Shelby

by McCormack, Pete;

  Shelby

  Pete McCormack

  New York

  For my family, who have loved me and encouraged me through an astonishing lack of success.

  I

  In 1907, on the day after his twentieth birthday, the poet Rupert Brooke wrote to his mother: “I am now in the depths of despondency because of my age. I’m filled with an hysterical despair to think of fifty dull years more. I hate myself and everyone.”

  But enough about him.

  It was a phone call of the confessional nature to my ninety-three-year-old grandmother on April 5th, 1992 that began a conversation which finally raised me from bed. On any given day such an event would appear unremarkable. I, however, hadn’t moved since my twentieth birthday three weeks earlier.

  “I implore you, Gran,” I said, beaten, shrouded in darkness, “no more jokes. I’m desperate for guidance.”

  “Who’s jokin’? Gettin’ it yanked curbed the ol’ blood flow. By the summer of ’55 I was full horsepower again.”

  “I told you, I don’t have a uterus!”

  “It’s that fat girl again, isn’t it?”

  “Haven’t I made myself clear? The family dream is in peril and I’m lying here functionless beyond rudimentary discharges, my head pounding from loneliness and thoughts of women contorting beyond natural limitations—”

  “Oh hell, Shel, your needs are changin’, that’s all. Live a little.”

  “Live? What does that mean? You might as well ask me to do God’s will! I ask you: what is God’s will?”

  “Be nice.”

  “How can I be nice? I loathe myself.”

  “You do not.”

  “I was once so sure of my call. Alas, it seems now I am rotting in a tide of my own septic musing. Innocence is snuffed. Destiny unclear. Please … my ally, my confidant, if you have any wisdom from your endless years on this wretched planet, unload it now!”

  “Okay, okay. Enough already. First off, this destiny thing is a mug’s game.”

  “A what?”

  “As for your marks, I love you and I don’t give two shakes of a donkey’s dong if they drop—”

  “Mom and Dad would sell me!”

  “So let ’em.”

  “U.B.C. medical school awaits my arrival.”

  “Who cares? Get out of bed! Go back to class. See how it goes. Then you can call me back, okay?”

  I awaited further counsel. None came. I was crestfallen. “That’s it? That’s the advice? ‘Who cares?’ and then an ultimatum?”

  “It’s not good?”

  “What about the parables?”

  “Oh … uh … okay. You can’t milk a dry cow.”

  “What?”

  “I’m rusty.”

  “I thought you cared.”

  “Maybe you should stay in bed.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t win here.”

  “I feel ill.”

  “Look, you got any change around there?”

  “What kind of change?”

  “Nickels, quarters, dimes—”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Get some change.”

  “Hold on, I can’t see. I have to turn the light on.”

  “It’s the middle of the day.”

  “The curtains are drawn.” I clicked the night-light. There was a nickel on my bedside table. “Okay, I have a nickel.”

  “Flip it,” she said.

  “Flip it?”

  “Heads you get up. Tails you stay in bed.”

  “For how long?”

  “Forever.”

  “Forever?”

  “Flip it.”

  “I … I’m scared.”

  “Flip it.”

  My throat went dry. I flipped it. It landed on my pillow. “Tails,” I said with a moan.

  “That’s it, get outta bed!”

  My innards crumbled. “But heads was get out of bed.”

  “Heads was stay in bed.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t try to put one over on your Gran,” she said.

  “I—”

  “Get outta that bed!”

  And so, hanging up a few minutes later, I removed my bony frame from my cot and hobbled to my desk. Glancing at the calendar, it was evident that classes were over and the exam period had begun. I dressed myself, draped a knapsack full of lecture notes and textbooks over my shoulder and wobbled into the gray yonder of a Vancouver afternoon. Walking through the Student Union Building, I stopped at a notice board where an exam schedule for the entire university was pinned. It turned out I had an Anatomy exam in less than twenty-four hours and a Zoology exam the day after that. Momentarily shaken, I was soon comforted by recalling my pre-final average to be hovering in the low nineties. Moreover, work done earlier in the year had left me certain I could do reasonably well on any of my five examinations without even opening a text book. Nonetheless, it was time to study.

  Sitting at my usual spot on the third floor of Woodward Library at the carrel beside the emergency exit, I removed my Anatomy textbook from my pack and flipped to the index. I fingered my way down the E’s towards Endocrine System, my eyes darting like a lizard’s tongue from column to column. My next recollection was of waking up face down in a pool of saliva, legs tingling, throat parched, temples all a-flutter. To my shock, the clock above my head indicated I had been in slumber for four and a half hours. A needle-like pain shot across my mons pubis and I feared appendicitis. I took a breath and the ache lessened. Wiping the saliva with my shirt sleeve, I flipped to Chapter 4 and began reading about ears: “The 75 to 100 stereocilia and one kinocilium of each hair cell of the many … money … Minnie … in each crista are imbedded in a … gelatinous matrix … which … which abuts a gelatinous jelly … imbedded in a … imbed … in bed … “—only to fall asleep again, this time for twenty-five minutes. My mind grappled with thoughts of women wearing avant-garde fall fashions. In a panic I fled the library for the university parking lot, drove to the nearest all-night restaurant I could find—Denny’s—recharged on buck-wheat pancakes and began studying.

  Into the evening I fought off lethal combinations of depression, fatigue and sexual urges with thoughts of academic greatness until the call of destiny once again overwhelmed my senses to where I was, as in days of yore, intellectually titillated by the firing of synapses in my brain. Basking in the rush, I recalled past scholastic successes (projects, awards, newspaper clippings, et cetera) and considered my many options within the medical profession. Naturally research in the form of disease cures intrigued me, but so did Third World relief work and the prestige and financial rewards of several of the specialties—radiology, neurology, and so on. Excited, I returned to my lecture notes and didn’t pause again until the course had been reviewed in full. I glanced up to see a gray sun peeking across the Vancouver skyline. Dawn was upon the city, hours having streaked by in a gasp of everlastingness, willpower having obliterated all potentially disconcerting thoughts.

  Writing the exam proved more elementary than expected. What answers I didn’t know in the multiple choice section became clear through deduction. Written essays were on subjects as natural to me as suckling to a newborn babe. Finishing up the three-hour exam in two thirds the time, I returned to the dorm, confident my academic standing had been preserved, and proceeded to peruse Blake’s Augeries of Innocence between intermittent naps.

  Later that night while in the midst of cramming for the Zoology final, I found myself gulping coffee and cold air and then doing jumping jacks between swigs of peach schnapps in an attempt to remedy what appeared to be some sort of viral narcolepsy. But each time I would return to my desk my eyes would close involuntarily and my head would snap back like a Pez candy dispenser. It was as if the course material had becom
e allergenic, my eyes watery and red, my skin itchy. Exasperated, I abandoned the struggle and lay my head on my desk. Suddenly Minnie T.’s thick legs and girth appeared, developing like a Polaroid in my mind’s eye until they were as real as they had been in the dim light two months earlier when she had me trembling for the removal of her mammoth panties and a mere plunge away from having my virginal ache tossed into that steamy night. Seconds later, after I declined her offer to go out for pizza, the only woman—huge or otherwise—to ever show a carnal interest in me sprang up from the floor, virtually naked, and ran screaming from my room. I was mortified. A letter slipped beneath my door the following morning confirmed my fears: Our three-week affaire d’amour was over.

  Yes I’m big. I’m very big. But you didn’t seem to mind that when people thought you were only tutoring me. You didn’t seem to mind that when your lips were pressed against mine, when your hands were all over me and my behind behind closed dorm doors. But when I said let’s go to a movie or let’s go for dinner, you’d make up excuses about eye irritation or food allergies. Don’t think I didn’t know why you were making up those lies. Now think about what that says about you as a person. You’re a worm, and when you grow up enough to realise that, you’ll be grown up enough to realise what you missed out on. So much for bedside manner, Mr. Doctor-to-be.

  Live and learn—and maybe one day love,

  Minnie T.

  P.S. At least worms can do it with themselves.

  Minnie knew; her rotundity left me abashed at the thought of publicly displaying our intimate involvement—all that in light of me being one of the most unbecoming people I’d ever met. So why did I lack moral fibre? Was the character chasm between me and, say, Martin Luther King or Moses merely genetic? Or had I been flawed by a series of random, long-forgotten traumas in my formative years? Or was it, God forbid, personal choice? Given a second chance, I would now gladly stand in the Student Union Building or atop Gage Tower Residences and testify to the passers-by, “I am proud to say I am attracted to a very fat woman!” Instead, I am forced to live with both my lack of integrity and a realisation that, despite a childhood filled with Biblical foundation, I would have fornicated without question. But by the grace of God did both my soul and chastity remain intact.

  I succumbed to the empty bed, my erection jostling inside my corduroyed crotch like a rat in a paper bag. “Not again,” I moaned to myself in mid-writhe, only too aware of Onan and his spilling of semen. “Yes, again,” myself replied weakly. I listened for noises outside of the room. All was still. Glancing at the Zoology textbook on my desk, I unzipped my pants, closed my eyes and recalled Minnie’s rambling rump. Within seconds I had taken her from behind like a wide-eyed kid riding a two-wheeler for the first time, cautiously peddling, low on the banana seat. Urged on by her sighs, I ventured ever nearer some imaginary G-spot that I knew in reality I would never find. Suddenly consumed with self-hatred, all I could do was apologise to her in spirit for both my lack of integrity and lack of endowment. Then again and again and again and again and again …

  Winded, I lay silent for a moment before reaching my arm to the back of the bed for a towel. Catching a glimpse of my forehead and eyes in the closet mirror startled me. I sat up, examined arms, skin and hair so ashen and gaunt all I could think of were POWs. Could I be gravely ill? In a fit of denial I snatched the dictionary off the floor, took a deep breath, sat down on the bed and formulated an all-night study plan. Step one, I decided, would involve looking up key terms and fully reviewing my lecture notes. Step two would be text analysis. Step three would be write the exam. Then, aside from the Medical Collegiate Admissions Test (MCAT) which was still two days away, I’d be finished with memorising information that in no way pertained to life as it is lived. Moreover, I’d be back within reach of my dream: to try and aid the world through scientific discovery. I opened the dictionary and looked up invertebrate.

  1: Lacking a spinal column.

  2: Lacking in strength or vitality.

  My stomach cramped. I closed the dictionary and whimpered—and what happened next can only be described as pathological. I sprinted out of the dorm, down six flights of stairs, out into the open air and all the way to the parking lot, and before I could compute I found myself in my old Datsun 510, rattling out of the endowment lands towards the city centre with an exhilaration comparable to that which a child would feel sneaking out in the middle of the night and somehow winding up at Disneyland riding the Matterhorn. I gazed at the neon lights and the domed stadium, passing cars and prostitutes, the winds of freedom bursting through my window. I recalled my freshman year when a gang of ne’er-do-wells dragged me from my desk to the Town Pump—my first and still only visit to a night club—to see three bands I can’t forget despite all efforts; Skin The Green Monkey, Terminally Dead and Peachfish. The end result was hearing loss lasting the better part of a week and a contempt for University of British Columbia engineers that remains to the present day.

  But despite all that, as if by destiny or maybe like a car accident victim whose only catharsis is to get back in a car and drive, there I was again. I opened the door and peeked in. To my surprise, the barrage of guitar noise and the turbulent sea of bobbing heads that had attacked my senses two-and-a-half years earlier had since left. Canned music drifted from speakers barely loud enough to make conversation difficult. The tables were empty. The dance floor was bare. I took a seat to the side, rebelliously dropped my feet upon another, and watched the band set up. What was I doing? It was adventuresome, yes. But practical? I had an exam in less than twelve hours. Contemplating leaving, my guilty pangs were soon alleviated by an awareness that visits of this sort (i.e. into the urban underworld) could well enhance my bedside manner in the coming years. I ordered a beer like it was my nature to do so.

  SMEGMA BOMB! was the band’s name, as indicated by those words splattered in black capital letters across a pukey green backdrop. On stage was a psychedelically painted chest of drawers with a bedside lamp on it. I observed the guitarist and the drummer in what appeared to be an impassioned tête-à-tête—perhaps, I thought, on the subject of unusual time signatures or musical rhythms from the Middle East. Right then the guitarist threw a quick jab that snapped back the drummer’s head and left him clutching his nose with both hands. The bass player turned around, yelled in what sounded like Japanese, and attempted mediation. The guitar player kicked over a cymbal stand, spat and turned away. The bass player walked over and picked it up as the drummer let go of his nose and pulled out a set of sticks. He pointed at the guitarist while exchanging with the bass player what appeared to be words of disgust. Then the bass player stepped into the red spotlight at the front of the stage and to a house empty save a scattering of employees mumbled into the microphone something indecipherable. I smiled, stunned, intrigued—at first unsure. But the more I looked, the more it was clear: The bass player was Eric Winlaw, a high-school Drama classmate known predominantly for reciting defeatist yet joyful lyrics against the backbeat of bongos and bass in the cafeteria during lunch hour. Being a poetry enthusiast myself, I had always found his expression courageous if uninspiring. Most meaningful, however, was the fact that although we had never engaged in dialogue per se, Eric’s gestures to me in the form of glances and one-liners had always been friendly.

  As it turned out he was the band’s lead vocalist, too, and for forty-five minutes howled as though shot in the leg. The drummer and the guitar player were equally discordant and I found myself wondering how music had come to this: from Gregorian chants to the troubadours to baroque, classical and, finally, horrible noise. It was like anti-evolution, and I wondered if perhaps Homo sapiens wasn’t natural selection’s cherry on top after all. Could we be just the latest thing, as opposed to the best thing? Then the drummer toppled backwards off his chair, the band came to an awkward halt and I lost my thought. One song and a brief argument later, they were finished. I approached the stage and nervously tapped Eric on the leg. He looked down and smile
d.

  “Shelby,” he said. “Drama 11. Dug poetry. Couldn’t act.”

  “Wow. I … I’m amazed and touched. No one remembers me from high-school.”

  “I got a thing for faces,” he said. We looked at each other until uncomfortable. “You play any guitar?” he asked.

  The question surprised me. “Do … um, actually, a little.”

  “Cool haircut.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You want to play with us?”

  “What?”

  “Guitar. You want to play?”

  “I’m … I’m a novice.”

  “Don’t matter, it’s a look thing.”

  “What about him?” I asked, pointing to the guitar player across the stage.

  Eric didn’t turn around. He moved in closer to me. “Get this, man,” he said, his voice low but escalating steadily. “We’re just about finished our damn demo and we’ve got a couple o’ gigs lined up and the dick-head decides he’s going to quit and pursue a solo project … a solo project! Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Peter Gaaaabriel. What an asshole!” Eric rolled his eyes, smiling. “I gotta pack up. Think about it, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “Hey, we’re gonna party later. You wanna tag along?”

  I looked at my watch. The Zoology exam was nine and a half hours away and I knew at least five hours of intense study time would be necessary to achieve a first-class score. That left four hours of empty time. I had never actually partied before. I pictured my sunken eye-sockets, considered my reclusive behaviour of late and concluded a little camaraderie could only help my concentration. “I’d like that,” I said.

  “Shel,” a voice said, waking me up. I turned my head to see Eric standing over me, smiling, his right eye bruised and swollen, blood caked around his nostrils. It was daylight outside, and I was lying fully clothed on the floor of an apartment I barely recognized. The smells of beer and cigarettes were pervasive. “Can you play with us Monday?”

  “What happened to your face?” I asked, loosening my tie.