Shelf Monkey (22 page)

“Right,” I agreed. “Fuck ’em all. Amen, brother.” When I called him that, I thought he’d break down and cry on the spot. Not that I would ever judge him for it, but I’d never seen him so despondent.

The Shelf Monkeys were likewise lost, directionless, wandering the northern fields without a Nanook Moses to lead us to the Promised Land. Two abortive attempts at a burnalong had left Aubrey weak and fed up. He boycotted the next meeting, sitting inside while Warren laboured to lead the group in a limp-dick fizzle of a burning. My purloined copy of Peter Benchley’s
White Shark
smothered the flames out. Danae cried all evening long. Gavin and Cameron got into a fist-fight over
Life of Pi
, Gavin adoring, Cameron loathing, the two eventually wrestling themselves over the smouldering ruins, only stopping their hissy-fit when Warren hoisted them both into the air by their noses, forced them to shake hands, and then walloped each over the head with
his offering, the Travolta-endorsed and Scientologist-approved edition of
Battlefield Earth
.

Without Aubrey as guru, it didn’t feel complete. He started skipping work, to our consternation and Page’s blatant happiness, citing the flu as cause. Page seized the moment to transfer both Warren and I to the Munroe Purvis display. It was our job to care for the head, clean up the area, and read every single book to ensure our customers were satisfied with our knowledge. Aubrey just shrugged and went back to his Robert Coover. Danae lost patience with my once-endearing, now-irritating attempts at wooing. “Give it a fucking rest, will you?” was how she put it.

We were dying, the last remnants of a once-proud race consigned to oblivion.

Footnotes to an era.

And then —

Well, you know what happened then, don’t you, Eric? Detective Daimler, any guesses? No hints from me.

“Yes, Ma’am, this is, ah, the newest Munroe, it, oh, goddamn, this thing itches!”

“Well, excuse me!”

My Jerry Cornelius costume had me perspiring buckets. The wig, a golden curly haired five dollar investment from Ragpickers Emporium designed for a cranium two sizes larger than mine, constantly and arbitrarily shifted itself about my head. The prodigious amount of hairpins Danae had lent me jabbed and scratched my scalp as the wig slid about, converting my new mane into a tortuous toupee of nails fit for the members of Opus Dei. The frilly blouse, another Danae contribution, was a snug fit. She lent it on the strict condition that I not rip it, resulting in a near-constant state of light-headedness as I kept my stomach and lungs sucked inward. The violet pants I had bought at the Sally Ann fit perfectly and agreeably complemented the ensemble, but the leather boots were high-heeled, ideal for the Cornelius effect but hell on my balance. My homemade needle gun was too heavy, pulling my belt off-centre and causing me to list to the right. I was proud of the total effect, but all this effort for a Halloween costume all but those most bibliographically adventurous of booknerds
would greet with confusion was a touch unnecessary. But the esoteric appeal was worth the blank stares of those unfamiliar with Moorcock’s anti-hero, which, as it turned out, was pretty much everybody. I think a Klingon may have recognized my get-up, but she was apparently determined to speak only the language of her native tongue that day; she gave me an admiring glance, pointed her phaser at me, and grunted “Gut-
twawg!”
Take from that what you will. Maybe she needed the Heimlich.

No one thought Page would agree to it, dressing up for Hallowe’en as characters from fiction. It was a half-hearted proposal Aubrey presented at a morning meeting the week previous. Page, perhaps calling a momentary truce to their feud and wishing to engender goodwill, jumped at the suggestion. Or maybe she just saw an ideal marketing opportunity. The latter. She put up awards and gift certificates for the best costumes, making a theme day out of it to include the customers. Come as your favourite character, win a prize. All adults want to play make-believe, it was a great success. By the end of the day, I had counted twenty-three Gandalfs/ Dumbledores, fourteen Harry Potters (half of which were men well into their thirties), three wookies, two Sherlocks, and a parade of interchangeable Xenas, Buffys, Hermiones, and Arwens. The last weren’t all women, either.

A massive two-headed space hipster approached me while I sorted and arranged my section. “Mr. Cornelius,” the right head said in greeting. “A pleasure, as always.” The left head nodded as if in agreement, then decapitated itself. “Shit,” the right head muttered, “not again.”

“Mr. Beeblebrox,” I replied. “Long time, no see. Nice head, Warren, where’d you get it?”

“Bought a mannequin from Value Village, sawed it off.” Warren picked the dummy head off the ground and dusted it off. “Damn thing won’t stay in its harness, though. Have to stand completely at attention or it falls off.”

“Ouch, what a headache.”

“I’m used to it.” While Warren affixed the head back onto his shoulder, I noticed a slight billowiness to his pants. Catching my look, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, grabbing the fabric in his clenched fists to keep the slacks from crumpling
around his heels.

“Before you ask, I’m fine,” he said. “Really. Just a minor complication due to the myriad of chemicals currently in my bloodstream.”

“This is why you weren’t around last week?”

“Yeah, having Aubrey as a boss has allowed me some degree of freedom in scheduling. However, I still refuse to take a dime from him in charity. Still a bit ticked off, I guess.”

“How much have you —”

“Twenty pounds lost this week. Apparently, my metabolism is functioning at one hundred forty percent efficiency.” He gave me an anorexic smile, only accentuating the suddenness of his weight-loss, transforming his face into a beaming varicose skull. I could count the capillaries in his forehead. The real one, on the right. “This is the last time, Thomas, I promise. It should be a hell of a weight-loss pill, though. Look at me, Warren Krall, the medical marvel.”

“What’s a marvel is that you haven’t died yet.”

“Well, it’s better than the last test.”

“True.” Three weeks previous, Warren had signed up for a testing cycle of a new protein bar. The ensuing flatulence kept Warren surrounded in his own self-perpetuating haze of noxious aroma for four days. I unthinkingly called him “Gaseous Clay” to his face one lunch hour, which earned me a merry chase throughout the store for my efforts. “Hey, I dig the boots, very groovy, very retro,” he said. “I can almost look you in the eye now.”

“Thanks. My bloodstream thoughtfully stopped its flow to the toes an hour ago, so they’re quite comfortable now.”

“Bonus.”

“Omigod omigod omigod omigod omigod!”

“Was that you?” I asked.

“Omigod!” A flash of crimson ran across the end of the aisle.

“No.”

“Omigod, you guys!” The frantic red blur reversed its direction, and now ran up the aisle toward us. “Omigod, omigod, omi-whoa-ouch-fuck!” Danae had tripped over her red handmaiden robe, smacking her forehead on the tiles at our feet. “Guys, guys, guys!” She hopped to her feet, grabbing our shirts and ripping my blouse. “Guys, guys, oh damn, that was my favourite shirt, oh hell, guys!”
She fell into me, laughing.

“What?” I asked, enjoying holding her up.

“Oh, man, sweetie, Warren, you guys are not going to believe it!”

“What?” asked Warren, bending forward in anticipation, catching his second head as it fell from his shoulder. “Man, I hate this freaking costume. What’s the point, no one gets it anyway.”

“Come on,” Danae said. “We’ve got to find Aubrey. Oh, he’ll be so excited.”

She took off, running through the corridors, jostling past a Lara Croft, a Sulu, and two Neos, repeating it like a mantra, omi
god
omi
gad
omi
gawd
omi
god
. Warren and I struggled to keep pace, Warren’s parachute pants vying with his extra head for the title of least convenient running accessory, while my boot heels took a sudden left when the rest of me took a right, sending me airborne into a well-dressed gentleman carrying an empty picture frame.

“Oh, hey, you okay, friend?” the frame carrier asked.

“Yeah, sorry ’bout that, it’s these damn . . . Aubrey? Oh hey, we’re looking for you, I . . . what are you supposed to be? Shouldn’t you be in homemade armour, a colander on your head or something?”

“What, I can only dress as my alter ego? I don’t see you in a flight uniform.”

“Touché.”

“Decided to go in a different vein, that’s all. Think James Joyce.”

“You’re James Joyce?”

“Almost.” Aubrey hoisted the frame, positioning himself in the centre. “I’m the portrait of the artist as a young man. You like?”

“Awesome. I don’t think Joyce had dreadlocks though.” “You ever try gelling something like this down? I figured the frame was enough.”

“How ’bout me?” I gave Aubrey a deep gentlemanly curtsey.

Aubrey appraised my outfit, puckered his brow, and snapped his fingers. “Moorcock?” I tapped my nose. “Ooh, a Jerry Cornelius,
very
slick, good choice. Visually dynamic, and just so obscure as to allow yourself a justified sense of superiority. I really
like those boots.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Zaphod, you’re looking well,” Aubrey said, nodding to Warren who had finally caught up to us, bunching the extra fabric of his pants into one hand and holding his second head to his shoulder with the other.

“Mr. Gray. I never would have recognized you, you’re looking younger by the day.”

“He’s not Dorian Gray, you idiot,” I said. Warren threw a clumsy punch in my direction, and lost his head again.

“So, what’s the hubbub?” Aubrey asked. “Does it have anything to do with the red-clothed nun who just ran by shrieking blasphemies?”

“That was Danae, she’s —”

“Omigod, Aubrey, there you are!” Danae had spotted the three of us, and launched herself helter-skelter between the shelves. “Guess, you’ll never guess!” she wheezed, pulling up alongside us and bending over to catch her breath. “Guess . . . you’ll never . . . whew, ohmigod . . .” She went silent, swallowing great gulps of air, trying to compose herself.

“Guess what, Offred?” Aubrey asked.

“Sound it out, girl!” Warren said. “How many words?”

“Did Timmy fall down a well?” I asked.

“Big head,” she hyperventilated between mouthfuls. “He’s coming.”

“Big head is coming?” I asked.

“BRLAT!
”
she belched in assent.

“Well, I’m confused,” said Warren.

“Munroe!” Danae gasped. “Big head! Munroe!” She stood up, shaking herself. “Munroe! Is! Coming!”

“What?” I asked.

“What?” Aubrey asked.

“Holy shit,” Warren said. “What?”

“Munroe is coming, oh man, he’s coming
here
,” Danae gushed. “Page just got the call, he’s coming here!”

“Wait, what, Munroe?” Aubrey repeated. He shook his head in amazement, the tendrils befuddledly threading themselves through the air. “Here, he’s coming
here?”

“His people just called.
READ
is the only bookstore big enough in town to put up his show. You should see Page, she’s, well, she’s
happy
.”

“Ew.” Warren stuck his tongue out.

The picture frame clattered to the floor. A look of utter joy flooded Aubrey’s face, followed by a concentrated frown. “Conference,” he said, taking off toward the lounge. “The three of you! Now!” We followed, Warren abandoning his head behind him, Danae pulling on my arm before running ahead, gleefully shrieking. I tried to keep up, hobbling valiantly on my high heels for a few steps, and tripped over Warren’s now-forgotten shoulder-mate. Grunting with pain, I squatted to remove my boots and redirect my blood flow in a screaming tingle toward the feet, effectively crippling me for a few minutes. Unfettered but still wobbly, I tottered toward the break room.

The trinity had their heads together over the table. Aubrey sprung to his feet as I entered and embraced me warmly. I returned the hug, a little discombobulated, but heartened that he had cheered up.

“Rejoice, my brother, rejoice!” he sang, gallivanting about the room. “The devil is coming to
READ
, and we are going to be ready for him.” Warren and Danae tittered loudly. I joined in, smiling broadly to mask my slight discomfort. It was a zero to sixty reversal of Aubrey’s depression. Did he have to be so, so manic?

“So, what’s the plan, Stan?” I asked. “Protests? Sabotage? Water balloons above the stage?”

“Yeah, balloons!” said Warren, rising to join Aubrey who was now bouncing merrily on the sofa. “We’ll soak him head to toe! Splash!” They bounced together, whooping effusively until the springs gave way with a loud crunch.

Aubrey sat back down and motioned to the chairs. “Sit. To business, brothers, sister, to business. We have much of importance to discuss.” We sat down. Warren was transfixed by Aubrey, Danae seemed tickled by his enthusiasm. I withheld judgement, unsettled by his sudden overabundance of energy.

“So, what will we do?” Aubrey asked.

Stillness. Aubrey stared expectantly at the three of us. We returned the favour. I looked at Danae. She looked at me, then
Warren, who looked to me, then Aubrey, who looked to Danae, who looked back at me. “Um. What do you mean?” I ventured.

He jumped back up and began to pace. “What do I mean? WhatdoImeanwhatdoImeanwhatdoImean? What I mean, Thomas,” he said, pointing at me. “What I mean
is
, the nemesis of our group, the antithesis of everything we hold dear, Munroe fuckin’ Purvis himself is coming to our establishment to infect our hearts and souls with his goodwill blather and contempt for perceptions that lie beyond his narrow little curly headed world! He is coming here! Soon!”

“November 14,” said Danae. “That’s what Page said.”

“November 14?” Aubrey clutched his hair. “Not enough time, not
nearly
enough. We need a plan, people!”

“We’ll do whatever you say,” said Warren, Danae nodding her head in agreement. “Whatever you want, we’re in, you know that.”