Shelf Monkey

by Corey Redekop

  They needed someone, that’s why. And I cared for them all.

  Lawyers are cold fish, that’s what people complain. Never listened to our feelings. Treated us like a job, not a person. There’s a reason. Lawyers go nuts otherwise. Getting emotionally involved in the life of someone too dense to realize that breaking into someone’s house to steal a clock radio will probably get them into trouble, that will drive you over the edge, guaranteed. But it’s just a radio, man!

  You cannot allow yourself to care, cannot worry about their well-being, must treat them like the work product they are. Crash and burn is the only alternative.

  Case in point.

  I can’t tell you her name. Can’t describe her face. Was she blonde? I wouldn’t let myself see her, had to keep calm. Had to maintain a professional distance. She was eighteen, still had that new-adult smell. No more youth centres in her future. Remand or worse from here on in.

  “Why am I here, I don’t understand.”

  Keep head down. Focus on page. “According to the report, they picked you up at three this morning?”

  “Yeh, needed cigarettes. That a crime now? Fuckin’ Winnipeg.”

  “You’ve been living at Manatonkwa House?”

  “Yeah, they make me stay there.”

  “You left the centre at three in the morning for cigarettes.”

  “Yeah.”

  Maintain. “You’re not allowed out after ten.”

  “Yeah, but I’d be right back. I needed a smoke, man.”

  “You knew you weren’t allowed out. You sneaked out. This violates your agreement with the court.”

  “Man, I needed a fuckin’ smoke.” Harder now. Trying to get me to see the reasonableness of her actions.

  “You couldn’t wait?”

  “Why’d they pick me up, I wasn’t doing nothin’? I was just walking.”

  “One of your keepers called the police. You weren’t supposed to leave. You knew this. That’s why they picked you up. They were out looking for you.”

  “Yeah, so, get me out. I hate it here.” A quiver in her voice. Don’t look up. Play with my tie instead, study the pattern.

  “Honestly, I don’t think I can. You broke the rules of your release.”

  “They aren’t hard enough.”

  Shit, I looked up. “What?”

  “The rules aren’t hard enough, they’re too easy to break.” Thick liquid in her eyes. “I need harder rules, that way I’d follow them.”

  Staring at her. She’s serious. “So. You can’t follow the rules they gave you, but harder rules now, that would help, that’s what you’re telling me.”

  Open tears. “Yeah. These ones are too easy, too easy, more rules would help, I’d follow them then, tell them that.”

  “These were the harshest rules of release outside of prison. There are no more.”

  “I want out.”

  “I can’t get you out. You’ve shown the court no ability to follow the judgements they’ve given you. You’ve had every chance. This is your fifth violation in two months. I have nothing to show the court that you are in any way willing to help yourself.” Start packing up the files, business as usual. Go home, have a beer, watch TV, Law & Order maybe, zone out.

  “I want to see my kids, c’mon, they’ll never let me see them if I go to jail.”

  “Kids? You have kids?”

  “Yeah, two. My mom’s got ’em. They’re never gonna let me see them, you gotta get me out.”

  “Kids.” Kids. Plural of kid. She’s eighteen. Barely.

  “I woulda had more, but I got a couple abortions.” There’s no stopping the crying now. Big, snotty tears gush out. “The last one was a septic abortion, where the womb gets infected, y’know? Really fucked up. So that one hadda go.”

  “Septic.”

  “Yeah, so you gotta tell the judge, I need to see my kids, so I’ll be better now, I’ve figured it all out see, I’ll be good for my kids. Tell the judge that.”

  “But you haven’t been good.”

  “But I will now.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  “But I will now.”

  “You tell me then. What can I tell the judge that will prove you’ll follow the rules? What makes this time so different from last time?”

  “. . .”

  “And the time before?”

  “. . .”

  Close the briefcase, stand up. Keep voice steady. Look her in the eyes. “I’ll see what I can do, but it doesn’t look good.” Grab the doorknob. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

  “No, don’t!” She’s leaned across the table, she’s grabbed my hand. “C’mon, don’t be like that, c’mon, don’t leave, I’ll be good. Promise.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what else we have to say.”

  “We don’t have to talk, just . . . don’t leave, okay? Stay?” Her fingers stroke mine, play melodies on my knuckles. “We don’t have to talk, you don’t wanna. We could do, y’know, somethin’ else.”

  I’m dense beyond imagination. All I can picture is myself getting out of this room, out of this building, breathing clean, wonderful, automobile-polluted air. “What?” I ask, barely registering her hands now creeping up my arm, pulling me down, closer to the tabletop.

  “We could, y’know, I dunno, y’know, fuck?” Her left hand crawls away from me, down her shirt, begins to unzip her jeans. “Wouldn’t you like to fuck me? Hey? Touch me here?” She massages herself, moans in pleasure. I glance up, try to find a guard, anyone, someone to barge in and stop this. No one in sight. Either they don’t care, or this is a common happening. “C’mon,” she says, pulling my hand toward her, rubbing it against her crotch. “C’mon, do this for me, huh? Lawyer-man? Sir? Get me out, we’re gonna have good times. Promise.” She’s let go of my hand, it’s moving on its own now, kneading her, I’m not paying attention, I’m watching her face, her breasts, her eyes, she fumbles at my belt. I can’t breathe. “Promise. Just . . . get me out.”

  I wrench myself away. Grab my briefcase, tuck myself back in, pull up my zipper. Try to apologize, say something, can’t talk, nothing to say. Open the door. Walk down the hall. Buzz for the exit.

  “Hey.”

  Don’t look back.

  “Hey, come back.”

  Don’t listen. You don’t hear her. You don’t hear anything. You don’t feel anything.

  “Fuck you, faggot!”

  She’s a case file. A client. Words on a page. Not your fault she’s here. Nope. She’s not even real. You made her up. You just walk away, out the doors, down the front stairs to the sidewalk. You take it all in, the premature darkness of winter, the tinted highbeams, the sound sound sound sound of horns bleating as you stride into traffic. When the car hits you, you don’t even care. You can’t feel the pain when your head bounces off the curb. When they bundle you up tight on the stretcher and load you into the soothing bay of the ambulance, all you think is, thank Christ, I don’t have to go in to work tomorrow morning.

  TO: ermccorm@yahoo.ca

  FROM: iamashelfmonkey@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: climax

  Dear Eric,

  So tired. Pawned the laptop, didn’t even try to haggle. I should have just enough to pay the café for this e-mail. It’s a big one, but I’m finishing this now. Enough fucking foreplay. Chug the coffee, head down, type.

  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 reflect
ive 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.”
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  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?”