Shelf Monkey (21 page)

Aubrey thrust his hands into his mane and began to scratch. “I, I, I don’t want to fire you, Waylon.”

“But you
could
.”

A rotund little woman stepped forward. She worked in Self-Help, I think. “Did you fire Emily?” she asked.

“No, Page and I discussed Emily, and
together
—”

“You fired Emily?” another woman asked. The whispers were growing angrier.

“No, no, Emily had personal problems, I never wanted to fire Emily. I —”

“What Aubrey and I decided,” Page interrupted, “was that Emily was emotionally unsuited for the workload we asked of her. Emily brought her problems upon herself, and while Aubrey and I gave her ample opportunity to improve, in the end, we jointly, and I stress
jointly
concluded that Emily would be happier elsewhere. Now, I expect this to be the last we hear on this subject.” Page rubbed her hands together. “We have gotten off topic. If I may say so, I believe Aubrey has taken a brave step here in his acknowledgement of his position, an acknowledgement long overdue.” Page let a sly smile play at the corners of her mouth. “I would also like to apologize for my own part in Aubrey’s secret little fantasy.” Page darted a look of sublime grace toward Aubrey,
a humble admission of her own fault that somehow managed to convey an air of utter moral superiority in the matter. “Aubrey, or should I say Mr. Fehr and I both ask your forgiveness in this charade, and I only hope you do not look upon us too harshly. In fact, Mr. Fehr deserves a round of applause for his courage.” Page began to clap, her vindictiveness coming through in every collision of her hands. “Come on, everyone! A hand for Mr. Fehr! Bravo!” Aubrey reddened and walked away, the back of his neck an iridescent ruby. He faded into the books. I hung back behind the group, blind with anger, as Page continued to applaud long after Aubrey had disappeared. I quickly dry-swallowed two emergency pills, willing my hands to stop shaking.

“Now,” Page said, Aubrey’s humiliation complete. “To business, everyone.”

Phil Collins, post-Genesis, pre-
Tarzan.
Yeah, that’ll motivate us to sell.

“You own
READ
?” asked Burt/Gandalf. “Holy shit!”

“I can’t believe this,” William/Valentine Michael Smith said. “What, all this time, you never thought to mention that?”

The Monkeys weren’t taking the news well, either. To soften the blow of Aubrey’s confession, Danae had brought marshmallows to roast beforehand. Tasty lumps of blackened sugar on a stick had only heightened everyone’s energy, unfortunately. They were keyed up and ready to burn. Emily/Hagar clutched an overpriced Britney Spears novella. Burt/Gandalf carried
Digital Fortress
under his arm. I made a mental note to prepare my outraged defence of Edward Bunker, his name poking itself out of Tracey/Lyra Silvertongue’s parka pocket, mocking me.

Muriel/Lady Fuchsia Groan was staggered. “Do you know how many books I have stolen for this? How many times I could have lost my job? This was your idea, and you were never in any danger?”

“Hey, yeah, he owns the books!” Gavin/Ford Prefect said.

Cameron/Ignatius J. Reilly looked petrified. “I’ll bet he’s a spy, guys. Y’know, for the cops? We could be on camera right now! We should strip him down, look for a wire.” This earned him a smack in the back of the head from Warren.

“I am
not
a spy, Cam,” said Aubrey. “I have just gone momentarily astray is all.”

“
Sheep
go astray, you liar, not the shepherd,” said Susan/Scout Finch. “You’re our leader. We look up to you. Can you understand how upsetting this is to us?”

“Oh, come on!” I said. That was a little much. “No one here was forced into this, Susan. We all do this because we want to.”

“Easy for you to say, you’ve never been at risk,” she said.

“Hey, I put my neck out same as you.”

“I bet Aubrey’s been covering for you.”

“That’s not —” I halted mid-thought. Aubrey grimaced as I looked over at him. “Aw, fucking hell, Aubrey!”

He bit his lip. “Sorry, bro, but you’ve never been very good at hiding it. I sometimes had to distract Page.”

“Me too,” Danae said. “Sorry, babe, but you really do suck at stealing.”

“I never said I was adept at stealing,” I objected. “And we’re getting way off topic here.”

Aubrey held his hands up. “Look, everyone. I can’t expect you to understand what I’ve done. But nothing’s changed between us, I’m the same person I was. All I can do is beg your forgiveness.”

Something thumped to the ground. “You fired me,” said Emily. The Britney had slipped out from her hands. She pointed a finger accusingly. “How could you fire me?”

“You didn’t give me a choice,” he said. “You were out of control.”

“I loved that job,” she whimpered.

“I’m sorry, Emily. You threw books at the customers, what choice did I have?”

“Oh, I don’t know, not firing me? You’re no better than I am.”

“I know. I’m trying to make it up to you.”

“You bastard.” She walked away into the dark. “You bastard!” she screamed. Her cries wafted into the air.

“I’ll go after her,” Danae said. “She’ll be all right.” She ran after her, Susan and August/Raoul Duke loping behind.

Aubrey sat down in a heap. “I didn’t want this.”

“We know that,” I said. I looked to the others. “Right, guys?”

“I’m going home,” said Tracey. “I need to think this over.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” agreed Gavin/Ford Prefect. “This changes things. How can we trust you anymore, Aubrey?”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t trust me, either, Ford. I understand.”

“It’s Gavin, not Ford,” he said dejectedly.

“So, are we all over now?” William asked. “Don’t we get a vote? I don’t want to quit.”

“No one’s quitting,” I said, alarmed. The thought of stopping our meetings pierced me deep inside. Out in the night, Emily’s cries could still be heard, Danae’s soothing noises underneath. “This is just a blip. We don’t stop just because one of us has a crisis. Everyone just needs to clear his or her head. Right, brother?” I asked Aubrey.

He looked up at me, gratified. “Amen, brother.”

“Next week, same time,” I ordered the Monkeys. “Business as usual. Anyone who doesn’t show up with a backpack full of ’tags better have a good reason.”

I should have dropped it there. Let it die its natural death.

Thomas

DOCUMENT INSERT: Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Speaking: FBI Detective Amanda Daimler (primary), Unidentified Speaker.

Daimler: Yes?

Caller: Hello? Is Detective Daimler there?

Daimler: Yes, Detective Daimler speaking. Who is this?

Caller: I have information concerning Munroe Purvis.

Daimler: Yes, you told the switchboard that. Could I have your name, please, Miss?

Caller: What do you need that for?

Daimler: Your name, Miss, please?

Caller: I don’t think I want to give you my name just right now.

Daimler: All right, then. Goodbye.

Caller: Wait. Don’t you want to know what I have?

Daimler: Not without a name. You know who I am, don’t you? I just want to know who I’m dealing with. Don’t you think that would be fair?

Caller: I don’t think I should. Maybe this was a mistake.

Daimler: Look, you got past the switchboard, so they obviously think you know something. Something that you couldn’t just pick up from a newspaper clipping. They’re trained to weed out the freaks, the idiots who think they’ll get famous, or a reward. They think you might have something, or are you just some lonely idiot who craves the attention?

Caller: That’s not me.

Daimler: So then. Give me something to go on. If not your name, something that proves to me that I’m not wasting my time here.

Caller: What do you want to know?

Daimler: You called us, remember? You have information we’d be interested in.

Caller: I don’t know.

Daimler: Fine, you don’t want to tell, fine. I thought you had something to get off your chest. Obviously, I was mistaken. Goodbye.

Caller: Wait, don’t hang up.

Daimler: Give me a reason not to, it’s been a long day, and I’m just about out of patience.

Caller: I —

Daimler: I have no desire to waste my time with some little Pollyanna who craves attention. Go home and cry to daddy, Miss, I’m going to get some sleep.

Caller: Books.

Daimler: What? What was that, books? What does that mean?

Caller: Books. We’d burn books, out in a field. There were fourteen of us. We called ourselves Shelf Monkeys. You didn’t mention that in your press release, did you?

Daimler: All right. You have my attention. Go on.

Caller: I’ll want immunity. For everything.

Daimler: Give me some names, and I’ll see what I can do.

Caller: Can we meet?

Dear Eric,

My faith in humanity has been restored! Take that, pessimism, you bastard! Back to the cave from whence you came!

I can’t tell you where I am, of course, but I have now free access to a computer and proper software, with no worry of police interruption.

I was travelling by bus, deliberating my next move. My head was down, hat brim pulled low, wide sunglasses hiding my eyes. Utterly suspicious in my attempt to look inconspicuous. A body sat down next to me. I didn’t look up, feigning the indifference of the average traveller. I saw a lap clad in cotton slacks, a pair of hands opening a book. I cautiously craned my neck over to get a peek at the title. Phew, no munroe recommends this! sticker. T.C. Boyle’s
Drop City
. I let out a cautious murmur of appreciation. Nonchalantly, I brought out Irvine Welsh’s
Filth
from my backpack, earning an approving grunt in return. I relaxed. The unspoken game of literary one-upmanship now complete, the Boyle-lover and I read to ourselves in companionable silence.

“I know who you are.”

I stiffened, crinkling the pages in my fingers.

“I saw you get on, Mr. Friesen. It’s okay, don’t panic. I won’t give you away.”

I looked up. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?” I asked innocently.

He grinned. “Aw, I knew it was you,” he breathed. “I’ve been looking, ever since they said you might be nearby.”

I fought to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry, Sir, I think you must have me confused with someone else.” I bent back down to my book. Behind my shades, my eyeballs distended themselves in panic.

The man snickered. “Okay, I get it. Travelling incognito. Good idea. No worries here, my friend. Lips are sealed.” He went back to his book, taking a pen from his pocket and scribbling something inside the cover.

The bus was pulling up to a stop. “Have you ever read this?” the man asked, showing the book to me.

“No.”

“You really should, it’s a great book.” The bus rumbled to a halt. He stood up to go, placing the novel down on his empty seat. “I’m done with it. You can have it if you like. Enjoy.” He sauntered himself out the door, and walked away without looking back.

I picked up
Drop City
. Inside the cover was written a name, an address, and a short message:
I am a friend. I believe in your cause. This is a safe house, if you need it.

I got off at the next stop. It was a risk, but I had nowhere else to go. If he wanted to collect the reward, so be it. I’m so tired of looking over my shoulder.

The man welcomed me at the door with a warmth I haven’t felt in months.

So, as I write this, the gentleman is off preparing dinner for two. He’s kind of a loner, I gather, and definitely an odd sort, being as he is the sort who will approach a fugitive from the law and offer him sanctuary. Like I said, odd. Could be a priest, could be a serial killer, could be both. No explanations needed, no gratitude on my part expected. I feel like I could stay here forever, just close my eyes and dream that I’m safe, but I know that’s impossible. I’m putting him at tremendous risk.

Why would he help me? I tried to ask, but he just waved the question away. But, if you need a hint, here it is:

As I write this, the smell of chili con carne permeating the air, I am surrounded by books.

Aubrey was showing signs of imminent mental collapse. His new status as employer/co-emperor of
READ
resulted in exile from the ranks of his employees. Aubrey was now
persona non grata,
the ghost of Marley, haunting the miles of well-worn carpet, rattling his chains to the annoyance of others. Once-friendly chums became blank slates of indifference at his approach. They’d stiffen as he rounded the corner, guarded and suspicious of hidden motives in his hellos and how are yous. Yes, Sir. No, Sir. I’ll get right on that, Sir. Hey, I’m the same guy I was before. You want to go grab a coffee and muffin? My treat? No answers, not verbal,
anyway. Just looks of condemnation.

In desperation, he threw himself into his work, confronting customers at every opportunity with helpful suggestions. There was no challenge he didn’t meet. Every thrust of an R.A. Salvatore was parried with a Louise Erditch. Every Don Pendleton clothesline was matched with a Norman Mailer suplex. It was glorious to watch him fight, but it was always a losing battle. The forces against him were too strong, too numerous. With every “Where’s the
Star Trek
section?” a little piece of himself went up in smoke. The hirsute feelers on his skull would sadly go limp, and he’d trudge forlornly, scif-fi geek in tow, toward the
Star Trek/Star Wars/Battlestar Galactica
aisle.

“I don’t know if I can take it much longer, brother,” he confided to me in Greeting Cards. He didn’t look good. Battalions of acne commandeered his forehead, while dark bags of skin had taken up residence under his eyes. I thought his skin might clear up with a haircut, less follicle fallout to deal with, but I didn’t have the heart to suggest it. “Every person, I try it, y’know? I say, ‘Hey, put down that Compton, how about a McMurtry instead? Yes, it’s huge, but it’s a
western
, everyone loves westerns, right? It won the Pulitzer, it’s better than you could ever deserve.’ They look at me like I’m crazy, like anyone who would read a book that big must have no friends.” Groaning, he buried his arms in his hair. “Fuck ’em, right?”