Shelf Monkey (35 page)

I wish I could say there was a bright light and a chorus of seraphim, or the jab of a pitchfork in my ass, or
some
trick of the light that I had crossed theological dimensions and pierced Bowles’ sheltering sky to take repose, some concluding almighty brown-out of my fuses giving me the full
Altered States/2001
experience of complete corporeal shutdown,
something
, but all there was, was pain. Then nothing. No thoughts, no dreams, no cries of the damned or choir invisible. Nada. But I guess that can’t
quite
be all there was; when I opened my eyes after the weeks of dark, going from black to sterile white at the speed of thought, it was not the point A to point B route that I had always anticipated a near-death coma to be. It wasn’t bookstore– bullet–pain–hospital bed. It was bookstore–bullet–pain–. . . –hospital bed. I had nothing to fill the blank but time, and while I have no empirical evidence, I swear to you, I knew that
three weeks had passed. Three weeks as dead weight on a mattress, and when I awoke, I was strapped down to the bed so tightly you’d think I had just been placed there, twisting and screaming at the orderlies to let me go while I came down from crystal meth–induced hysteria.

So, after all that’s happened, this is what I get, more psycho-intensive homework? Back where I started? Now
that’s
irony. After all our sessions together, you medical hack, you insult to the medical profession, you piece of shit, all I wanted was to be away from you. Maybe you’re just one of those people I’m fated to run into again and again. No, let’s add a medical analogy to it, as befits your profession. You’re herpes. I thought the medication would help, but here you are again, reddening my rim. I suppose I thought I’d be grateful to you, after your pleas to the judge for leniency on my behalf, but you’ll forgive me for taking said pleas with several grains of salt. You have your book deal, your fame, your shot at a nationally syndicated talk show of your own; I have at least the next twenty-five years of my time left on this planet to spend in the grey-walled concrete splendour of Stony Mountain Penitentiary, with the ever-present promise of prison love to keep it interesting.

Boy, you thought I was bitter before? I suppose the trial may have something to do with it. Quick doesn’t begin to describe it. Considering the ratings the re-enactment garnered Court TV, I’d have thought they’d want to keep it going a while longer. Even Michael Jackson didn’t get these numbers. But my lawyers and I decided that silence on my part was the only chance I had of clemency, and that shortened the proceedings considerably. To no avail. Once Munroe took the stand, unsteadily pointing his cane at me across the courtroom, the ending was a foregone conclusion. Life imprisonment. The rest of my natural life behind walls of endless grey. It could have been worse, I know; some U.S. senators went apoplectic trying to keep me in the States to stand trial. The concept of a government that doesn’t support the death penalty really stuck in their craw. I mean, sure, I tortured a man, almost killed him, certainly scarred him physically as well as psychologically, but it’s not like I’m a bishop buggering a busload of boys here. I’m
not making excuses, but come on, in the grand scheme of things, what’s one hateful little man? And I did have my supporters, muted they may have been. No one condones torture, but many people didn’t care for Munroe either, and in many editorials on Munroe’s collapse, there’s often the hint of a “good riddance.” Or maybe I’m reading between the lines a little too carefully.

But the whole debacle was strictly a Canadian affair, legally speaking, and so it was back to Winnipeg to stand trial. Even then, some back-benchers in Parliament suggested that the hangman’s noose be brought back for one more go-round, so I suppose I got off lucky.

So, why the response to your request? Why the candour? As you might be able to glean from this letter so far, my opinion of you is far from complimentary. But the story needs an ending, and I’m going to give it one more shot. You may be writing the textbook on the subject, but I am the subject. This could be the next
In Cold Blood
or
Executioner’s Song
, if you’ve got any talent. I’m sure you’ve contacted the other Monkeys, and maybe some of them see cooperation as a way to reduce their sentences. But unless the Big Three are ever captured, I’m still the main event, the big Canadian cheddar cheese in this sandwich. So I’ve got your little list of questions propped up in front on me as I lie, stomach-down, on my surprisingly firm prison-issue mattress, and I’ll give them a shot. After this, however, you’ll never hear from me again, so don’t bother trying.

Why did I get in line to see Agnes?

That’s your first question? You really are earning that one point two million dollar advance on the book, aren’t you? Surprised I knew that? We get
Us
magazine in here, and
People
, plus the occasional
InStyle
, so I’ve managed to keep up with popular culture. I notice you’ve slimmed down, very nice. I think my bunkmate Vincent has a crush on you. Yet another reason not to visit me; I may decide to introduce you.

Why did I do it? Wish I knew. I don’t even know how I ended up in New York City, it’s just where I happened to roll off the train, I suppose. I had completely run out of antidepressants
by then, and whaddaya know, you may just have been right after all, I have suicidal tendencies when under pressure. Then again, maybe I just wanted out. I hadn’t eaten a meal in days, and was hungrily scrounging a half-eaten bagel out of a garbage can when I saw a flyer for Agnes’s reading. I had no plans to harm her, as she has continually surmised to anyone who’ll listen. I really wasn’t thinking at all by that point. I was nearing the end point, I knew. All I wanted was to feel human again, to be part of an excited line-up of people clamouring for a worthless signature on a piece-of-trash novel that nonetheless would become the highlight of my life. Or maybe I wanted to spit in her face just once before I died. The matte black bumpers of passing sedans and SUVs were beginning to whisper to me again.
Jump in front of me,
they breathed as they drove by.
You’re dead anyway.

But there was no surprise in that end, was there? Thomas Friesen, the great Canadian fugitive, committing anonymous suicide. How banal. How weak. How so very much expected. Couldn’t even bring himself to stop the massacre of Munroe. Content to let himself become so much road pulp.

No, I needed to die in a symbolic act of defiance fraught with significance. Fuck the naysayers who say Mennonites don’t know how to dance. I knew what the public wanted; they wanted comeuppance and copious amounts of gore. They wanted an ending that would sell magazines and become the topic of late-night Letterman monologues. A bloody finale guaranteed to win whoever played me in the movie version an Oscar nomination.

And by the way, Luke Perry? You gotta be fucking kidding me. All this trouble I went through and I get
90210’
d? Couldn’t even get Jason Priestley, at least he’s Canadian. I admit Jude Law was a long shot, but come on, you’re telling me David Arquette wasn’t available? But ABC had to get the movie done on the quick, get ratings for the advertisers because I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter had a poor showing in the last quarter, and so Munroe gets the big weird-looking guy from
Spin City
and I get a leatherface who couldn’t out-emote furnishings, in a performance
USA Today
described as “brave.” The less said
about Freddie Prinze Jr. as Aubrey the better. And I did not shout “Shelf Monkeys unite!” as the bullets took me down. Do you know the ribbing I took from the guys around here for that? For weeks, all I heard was “Shelf Monkeys unite!” whenever I entered the cafeteria. I had lobbied for movie night to be cancelled that Thursday, but apparently the prisoner population of Cell Block F
really
wanted to see what all the fuss about my incarceration was about.

It was all worth it, though, to see Agnes’s face when I challenged her that day. Again, I did not threaten her, I pulled no knife, I made no theatrical leap for her throat (although that did get me some newfound respect here — I’ve been invited to accept membership in several gangs impressed at my mettle). What I did was very simple. I laid the book in front of her, open to the title page. I said very calmly, “Could you make this out to Thomas, please?” She looked up at me, and there was nothing, no hint of recognition. A sniff of distaste escaped her nose, and I suddenly realized how different I must look. I hadn’t even washed myself in the bay that morning. She quickly scribbled something and shoved the book across the table to me. I took the book back and read the inscription, not relinquishing my place in line. “To Thomas, my number one fan. Love, Agnes.” I reread it a few more times to be sure I wasn’t missing any hidden subtext, hearing the people behind me begin to grumble complaints as I stood there.

“Is there a problem?” Agnes asked. She looked a trifle nervous at my continued presence in front of her.

“No, no problem,” I said, and gave her the widest, most honest smile I could muster. “I’m just wondering how you knew, that’s all.”

“What’s that?”

“That I was your number one fan. You’ve met a lot of people, I’m sure, and I guess I’m just a little overwhelmed at this kind of recognition. I mean, wow, Agnes. I’m number one? Really and for true?”

“Hey, buddy.” The store security guard was suddenly standing next to me. “You’re holding up the line, why don’t you just take your book and go, okay?”

“Excuse
me?” I asked incredulously. “Miss Coleman here has just designated me her number one fan, and that is number one out of everyone in the world. I should think I could have just a little extra time to converse with her, seeing as I am her number one and all.”

“Sir, that’s just a phrase I use,” Agnes piped up. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not to
you,”
I said, shaking off the guard’s hand that had somehow found its way to my shoulder. “Maybe to
you
it’s a phrase, something you toss off without thinking, I love you, cheque’s in the mail, of course I’m concerned about global warming, I promise I won’t come in your mouth, but to
me,”
I poked myself in the chest where I could feel my lungs begin to tighten with anxiety, “to
me
words are important. They mean things, and you’d have to be a real thoughtless bitch to label someone your number one fan and not mean it. Are we all your number ones, is that it? We’re all interchangeable?” I spun to face the now quite agitated line behind me. “Everyone! We can go home, it’s all a sham! She cares nothing for us!”

“Now that’s not true!” Agnes protested. The guard had reattached his hand to my shoulder and began pulling me aside. “I care about all of you!”

“It’s a crock of shit!” I screamed, wrenching myself away from the guard. I ran back to the table where Agnes sat and grabbed an armful of novels. “it’s fucking crap!” I threw a book at the onrushing guard, and my aim was true, the spine crushed itself into his forehead. “she hates you all!” I threw another book at the guard, this time on a downward slant as the first book had driven him to his knees. This copy drove itself straight into his groin. “agnes coleman must be stopped!” I tossed a novel her way, causing Agnes to dunk herself under the table. I pummelled the table with books. “you destroyed my life!” I leapt atop the table and began jumping, hoping to break its legs and crush the now-shrieking Agnes underneath. “you cunt!” Why was no one stopping me? Aside from the guard, still on the floor and grasping at his genitalia in pain, the audience had not moved since I started. I halted my jumps, and the only sound was Agnes, whimpering. I stopped breathing. I
closed my eyes. I willed the pressure behind my eyeballs to ease up. The world stopped its rotation. My boots rose from the surface of the table. I floated up to the ceiling. I opened my eyes and began counting the stucco mountain ranges. I saw a lovely valley between two white plaster
K2S,
and set about plans to one day build a cottage there. In a short while the police arrived, gravity resumed, my legs ran, my torso followed, and the bullets began embedding themselves in whatever was handy. I may have screamed more things; maybe I did yell something monkey-related. I can’t be exact in my recollection. I lined my clothes with books. I hid next to J.D. Salinger and squealed in fear. A sizzle of heat removed a chunk of muscle from my left arm. I scrambled away from an eager policeman who had snuck up behind me, leaving him slipping in the red trail I left. There was the metallic
snuk!
of a bolt-action rifle being primed. An explosion in my chest tossed me into a wall. That smell of ink and blood and bullet and lung and bone and sweat became my universe.

But I’m feeling much better now. If there’s something the Canadian prison system is fabulous at, it’s supplying its forced inhabitants with as many
legal
drugs as possible. I couldn’t even pretend to be nuts in here. They want me nice and sane so that I may fully appreciate the enormity of my actions and their consequences. No fair going nuts to relieve the tedium.

Do I regret my actions?

Do you think even a minute passes as I stare at the bars of my cell where I don’t wish I’d never even heard of
READ
? Hell, I regret my parents ever read to me as a child. I regret the A pluses I got in elementary English. I regret Miss White indulging my penchant for hiding in the stacks. I regret Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press. I regret the invention of written language itself, and wish we’d all stuck to cave drawings. I don’t suppose I would have gotten nearly as ensnarled in this plight if Munroe were advocating a lesser variety of charcoal renderings of bison on the walls of caverns. Again, you are really earning your advance here, Doc. On the whole, I’d rather not be in prison, but I suppose that’s not what you’re getting at.

I do regret it, of course. You find out quickly that in prison, life is all about regret. I regret it in the way a junkie regrets shooting up, even as he prepares another dose. That is to say, I regret the end result, but the route I took getting here, well, that was a hell of a ride, and I don’t regret it one bit.