Shelby

by McCormack, Pete;

“Shelby, it’s—”

  “Please hold me!” We dove into each others arms. I was aroused on contact. What was happening? Had I said too much? Had I inferred I wanted to try again? Did I want to try again? What if she threw me down and began mounting me right there in the stairwell?

  “Forgive me?” I asked softly, head on her shoulder.

  Minnie pushed herself away and smiled excitedly. “All forgiven,” she said, thrusting her left hand in my direction, displaying a diamond ring.

  “You …”

  “Engaged,” she blurted, eyes a-twinkle.

  “Dr. Moth?”

  She pirouetted. “If the shoe fits.”

  I was lying in darkness when the front door opened. “Bad news, man,” Eric said. I sprang up. The light flashed on. “I was talkin’ to Terry Pendleton.”

  “Who?”

  “The guitar player.” He sat down on the edge of the pull-out couch.

  “Do I know him?”

  “I don’t know, man, but he’s an unbelievable player.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And I told him about the project I’m putting together. Picture this: Desert country. Big blue sky. In the distance, clouds thick like mud.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Highway 52 revisited,” he said, “back to basics. Free love meets AIDS. A lava lamp meets global warming. REM hold the drummer. Nirvana in a blackout.” He raised his brow.

  “What’s the bad news?”

  Eric scratched his head and took a drag on his cigarette. “Straight up, man, the Paisley’s dead and this new gig’s a two-man show. Bass and guitar. I’m sorry.”

  “What about?”

  “You’re out,” he said, his face contorting as if he’d taken a swig of sour milk. “What the hell’s that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  “What do you mean what smell? Something showed up in the last five seconds that’s makin’ my eyes burn and my bet is it came out o’ your asshole.”

  “Oh … uh … gas.”

  “What a stink, man.”

  “Okay, I admit it. I’ve had fetid flatulence for a day and a half now.”

  “Man, air vomit is more like it.”

  “I’m all knotty inside,” I said.

  Eric grinned. “That’s disgusting. God.”

  My insides gripped tight. “I’m sorry!”

  “What a stencheroo!”

  “I said I’m sorry!”

  “Easy. Christ.”

  “Do you think I enjoy smelling like this?”

  “What?”

  “My insides loathe me. I can’t go on.”

  “You got the farts, man, that’s all. Take it easy.”

  “Don’t tell me to take it easy!”

  “You’re pissed about the band, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Just say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That’s why you get gas, you know. Anger. You don’t deal with the real issue. Never have. You lie in bed all day. You whine. You stink up the apartment. It’s that asshole Frank that you ought to be screaming at.”

  “I resolve my wrath my own way.”

  Eric picked up a piece of paper from the floor and read aloud. “The Fallacy of Christmas: Fruitcake as metaphor.” I snatched it from his hand. “You’re fucked,” he said.

  “Since when are you a psychologist?”

  Eric rubbed his eye and stood up. “I tell you, if you don’t start dealin’ with your shit, man, it’s gonna tear you up.” He walked towards the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?”

  Eric stopped and turned back. “I gotta go tell Bryan he’s out. Oh …” He pulled a piece of paper from his jeans pocket, unfolded it and let it drop onto the couch. “Here’s some band names,” he said. “Let me know which ones you dig.”

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s a tad late to be going out, isn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about? It’s nine-thirty,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen. The front door opened. “By the way,” he said, “I’m havin’ a party here Saturday. Invite whoever you want.”

  “It’s cold out,” I said. “The roads are—” The door slammed. The room went silent. I glanced at the slightly crumpled piece of paper.

  HAPPY SLAVES

  SUN DOGS NEVER BARK

  THE ERIC WINLAW PROJECT

  WINLAWFULLNESS

  WINLAW

  WHAT STINKS?

  The next morning, and for the first time since I’d returned to Vancouver, my parents phoned to see how I was doing. Dialogue was laboured, every breath or mumble saying the same thing: Gran is dead. Ironically, it took a story from Dad to transform the dialogue from cliché to comedy.

  “… so Mom sees Larry out the kitchen window throwing Gran’s garden tools, hoes, rakes, shovels, into the back of his truck, right? It turns out, without asking Mom, Larry planned to donate them to his church.”

  “The Kingdom Hall?”

  “Uh … I think it might be a Baptist thing, now. Some end o’ the world group. Anyway … I don’t hear any of this, right? I’m snoozin’ on the downstairs couch. Slam! goes the door. I run upstairs to see what the hell’s goin’ on. I look out the kitchen window and there’s Larry—get this—in his truck revvin’ it, spittin’ gravel, and Mom’s got her hand through the window gripped around his collar and she’s yellin’—and get this—‘Don’t make me pull a Shelby!’ I tell you son, I was on the floor. ‘Don’t make me pull a Shelby’…”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Guess,” he said.

  “I—”

  “Larry starts to drive off and she plants him one right in the snoz.”

  “I pulled a Shelby,” Mom said, “but in my own defense it was more of a cuff than a punch …”

  I smiled, feeling slightly remorseful for my own smacking of Larry a few weeks earlier. “You know what I wish?” I said.

  “What’s that, son?” Dad asked, still laughing.

  “I wish I could have been present at the moment Gran, lying in bed, finally abandoned life as we know it. She let go, poof, pouring her all into the cosmic void …”

  There was a response but it wasn’t verbal. The conversation reverted to its stilted form until sputtering to a full stop. We hung up.

  That evening Suzanne also called. She invited me to her parents’ house for a private unveiling of her most recent work. Yearning for female companionship—and by now utterly disillusioned with Lucy’s lack of compassion—I leapt at the offer.

  “I think you’ll really like it,” she said upon my arrival. She took my jacket and led me through the kitchen and down a corridor bathed in Gothicism. “It’s Fish-tail’s companion piece,” she said. Through a rounded door Suzanne flicked on the basement light. “The studio’s downstairs,” she said. I followed, surveying the paintings and family knicknacks.

  “We’re having a soiree of sorts tomorrow night if you’d like to drop in,” I said as she turned on another light.

  “Oh thanks. Eric told me about it already. Sounds fun.” She stopped in front of what appeared to be a barbecue covered in tarpaulin. “You like living with Eric?” she asked.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Is he still seeing that woman?”

  “Which one?”

  “I can’t remember her name. She’s black.”

  “Nina. Yes, I believe he still is.”

  “Hey, how’s that paper going?”

  “Paper?”

  “That thesis you were working on about television. I was hoping to get a copy.”

  “Oh … um … I haven’t … the results are unclear. I have to make sure all the data is correct.”

  “Hm,” she said, rubbing her hands together nervously. “Well, this is it,” she said. She yanked the covering as though doing a magic trick. “Ta da. Fish-tail Pie.”

  I was stunned.

  “You like it?”

  Glazed in natural hues and between the size of
a standard dessert pie and a meat or chicken frozen pie one occasionally purchases for a quick dinner, it had a slice removed, slightly less than a quarter, and dangling were five or six fish tails. I could literally smell trout. “It’s wondrous,” I said. Our eyes met and I sensed her craving me, perhaps wondering if she’d lose all control if she laid an impetuous wet one on my puckered lips. A sigh through my nose resulted in a faint whistle.

  “What was that?” she said.

  “What?”

  “That whistle?

  “Whistle? I didn’t—you should have heard a whistle,” I said. I whistled as a construction worker would watching a slinky working woman walk by. “Fish-tail Pie is so good.”

  “You know I think it came from your nose,” she said.

  For a second I could not move. I felt suddenly ashamed. “It did,” I said.

  XVIII

  Are you still so dull?

  —Jesus Christ

  Erie and I battled over the next few days until Saturday morning landed me at work snapping at people who didn’t deserve such behaviour. Even the walls bothered me, especially the one in the bathroom whose graffiti asked: WHAT DOES GOD DO ALL DAY? Whatever the answer to that was, I knew it was whatever he wanted to do, which was more than I was doing. And then I wondered: How does God keep a positive outlook on life? No answers were forthcoming, but in the midst of stamping due date cards I paused to pen some provocative prose:

  (Religious fanatics + secularists)x(false compromise) = CHRISTMAS.

  To The Weary Who Loathe What They Do But Can Find No Immediate Alternative:

  It is, I am certain, the need to smother the reality of one’s mind-numbing job with sit-coms, narcotics, masturbation and all other addictions—not a fear of castration—that ultimately causes men to frequent strip joints. Lucy is a victim of the male-invented work week! I say free the stripper! O woe! O woe! I am shackled to the misery of nine to five (8 to noon today) menial labour. Free the stripper and bring her home! Free the shelver, too! Up yours. God help us. Good luck.

  Shelby Lewis, December 1992

  Returning home at just after one o’clock, I proceeded to collapse on the pull-out couch, only to be rattled from slumber by the door crashing open. Leaping up, I saw Eric balancing two grocery bags and two cases of beer.

  “Could you be a little more considerate?” I asked rhetorically. “I worked all morning.”

  Eric stopped in mid-movement, turning his head as far as he could in my direction. “Okay, man,” he grunted, “that’s it.” He put the bags on the kitchen table and the beer on the floor.

  “What’s it?”

  “Look, I know you’re hurtin’ over your Grandma. I understand. And I know your old lady’s a dead fish, too—”

  “She’s celibate!”

  “Whatever. I feel for you. But see, man, I’m a happy guy. Things are going pretty well. I got some people diggin’ my tunes. I’ve got a great woman. So stop trying to drag me down with your depression.”

  “You’re upset because I didn’t like your band names.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “Well, I don’t. What’s more, I think your belief that violence is a reasonable solution to whatever problems you perceive me to have really stinks.”

  “Not violence, you ass-licker. I told you to deal with your crap, that’s all. If that means having some balls? Okay. But do you fuckin’ listen? No.”

  “I—”

  “Maybe you have no balls.”

  “I—”

  “But giving you the benefit of the doubt,” he said, putting up his hand to stop me talking. “I’ve brought home Plan B.” Eric reached into one of the grocery bags. “A twenty-sixer of rye,” he said, displaying the bottle’s logo, “for medicinal purposes.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “With a capital A.”

  “Medicinal? Carcinogenic is more like it.”

  “Not with mixer,” he said. “Anyway, what do you care with a life like yours? I got vodka, too—two mickeys,” he said, holding them up. “Add a dash of vermouth and we’re doing lunch in L.A. A bag of ice for mood. A bottle of tequila to keep the guts rollin’.” He wiggled his buttocks. “Beer, of course. And, last but not least, for you, mon ami, Island Treat.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pina Colada mix,” he said, “for your tender tummy.”

  “Eric, I’m not going to drink. In fact, I think you have a drinking problem.”

  Eric turned and faced me. “Look, man, you’re really startin’ to piss me off! What the hell you got up your ass?”

  “Your language is apalling.”

  He looked away and then back. “Okay, Shel,” he said gently, “if you want to be an asshole, go ahead.” He started to walk towards his room.

  “Eric, wait.”

  “What?”

  “I detest my body.”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “So you wanna beer?”

  “I swear a rewarding life is not beyond me!”

  “Do you wanna a beer or not?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “If you ask me, Shel, your main problem is bottling up your anger. Also you jack off so much it makes you hate yourself. You need a woman to chew you up.”

  “And then what?”

  “Spit you out. You wanna beer?”

  “Yes, please.”

  And so, three hours later, after apologies, toasts, resolutions, confessions, beers, vodka, Island Treat, one headlock and an attempt at songwriting, the two of us were closer than ever. Eric stood up from the kitchen table.

  “Pee?” I asked.

  “Full up,” he said.

  “Eric, muchas gracias for helping me feel better.”

  “Hey, it’s better than breakin’ your neck,” he said, staggering away. “I just hope it’s for real.”

  “It is,” I said.

  A few seconds later he wobbled back into the kitchen, pulled his chair up next to mine, put his arm around me and showed me a brown bag. I peered inside.

  “For my pal,” he said, “Island Treat number two …”

  “What is it?”

  He grinned. “Vancouver Island one hundred percent guaranteed to blast your fuckin’ mind hydroponic skunkweed.”

  “Marijuana?”

  Eric lifted his arm off me and pulled a lighter from his pocket. “The best bud I ever had,” he said glassy-eyed. He lit one of the joints and took a few drags, coughed and passed it to me, obviously unaware that I’d never smoked before.

  “We could be arrested.”

  “For what?”

  “This isn’t right, is it?”

  “We ain’t fuckin’ each other, man, we’re smokin’ a doobie.”

  “Children are shot in the trafficking cross fire. Are we not, as users, also accomplices?”

  “It’s skunkweed.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “No, but that’s a load o’ shit. I mean cigarettes are legal! Have you read the package lately? Marijuana couldn’t hurt a fly. It’s no worse for you then a good lay.”

  I looked at the smoldering joint. “I shouldn’t.”

  “So don’t.”

  “Will I get flashbacks?”

  “That’s acid.”

  “I’m nervous.”

  “Well, don’t do it.”

  “But I want to! I’m not afraid to live.”

  “Great.”

  “But I’m afraid to die. I could become an addict.”

  “Look, Shel, whatever.”

  “Dammit, I’m going to give it a go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I lifted it to my lips and took two tentative drags.

  “Shit, man,” he said grinning. “You gotta give it a little more suck than that.” I took two more inhales, swallowed and gagged. My eyes watered. I coughed. We did it twice again.

  “Actually,” he said, “some people get flashbacks.”

  “
Really?”

  “Nah.”

  Eric lay down on the kitchen floor. I sat at the table, unable to focus. “What should I feel?” I asked, just as the doorbell rang.

  “Oh shit!”

  “What?”

  “Cops,” he said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Come on in.”

  The door opened and a few people I didn’t recognize peeked in and stared at me.

  “Hey, man,” Eric said. And so began the party. I didn’t move, sitting, instead, glassy-eyed, staring at the fridge as the apartment turned into a veritable beehive of activity. I spun between fatigue and excitement, rich perception and incoherence. Sometime thereafter Eric came and sat down next to me.

  “I just threw up, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why is it always spaghetti?”

  “What?”

  “Puking,” he said. “Nobody ever chucks up a salad.”

  “I have,” I said.

  “No you haven’t.”

  “Caesar salad. I distinctly recall the pungent combination of bile and garlic.”

  “And spaghetti, though, right?”

  “Caesar salad—all on its own. The Revelstoke Keg.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “My eyes feel funny.”

  “But are you happy?”

  “I feel funny.”

  “Happy-funny?”

  “I think so,” I said, just as nausea wobbled my innards. “Ooh,” I said, pushing myself up. “I feel suddenly ill.” I wobbled into the hall and towards the bathroom.

  “Shelby!” I heard from behind. I turned to see Suzanne standing just inside the doorway, her face smiling and glowing from the cool December air, a shopping bag under her arm.

  “Hello.”

  She grinned coyfully. “Can we go somewhere private?”

  The proposition surprised me and I stumbled, crushing my ear on the door frame of the bathroom. “Uh … of course … um … Eric’s bedroom?” I asked, pointing, attempting to gather my wits.

  Draped in a thick black coat and a red scarf, resembling a model turned baglady, she nodded. In we went. We sat down on the bed. “I brought you something,” she said with a continuing grin. Feeling my arousal level rise, I moved as near to her as I could without seeming obvious. Her neck looked mildy sweaty. I yearned to move my nose nearer.

  “First off,” she said, “I want to—what are you doing?”

  “Sorry, I was … moving closer. I couldn’t hear you.”