Shelf Monkey (26 page)

“Shall we begin?” Aubrey said, refusing to look up. He continued to study the fire.

“Yeah, I’ve got a perfect ’tag,” said Gavin. “Look, Aubrey. Dee Henderson, see. You heard of her?” Aubrey nodded.

“Wait,” said Susan. “Emily’s not here, we can’t start.”

“She’s not coming,” Aubrey said. “Left a message on my machine. She’s never coming back.”

Cameron spoke up. “Aw, she was serious? No, man, that’s not right, I’ll call her.” He held out a hand. “Who’s got a cell?”

“She’s out, Cam,” Danae said. “I’ve been talking to her all week. She keeps saying her therapist says this is unhealthy.”

“Fuckin’ shrinks,” said Warren.

“Amen, brother,” Aubrey said. “Fucking shrinks.”

“No, no, I can talk to her,” said Cameron. “Tracey, lend me your phone?”

“Sure.”

“
HAGAR IS NOT COMING!
” screamed Aubrey, still focused on the fire. Danae jumped in surprise. Tracey dropped her proffered phone into the snow. Cameron made no move to retrieve it.

“She has made her priorities abundantly clear, Ignatius!” Aubrey continued to rant. “She has chosen her side. Hagar is no longer welcome. She is a traitor to our cause! She is dead to us!” Margarita rolled herself about in the snow in confused excitement. “Ubf! Wif? Fub! Ubfubfubf!”

Cameron backed away slowly, hands up in supplication. “Sure, Aub, no problem.”

“It’s okay, Aubrey,” said Andrew. “Really, right, guys?”

“Absolutely,” Gavin said. “Emily. Screw her, right?”

“So, Emily’s really not coming?” asked Burt. He pulled a paperback novel from his pocket. “Can I burn
Stone Angel
now? Can I finally torch this?”

“Aw, Burt, don’t,” said Danae. “She’s not even here, don’t do it.”

“Let him do what he wants, Offred,” said Aubrey. “If you wish to burn it, Gandalf, do so. No one here will stop you.”

“Well, all right!” Burt beamed a smile at the rest of us. “She doesn’t want to save her book, she should have shown up. Serves her right, right?” He strode triumphantly to the fire and held the Laurence in the air. No one moved to stop him. “Here she goes!” he yelled, cocking his arm into a throwing position. “I’m gonna do it!” He held his arm back, looking around anxiously.

“Well?” asked Aubrey. “We’re waiting, Gandalf. Burn it.”

Burt furrowed his brow. “Isn’t anyone going to stop me?”

Danae turned away. “Just do it, Burt. Get it over with.”

Burt pulled his arm back even further, and then let it drop slightly. “Aw, this is wrong.”

“Burn the heretic, Gandalf,” Aubrey said angrily. “This is your chance. You’ve been waiting months for this moment!”

“Yeah, but . . .” Burt took a step away from the fire. “I can’t do it. I never wanted to burn it, really, I just liked getting Emily riled up. I mean, Aubrey —”

“My name is Don Quixote!” yelled Aubrey deliriously, startling Burt into dropping
Stone Angel
. It landed near the fire, stopping just outside of singeing range. Aubrey squished his face together in frustration. “Quixote!” he howled. Burt retreated away toward the group as Aubrey thrashed his arms about, battering his head in frustration. “This is what we have agreed! We are Shelf Monkeys! We cannot hold together if we cannot follow even this one simple little rule!” He halted his self-abuse and looked at us, blinking madly. He pointed a finger at Andrew. “What is your name?” he asked.

“It’s Andrew, Aubrey, you —”

“Don Quixote!”

“Quixote, sorry.”

“What’s your name? Your secret name?”

“Aub, stop this, I
ow!
” Warren had rabbit-punched the back of Andrew’s head. “What the hell, you big prick?”

“Answer him,” Warren grunted. “Okay, okay. Queequeg. My name is Queequeg.”

“Queequeg,” Aubrey repeated with satisfaction. He laid his hands on Andrew’s shoulders. “Queequeg, my friend. You are Queequeg, I am Don Quixote.” Aubrey pulled him closer. “What’s
your name?”

“Queequeg.”

“And are you proud of that name, Queequeg? The name you chose for yourself? There was a time not long ago that name meant something to you.”

“Yes.” Andrew sniffed and pulled his shoulders back, standing at attention. “Yes, I am very proud of my name.”

“And are you proud of what we do here, Queequeg?”

“Very proud, Don Quixote.”

Aubrey patted Andrew’s shoulders in admiration. “I’m proud of you, too, Queequeg.” He turned and walked back to the fire. “I’m proud of all of you.”

Danae joined him and stared into the blaze. “We are all happy to be here, Don Quixote. All of us.”

“Thank you, Offred.”

Warren walked up to Aubrey’s other side, reaching into the fire and pulling out a small log from its cold end. He thrust the makeshift torch to the stars. “I am Kilgore Trout, Shelf Monkey,” he announced with satisfaction.

Danae took the torch. “I am Offred, Shelf Monkey,” she intoned.

August was next, taking the torch from Danae. “I am Raoul Duke, Shelf Monkey.”

He passed the torch to Susan. “I am Scout Finch, Shelf Monkey.”

Andrew. “I am Queequeg, Shelf Monkey.”

Tracey. “I am Lyra Silvertongue, Shelf Monkey.”

Burt. “I am Gandalf, Shelf Monkey.”

Cameron. “Ignatius J. Reilly, Shelf Monkey.”

Muriel. “Lady Fuchsia Groan, Shelf Monkey.”

William. “Valentine Michael Smith, Shelf Monkey.”

Gavin. “Ford Prefect, Shelf Monkey.”

Gavin held the torch out to me. A small hand reached out from the darkness. “I’ll take that,” said Emily, snatching the flame from my grip. She shrugged to our gaping mouths. “I can’t change my mind? Nothing good on TV tonight anyway.”

“What did you hear?” asked Danae, welcoming her with a loving squeeze.

“All of it. I’ve been holding back, trying to make up my mind.” She walked up to Andrew and gave him a clumsy hug, juggling the torch to avoid setting him ablaze. “Thanks for not burning me, Queequeg. I know that can’t have been easy.”

“Aw, shucks,” Andrew said, blushing at the intimacy. “It was, you know, wrong. I’m sorry I never liked it.”

“Never apologize, Queequeg,” Emily said, giving him another hug, then stepping back. “You stick to your guns. I admire you for it.”

“You’ve made a decision, then, Hagar?” Aubrey asked warily.

“For better or worse.” Emily held the torch aloft. “Hagar Shipley, Shelf Monkey. I’ve always known it. Screw that shrink anyway, what does she know about what’s healthy? This makes me happy.” She offered the log to me. “Sorry to butt in, Thomas, here you go.”

My head filled with the screams of a crowd. Don’t take it. The wind had blown the flames out by Muriel’s turn, and now it was only a blackened log dotted with embers, faintly smoking in the darkness.

Don’t take it, Thomas, don’t you dare.

I accepted it, held it up. An errant cinder broke off, blurring away into the sky.

Don’t say a word, walk away.

“Yossarian. Shelf Monkey.”

Oh you goddamn pussy.

Aubrey held out his hands. Slowly, we linked ourselves together around the bonfire. Aubrey sighed happily. “We are complete once again, brothers and sisters. Where once we had weakened, we are now strong and resolved. United we stand.

“I hereby call this meeting of the Shelf Monkeys to order.” He removed his backpack. “I felt this evening might work out this way,” he explained, digging into the pack. “I hoped it would, so I thought something special would be in order.”

“Champagne?” suggested Burt.

“Better.” He began leisurely pulling out copy after copy of Munroe selections, a
MUNROE RECOMMENDS THIS!
on each cover, flashing in the firelight. “A sacrifice worthy of the occasion.” Agnes Coleman. “Something to reinvigorate ourselves.” Gerry Ewes. “A
reminder of just what it is we fight against.” Nicholas Rapley. “Of just
who
it is we fight against.” Another. Another. Another.

“Ahhh,” the Monkeys sounded. August clapped happily. My heart beat faster.

“We are agreed then?”

“We are,” we said.

“Is Montag right?” Aubrey held the books above the fire, its flames reaching hungrily for the offering.

“He is.”

“Is it a pleasure to burn?”

“Yes.”

Aubrey dropped the load as a whole into the drum, the pages at first smothering the flames in protest, and then surrendering with bursts of orange glory. Smoke arose into the air, filling our lungs. A single golden label detached and fled up into the breeze, taunting us. God, it felt so right. I was mainlining on Coleman’s death. Freebasing on Munroe’s funeral pyre until my head exploded in rapture. All was forgiven. There was only good on the Earth.

We lingered silently in our circle, basking in the heat as it fondled us.

“We are together again, then?” Aubrey asked, the blaze dying in strength.

“Yes, Quixote,” said Muriel. “We are together.”

“All for one, one for all,” said Gavin.

Cameron shivered in ecstasy. “Man, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I forgot how good this could feel! When that Rapley hit the heat, I was — wow.” I nodded in tandem with the others. Was I the only one with a woody? I doubt it.

“Welcome back, brother,” Aubrey said fondly.

“I was really scared there for while,” Danae said. Her pupils were alive in the dark, crackling red sparks. “I thought we’d never be together again.” She looked calmly at me across the flames as she said this. “I never want to feel like that again.” My mouth went dry.

Aubrey clapped his hand, ruining the moment forever. “Now, brothers and sisters, back to business! A demon in human form approaches, and we must make preparations if we are to be ready for his arrival.”

“Oh, Jesus!” I spat it out without thinking, dropping Muriel and Burt’s hands in despair. “We’re still on that?”

“The only true way for evil to triumph is for good men and women to do nothing,” he preached at me.

I was livid, at my own stupidity for believing things could change more than anything else. “Guys, back me up here,” I said to the others. “Burt, you’re not going along with this, right?”

“My name is Gandalf,” he said. “I ask you to respect the sanctity of the organization, Yossarian.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Don Quixote’s right,” August said. “We have to do something, man. Anything. I haven’t slept in days. I keep picturing Munroe’s fat face, taunting me.”

“Well, take a pill, then, that’s what I do, don’t plot assassination!” Thirteen pairs of eyes watched me with contempt. “Is no one here with me?” I pleaded weakly.

“If you could go back in time and stop Osama bin Laden from being born, wouldn’t you do so?” asked Gavin. He looked to Aubrey. “Wouldn’t we have a responsibility to stop him?”

Aubrey nodded. “We would, Ford.”

“Munroe’s not bin Laden, Aubrey,” I said.

“Don Quixote.”

“Aubrey!” There must be one ounce of sanity left
somewhere
in the group. “He’s not even Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson. He’s a goddamned talk-show host, guys! That’s all! In ten years, who’s going to remember him, huh? Who remembers Morton Downey, Jr. anymore? No one. Ricki Lake? Gone! This too shall pass, Aubrey.”

“Don Quixote.”

“Oh, fuck this!” I spun in place, hysterical. “You know what, Emily was right, this is unhealthy. I quit!” I stopped my spin, gathered my bearings, and left the circle for home.

“Yossarian!” Danae yelled after me. “Please, sweetie, don’t leave! We need you!”

I whirled to face them.
Stay, Yossarian, please,
an unfamiliar voice begged within my head.
Don’t leave, this is where you belong.
I was losing my grip.
These are your friends, Yossarian.
“My name is Thomas!” I bellowed into the night, drowning the voice in my own. “Thomas Friesen! Thomas! Thomas! Thomas!” Danae buried
her face in her hands as I continued my dramatic exit, now a frantic run to catch up with my sanity, wondering how I could collect on the thirty pieces of silver I was owed.

What do you do when you discover that your best friends are clinically insane?

Aubrey didn’t show up for work the next day. Page announced Aubrey was taking a period of “indefinite leave” from the store. Her grin was so wide, she was one unhinged jaw away from swallowing a guinea pig whole. Danae continued her steadfast refusal of my reality, ignoring my clumsy attempts at reconciliation by pursuing every customer she saw, imploring them to please, read a Pérez-Reverte, won’t you at least try a Thomas Keneally, have you considered Naipaul for your reading pleasure, no please, don’t stop at the Danielle Steel, put down that Jackie Collins, not Sandra Brown, no, please! Affecting a migraine, she slunk to the back room, hissing at me, grimacing at the ever-present cameramen who were inspecting the erected stage area for Munroe’s imminent arrival. Warren I opted to stay away from completely. I walked into the lunchroom one day, catching him alone. He was immersed in reading William Gass’
The Tunnel
, sipping from a coffee cup, when he looked up from the page and saw me standing there. We shared a moment of self-conscious silence. “You should probably leave, Thomas,” he said. “It wouldn’t do to have you in my eyesight right now.” I backed out of the room, nonchalantly, as if I
always
left rooms back-end first. Warren was smiling, and someone who didn’t know him would think Warren was kidding around. A more careful observer, however, would notice the knuckles of Warren’s hands fading, pink to white, as he compressed the pages of the Gass together in anger.

My tenure at
READ
became a dour mixture of antagonism and paranoia. Page, now in full stormtrooper mode, enlisted me to help set up Munroe’s stage. Her glee at my distaste for the task was approaching Wicked Witch of the West levels. I caught a peripheral glimpse of Danae, her flirtiness a distant memory. She watched as I set up the chairs, her eyes welling up. She turned away before compassion could get the better of her. I concentrated on the work, swallowing something bitter and sharp.

The day before Munroe’s triumphant visit to Winnipeg, Aubrey broke the stalemate. I was mourning my isolation on my day off, eating tortilla chips, chewing pills, smoking piss-poor pot I had wheedled from the guy across the hall, and quaffing beer after beer as I squinted my eyes at the television. I had numbed my senses with Tarkovsky’s
Solaris
, Kubrick’s
2001: A Space Odyssey
on deck to pummel me into incoherence. Then, a double-bill,
Schindler’s List
and
Shoah
to lighten the mood. I needed entertainment that matched my spirits, and I had tired of Leonard Cohen albums. Aubrey’s phone call lowered my spirits further still.