Shelby

by McCormack, Pete;

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Brush my chin.”

  “Crumbs.”

  “Crumbs?”

  “Crumbs.”

  “What kind of crumbs?”

  “I don’t know—from the toast, I guess.”

  “Crumbs on my chin!” I wailed, falling to my knees.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t go!”

  Lucy bent down and hoisted me up, my arm around her shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  Lucy didn’t reply, instead dragging me into the bedroom and dropping me on the bed. She took off my shoes, giving both feet a tender squeeze. I tilted my head forward and glanced at her through my only good eye. She smiled warmly. “It’s gonna take some time, buddy. Do what you have to do. Feel what you have to feel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let it out,” she said, blowing me a kiss. “I’ll be in the other room. Call me if you need me.”

  “I don’t need anyone!” I cried.

  She grinned, and gave my foot a gentle tug as she walked away.

  “Don’t go! I … I need … I …”

  She stayed.

  I slept most of the night, waking occasionally to nightmares and bouts of disorientation. Lucy astounded me with her nursing abilities; she not only cleansed my wounds, she lent me her television, cooked up a huge breakfast and actually escorted me to the bus stop in the morning. I was truly touched, and as the bus pulled out and I waved through the window I had to beat down a swell of tears. Arriving home I called out to Eric but received only silence. There was a note on the kitchen table.

  December 7 Noon

  Hey, man. Not sure when you’ll be back but if you are before I am I’m telling you I’ve gone to hogtown for a week, seeking fame, cash and whatever else is behind door number three. Sorry about your Granma. Hope you’re okay. Your pal, Eric, xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

  Unable to contain myself, I plugged in Lucy’s eight-inch black-and-white television, put it on top of the old T.V., fell back on the pull-out couch and wept through Mr. Dressup.

  Day one passed. Lucy was gone. Eric was gone. Gran was gone. I closed the curtains full-time, shrank from personal hygiene, indulged in physical releases and declined into dankness.

  Day two was more of the same with the addition of cold cereal and perpetual wonder at how a young man could one week seek God’s call via the rough-and-ready Canadian wilderness and the next be victim to cathode rays and fantasies of television personalities.

  Day three ushered in genuine mental illness evident in inappropriate physical responses to the following: Kathie Lee Gifford (Regis and Kathie Lee), soap operas (All My Children, Another World, General Hospital), The Oprah Winfrey Show (Oprah, of course), portions of WKRP in Cincinatti, Babar, snippets of dominatrix cross-dressers on Geraldo and one of the contestants on Wheel Of Fortune. The CBC Evening News blew in shame at my lack of reverence for existence after briefly showing starving Somalians and the plight of the Serbs—as did a documentary on the vanishing habitat of the three toed sloth. Crumbling in despair, spent, smelly, my head rife with Matthew Arnold’s We mortal millions live alone and the bitter reality that Lucy on the road hadn’t bothered to phone, I was comforted only by fits of sadness and anger imploding throughout the night. I feared reasons for carrying on were fading subconsciously.

  To my astonishment, the following morning arrived with a bizarre sense of mission manifesting itself in the form of bodily shakes. I could not stop wondering: What was it that made me do what I did? Was it from within? Without? Social constraints or predetermined chaos? Does transcendence truly exist? Was I addicted to sex? To self-loathing? To darkness? And, yes, I did turn on the TV. But all had changed. The seer, it would seem, had become the seen. The new order had arrived. Destiny was a state of choice.

  Within two days cable had been hooked up and loose pieces of foolscap ripe with statistics and ideas and questions were scattered to the far reaches of the front room. My working title expressed it all.

  AN EXEGESIS OF SEXUAL URGES AND GENERAL BEHAVIOUR AS THEY RELATE (OR INTER-RELATE) TO (OR WITH) MEDIA (SPECIFICALLY TELEVISION YET ALSO RADIO, MAGAZINES, NEWSPAPERS, MUSIC ETC.)

  Naturally, two days was insufficient time to put into a cohesive essay my initial findings. Nonetheless, a few realities poked through.

  PART I: REALITIES: Data compiled.

  1) Premarital Sex and Cohabitation:

  Twenty-two of the twenty-seven sexual interactions witnessed on T.V. were between unmarried, vibrant heterosexuals. Fairly rare, however, for unmarried people to actually cohabitate. Very few portrayals of people with sexual dysfunctions: addiction, guilt, immature ejaculation, size, food fetishes etc—except as plot enhancers.

  2) Form:

  Fat people on prime time T.V. (4) are all more crass than average. Their sexual quotient is wastefully ignored. Obese people on talk shows cry far more than the national average and are customarily represented as being despondent about their rotundity (occasionally there are programs about frail men enchanted by obese woman, but these “circuses” carry the mood of a P.T. Barnum travelling freak show). Clearly, fatism is epidemic and growing. Fat does not exist on any soap operas monitored, save one woman who was only mildly chunky and, as expected by T.V., annoyingly gloomy therefore.

  3) Masturbation:

  It’s as if it doesn’t exist, although scientific studies and self-analysis indicate otherwise. Not mentioned in forty-one hours of viewing. Suggested at by the occasional Rock Guitarist mime, but only in the context of metaphoric ejaculation all over the crowd, which in fact degrades any dignity the act might have in the solitude of one’s own dwelling (and in fact is not a solitary event at all). Prejudice abounds whereby ensuring further populist anxiety.

  4) Pedophilia.

  No prime time programs where a major or minor character is a confessed pedophile (excluding documentaries and talk shows and the recently discontinued CBC docudrama Boys of St. Vincent’s about the Catholic Bishop who broke his vows by molesting orphans). Perhaps this is for the best.

  5) Homosexuality:

  Occasional mention. Only judgement was expressed by a late night evangelist/prophesy preacher: “God despises homosexuals … oh how disgusted He is!” The crowd, of varying races, seemed generally pleased with this observation (notice the high percentage of ties).

  6) Position on sex in general:

  Rampant yet very clean. Strong performances taken as fait accompli. Halitosis, flatulence, et cetera not mentioned. Overall, constant titillation leaves me excessively aroused, creatively confused.

  Last minute note!!:Plagued by ironies.

  The “Liberal Establishment”, so caring in speech, all tend to wear ribbons in support of people with AIDS for example, and yet never preach abstinence and promote reckless sexual behaviour in the media and antisocial behaviour in film.

  Meanwhile, “Conservatives”, so plagued by this liberal attitude, constantly claim that these liberals who run the media are warping traditional values. But get this: The media is owned by Conservatives!! For example, General Electric (bomb contracts, anti-trust violations etc.) owns NBC. And the lists I have found go on and on with people and businesses I don’t know (Capital Cities, Warren Buffett, Westinghouse), but plan to uncover. Every step forward may prove more and more dangerous. Why? In short, I smell conspiracy. Truth-seekers may be forced to search outside the accepted spectrum.

  End of Synopsis to date. Statistics in the binder. Holy crapola!

  A rap on the door awoke me from a nightmare in which I was being chased through the Bavarian countryside by Nazis and Jews going mostly by the name of Heinrich. I glanced up amidst books and writing tablets strewn across the darkened room, my mouth dry, my skin damp. There was another knock. I rubbed my unfocussing eyes.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Suzanne Ehrlich.”

  “Oh … oh
… just a minute.” I rambled to my feet, pulling a pair of crinkled brown corduroys over stained and baggy white jockey shorts. I scurried through the kitchen in bare feet and opened the door.

  “Hi, Shelby,” she said cheerfully. “I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I’d drop by and see you and Eric—are you okay?”

  “Me? Yes, I … I’ve been researching … my thesis … you won’t believe what—never mind … Eric’s gone to Hogtown.”

  “Hogtown?”

  “Do you know where that is?”

  “Toronto.”

  “Oh.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. You caught me in mid-slumber,” I said, attempting readjustment of my hair. “What time is it?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Four-thirty.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Afternoon.”

  “Thursday?”

  “Saturday.”

  There was a pause. “I saw your exhibition at Emily Carr,” I said. “Fabulous.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Fish-tail,” I said shaking my head, “would you consider selling it?”

  “Shelby, you don’t look very well.”

  “Really?”

  “No … and something smells.”

  “Does it?”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you eaten today?”

  “Um … I think I may have had a piece of toast.”

  Suzanne scrunched her brow. “Look, take a shower and I’ll treat you to dinner.”

  “You and I?”

  “Sure … meet me on the side street. I’ll be in my car. Red Toyota.”

  “Um … I’m … thank you …”

  We dined at a vegetarian restaurant on Commercial Street amidst the flavours of multiculturalism and Christmas. Suzanne insisted that I gorge, and I, being ravenous, obliged.

  We mostly discussed her creations, which I exalted without refrain; and the function of the artist, which she believes has been lost since the advent of mass consumption.

  “See, Shelby, there is good and bad art,” she said, once again talking with both her mouth and her hands. “The function of the artist is to arouse the looker to check out their own place, you know? Their own journey, their own ideas, even the day at hand. If that’s not happening, it’s not art. I mean T.V. and radio …?” She shrugged.

  “There are some good programs, Suzanne.”

  “True. But the human experience … it’s this rich, indefinably big collage that … should be exposed everyday by the things we do.” She paused. “T.V. is this 9″ x 12″ glowing kryptonic eyeball that sucks out our spirit.”

  “Agreed. And like I said, I only watch T.V. for research. I’ve made some startling observations.”

  “I don’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended. Really. I don’t watch—”

  “Let me put it this way, Shelby. Two years ago I saw an exhibition of primitive finger paintings from New Guinea. Browns and blacks and reds painted with the chopped up root of some bush, right? A two-toned turtle shook my spirit. To this day I’m a vegan because of it and I don’t even know why. Now that’s art …”

  By the time Suzanne dropped me home, I was visually inspired by her words, and eager to get back to my project.

  “… and open the windows in there,” she yelled from her car as I approached the apartment building.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “And careful with mixing certain food groups.”

  “I will.”

  “And wash.”

  “Okay. Thank you for dinner.”

  “You’re welcome. Tell Eric I dropped by.”

  “I will. And I’ll drop a rough draft of my work by your place some time next week.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re going to love it!”

  Refreshed and replenished, I reread some new ideas and found myself pleased with the progress. Whether my research would lead to financial security remained, as is the case with all true art, precarious. Nonetheless, I knew the results would speak for themselves, perhaps revolutionizing the way North Americans not only watch television but experience the world. Fact was, they had already caused me to seek more spirit-oriented programs and reduce my masturbatory tendencies by half. For that I was grateful. It was a wonderful night.

  The front door crashed open a few days later. “What the hell’s that smell?”

  “Eric?” I groaned, prostrate on the couch.

  He walked into the front room. “Bryan Adams makes thirty mil a year and I can’t get a lunch date with Duke Street Records! I mean, what the shit have they done lately?”

  I didn’t move. His eyes peered upside down at mine.

  “Eric … put that pillow over my face and sit on it for ten minutes.”

  “You kinky bastard.”

  “Contribution alludes me.”

  “What?”

  “Every last word,” I said whining, “bunk, bunk, all is bunk.” I tilted my head just enough to see Eric scanning the room. Papers were everywhere, the television howled from its blurry visage and the curtains were drawn.

  “What the hell’s this stuff?” he asked, picking up one of the pads and reading aloud: “PETITION TO HAVE TELEVANGELISTS DISCUSS THE DIVINITY OF ORAL SEX, CONSENSUAL BONDAGE AND OTHER SEX GAMES IN THE PROMOTION OF EMOTIONAL and MARITAL FEC … UN—”

  “—fecundity.”

  He flipped to another page. “CONSPIRACY: TUNE IN NEXT WEEK”, “WHY THE SON OF MAN HAD NO PLACE TO LAY HIS HEAD—A CRITICAL ESSAY …”

  “That’s it. All I can find are good titles. The text remains silent.”

  “… PETITION TO HAVE AN OBESE LOVE INTEREST ON GENERAL HOSPITAL.” Eric glanced up. “What are you do—oh shit, I’m sorry. I forgot. Your grandma …”

  “Dead,” I said.

  “I know that. How are you doing?”

  “I’ve masturbated four times in the last thirty-two hours.”

  “Pig. Where’s Lucy?”

  “Did I ever tell you she was celibate?”

  “What?”

  “Did I ever tell you Frank urinated in my car?”

  “Who’s Frank?”

  “The man who shattered my nose.”

  “He pissed in your car, too?”

  “All over the dash and the seat.”

  “When was this?”

  “Months ago—I lied and told you it was vandalised by Asian gangs. It wasn’t. Frank beat up my car right in front of me. Then he stood on the hood and peed inside.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I no longer know the feeling of being alive.”

  “What’d you do when he pissed in your car?”

  I glanced up. “I drove home in it.”

  “You sat in the seat he pissed on?”

  All I could do was shrug.

  Finding my car battery dead on Wednesday morning, I had to use public transport to get to work. The result was feeling as squished as luncheon meat while condensation dripped off windows and seats, perspiration oozed from armpits and foreheads and odiferous breakfast expulsions leaked from a myriad of multicultured orifices. On a positive note, the thirty-five minute ride gave me time to further examine Eric’s pep talk from a couple days earlier. In short, I conferred with the following: One, running away petrified is an ineffective (yet physically prudent) method of dealing with a man of Frank’s nature. Two, masturbation extremus, a lack of hygiene and bad writing can neither replace the sadness of losing one’s grandmother nor alleviate the crippling effect of a failing—if not failed—relationship.

  Still in dispute, however, was Eric’s belief that a series of vengeful attacks on Frank could terminate my aforementioned anxieties. To reiterate his closing argument:

  “… and I wonder if you’re against violence, man,” he said, “or just plain gutless. That dick-head pissed in your car!”

  The morning book sort did nothing to lessen my general blasé. By no
on that feeling, thanks to tedium, had evolved to agitation. A lunch break stroll in the rain amidst the exploitive tendencies of Christmas—be it decorations all over the Eaton’s Centre mocking the beggars below or just the outright lie that presents can and will usher in a better day—worsened the condition. It occurred to me that the Western concept of work being that which allows one to play during time off, is madness. Play, I resolved, should be an ongoing, meditative process that alleviates perpetual fear. Wasn’t that how Gran lived? Even Jesus said, “Only those who play like a child can enter the Kingdom of Heaven”—or words to that effect. Surely he didn’t mean get really drunk on the weekend.

  Upon returning to the library, I went to the staff cafeteria and sat juxtaposed to a table of chatty co-workers who, it soon became clear, were recounting endearing Christmas anecdotes from days of yore.

  “Excuse me,” I said, interrupting. Faces turned to me. “Could I perhaps tell a short Christmas tale of my own?”

  A collection of sures and shrugs and affirmative nods signalled I could.

  “Christmas is an aspiritual moment of social psychosis that ends as the last present is opened. Moreover, eggnog causes bowel spasms, fruitcake is a better doorstop than a dessert and, finally, Jesus wasn’t even born on Christmas day—moreover, he was a Jew. See any Jews celebrating Christmas?” I stared into the faces before me.

  Claudia, a soft-spoken front-desk clerk, shook her head empathetically. “You’re an asshole,” she said.

  I sat for a moment until an inner tremble arose, a wrestle locked between frustration and weariness. All eyes before me seemed to freeze over. I feared a witch-hunt.

  Pushing myself up, I staggered, stunned, backwards through the swinging door, out of the cafeteria and into the hallway. “It was a joke!” I cried, overcome with helplessness, my skin crawling as if spiders had been poured on my head. I tore into the stairwell and down the spiraling steps.

  “Shelby Lewis!”

  My head shot up as I stopped in mid-stride. There before me stood Minnie T., her face radiant with joy.

  “What was a joke?” she asked with a grin accentuating her ample cheeks.

  “Oh Minnie,” I moaned, lip quivering, the need for repentance throbbing from my guts. “I … I want … I need to apologise for last year …”