Shelf Monkey (25 page)

“Aw, Tommy, man,” said Warren. He had somehow gotten behind me, and placed me in a not-quite-affectionate bearhug, constraining me. “Don’t be like this. We’re just spitballin’, y’know? Wishing upon stars, shits and giggles. Sit down, have a beer.”

“Like this? What is
this
that I’m like? Sober? Rational?” I flailed my legs, knocking over several beer bottles and Cameron, but I might as well have been shackled to a wall. “I am rational, I am so freaking rational now, so let me go!” I shot a heel down, connecting with Warren’s toes. He dropped me with a yelp. I darted across the room toward the doorway before he could regroup. “And don’t fucking call me Tommy.”

“I’ll give you a ride, buddy,” said William, standing. “I’m having fun, but it’s getting a little too intense in here.”

“Can I grab a ride, too?” asked Tracey.

“Me, too?” asked Muriel.

“No prob,” William said, putting on his coat. He walked out to the foyer, calling out as he opened the door. “Anyone else coming? I got a van.” The others began to rise.

“Hey, hold on, wait,” said Danae. She stood next to Aubrey. “Now, let’s not all get angry here, Emily, William, wait . . .”

“Oh, drop it, Danae,” said Emily. “I’m not killing anyone. This is stupid. In fact, I quit!”

“Emily,” Danae said, shocked. “You don’t mean that, honey.”

“Hell I don’t, don’t tell me what to do. My therapist told me to get —”

“Therapist?” Aubrey exclaimed.

“You mean you’ve
told
someone about us?” Warren groaned.

“Oh, calm down, it’s cool.” Emily huffed in annoyance. “Doctor-patient confidentiality, okay? She won’t tell anyone. Anyway, she’s been telling me for weeks to get out of this. I think she’s right. This isn’t healthy, it’s sick. I need out.”

“But, Haga — Emily, you’re one of us,” Aubrey insisted. He snatched her hands, pulling them to his heart. “How can you leave us, when we need you most?”

“Oh, Christ, will you listen to yourself?” Emily pulled away in distaste. “We need. We need. What about what
I
need? You
fired
me, asshole! Who needs
this?
It was fun, but Aubrey, you’re going off the deep end. And you’re pulling the rest of us in with you.”

“Aw, Emily, it’s not like that,” Susan said.

“It is exactly like that. He’s lost in his psychosis, and the rest of you are just begging at his heels. Lining up like the good little Svengali-ites you are.” Emily grabbed her jacket, hurriedly putting it on. “I’m out, guys, sorry. This is way too fucked up for me. See you around, it’s been fun.” She walked out to the van.

“Emily,” Aubrey said quietly after her.

“Fuck,” said Muriel. “She always was a little flighty.”

“Yeah,” agreed William. “She can’t even tell you’re joking, Aubrey. Who needs her, right?”

“Right,” said Aubrey.

“Yeah,” said Cameron. “Forget her. We’ll talk at the next burning, Aubrey, okay?” He shuffled past me toward the open door. “Aubrey, the next burning, right? Next week? I’ve got a perfect ’tag, you’ll see.”

“Right,” Aubrey said again. He opened another beer. “Burning. Sure. Fun.” He chugged it down. “See ya,” he mumbled between gulps.

I waited until the others had filed past us, shyly saying goodbye as Aubrey waved them away. Danae and Warren stayed where they were. “Tell William I’ll be out in a minute,” I said to Susan. The four of us had the room to ourselves. Danae, I noted with an enormous surge of jealousy, had taken Aubrey’s hand.

“Are you coming?” I asked her. She shook her head, no. “Fine. Warren, need a lift? I’m sorry about the foot, big guy, it was the grass, angries up the blood.” Warren turned his head, engrossed in something on the far wall. Cold shoulder country again. Why was I even apologizing? I turned to Aubrey. “It’ll be better tomorrow, brother. Promise.”

“I thought you were one of us,” he said. “I thought you, of all of them, you I could count on.”

I shook my head, more in frustration than negation. “Look, Aubrey. Danae, Warren. I love being with you guys. But we’re elitists, that’s all, not fanatics. All we are is a club, like chess or curling or Latin. What we do is for ourselves, to make ourselves feel better. We’re not out to hurt anyone, and you know it. What we do is, fuck, it’s great, it’s terrific, I haven’t felt this good in years thanks to you. But there’s nothing we can do. We aren’t a political party. We have no clout. Think about it, we’re weirdos, meeting in a field to burn books. No one would understand it, I don’t understand it, and I love it! We do our best, we tell the world what it should read, we write angry reviews on Amazon and Chapters, we blog to our heart’s content, that’s our place. But we have no power here. None. We, the fourteen of us, we cannot compete with major syndicated television programs. It’s hopeless.” A horn honked from outside, my cue to leave. “We’re all just drunk and miserable right now,” I said, walking out the door. “We’re not terrorists.”

I was almost to the sliding door, the van packed with faces watching my approach. Aubrey called out behind me. “What’s the difference?” I turned and faced the house, the three of them. Perfect strangers only four months previous. Aubrey, Warren, and Danae, the only real friends I felt I ever had, jammed in solidarity
in the doorway. Danae had her hand on Aubrey’s shoulder, and Warren loomed behind, his arms comfortingly around the both of them. Danae did not look sad to see me go. “Why can’t we be terrorists, Thomas?” Aubrey asked. “What’s the difference between us and them?”

I thought about this for a second. Given the benefit of hindsight, I should have pondered the question more seriously. But as it stood, my brain still moderately steeped in a syrupy haze of alcoholic fluids and misty intoxicants, I decided instead to be flippant, and uttered quite possibly the stupidest, most damaging thing I’d ever said:

“At least terrorists, they get the job done.”

I might have well signed my own death warrant.

Dinner’s over, and a warm bed now beckons me with the promise of uninterrupted slumber. The mysterious benefactor has laid out clean sheets, and has washed and dried my clothes.

Good night, Eric.

Thomas

From
The Toronto Star

TORONTO
— A crowd of hundreds at Pearson International Airport greeted one of American television’s most influential figures, as Munroe Purvis and his entourage arrived in Toronto to begin the much-ballyhooed Canadian tour of his popular syndicated talk show.

Mr. Purvis, jovial and approachable, set about shaking the hands of the throngs of fans that had camped out for hours to get a glimpse of their hero. “Hello, Canada, how’s every little thing?” he asked the crowd, getting a huge laugh in response.

“This is just so incredible,” gushed Martin Bleichart, a computer analyst who drove himself and his family up from Windsor for a chance to get a glimpse of Munroe. “I figured he’d be stuck up, or at least tired from the trip, but he took the time to shake all our hands and let us know that we matter to him.”

“I have to tell you, I am overwhelmed by the passion of this greeting,” a visibly moved Munroe told this reporter. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure anyone would even come out to see us land. I mean, it must be only twenty above, or below, or whatever the metric system says it is up here. But I guess the promise of good literature is strong enough to get people away from the hockey courts.”

Dear Eric,

I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I mean, any port in a storm is fine in theory, but of all the ports to dock at, why did I opt for port Wacky McNutjob?

This morning, enjoying the first leisurely breakfast I’ve had in months, it suddenly occurred to me that my current sponsor might not be the most, how shall I put this,
stable
individual. This was at about the time when he asked if I’d be up to a public appearance at the bookstore where he works part-time as a cashier. Perhaps do a reading from the novel of my choice. Possibly lead the congregation in a burning. I tried to refuse gracefully, saying how, while pleased by the offer, it might not be in my best interests, what with my being sought after by the police and all.

He stared at me from across the breakfast table, digesting this. “So, that’s the thanks I get,” he said finally, rising and taking my unfinished plate of Eggs Benedict away. He slid the food into the garbage can beneath the sink, muttering about ungratefulness and risk and hospitality and table manners. I tried to apologize. He said no apology was necessary. He asked me what I wanted for dinner, I said anything would be fine. He said he had to leave, he had to go to the store for
supplies
, and would I be okay alone for ten minutes or so? I’m italicizing that word to demonstrate the subtle emphasis he put on it. Not supplies,
supplies
. Not food, not drink, but
supplies
. What supplies? Corn? Milk? Rope? Handcuffs? Oh my God, I’m in a John Fowles novel; I’m Miranda, and he’s Freddy, keeping me like a butterfly. Or, worse, he’s Annie Wilkes, off to get her axe to chop off my foot, hobbling poor celebrity Paul Sheldon so as to keep him as a personal keepsake. I watched through the window as he walked down the street, waited until he turned the corner, gathered my things, rifled through his bedroom for spare cash, grabbed this laptop, and ran for the nearest bus stop, don’t care where, just take me away.

I’m holed up now, different city altogether. Maybe I over
reacted; he was probably just lonely. Would have done the same for any fugitive. Probably has done it before. Might have the bones of D.B. Cooper in his basement. No way to be sure.

There sure is a lot of pornography on his hard drive, through, full to bursting with it. Nothing demented, no pre-teens or anything, just straight male-on-female cum shots. Nothing to brag about to mom, but nothing illegal. I’ll try to pawn it soon, get myself some running around money. It doesn’t have wi-fi. But I should complain?

But for now — where was I?

Fourteen days passed excruciatingly slowly. It could have been worse, I could have been on fire, but it hurt nonetheless. Aubrey was a no-show at work. “He’s still sick,” Page announced at morning group. “Something must be going around.”

“Cowardice,” snickered Waylon loudly, earning him some muffled guffaws from co-workers. I caught up to him later and warned him to watch his mouth. “Like I’m afraid of you,” Waylon spat. “All you guys, with your little clique, think you’re better, smarter. You got no power here anymore, Tommy. Page is just looking for an excuse.” He was exactly right, but it was that one word,
Tommy
, that got to me. I pushed him back into the shelves, my fist raised. He never said anything, he just cowered and shook. Every bully who ever pushed my face into my lunch cheered me on from the sidelines. I managed to reach the restroom before I acquainted the toilet with the digested remains of my lunch.

Without Aubrey’s behind-the-scenes influence, the store rapidly became a police state of intimidation and fear. Page was a potentate on top of the world, transforming her role as manager/owner into that of the Glengarry-esque closer, complete with hanging pair of brass balls. Quotas were set on certain books per section; don’t sell enough, get a warning. Two warnings, earn a talking-to. Three, you’re fired. Her nemesis was awol, her idol inching closer with each passing day. She would hand down new edicts every morning, Danae nodding along complacently.

If Aubrey’s absence was worrisome, Danae’s snubbing was anguish. Calls went unanswered. Pleas at work for her understanding were shelved away and ignored. I became frantic, hounding
her through the aisles. A quick word from Warren put a stop to my romantic pursuit. “She wants me to break your arms,” he confided to me one day as his forearm held my neck in place against the lunchroom table. “I don’t want to, Thomas. I’m not enjoying giving you the silent treatment. But you betrayed her trust. You’ve broken the group. So back off. It’ll be better for everyone.”

I squirmed my way out from under his pressure and hid under the table for protection. “I betrayed her trust? Hey, she lied to both of us, remember? She kept Aubrey’s little secret from you for how long again? She’s untrustworthy, Aubrey’s untrustworthy, me, I’m the only one
not
jerking you around!”

Warren crouched down and looked at me, worry creasing his forehead. “You think I don’t know? But Aubrey’s my best friend, dude. Danae, she’s his. You, you’re the odd man out. If you want back in, you’re welcome, but for now, sides must be chosen.” He stood up, his knees cracking. His voice filtered down through the leaves of the table. “Make an effort, Thomas. Meet us halfway.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, trying to sound harsh. My position under the table diminished my tough-guy resolve somewhat.

What did I want, anyway? Did I really believe Aubrey was nuts? That Danae was, well, also nuts? It was all just Monkey-talk, wasn’t it? The frustration of the ignored. Tough talk from the class nerd, vowing revenge in his diary, never to truly accomplish anything. Picking sides? That was just silly; there were no sides here, only hurt feelings and misunderstandings. Who was I to judge another person’s sanity, anyway?

Truth was, I was lonely, miserable, and tired of fighting. I resolved to make it up to Aubrey, to Danae, to all the Monkeys. I craved Aubrey’s warm companionship and Danae’s smile; I couldn’t tell you which I wanted more. I called around to see if interest was still there. “Sure, Thomas, no problem,” Aubrey said on the phone. “I’ll set it up. It’ll be fun. Like old times.” His voice sounded dead, but I chose to ignore its implications. A meeting was scheduled, one last-ditch effort to continue the fun. I showed up early, eager to make amends. A newly released copy of James Patterson’s latest Alex Cross novel waited patiently in my backpack,
Four Blind Mice,
a peace offering I felt sure to please Aubrey.

He stood by the oil drum, Margarita at his heels barking
ferociously at me, as if such a thing could make any sound seem ferocious. Aubrey’s eyes were fixed on the flames, searing his retinas, scrambling the rods and cones. Not a word was uttered as we waited for the rest of the company to slowly arrive. Danae and Warren arrived together, hand in hand. I wondered if they were sleeping together, then cursed myself for caring.