looked at each other until uncomfortable. “You play any guitar?” he asked.

The question surprised me. “Do … um, actually, a little.”

“Cool haircut.”

“Thank you.”

“You want to play with us?”

“What?”

“Guitar. You want to play?”

“I'm … I'm a novice.”

“Don't matter, it's a look thing.”

“What about him?” I asked, pointing to the guitar player across the stage.

Eric didn't turn around. He moved in closer to me. “Get this, man,” he said, his voice low but escalating steadily. “We're just about finished our damn demo and we've got a couple o' gigs lined up and the dick-head decides he's going to quit and pursue a solo project … a
solo
project! Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Peter G
aaaa
briel. What an
ass
hole!” Eric rolled his eyes, smiling. “I gotta pack up. Think about it, okay?”

“I will.”

“Hey, we're gonna party later. You wanna tag along?”

I looked at my watch. The Zoology exam was nine and a half hours away and I knew at least five hours of intense study time would be necessary to achieve a first-class score. That left four hours of empty time. I had never actually
partied
before. I pictured my sunken eye-sockets, considered my reclusive behaviour of late and concluded a little camaraderie could only help my concentration. “I'd like that,” I said.

“Shel,” a voice said, waking me up. I turned my head to see Eric standing over me, smiling, his right eye bruised and swollen, blood caked around his nostrils. It was daylight outside, and I was lying fully clothed on the floor of an apartment I barely recognized. The smells of beer and cigarettes were pervasive. “Can you play with us Monday?”

“What happened to your face?” I asked, loosening my tie.

“A left hook,” he said with a laugh. “So what do you say, man? Monday. The Cruel Elephant.”

“Guitar?”

“You said you would, man.”

“Eric, I hardly know any chords.”

'“Do you know E?”

“Major?”

“Cool. Most o' the tunes are a droning E thing. How 'bout G?”

“I know it, but my pinky—”

“A?”

“The one on the second fret?”

“You got it. D?”

I grinned. “Anyone can do D.”

“Great. You're in.” He thrust out his hand. “Welcome to SMEGMA BOMB!”

My stomach flipped.

“What's wrong?”

“I feel queasy. I think I overdid it last night.”

“Oh yeah. That homemade shit'll kick anybody's ass, man.”

“Oh God.”

“Brutal, eh?” he said, smiling.

“Oh sweet Jesus, no.”

“Are you gonna throw up?”

“What time is it?”

Eric pulled a watch from his pocket. “Ten to eleven.”

I sprinted out of the apartment and down a creaky set of stairs before stopping at the bottom, my body twitching, my eyes rimmed with tears of disbelief. It was too late. I sobbed several times before rearranging the keys in my front pocket which were digging into my groin. A piece of paper flicked out and floated to the ground. I picked it up and through blurry eyes read:
LUCY 734–7138
. I staggered back up the stairs. The door was still open. Eric hadn't moved.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

For fear of breaking down I didn't face him. “I've missed my Zoology final,” I said shaking, “the infrastructure of my existence is crumbling before my eyes.” I felt a numbness in my fingertips. My head dropped.

“Take a deep breath.”

“I fear the blood-dimmed tide. Alcohol has ravaged my dreams. Innocence is lost.”

“Say what?”

I couldn't respond.

He tilted his head over my shoulder to read the note in my hand. “Who's Lucy?”

“I don't know,” I said feebly.

“Yeah,
right
,” he said, slapping me in the arm, “and I got a dick the size of a mutant zucchini.” I looked up. He had a wide, goofy grin on his face.

“What?”

“Who is she?”

“Who?”

He shook his head, smiling like a proud father. “You dog,” he said.

II

For there is no real education that does not respond to

felt need; anything else acquired is trifling display
.

—
Allan Bloom

“All you gotta do is lie, man,” Eric said over coffee at Joe's Cafe that afternoon.

“I'm not going to lie.”

“Then it can't be that important, man.”

“Education is everything, Eric; my calling, my friend—social justice incarnate is what it is.”

“Well tell 'em you … you … were saving seal pups and you broke a snowshoe or somethin'.”

“I can't
lie
.”

“Everybody lies! You're twenty years old.”

“Age is no excuse. Life awaits us all at every moment. Am I up to the task? Are
you
? That is the question, my friend. For whom does the bell toll? The bell tolls for thee.”

“Look, you missed the test. You tell 'em a lie. You take it again. You get into med school. End of story.”

I stood up, pulled a two dollar bill from my pocket and threw it on the table. “I must go study.”

“So you're just gonna scrap it?”

I shrugged. “It's one test.”

“This mornin' you were ballin' your brains out.”

“Please forgive that outburst. It was utterly inappropriate.”

“So missing the test is no big deal?”

“All my interviews were favourable. My grades far exceed that required. All that remains is the MCAT.”

“Okay.”

“Moreover, I truly believe honour to be vital in times of social duress.”

“It's your call.”

“After all, is a man his marks?”

He raised his eye-brows and smiled. “You ain't, that's for sure.”

“What have I done?”

“Hey, you don't have to convince me. One stupid test. So what?”

There was an ache in my chest. “What the hell have I done?”

“Nothin', man. You—”

“What in God's name have I done?” My head flew back and crunched against the wall. I staggered.

Eric grabbed my arm. “Easy.”

“Academic
suicide
!” I cried. “That's what I've committed. I feel like Oppenheimer!”

“Hey, it's just a test. Remember? So what?”

“I feel possessed by foreign beings!”

“Take a deep breath, man. Your eyes look funny.”

“Why?…
Why
?”

Eric put his arm around me. It was soothing. “Hey,” he said softly, “it's okay. Take it easy. It's just one day.”

I could barely stand.

“Sit down,” he said.

I did; and began talking—a startling confession that rolled us out of the afternoon, through dinner and into the early evening. I found myself requestioning my own ambitions, my
raison d'etre
, God's hopes for humanity. Moreover, I responded to these questions with answers I was theretofore unaware of feeling. Even the true value of post-secondary education and the motives of my parents' involvement—and in this way their aptitude—came under scrutiny. Only my destiny-filled dreams of contributing to an ailing world remained constant.

Eric chuckled. “You got some sort o' plan?” he asked, snuffing out his cigarette in an ashtray filled with a half dozen stubs.

“Medicine can open up a lot of windows.”

“What can't?” he said, standing up, zipping his leather jacket and tossing a crumpled ten dollar bill on the table.

“But, Eric, medicine is the only scientific study of the human being that can be taken to all the world. A gift for the masses that makes some order of this seemingly wacky wonder.”

Eric stopped smoking in mid-inhale. “Wacky wonder?” he said, laughing uproariously. “You sound like Bruce Cock-burn.”

“Laugh all you want. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for penicillin or any number of medical innovations. And that's where I come in.” I stood up. “I may be unsure of many things, Eric, but I know that academia—or, if you will, thirst for knowledge—is what I do; what I
am
—a yearning I believe to be God-sent.”

“Shel,” he said, “I hate to be a party-pooper but the big boom is over, man—all the romantic discoveries like insulin and all that are done. AIDS is out o' control. The Renaissance is finito. Syphilis is such a mild disease nowadays we
hope
we get it. Big business is it, man. There's too much cash in the death trade. Politicians have sold us out. We're born too late. The ozone is a piece of Swiss cheese. A degree won't get you a job making toilet seats.”

“Eric, that is ludicrous … and the only reason I don't just get up and walk away is because I, too, have lately felt fleeting moments of impotence and … uncertainty.”

He chuckled. “Hey, I didn't say that. I'm happy. I just think we've blown it, that's all.”

I shook my head. “How can you believe that and still say you're happy?”

“That's the kind o' guy I am.”

“That kind of happiness can't last. You
have
to know why.”

“Jesus, man, loosen that tie before your head blows off. Slide a little.”

“To what end? Further spiritual decay?”

“Hey, man,” he said, “it's you serious types who make the atom bombs, not some loser kid popping qualudes. I have yet to see a fun lovin' politician anywhere, anyhow.”