Shelf Monkey

by Corey Redekop

  Purvis’s planned route is at yet unannounced, but he promises that all major markets will be visited in turn.

  “Canadians have given American culture so much over the years,” Purvis says, “it’s about time one of us gives something back to our friendly neighbours to the north. That’s why I plan an intensive all-Canadian agenda in my book club while I’m visiting; to enhance the northern civilization through the promotion of their own tragically ignored homegrown talent. I’ll be doing the same when I visit Mexico. For English books, of course.”

  Purvis has already begun choosing novels for the tour. I’m All Out of Tea, by Saskatchewan author Nicholas Rapley, has been selected as Purvis’s first Canadian recommendation.

  “Mr. Rapley’s story made my heart weep,” remarked Purvis. “It’s a remarkable story, one man’s quest for personal redemption in the heart of sheer prairie desolation.”

  “I’m utterly overwhelmed,” Rapley told the Post. “To have earned such an honour, at a time when I can really use the cash.”

  TO: ermccorm@yahoo.ca

  FROM: iamashelfmonkey@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Still running

  Dear Eric,

  I wonder if all this publicity will boost sales of your novels. I guess some good can come out of this after all.

  Well, more good, anyway.

  I’m all set here. I’ve found a surprisingly secluded corner of a library, with large dividers and low traffic flow. Perfect. No refills on my coffee, but you can’t have everything.

  This is where my tale goes a touch Palahniuk.

  The four of us walked into the field behind Aubrey’s house. Five, if you count Margarita, safely tucked into Aubrey’s backpack, contentedly drooling and ubfing. Aubrey led the way, his flashlight bopping along the ground. I remained silent, walking behind the others, unable to shake the belief that this night would end with my death.

  Eventually, we came to an ancient, blackened oil drum half hidden by grass and weeds. I kicked at a dark pile at its base. Ashes scattered up into the wind. A torn cover page stuck out of the pile, a V.C. Andrews opus, I think.

  Warren set about starting a fire with a terrifying amount of lighter fluid and some prefab Safeway logs while Aubrey put his backpack down, digging out Margarita and a faded blanket she could curl up in. “Ubf!” she said, ecstatic to be outside. I wished I were so satisfied.

  Warren had done this before. Soon a pleasing blaze warmed us, or maybe it was just Danae pressing up against me. “Excited?” she asked.

  “That’s not the word,” I replied, trying to appear cool. “Frightened beyond comprehension is closer.”

  She tightened her arms around my chest. I melted. “It’ll be fine, Thomas. Just go with the flow, you’ll get into it.” She laid her hand on my cheek, turning my face to hers. “I promise,” she said. I believed her.

  We weren’t alone for long. Faces appeared in the darkness, following their own dancing beams of light. Men and women nodded to one another as they joined, huddling around the fire. There seemed to be no need for talking. I didn’t recognize any of the new arrivals, but two or three looked familiar.

  “Who are all these people?” I whispered in Danae’s ear.

  “People like us. Bookstore employees. Assistant librarians. English teachers. Second-hand bookstore managers. Burt over there reviews books for the Free Press. Bookworms and bibliobibuli, to use Aubrey’s terms. People who believe in the sanctity of the written word, and despise those who would abuse the privilege.”

  “You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” I muttered. “How long has this been going on?”

  “A year or so.” Danae stretched her face upward, settling her lips on mine. “Now shush,” she sighed into my mouth. I could think of no argument to this, and settled on putting any qualms I may have still held into the kiss.

  “Does this mean we’re, y’know, a couple or something?” I asked, my grin fighting with my groin for largest physical example of my happiness. “Because I am totally behind it.”

  Danae took a step back and floored me with a leer of pity. “Take it for what it is, Thomas.”

  “And what is that, exactly?”

  “A sign of friendship.”

  “Just friends.”

  “Just friends.”

  “Friends is good.” I forced the grin to remain as my penis screamed with frustration and flatlined. “I can’t get enough of friends.” I turned away, facing the fire, my skin burning. “Friends are — just great. Friends who french each other are even better.” The strangers began to pull books from their backpacks. Such was my confusion over Danae that I never even questioned what was going on.

  “I’m a complex person, Thomas,” she said behind me.

  “Why is it the crazy ones always claim to be ‘complex?’ They can never admit to the craziness.”

  Her arms came around my hips, clasping hands around my belly. “Your being here means a lot, Thomas. Maybe I got carried away in the moment.”

  “We had a moment?”

  “We’re about to.” A crescent moon of booknerds had formed itself around the can, the people staring into the flames. “You’ll understand soon,” Danae breathed, taking my left hand, while a rotund young man in a red jacket and Tilley fedora grasped my right. “I promise.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Just go with the flow, Thomas. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  Aubrey stepped forward, pulling his jacket hood over his head, Grand Exalted Master of the Canadian Inquisition. “Are we all assembled?” he asked the group.

  “We are,” they intoned on cue. I peered about, looking for any sign that this evening might end with my evisceration atop an altar, my entrails strung out like festive crèpe paper while the coven drank ecstatically from a silver chalice of congealing Friesen blood.

  Aubrey raised his face to the clear night sky. “I now call this gathering of the Shelf Monkeys to order.”

  “Shelf Monkeys?” I hissed to Danae. “What’s a Shelf Monkey?”

  “You are, dummy. We all are.” She squeezed my hand, indicating I should shut the hell up for a while.

  “Brothers and sisters.” Aubrey began to hold forth, taking on the tone of a Baptist preacher about to unleash fire and brimstone upon the unworthy. “We meet tonight to right the wrongs of society. Tonight, we shed our pasts. We are no longer who others believe us to be. Tonight, we are free. Tonight, we reveal our essence. Tonight, we truly become ourselves.” Aubrey placed his hand atop his heart. “From this moment forward, I am Don Quixote.”

  He pointed at Danae. “From this moment forward,” she recited, “I am Offred.”

  The man to her left spoke up. “From this moment forward, I am Queequeg.”

  And so on, around the circle. Strangers, identifying themselves through fictional characters, finding meaning through role-play.

  “From this moment forward, I am Scout Finch.”

  With every sentence, coming closer.

  “From this moment forward, I am Gandalf.”

  Well, I saw that one coming. There’s one in every crowd.

  “From this moment forward, I am Hagar Shipley.”

  “From this moment forward, I am Lyra Silvertongue.”

  What was that one from again? Pullman? Shit, what was I going to do? I began exploring my memories, trying to find a character to call my own. Presumably, there had to be some connection, some common theme. Or was the criteria simply a personal favourite, with no necessarily shared personality traits?

  “From this moment forward, I am Lady Fuchsia Groan.”

  Fuck, hurry up! Choose!

  Warren’s turn. “From this moment forward, I am Kilgore Trout.”

  Gandalf! No, already taken. Samwise Gamgee! No, forget Tolkien. Holden Caulfield. Ouch, too obvious. What means something to you? T.S. Garp? Chili Palmer? Winston Smith? Ford Prefect?

  “From this moment forward, I am Ford Prefect.”

  You bastard! Think! Quolye, no. Tintin,
no. Jerry Cornelius, Gideon Clarke, Screwtape, Dirk Gently, no, no, no, no.

  “From this moment forward, I am Ignatius J. Reilly.”

  “From this moment forward, I am Raoul Duke.”

  Wait, is that even fiction? I can’t remember.

  “From this moment forward, I am Valentine Michael Smith.”

  Dammit! That’s a good one! Oh, God, I’m next.

  Think.

  Think “From this moment forward,

  Think.

  I am

  Think!

  known as

  Got it.

  Yossarian.”

  Bingo.

  The circle murmured its assent. Danae crushed my hand in joy.

  Aubrey opened his arms, turning slowly. “We welcome a new member to our coven tonight. The Shelf Monkeys welcome Yossarian to our ranks. Welcome, Yossarian.”

  “Welcome, Yossarian,” the circle groaned. I clenched Danae’s hand, stifling the overwhelming urge to step forward and proclaim myself an alcoholic.

  Aubrey walked around the oil drum. He faced his congregation, the flames lighting his face from below, lending him caverns for eyes. “Do we have any montags for the pyre this evening?”

  The gentleman known as Ignatius held up his hand. “Uh, I have one, everyone.”

  Aubrey faced him. “State your case, Ignatius.”

  Ignatius pulled a large hardcover from his backpack. “Well, this,” he said, showing the book to the group, “is a new one from Terry Pratchett.” A collective gasp shot out. Not Pratchett! “Hey, hey,” he sputtered apologetically, noticing a visibly angered Warren. “I love the guy, too, but he’s just stretching out this Disc-world crap too far. It just came out, called Monstrous Regiment. I think he must have written it in his sleep or something, it’s really thin. He’s relying on his name to sell the thing. The nerds’ll gobble it up. I’d like to nominate it, please.”

  “Has anyone else read the accused?” Aubrey asked. The Monkeys looked at each other expectantly. No one volunteered. “All right then. May I have a volunteer to read it?”

  “Aw, Aubrey,” said Ignatius. “I never get to burn anything, c’mon!”

  “The rules, Ignatius, must be obeyed. No montag unless read and seconded. Anyone? Kilgore? Scout?”

  “Hey, don’t look at me!” exclaimed a slight woman, Scout. She mimed spitting something bitter onto the ground. “I like Pratchett and everything, but I’m still trying to get the taste of that Andrew Greeley out of my mouth from a month ago.”

  “Oh, yeah, that was a nice one,” mused Raoul Duke. “Good flames, nice heat, a real log of shit.”

  Warren raised his hand. “I’ll do it.”

  “Very well, Kilgore, we shall rely on you to throw yourself on Ignatius’ grenade. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Kilgore,” the circle intoned. Cameron handed the book over. Warren accepted it, clearly annoyed at him. “Nominate a Pratchett!” he said. “Dickwad. We’ll just see who nominates Pratchett.”

  Valentine Michael Smith stepped up. “I have a montag, Don Quixote.”

  Aubrey bowed his head. “Make your case, Valentine.”

  William held aloft his offering, a small paperback. “I present the offender, Anne Rice’s Ramses the Damned.” The circle muttered excitedly. “Anne Rice has committed the most heinous of sins. She has traded on her reputation, hoping that her status as bestselling novelist and highly regarded author of gothic horror will blind readers to the fact that Ramses is a cheap, thinly disguised bodice-ripper of the basest sort. Where she once possessed subtlety, she now wields a hammer. Her characters are thin. Her descriptions are ludicrous. She has soiled the prestige that Interview with the Vampire once afforded her. I ask you now, judge her as I have judged. Burn the heretic!”

  The circle swayed and moaned. We had all read Ramses, no question. We were booknerds, don’t forget, and if such as we could ever claim a queen, Madame Rice would surely be in the running.

  “Are there objections?” Aubrey asked. The circle remained silent. “What about you, Yossarian?” he asked, pivoting toward me. An arm unfolded, pointing a finger. “Do you object to Valentine’s argument?”

  I stood still, bewildered. Danae pushed me from behind, sending me into the middle. The half-moon closed ranks behind me. Margarita began to bark.

  “Ubf! Ubf! Ubf!”

  “Well,” I began. “You are right, uh, Valentine, Ramses is a bad novel, not up to Rice’s best work by far. But, I’m sorry, I don’t know how you all work this, but doesn’t an author’s past work count, shouldn’t it count for something?” I was sweating underneath my shirt.

  “Ubf! Ubf! Ubf!”

  I plunged on, unsure. “I mean, she wrote Vampire. She gave us Louis, and Lestat, and Armand. Simply because her later work lacks the originality and verve of her best, should that be enough to condemn Ramses to the flames? Sure, she’s kind of gone off the deep end lately, but there are certainly worse books out there, and —”

  “Enough!” Aubrey shouted. “Yes or no, Yossarian. To burn or not to burn?”

  Good question. “Oh, well, uh . . . no,” I replied as firmly as I could. Why should I make this easy on them?

  “Yossarian has spoken. The verdict is clear. Ramses shall be spared.”

  “Goddammit!” Valentine shouted. “C’mon, Aubrey, the thing just reeks. Let’s burn it, please?”

  Aubrey turned away to him, giving me a reassuring wink. “Yossarian has spoken, Valentine.”

  Valentine Michael Smith retreated into the circle, head held low. “But it sucked,” he whispered to Raoul Duke, who nudged him to keep quiet.

  “Me next!” Hagar Shipley stepped toward the fire. “I submit Tibor Fischer’s Voyage to the End of the Room!” She waved the offender above her head. “Mr. Fischer has committed a grave offence against us, against those who seek to challenge the rest of the world through provocative ideas and a canny grasp of language.”

  “Oh, here we go again,” jeered Danae.

  Hagar shot her a dark look. “Tibor has single-handedly sought to destroy the reputation of one of our finest living authors,” she continued. “His oblique, vile criticisms of literary icon Martin Amis and his Yellow Dog must not go unpunished. He is a sad, sad man, whose sole purpose in life is seeking to raise his profile by destroying the careers of others!”

  “Aw, Yellow Dog wasn’t that good, Emily,” said Lady Fuchsia.

  “Emily?” I whispered to Danae as the rant continued. “What, the Emily?”

  She nodded, the firelight catching a wetness in her eyes. “She’s just so — committed,” she said. “There but for the grace, Thomas.”

  “Her name is Hagar, Lady Fuschia,” Aubrey sternly corrected.

  “His actions must be corrected!” Emily/Hagar screeched at Lady Fuchsia, who looked ready to launch a tactical nuke in retaliation. “Calling Yellow Dog as obscene a thing as seeing your uncle masturbate is abusive and disgusting! He even uses his newfound infamy to his advantage, bragging about how clever he is! Tibor cannot go scot-free, he must be held accountable! Justice for the unjust!”

  “Jesus, Hagar, have you even read the fucking thing?” asked Warren.

  “NEVER!”

  Aubrey held up his hand, shushing Emily’s rant. “Brother Kilgore raises an excellent point, Hagar. We cannot destroy that which we have not suffered through personally. It would be a repudiation of our principles. If allowed, we would become that which we abhor. We cannot allow this to pass.”

  “But, come on! Amis!” Emily said, her eyes pleading for support. “We can’t put down Amis! It’s wrong, it’s just wrong, it’s like calling Mozart overrated.” She looked out at us. “Isn’t it?”

  “It’s not like Amis is suffering for recognition,” said Raoul Duke. “Now, who’s this Tibor guy, that’s what I want to know.”

  “It’s just one guy’s opinion, Em . . . er, Hagar,” said Ford Prefect. “How is that different from us?”

  Danae walked up and hugged her. “It’s
okay, Hagar. We all get frustrated, it’s okay. Look, we’ll read it together, all right? You and me. And next time, if it’s awful, you can try again. All right?” Emily nodded miserably, breaking the embrace to return to her place in the assembly.

  It continued on into the night, members offering example after example of books they deemed unsuitable for general consumption. Lesser novels by Norman Mailer and John Irving were put on the chopping block by Ford and summarily rejected. Cheaply bound romance novels with titles like The Kilted Lover and A Thrill to Remember were quickly considered and just as quickly ignored, as no one wanted to waste their time reading them anyway. Queequeg polarized the group arguing that while Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea was unarguably a sacred, untouchable text, should a Reader’s Digest Condensed Version also be considered thus? Danae managed to get Bushnell on the pile, while Aubrey lost his Necroscope battle when Raoul Duke revealed himself to be a closet Lumley fan. (Well, somebody has to be, I guess.) Feeling obligated as a first-timer, I found myself reluctantly agreeing to read a Jayne Ann Krentz opus of a solitary woman torn between love and employment, or some bullshit like that. Hazing the new guy, that sort of thing. The ambiguous merits of Ann Coulter’s polemic Slander were fiercely debated, Lyra quite convincingly arguing that her liberal-bashing screeds were so unbelievably biased that they thereby could qualify as satire, thus crossing the line into fictional diatribes. Gandalf pleaded angrily to get Margaret Laurence’s The Stone Angel incinerated, but was shouted down by Emily/Hagar Shipley, for obvious reasons. I gathered it was rather poor form to elect a novel that contained another Shelf Monkey’s alter ego.

  “He’s been trying to burn that book for weeks,” Danae mumbled in my ear. “He just doesn’t like it, it’s stuck in his craw for some reason, even since he was forced to read it in high school. He’ll never get it past Emily, but if she ever misses a meeting, she’s screwed. I won’t give him the satisfaction, though. I mean, c’mon, Laurence wrote The Diviners, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Good for you,” I said, weirdly touched by her determination. I didn’t care for The Stone Angel all that much either (the old lady was a real hag of a main character), but that didn’t mean it was flame-worthy.