Shelf Monkey (36 page)

After all, I’ve become quite the celebrity here. I’m respected and admired within these walls to a degree I never could have anticipated. I’d like to impose a bit of irony to the story here, take some literary license with my memoirs, make up some sad paradoxical
Outer Limits
ending that would please my detractors, maybe being placed in charge of the prison library, a library that consists exclusively of Munroe Purvis Book Club releases. Picture the scene: the camera pulls back slowly, a crane shot, revealing your hero surrounded by boxes and boxes of the very thing he despises. He raises his arms to the sky and screams, “Noooooooooooo! Why, God, why?” He collapses to the floor. Music swells. Fade to black. Credits roll. Please deposit your empty popcorn bags in the nearest trash receptacle on your way out. Now
that’s
a scene that cries out for an actor of Luke Perry’s calibre.

But other than working in the library — how could the warden
not
put me in charge of that? — none of this is true. It turns out the inmate population here has just as much animosity toward Munroe as I have. Not for the same reasons, of course; some years ago, Munroe did a week-long exposé on the woeful inadequacies of the prison system, concluding that all criminals should be lined up and shot (his words) rather than continue to drain valuable tax dollars from the pockets of honest citizens. It was a very popular program, and as an indirect result, all prisoners have a fond daydream of one day being released, tracking down Munroe, and shanking him, sticking a shiv between his ribs and hearing him squeal. I’ve heard what that sounds like, and I understand the appeal.

Predictably, I am treated with the sort of deference and awe usually bequeathed upon deposed godfathers and made men. Prisoners seek my opinion on matters. I have attained folk hero status. The Man Who Would Kill Munroe. I have started up a temporary book club — in here everything is temporary, and
our meetings are always one unruly pedophile away from being shut down — and somehow I have managed to sensibly discuss the merits of Jonathan Lethem and Barbara Gowdy with murderers and rapists within a climate that usually precludes such endeavours, instead preferring fight nights and the occasional riot to relieve tension. I won’t claim that prison life is a breeze, but I can sleep at night now, secure in the knowledge that my cellmate and new Michael Chabon fan Vincent will kill anyone who tries to do me harm. Little old me, with a bodyguard. I don’t think even Munroe himself is so well protected.

Actually, speaking of Munroe, I do have one chief regret; we honestly should have killed him. We had the chance to stop Osama, but chickened out and left him with a stern warning instead. Well, I chickened out. Sure, we made an impact on his sensibilities: how could we not? But sad as it is, the new Munroe, all twisted and scarred, is infinitely worse. Becoming mentally unhinged may have cost Munroe his day job, but he is making a killing on the lecture circuit. He’s still spewing the safe righteous indignant ignorant crap, but it’s not an act anymore. He honestly believes it. Watching clips on the evening news of his speech at Bob Jones University, propped up by Jerry Falwell and blathering on about “secular humanist sodomites” and “intellectual Osama bin Liberals” and “the Democrat plague,” it’s clear we took a bad thing and made it even more reprehensible. Before he was an irritant; now he has the ear of the President.

But again, all is not bleak. I expect no reprieve, these walls are my home, but as I’m sure you’re aware, I have become the
cause célèbre du jour,
the new poster boy for celebrities needing a cause to fuel their days. Small c celebrities, but still. Boy, you know you’ve made a difference when your fellow yardbirds are envious that E. Annie Proulx has come to visit. I’ve had quite the number of bookish luminaries visit me in the last few months. Douglas Coupland came in just to shake my hand. Tim Winton, Roddy Doyle, and Ha Jin called to wish me well. Thomas Pynchon brought me a signed copy of
The Crying of Lot 49
: at least, he said he was Pynchon. James Ellroy
interviewed me for a
Vanity Fair
piece, but I’m afraid I came off looking rather insane; it was too soon after my capture, and the daily triple-doses of Paxil had not yet taken effect. I don’t recollect half the conversation, and the half I do remember is a three-hour bi-polar mishmash of ranting, sobbing, and seething against the injustice that Ellroy has not yet won a Pulitzer. Apparently I also discussed the Shelf Monkey trial, but it’s all a blur. I do recall being dragged from the interview in restraints and sentenced to two days of “quiet time.” Norman Mailer and I had a good long chat; he offered to smuggle me in a cake with a file in it, and looked somewhat crestfallen when I told him I didn’t wish him to publish my life story. I’ve said all I’ve need to say, and I should not suffer the great Mailer the indignity of telling my tale. I’m no Gary Gilmore, and the man who wrote
Tough Guys Don’t Dance
deserves much better than that. It hasn’t all been accolades; Tim LaHaye condemned me to Hell, but that was pretty much a given anyway. Sadly, Eric hasn’t dropped by, but I can’t blame him. I did damage his career, what with the uproar from certain quarters that his novels were somehow the instigators of my deeds. It all blew over, but the harm may be irreversible. Lynn Coady said she’d pass on my apologies, but I don’t expect he’ll be too eager to renew our acquaintanceship. His novels have been selling quite briskly, though, so perhaps some reconciliation is possible. Down the road.

No doubt you’ve read my book reviews in
The New York Times
. I thought it was weird, but authors evidently consider it a badge of honour to have their book critiqued by a Shelf Monkey. Much as a painting by John Wayne Gacy is highly sought out by art collectors, I suppose. I try to be kind, but I don’t pull punches. Either way, the books sell very well. People want to read the books I like, and even more people want to read the books I dislike, all Munroe supporters of course. They think that to purchase books on my “hit list” (the editor’s idea, not mine) somehow allows them to get back at the man who mangled Munroe. Like buying these books teaches me some valuable lesson about not torturing celebrities. Here’s the truth: I’ve been stringing them along. I’d never hate a novel by W.P. Kinsella or David Bergen or Greg Hollingshead or Eden
Robinson or Yann Martel; I have nothing but capital A Admiration for them. Didn’t anyone even get the joke when I called Joseph Heller “an over-praised relic who coasted on the goodwill created by
Catch-22
for far too long”? What, too subtle?

But if there is one way that all Munroers are alike, it is in their uniformity of response, and if my foolish trash-talking of Messrs. Updike, Vanderhaeghe, Vonnegut et al. allowed those authors to get a little extra pocket money, then I take it as a victory. The idea that an Agnes Coleman admirer should be so incensed at my acts that they should willingly purchase and read a James Morrow to get back at me makes me feel all giddy.

As much as I’ve enjoyed this little fling with fame, the best is still to come. Rex Murphy has invited me participate in his
Cross-Country Checkup
review of the season in books. It’s by phone of course, and I expect a full grilling from Mr. Murphy, but how could I say no? He’s a Canadian institution, and I expect that to be verbally crucified by him, live and on-air for the amusement of millions of Canadian listeners, will be the highlight of a very busy life.

Where are the others?

Well, that’s an easy one. I have no fucking clue. If I knew, do you honestly think I’d tell? I am the Judas in this little tale, but I think I’ve done my part for law and order. Let the cops figure it out for themselves. Or maybe Emily’s the Judas. She’s certainly received more than her share of silver for her troubles, and got Leelee Sobieski to portray her in the bargain. All I got was the guilt.

I initially scoured the hate mail I’ve gotten for some code as to their whereabouts — you’d think with all the trouble they’re going through to keep me chemically upbeat the prison officials would withhold such potentially unnerving correspondence from me, but no, I get hundreds of death threats a week — but I never found any hidden messages there. After a time, all the “hope you die” and “burn in Hell fucker” and “I believe in Christ but you don’t deserve to live you horrible horrible man” comments just become one big blur, leavened slightly by the
occasional offer of marriage. Munroe was right about that at least: there are some very sad and lonely people out there. If the other Monkeys have tried to write me from their cells, their mail has not gotten through.

But there are other ways to get a message. I guess this is the true reason why I’ve decided to confide in you, Doc. I
have
received word from the outside. Certain channels have been established, and a plump, damning little note has fallen right into my lap. Literally. I was inspecting the new arrivals for the library, and I happened upon a new edition of
Catch-22
. As I never ordered it, the title kind of leaped out at me. What, I’m not going to open it? I flipped through the pages, and there it was.

Dear Thomas:

I guess an apology at this point won’t cut it?

Danae and Warren have warned me against writing you a note, saying it’s too risky, but you deserve the truth. You were always there for me, in the end, and you never acted less than a true friend should. When I called you brother all those times, it was meant in the truest sense. We are brothers in pain, and the fact that your pain is ongoing causes me no end of grief. I don’t at all expect this letter to bring a halt to your sufferings, but every story needs an ending, of sorts.

We were all prepared to take you with us. Yes, the three of us always planned to run; there was no way we could hope to get away with our Purvis-cide. At most, we’d have a few days’ grace to put some distance between the police and ourselves. But I have (or had, rather) a tidy nest egg put away. I was a far better businessman than I let on, and between investments and savings, I guess you could call me rich. Or rich enough to comfortably hide ourselves
away. I managed to sell my share of the store before the shit went down (yes, I did think that far ahead). My guess is there’s a very silent, very upset city councillor looking at the store’s plummeting finances right about now. He couldn’t believe the price I quoted him. Munroe’s appearance was primed to make READ a national force in bookselling, and here I was jumping ship in calm waters. In receivership, I hear. Aye, she was a cursed vessel from the start, and woe be those hands who went down with her. Page, where are you now?

So, thanks to business acumen, I can now take the risk of sending out this missive. Hearing of your current position as librarian out at Stony, it was fairly simple to get a letter to you. A bribe here, an inserted note there, and voilá. The only real problem was ensuring that you get the note before anyone else; what book would you peruse? If you’re reading this, then I guess the obvious choice was the correct one. If someone else is reading this, well, shit happens. Could you get this to Thomas Friesen when you’re done?

You were the X-factor, Thomas — the one truly unpredictable element. The others, they were sheep, and sadly, I hold no real affection for any of them. They drifted into our circle over time, but they were acquaintances, not friends. Book club friends, if anything. Emily was the only one I ever cared about, and you know how that turned out. Do you ever hear from her? I suppose not. They were all only bit players in my life story, only existing to keep the narrative flowing until a new plot twist came along. They all have their own stories, but I was never all that interested in reading them, if that makes any sense.

I should have guessed how you’d react to everything. I did guess, actually; I just hoped I would turn out to be mistaken, that you would surprise me. But true to form, you just couldn’t follow through. Yes, you were there, you participated, you extracted your pound of flesh, but in the end, your heart just wasn’t in it.

Yossarian suited you, I thought: the lone voice of sanity in the wilderness of madness, the calm in the middle of the storm, that sort of thing. A fine complement to my admitted habit of tilting at windmills. From the start, you were special. Raw, unfocused, slightly manic and bi-polar, highly suggestible, but special. Danae, Warren, they’re special as well, but I somehow felt a stronger kinship with you. Maybe you were the stabilizing element I needed; I probably would have gone ballistic far earlier without your companionship. Strange that your character was what I admired, and yet in the end was what disappointed me. Irony?

Like you, Yossarian was never a doer, he was a follower. He was a commenter on humanity, never an active participant. You performed the tasks asked of you, Thomas, but like Yossarian before you, you’re a reactor, not an actor. You’ve never been in control of anything. Yet in the end, Yossarian triumphed through acceptance of the madness that assailed him. He fought madness with madness. You never embraced the madness. You sought conformity. You could have done anything that evening: called me out, shot us, pushed Warren into the fire, led the others in armed uprising against me, anything, and I would have admired you for your passion. You’re not a Yossarian. You don’t deserve such an admirable appellation.

You’re not a lead character, Thomas. You’re secondary. The best friend. The shoulder to cry on. You’re not even the main protagonist in your own story. You’re the one who watches, the one who almost but not quite understands what’s going on, the one who is always just one step behind the reader.

You’re the sidekick, Thomas.

You’re the Watson.

Jimmy Olson.

Sancho Panza.

Rosencrantz and/or Guildenstern, grasping vainly for clues as to their existence.

You know who you really are? Nick Carraway. There’s poor Nick, watching, commenting, narrating the actions of others, and never once comprehending what is going on. Sure, he’s the first person narrator, the survivor, the filter through which events are processed, but in the end, who remembers him? No one. They remember Gatsby, that enigmatic playboy. And well they should: Nick is boring. And so are you, although you were so close to being interesting. If you’d just taken that final step. But you took the side of traditionalist values.