Shelby

by McCormack, Pete;

  “Are you one of Frank’s buddies?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Listen, Mac,” she said, “maybe I deserve calls like this. Maybe it’s the instant karma thing. God knows I’m no saint. But I wasn’t in town last Thursday or Wednesday or the Thursday before. What’s more, I have a migraine. So please, do the world a big favour and … never mind. Just … take your hand off your pud and find a new caller, okay? Fun’s up.” Click.

  I was outraged. How could a woman one night offer me her number and over the telephone a week and a half later deny doing so with the conviction of a Muslim fundamentalist? Suddenly and for the first time I felt truly fearful of my break from academia. Who were these secular people, I wondered, so far from either religion or science—nay, reality—that they could lie without flinching?

  A phone call from my parents expressing their pride in my academic successes and certainty in my future furthered my downhill slide. I felt like I’d escaped from solitary confinement only to find myself naked in the middle of the Mojave Desert with nothing but a bottle of suntan lotion and a straw hat; there were no lectures, no mandatory reading materials, no fellow seekers, no marks to grade my performance, just me in a rundown front room prostrate on a pull-out couch, paralysed by the state of mankind.

  It was in this condition that I came to understand the pathologically unrelenting urge that exists between the sexes in Western secular society as what it really is: the side-effect of our loss of wonder with the world at large. I also found out that I was not immune to that loss.

  What started out as a bad dream on consecutive nights that the top of my head had been sliced off and converted into a parking lot littered with broken glass and hypodermic needles soon evolved into a condition that made the highlight of my day the freeze-frame ending of the soap opera Another World. But nothing was more all-encompassing than a newfound addiction to physical release. The two minute build up was Nirvana; I’d feel vivacious, poised, popular. But the post release letdown was Hell—as were the lonely hours that followed. Denying the urge was equally devastating. Indeed, one battle created such turmoil I experienced a primal flashback.

  “Boys like to do it with themselves,” Grandfather said. The two of us were fishing, alone, at a creek that I recall only as being greeny. Sweat glistened on his brow, a cigarette dangling between his nicotined fingers. “Always have,” he said, “always will.” I looked up, strangely concerned for my safety. “Don’t do it,” he said. “You’re a smart boy … but idle hands do the devil’s work.” A sweat droplet rolled off his temple and glided past his bulbous nose as if carrying an urgent message. “Do you understand what I’m talking about, boy?” he asked, dropping a hand on my thigh.

  I didn’t but I nodded yes.

  “I thought you would, you dirty kid,” he said, moving his face inches from mine. I swallowed and attempted a smile. “Now remember, boy, what I’m gonna tell you. Every time you pull it, you might as well be pulling God’s hair.” He squeezed my thigh. “And God gets real mad—I mean God riles up the pits o’ Hell when you pull His hair!”

  That’s all I remember.

  It was a rainy late afternoon when Eric returned home to find me prostrate once again. It had been days since I’d had a hearty meal and I had started to suffer from peristaltic shutdown. Not only that, having lost touch with reality, I was communicating by leaving little sticky notes in select parts of the apartment.

  “It stinks in here, man,” he said, crashing into the back of my pull-out couch. As always, the lights were out and the T.V. was on. Eric opened the curtains and stared at me.

  Having arrived at the non-talking turn in my cycle of depression, I said nothing.

  “What the hell is your problem?”

  Flat on my back, a blanket pulled up to my chin, I moved only my eyes in his direction. “Hello, Eric.”

  “What is it, man? All you do is watch the tube. Are you sick? Your folks? What’s goin’ on?” I rubbed an eye. “Is it a woman?”

  “I’m okay … it’s Friday, isn’t it?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Darn.”

  “What?”

  “I missed the Peace Rally.”

  “Fuck the Peace Rally! What the hell are you doing with your life, man?”

  “Waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “A call.”

  “From who?”

  “God.”

  “Oh Jesus, Shel …”

  “I want to contribute.”

  “Then do something! Christ. You make me feel productive.” I turned away. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Your bowels still killin’ ya?”

  “That’s private.”

  “Private? It’s all you talk about!”

  “That was when I thought you cared.”

  Eric laughed angrily. “Look, man, I know it’s your life and, frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck what you do with it, but you’ve been a total drag since you moved in.”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “You’re very depressing.”

  “You’re my best friend, Eric.”

  “Shutup.” There was a pause. “Look …” he said, “if you shower, I’ll call a couple of my girlfriends and maybe we can all go for coffee. What do you say?”

  I sniffed and turned back to him, feeling strangely calm. “I’m not as smart as my parents think I am,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Who is?”

  “It’s a curious feeling to realise you’re something other than what they believe you to be.”

  “Same goes for the kids, man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you picture your folks moanin’ and horfin’ and all that? No. But here you are. That’s proof enough. They probably suck each other off, too. It’s weird out there, man. No one knows anybody. Now get up.”

  “If we go out would it be considered a four-friend-get-together or a double date?”

  “Beats me.”

  “I’d love it to be a double date.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I was touched and my nose ran. I sniffed again. “Thank you for caring in these unclear days.”

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  From the kitchen Eric made phone calls, his voice varying between a normal volume and a mumbling whisper. Trying to eavesdrop, I sat up. He walked back into the front room. “The Aristocratic,” he said, “ten o’clock, Loretta—you met her before.”

  “I have?”

  “At the party.”

  “What party?”

  “When you missed your exam that night.”

  “That was when all this madness started!”

  “And another girl’s coming—Suzanne.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Nice. We leave here at 9:45, we’ll take my car. You might have to bus home.”

  Tearing down Broadway in Eric’s worn out convertible I felt like I wanted to drive forever; bathed in darkness and neon, pals side by side, the wind chilly enough to let us know anything could happen at any moment.

  “Relax and be yourself,” he said to me as we got out of the car. I appreciated that. “Within reason,” he added.

  Suzanne and Loretta were there when we arrived and the way they perused me made me wonder what Eric had told them on the phone. We sat in a booth and ordered coffee. Loretta was stereotypically attractive, like she could be one of the blackhaired twins on a Doublemint gum commercial. Suzanne had beautifully expressive hands all covered in silver rings—and the nape of her neck reminded me of velvety Naugahyde. When she told me she was a sculptress my heart jumped. From a purely physical standpoint, 99% of all men would choose Loretta over Suzanne. Not me.

  As the evening progressed, Loretta carried the conversation—her most intriguing monologue being fifteen minutes about a steroid user who, on the night she hoped to consummate their relationship, confessed to her that they’d have to wait a couple of
months for his testicles to grow back to size. Needless to say, they never made it.

  Stories after that paled in comparison and by midnight I was nodding off. Loretta was still talking. Eric sat holding his face up with his hand, dangling a cigarette in his mouth, desperately trying to look interested. Suzanne seemed to be half asleep, too, her head resting gently on Eric’s shoulder. I could only watch that and sigh …

  “Well did you call her?” I opened my eyes to see Loretta in my face. She took a drag on her cigarette.

  “Sorry?”

  “Lucy? The girl at the party. You told me you couldn’t wait to.”

  “Oh! I … I misplaced her number.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m tellin’ you a reading with her will blow your f-ing mind.”

  “Reading?”

  “Psychic readings, Shelby. Christ. I told you all about it. You sure acted interested when you were telling me your f-ing life story—paranormal this and destiny that.”

  “I was interested,” I said. “Does she do future telling?”

  “Probably.”

  “Like tarot cards and all that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ouija boards?”

  “I’m not sure—but you’ll love it. She’s totally hip with the gods—actually, goddesses. She opened me up a lot. Past lives. Where I was blocking.”

  Eric perked up. “Is she single?”

  “I thought you were working on me?” Loretta said with a smile.

  “Like a dog,” he said. “I’m asking for Shelby.” Loretta turned to me. I instinctively fixed my hair.

  “She’s a lot older—like thirty-five,” Loretta said, “and way out there … and a real looker. Anyway, I think she’s got a beau.”

  “Yeah, but she ain’t met the Shel-man,” Eric said, giving me a wink.

  Loretta looked at me and smiled. “To tell you the truth,” she said sympathetically, “I think she can pick and choose.”

  I looked at Eric. Then I looked back at Loretta. I adjusted my tie. “I guess that would make me a long shot, eh?” We all laughed.

  IV

  There is a splendor in beautiful bodies,

  both in gold and silver and in all things.

  —St. Augustine

  Over the next few days my emotional clouds began to lift. Eric’s very appreciated gesture of friendship seemed to be the catalyst towards rejuvenation. Intellectually, I dabbled through secondhand bookstores, picking up literary masterpieces in paperback for anywhere from one to six dollars; poetry collections, Sartre, Yeats, Nietschze and so forth.

  After repeated efforts that helped pass away several nights, I finally got hold of Lucy. On the phone she was amicable despite being mildly concerned as to the present day whereabouts of her psychic abilities. I pictured her with straight bangs, hundreds of bracelets, a diamond in one of her incisors and an embroidered full length frock that causes chafing. We made a date for an afternoon reading. I phoned Gran and shared with her my excitement. She was happy for me. I also chiselled away at what it really means to be successful, accepted some of the variables that stop destiny from happening and, finally, warned myself I may lack that je ne sais quoi it takes to enjoy life.

  I arrived at Lucy’s apartment in Kitsilano around ten to three. From the outside her place was inviting; stained wood stairs leading up to the front door and a calico cat sitting upright and sleeping on the window sill, not to mention a selection of potted flowers. I knocked and looked around. There was no answer. Feeling a moistness under my armpits, I loosened my tie. I knew I was there for a psychic reading but I felt like I was showing up for a blind date. I knocked again and heard footsteps. The door opened and the woman, presumably Lucy, just stood there looking at me.

  “Madame Sosostris, I presume?” I said, quoting T. S. Eliot’s famous clairvoyant just for fun.

  “Wrong apartment.” The door started to close.

  “I’m here for the reading.” The door reopened.

  “Oh shit.”

  “Lucy?” I said to an attractive but weary looking woman in ratty jeans, a wrinkled shirt and disheveled hair. There were no bangs or bracelets.

  “Yeah … sorry … I’ve been in bed with a migraine and I forgot about the reading.” She was squinting. The lights were off. “Look, Steven—”

  “Shelby.”

  “Would you mind if we put it off for today? I’m sorry I … I’ll give you a discount. I just … my head …”

  “Oh … uh … sure …”

  “Look … uh.… you don’t want to come in, do you?”

  “Inside?”

  She shrugged.

  “Um … sure … my mother gets migraines.”

  “Sons o’ bitches! I’ve tried everything,” she said. “Damn things come and go as they please.” Lucy led me in and lit a couple of candles. There were books scattered all over the coffee table and on the floor. “Sorry about the mess.”

  “No problem.”

  “I have to keep the lights low for my head,” she said lighting a candle.

  “Wonderful, I love candlelight.” I sat down. “So … do you dabble in the future-telling aspects of psychic phenomena?”

  “You mean tarot cards and that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nah.” She pulled a cigarette from a pack on the coffee table. She put it in her mouth. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “No,” I said, our eyes making contact. “My father smokes.” Lucy exhaled through her nostrils and with one hand pressed on both temples. “Do you believe in destiny?” I asked.

  “Is that a line?”

  “A line of what?”

  “A … never mind. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, uh … I was just … I’ve been reading about destiny. Hitler, actually,” I said, for some reason lying. “He said he felt he was destined to … to do what he did. So did Stalin.”

  She paused for a moment. “The way I see it anyone who really believes his fate is controlled by destiny—the man of destiny idea—has to be seriously screwed up: schizophrenia, dementia, megalomania, something. I mean it’s so grandiose. Would you like some tea?”

  “Uh … no. No thank you.”

  “And Stalin? What a shit-dick he was. Ginseng?”

  “Uh … no … thank you.”

  “I’m going to have a cup. It helps my head.”

  “Okay,” I said, somewhat rattled by her sweeping generalisation and word choice in describing those who are destined. She left the room. On the coffee table were several books I’d never heard of: The Dancing Wu Li Masters, The Gospel According to Women, A Confederacy of Dunces, If You Find The Buddha On The Street, Kill Him, among others …

  Lucy came back with a cup of tea and our conversation moved along at a fine clip. The subject of destiny, though still on my mind, was not brought up again. Our discussion, revolving around poetry and mythology and sprinkled with psychic phenomena, eventually found its way to our own personal spiritualities. I told her about my somewhat strict Protestant upbringing and we joined in laughter over a few stories about Uncle Larry’s fanaticism.

  “I’m more into a Goddess thing,” she said.

  “What religion would that be?”

  “Just mine.”

  “Your own?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I’m partial to Christianity.”

  “Why?”

  “Well … it has the theme all the way through it, eh? The seed they talk about in Genesis ends up being Christ. I like that. Plus the prophesies.”

  “Hey,” she said grinning, “some of my favourite mystics are Christian. But please forgive me. It ain’t my bag. See, when I was a kid I had recurring dreams that I was a Goddess.”

  “What?”

  “Weird, eh? I’ve even had a couple lately, too.”

  “What do you look like in them?”

  She laughed. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not like a Jesus Christ incarnate. It’s a feeling, a connection with the all, the earth, an internal se
nse of divinity, reliant on faith.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “Yeah, kinda nice, eh? It just happens and I wake up very relaxed, all my fears up and gone and I lie their praising myself and my surroundings—as opposed to chanting that western female mantra: ‘Fuck I’m fat.’” Lucy laughed. “I can feed off it for a couple o’ days—no pun intended.” I smiled and glanced at her legs.

  “Speaking of matriarchs,” I said, “I’ve got a ninety-three-year-old Grandmother who can make me feel that way.”

  “Cool.”

  “Sometimes I fear I rely on her too much. She truly seems to believe in me—regardless of my failures.”

  “Ninety-three? I’ve got past lives younger than that.”

  “And she’s fat but she doesn’t care. Actually she’s more chubby than fat … and you’re not fat at all.” Minnie was fat.

  The afternoon rolled on.

  By the time it came time to leave, three hours had passed and I wanted to stay. Standing in the foyer, Lucy opened the door for me. Light from outside fell upon a poem that was framed and hanging just inside the hall.

  The valley spirit never dies;

  It is the woman, primal mother.

  Her gateway is the root of heaven and earth.

  It is like a veil barely seen.

  Use it; it will never fail.

  I felt a tingle at the back of my neck.

  “Lao Tsu,” she said.

  “French?”

  “T-S-U,” she said, “Chinese.”

  “Oh,” I said, “a haiku.” My knowledge surprised her; and with such an impression I left, afloat with the joy of connection. Closing my car door I let out the longest fart of my life, realising then that I’d been trapping gas for hours. What a relief! It came out like a whoopee cushion, and with the expulsion I think a lot of my university anxiety left, too. It didn’t smell much. It was pure methane, assimilating easily with the air in the car. I looked up from my window and saw Lucy standing at her door. I’m sure she wouldn’t have heard it. I smiled and waved. She did the same.

  That night, a newfound self-respect deterred me from acting on my physical urges. Unfortunately, having used the device as a night time soother since leaving school (and occasionally before), I was unable to nod off. Instead I sat muzzled on my pull-out couch with tender thoughts of Miss Lucy Moon; sage, beauty, friend. I had real hope for further involvement and nodded off on such thoughts.