Shelf Monkey (30 page)

I took a moment to gather my thoughts.

What the fuck what the hell fuck fuck what the fuck?

My thoughts were in more disarray than the room I stood in, scattered around the floor of my mind like so much useless trash. Munroe’s groans brought me back into focus. I waved my hands to clear away the imagined miasma. The tide ebbed away slightly, slowing its current, creating an eddy around my navel. Satisfied, I waded over to Munroe. A bubble of bloody snot expanded and relaxed from his nostril with every frenzied breath, refusing to burst. I studied it, mesmerized. The sphere’s rhythmic dance cleaned my head. The lake evaporated, leaving me, Munroe, and the reflective surface of the globule alone to make small talk.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Mmmph!”
Munroe replied. His response broke the bubble’s surface tension with a tiny
plip!

“I’m going to take the tape off your mouth, all right?” I grabbed an edge of the tape, then stopped. I took his face in my hands, staring him down, smearing blood over my palms. “You’ve got to trust me. If you yell or scream, I’ll put it right back. There’s no one even remotely within hearing, so it’d be a useless gesture anyway. You understand?” He nodded. I reached for the tape again, then had an idea. “Hey, you have a cell phone?” Head shake, no. Shit. Could I not catch one break? Did I even have a choice anymore? I considered that perhaps this was all pre-ordained; I was a character on a page, trapped in the alcohol-energized writings of a failed writer. I strained to hear the typing of a keyboard. Fuck was I losing it.

A rattling in my front pocket roused me. Pills! I struggled the
breathmint tin out and popped the lid, threw my head back and poured the contents out, more capsules missing my mouth than hitting, probably saving me from an overdose. Gagging as the dry pebbles bounced down my trachea, I closed my eyes and lay still. Surprisingly, the stereo was still on, Miles Davis still birthing cool. I concentrated on a solo, picturing the notes pushing the cartoon obscenities out my ear. Munroe was still there, watching my crack-up with a scowl. Sighing, I leaned over and tenderly peeled the duct tape away from Munroe’s mouth. A thick blood and saliva slurry poured out as he gasped for breath. I wiped my hands off on his jacket, taking care not to jar my knuckles. Now what? Go with what you know, I thought. Grabbing a pad of paper and a pen from a nearby shelf, I sat down on the couch next to him. “Now, first thing. I have been appointed counsel in this matter. I’ll need some background. What’s your full name?”

“Counsel? What’s going on?” Munroe said. The blood coated his chin in a slimy red goatee. “Please, you’ve got to help me. Please. You obviously aren’t a part of this. Let me go, I won’t tell anyone. We could go together.”

“You must really be out of it, you think I’m that stupid,” I said. Munroe sobbed a response, pushing his head back into the couch in despair. Despite myself, I felt sorry for him. “You want some water or something?” I asked. He shook his head. “Beer?” He nodded. “You want a glass, or you okay to drink from the bottle?”

“Bottle’d be fine. Thank you.” I fetched a Two Rivers from the fridge, Warren watching me warily from the phone. I smiled, hoping he’d take it as proof that I was part of the team. Warren just scowled, turning back to his calling.

Munroe slurped greedily at the bottle’s mouth as I held it to his lips. Presently, he sat back with a burp, the bottle almost empty. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Please let me go.”

“You start that, the tape goes back. You want that?” He shook his head. I picked up the paper. “All right then. Name?”

“Munroe Frederick Purvis.”

“Age?”

“Fifty-three.”

“That young? Huh. Place of residence?”

“What does that . . . Berry, Wisconsin.”

“Nice place?”

“If you like Wisconsin.”

“Do you understand the charges against you?”

“Absolutely not.” I stopped writing. He looked at me expectantly. The beer had calmed his nerves somewhat, and he regarded me levelly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “if you expect me to understand what I’m doing here, I really don’t have a clue. Is it money?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” I asked.

Something happened. Something dark and terrifying shifted deep within Munroe. He took a deep breath. “Figured it out?” he shouted at me. I recoiled instinctively. “Figured it out, you cock-sucker?” His face changed, hardened itself. The pudginess of his cheeks deflated somehow as his lips curled themselves into a sneer. I sat stock-still, terrified. I felt like those bystanders who happen to be nearby when Bruce Banner gets upset. Munroe Purvis the television host left the building. Munroe Purvis the businessman had just walked in. He fluttered his lips as he exhaled. “Look, all I know is I just wanted to get laid, buddy. Didn’t expect the reception I got. What is this about? What, is she your girlfriend, is that it? You slamming her? You jealous? She is a fine piece of ass, no question.”

I slapped him. Solid. Satisfying. Munroe’s head bounced back into the couch. Blood shot from his mouth with the force, spraying the wall. I yelped as my hand reminded me that it was not in the best of shape at the moment. Munroe waited a moment to see if I’d continue, then he smiled. “No, you haven’t tapped it. You want to, though.”

“It’s all an act, isn’t it?” I asked. “All of it. The toadying, the, the bootlicking, the love. The whole image.” I was genuinely shocked.

“Duh. What, you think someone could be that wishy-washy and still stay number one in his time slot? Of course it’s an act, dickhead. Jesus Mary Mother of God.” He leaned forward and spit onto the floor. “Now,” he said, “what the fuck you cunts want?”

“Do you understand the charges?” When faced with the inexplicable, stay the course.

“Why don’t you explain them to me, chief, as you’re so touchy.” I wiped his blood off the bottle’s lip and drained the remaining beer down my throat. I was beginning to sweat, the room more humid than it had been a moment ago. Munroe leaned himself back, reclining comfortably. My hand shook as I drained the bottle. “You getting nervous there, champ?”

“Don’t talk to me,” I said, throwing the bottle away. It bounced off the wall and hit the floor, where it rolled itself away under the couch, unbroken. I stood up and began to pace. “You don’t know what trouble you’re in. This is serious shit going on here, I’m trying my best to help.”

Munroe snorted. “Trouble, you think? This is trouble?” he asked. He leaned even further back, his eyes boring into me. Perspiration ran down my armpits. “You don’t know trouble. ’Nam, now,
that
was trouble. Squatting in a foxhole, praying that you’re faster on the draw than the other guy. Trouble. I’m sitting on a couch, getting slapped by a little girl. Why don’t you tell me what trouble this is, that I’m in? Seeing as you’re the one who’s sweating and all.”

Oh God, Munroe was giving me a Vietnam remembrance speech. I was in Hell. I coughed into my hand, trying to compose myself. “You are on trial for crimes against humanity.”

He laughed politely. “I admit the show bites, but a war crime, that’s a little severe.”

“You admit the show sucks?”

“Hey, c’mon, I’m just trying to make a buck, same as everyone else,” he said. “Yeah, the show sucks, of course. Pandering to fat, stupid
hausfraus
about how goshdarn wonderful their goddamn insignificant lives are? Christ, of course it fucking sucks. That’s a crime, I’m guilty. But that’s not what this is about, is it?” I shook my head. “No, your pals Fuzzy and Monstro out there don’t strike me as the TV couch potato critic types. You neither. Is it money? Because that I got. You say the amount, I write a cheque, get it certified for you no sweat. Promise I won’t press charges. Honest Injun. Scout’s honour. We can sweep it all under the rug. Can’t have Mrs. American Fat Ass Housewife knowing that I’ve got weakness for screwing, can I?” His face rearranged itself back into harmless host mode. “I’ve got my fans to think about, after all,
God bless them, every one.”

“This isn’t about money.”

“Then what? Ask, and ye shall receive.”

“This is about the books.” Jeez, even as I said it it sounded lame.

“The books?” he asked. I nodded dejectedly. He looked scared. “My profits, you mean? My accounts?” I shook my head. His eyes searched me over in confusion. Then his smirk returned, widening into a full grin, the teeth stained cherry red. I felt sick. “The books? Books?
My
books? I’ve been kidnapped over fucking
BOOKS?
”

I ran my good hand through my hair. “Yeah,” I said, “something like that.”

He roared. Blood-specked saliva flew as his laughter echoed off the walls “
BOOKS!
” he hollered. “Oh my God, and I was worried!” His laughter seared my eardrums. “Books! I’ve been booknapped by librarians! Oh, help, help, help!” he screeched in a mincing falsetto. “Dewey Decimal has me in his clutches! Help!”

“Shut up!”

“Oh, fuck you, bookworm!” he yelled back. A contented, contemptuous sneer settled itself on his mouth. “Books. Fuck, do you have any idea who I am? The minute I’m noticed gone, the
minute
, the FBI is going to be all over you like lice. Get prepped for twenty years of getting rammed up the ass, buddy! And I’m gonna get a front-row seat. Hey, maybe I’ll keep the slut out of it, hey? Do her a favour. Keep her on the side, like. Fuck her while cellmate Bubba fucks you.” I punched him in the nose, my good hand this time. I was getting good at this. He shrieked with pain, but his sneer remained. “You’re gonna freaking die, asshole, and I’m gonna pull the switch!”

I pulled away from him. We stared at each other, wheezing. “That’s no way to talk to your legal counsel,” I said.

“I don’t know what’s funnier: you losers, or the fact that I fell for it.” He rocked his head. “Tail. Always tail. Thought I’d know better by now.”

“So you really didn’t tell anyone. Why would you be that stupid?” I was gobsmacked. It had at last sunk in that if Munroe hadn’t shown up, I’d be sitting down with my friends, commiserating over beers and a mutually shared toke. We’d laugh and
giggle, and maybe cry a few nerdy tears over the Purvisization of the world. They would keep their plans to themselves, and I’d be none the wiser. Or maybe they’d confess when it became apparent Munroe wasn’t coming. We’d laugh uproariously over our failed attempt at a criminal act. Everything would have been
right
again. Friends to the end, one for all, all for one, huzzah. And now this? All because Purvis wanted to get laid? I yelled in his face, “Why the
fuck
couldn’t you control yourself?”

“Huh,” he said softly. “Look at me, will you? Look at this.” He shoved his belly forward toward me. “Look at
these.”
He puffed out his cheeks. “I have gone through my entire life looking like this. Smarter than everyone else, should have been admired for my intellect, really a natural born leader, but stuck in this thing? Not fair. Didn’t even get laid until I got up the gumption to pay for it.

“Thought the army would help, be all I could be, work off the fat. Stupid idea. Ended up getting dropped into jungles with assholes with guns who treated me worse than the gooks. And still, nothing changed. This fucking
thing,”
he poked his chin down at his fat, “it made me less than nothing to them. I survive, get home, think maybe now things’ll be different. I’m a man at last. And still,
this.
A hopeless fat fuck everyone feels sorry for. A loser, like you.

“But now,
now,
all of the sudden, people listen to me. They want to hear what I say. Why’d it happen, I don’t know. Had a cable access show in North Dakota, for fun, making the most of my communications degree. Had to do something after the army, I wasn’t staying there. People started watching, they liked it, started talking. I built up a fan base. Thing is, they didn’t get it. I was making fun of them. I hated them. I was showing what I thought was satire on their pathetic lives, the things they thought were important, because they were good, honest, white people who couldn’t see anything outside their homes, and couldn’t understand why they should care about anything but themselves. I was making fun of them, and the people didn’t see it, they thought I was serious!

“God, they were so pea-brained stupid, so fucking stupid, all of them. Every day, I coddled them, smiled and capered, told them they actually mattered, the rest of the world was evil and corrupt and vile but they,
they
somehow had got it right. I got on my knees
and sucked them long, hard, and raw, and they loved it. So I thought, hey, you want, you got. People have treated me like shit for so long, it’s about time I took them for all they’re worth. And it is bottomless, this pit. There is no problem that can’t be blamed on someone else. Democrats, immigrants, faggots;
anyone,
just so long as I don’t have to account for my pitiful little existence as the end product of anyone’s fault but my own. After all,
I
love God.
I
love America. How could anything be my fault?

“But still, there was always this face, this body. Everyone loves me, no one wants me. I spend my whole life now, making them feel better about how utterly hopeless they are, they’re right and everyone else is wrong, but still, who’ll fuck me? Front page of
People
. My own publishing company. A media empire is forming, buddy-boy, this is only the beginning. I’m rich, I’m powerful, and I’m alone. Who’d want this? Freaks, that’s who. Sexual losers and deviants. I get so many invites from these people, ugh, they make me sick. These people, because I look like them, I should be with them, right? I should take what I can get, I know, I tell myself this, but I could never bring myself to . . . that. And believe it or not, paying for it gets old really fast. Too risky now, anyway.

“Now and then, though, you get that one woman, somehow, who wants you and who you want back. It’s not love; most of these women are so stupid I feel guilty afterward. But I’m only human. And her, well . . .
look
at her. She’s the complete package. Could you refuse? And should I be punished for it?”