LOS ANGELES — With the Munroe Purvis investigation still ongoing, Fox Television has announced they have reached a deal with MuPu Incorporated to bring the life and times of Munroe Purvis to the screen.
Margaret Compar, head of Program Development at Fox, says in a press release, “Mr. Purvis’s life has been one of immense hardship and struggle, a truly inspirational story that we hope will provide a valuable glimpse into the inner workings of this most remarkable and influential man.”
When reached for comment, Ms. Compar’s press secretary Marcel Oxford told Variety , “The recent unfortunate and tragic developments in Mr. Purvis’s life will be covered in some detail, of course, but we are working hard to ensure this will not be simply a tasteless exposé into a grotesque and horrific occurrence. We have been working hand-in-hand with Munroe’s company to develop Mr.Purvis’s life into a biography format for some time now. He has had a significant impact on our culture, and the recent events of his life notwithstanding, his story of struggle and redemption is a classic American tale that everyone involved with the production is very proud of. That’s why we are now raising the reward for any information that may help solve this horrendous crime.”
Fox Television has pledged one hundred thousand dollars for information leading to the capture of any of the remaining fugitives in the Munroe Purvis case. “An arrest would provide a fine ending to the movie, we admit,” says Oxford. “But far more important to us is that a ruthless criminal be brought to justice.”
As of this writing, insiders have pegged occasional Family Feud host and former Home Improvement co-star Richard Karn as the likely frontrunner to portray Mr. Purvis.
FROM: iamashelfmonkey@gmail.com |
SUBJECT: The descent into the mouth of Hell |
Dear Eric, Amanda, tabloid journalists, and entertainment lawyers;
If there is to be a bidding war for my story, please go as high as possible. Take them for all they’ll cough up. Ewan MacGregor must portray me in the movie, understand? I will not accept a lesser actor to properly breathe life into the anguish I feel the part demands. No sitcom second bananas, no Full House refugees or 21 Jump Street hasbeens. No, I need someone with the gravitas of Obi-Wan Kenobi and the insouciance of an Irvine Welsh junkie. I demand one hundred thousand dollars up front, plus two percent of the gross if I am innocent in a court of law, not the court of popular opinion. A real judge, not Judge Judy. If MacGregor isn’t available, I’m flexible. Jake Gyllenhaal, Tobey Maguire, Jude Law, or Topher Grace will be adequate. All right, that Dawson’s Creek dude with the crescent-shaped head, but that’s as far as I am willing to go.
On second thought, maybe forget the Jump Street thing, get Johnny Depp.
The First Day
What you might call my spiritual awakening.
I tell you, Eric, some people don’t deserve the privilege of literacy.
I’m dressed for the occasion. Comfortable Hush Puppies. Eddie Bauer shirt and slacks. Clean socks and underwear. Hair stylishly mussed. Unsightly yet mandatory employees-only vest with Hello My Name is Thomas May I Help You badge on the pocket. Handful of happy pills dancing with fried eggs and toast in my stomach. Lookin’ sharp! So sharp, I arrived ten minutes late.
Every morning, Page held a quick employee meeting before opening the doors to the masses. Usually these were perfunctory events — customers good, browsers bad, sales important, push Munroe’s latest discovery, blah, blah. Luckily I managed to slink in undetected and take a place directly behind Warren. Hopefully my years of camouflage training in high school would allow me to suddenly appear on everybody’s radar, yet be dismissed as having already been present since the beginning and simply hidden behind the living landmass.
“Now, this week’s club,” Page was saying. “Warren, it’s your turn to lead the group.” Warren jerked reflexively, and was about to protest when Page stopped him short. “Don’t bother to argue, I’m not in the mood. You know the schedule, everyone has to lead the book club at some point, and it’s your turn. I’ve got a copy of this week’s choice, The Love Market , in my office. It’s the new Munroe, and it will sell like gangbusters, so I want to promote it to the hilt. Pick it up before you leave today, and I expect you to have read it thoroughly before Wednesday night.”
“Could I switch with Heather?” Warren swung his chin toward a woman standing nearer the front. “She’s much better at that sort of thing. Besides, I don’t know anything about talking to those people.”
“I don’t mind, Page,” Heather chimed, clearly delighted at the prospect. “I adore the elderly.”
“Hey, it’s not old people that bother me, it’s . . .” Warren stopped himself.
Page drummed her fingers, clearly angered. “It’s what, Warren? It’s your turn, and I might add that I do not appreciate being argued with in front of the staff. But since you brought it up, what bothers you?” All heads turned toward us. I ducked a little more, smiling uneasily at nearby employees suddenly aware of my existence.
Warren sighed, a low, drawn-out gust. “It’s the books. You never have any books I want to talk about, you just have the latest Munroe.”
“Ah. And that’s a problem, is it?”
“Well —”
“You have a problem with having to do your job, and read what your customers are reading?” Page’s breath came out in plumes of frost. “Do you think you are somehow entitled to not fulfil the requirements of the job that everyone in the room abides by, including myself? If you don’t enjoy your time here, Mr. Krall, I suggest . . .”
“If I could just jump in here a minute,” interjected a voice. All heads swivelled left. I could just make out the red octopus of Aubrey’s hair across the room. “I think what Warren is trying to say is that the store’s book club has appeared lately to concentrate solely on Munroe Purvis selections.”
Page audibly gritted her teeth. “I’m still waiting to hear the problem with that.”
“Well, Page ,” said Aubrey, emphasizing her name in an exasperated drawl, “surely you haven’t forgotten that the point of the bookstore is to sell books.” A few snickers went up around the group, quickly transformed into coughs as Page shot them a look so cold it could sterilize. “Now, I’m just thinking out loud here, but it seems to me that using the book club to persuade people to purchase books that they are going to buy anyway might just be a lost opportunity.”
“The book club is a way to allow the community to meet and form a closer bond, both with each other and this store, Aubrey.”
“I get that, but shouldn’t we try to sell them something new as well?” Aubrey’s rational tone was akin to speaking to a child who couldn’t understand why the sky was blue. “What’s the point of inviting these people in, having them avail themselves of the free coffee and muffins, not to mention the employee man-hours that we put in, if not to sell them something? And it only makes solid economic sense to sell them something that they weren’t going to purchase anyway. In this way, you see, we may double our sales. It’s only obvious.”
“Yes, but we also want to keep our customers happy, Mr. Fehr.” You could almost see the thought-balloon above Page’s head, filled with scenes of unimaginable carnage. It was like watching a particularly gruesome fight, one of those cable television specials that are only available on pay-per-view because of the intense amount of bloodshed that was sure to occur. You couldn’t believe that it was happening, and that you were still watching. My first day, and already a public firing? I didn’t see how Aubrey could come through this altercation unscathed. “What makes our customers happy is Munroe publications. They want to discuss the books as if they’re on the show with him. In this way, they have the vicarious thrill of reading something recommended by someone they admire, and they feel closer to him. They are then contented, and thus more likely to see RED as a place they can be comfortable in. I have made my decision, and you and Mr. Krall have not given me any reason to change my mind.” Page looked to her clipboard. “Now, last on the agenda . . .”
“If we could just for once push a book they haven’t had shoved down their throats by a corporate logo.” Aubrey wouldn’t let it go. “Kazuo Ishiguro has a new release, it’s not too threatening, and I’m sure if we just try, we might just expand our customer’s minds beyond the usual pap.”
Back to Page. Her back was if anything even straighter, as if her vertebrae were being fused together from the blazing heat of her anger. No one dared breathe, lest the slightest breeze upset the tension.
“This can wait until later, Mr. Fehr,” she said finally, in a tone of utter reason so unexpected the audience reeled as if slapped. “Meet me in my office?”
“Of course, Page.” Aubrey gave a slightest of apologetic nods. “I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries.”
“No apology necessary.” Page’s spine relaxed, and my knees almost buckled with relief. “Now, I think that’s everything.” She glanced at her clipboard. “Oops, I forgot, Thomas. Thomas Friesen, are you here?” She looked over the room. “Mr. Friesen?”
I timidly raised my hand above Warren’s shoulder. “Here, Ms. Adler,” I said, instantly back in kindergarten.
“Ah, there you are. Everyone, one last thing, we have new employee starting today. This is Thomas. He’ll be taking over for Emily.” A chilly ripple of resentment threads itself through the group. At me? “Thomas is a former lawyer ”
FUCK! FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK!
“who I am quite positive will be a terrific asset to our store’s little team. Thomas, I’ll leave it to you to get acquainted with the staff. Danae, look after him, will you?” The group broke up, employees dispersing themselves through the store.
“Hey, sorry, didn’t see you down there, guy,” Warren apologized. “Been there long?”
“Uh, long enough.”
“Oh, you saw that, huh? You enjoy the floorshow? Hope it didn’t turn you off working for our happy little family here.”
“Yeah, what was that about?”
“They’re always like that. I’ve never understood it, but the way I figure, if you can sell like Aubrey, you can pretty much act how you please.”
“Well, I guess, but still . . .” The explanation didn’t sit well with me. Aubrey’s behaviour was a bit too forward to be ever tolerated by an employer. “You don’t think they’re . . .” I let the sentence hang in the air, hoping that my insinuation was strong enough that I wouldn’t need to utter the words.
“What?”
“They’re . . .” I thrust my hips back and forth a few times.
Warren made a face. “Hey, there’s no call for that kind of imagery, dude; this is a family bookstore.” He wobbled on his feet as the distasteful notion cemented itself in his mind. “No, it’s nothing like that. I don’t get their relationship either, but it’s not that. It’s like, like . . . well, I don’t know what it’s like exactly, similes fail me. But if there is something that it’s like, something you never get used to, then that’s what it is.” He checked his watch. “Gotta go, dude, the doors are about to open and I’ve got a wicked whiz coming on. I’ve got a lunch hour at about one, see you in the break room?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t even filled out a form yet.”
“I’ll help you with that.” I felt a light tapping on my shoulder, which I took as an indication that I should swivel around. Turned thusly, I stood looking at a woman dressed entirely in what I can only describe as librarian chic. A woman who finally fit my image of what the term zaftig was supposed to mean. The kind of woman I dream about. Round in all the best places. Black hair bound in a ponytail, with a loose strand or two dangling fetchingly loose. Dark plastic rims outlining eyes of an almost black brown. Freckles abounded before me, highlighting cheekbones and nose in such a way that I became acutely aware of such things. She knew she was good-looking, but saw no need to flaunt it. A sweetish perfume tickled my nose hairs. I inhaled deeply.
“Thomas?” she asked. Did I detect a note of lust in her voice, or was I just desperately lonely?
“Yes?”
“Do you always flare your nostrils like that?”
I stopped sniffing. “No, sorry, uh, allergies.” I sniffed again to demonstrate how plugged up I was. “Too much smog in the air, or something.”
Warren snickered. “Yes, something in the air.” He pushed an enormous elbow through my ribs. “So much something . Really hard to breathe in here, right, Thomas? Could it be love?”
The woman took pity on me, unmistakably annoyed at Warren’s teasing of the new boy with the hopeless schoolboy crush. “I’m Danae,” she said, extending a lovely hand toward me. Perspiration filled my palm. I willed the appendage to dry and manfully gripped her hand tightly, not too tightly, just enough to show that I was indeed all man, but still had a sensitive side that could permit me to cry at sentimental movies and funerals, and if she’d only give me a chance, I could in all probability be the one for her, the soulmate, the yin to her yang, the other side of her coin. By the end of the handshake, I was exhausted.
Danae wiped her palm off on the seat of her pants. Dammit. She looked to the big man beside me. “Warren, don’t you have a Munroe to get from Page?”
He nodded solemnly in a playful show of obsequiousness. “Oh, yes ma’am. Can’t wait to crack it open. Just wanted to make sure my new mate here was well taken care of.”
“Well, leave that to me, won’t you?” She swept Warren away with her hands. “Off you go, little boy. There’s literature to sell.” Warren snapped together a jaunty salute and lumbered off to his grazing grounds, grinning at me all the while and throwing me a wink that could be seen from space.
If she saw the wink, Danae took no mind. “I’ll be your tour guide today. If you’ll follow me?”
“Lead on, Bwana.”
Danae escorted me through the jumble of aisles to her workstation. “Do I get an employee map?” I asked as we rounded the fifth corner on our trek. “You know, in case I get lost and you’re not available.”
“You’ll get used to it. Just remember, moss grows on the north side of a bookshelf.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“In an emergency, the binding glue of most books, if sucked out of the spine, contains essential nutrients that can be used to sustain life almost indefinitely.” We reached an antique desk hidden behind Asian-American Studies. She perched herself behind an enormous flat screen and motioned for me to have a seat on the metal folding chair to the side. “Have a seat here, and I’ll get you entered into the computer.” She began typing on the keyboard.
“So, what’s your position here?” I asked as I sat with a sexy slouch, trying for an air of Cary Grant nonchalance, but instead settling for what I hoped was a stuttering Hugh Grantesque effacement.
“I’m the assistant manager.” I straightened up in my seat. “And before you ask, no, I don’t date employees.”
“I quit.”
“Funny. How do you spell Friesen, E I or I E?”
“I E. You assume I’ll want to date you?”
“You wouldn’t be the first, sport.”
“Could I be the last?”
“Cute. Social Insurance number?”
I gave her my card. “Hey, we just met, next thing you’ll be asking me for my telephone number.”
“Telephone number?”
“Uh . . . I’ll let you know.”
“Don’t be coy, now.”
“No, I’m just . . . temporarily between phones at the moment.” My telephone had been disconnected the week previous for massive funds owing. “Besides, I hate them. Phones. Don’t you just hate its air of despotism? It’s this tiny little man who sits in your corner and demands your attention at any time it sees fit. No matter where you are, what you’re doing, you leap to attention when it calls for you. And cell phones, don’t get me started. We’d all be better off without them, you ask me.”
She stopped typing. Her brown eyes considered me. “What an intensely charming little rant, if only it meant something. You must have practised in front of a mirror for hours.” Busted. “And if someone gets sick and I need a replacement? How do I call you, what do I do?”
“Tell them to walk it off? I’ll give you a number when I’ve received my paycheque, promise.”
She sighed. “I’ll put my number in for now. Just don’t let me forget.”
“Does this mean we’re dating?”
“I assume you have an address, or should I just put down ‘beneath Osborne Street Bridge’ or something?”
“Apt. 27, 182 Furby Street. Just south of Broadway.”
“The bridge would be nicer.”
“Hey, once you get past the constant threat of drive-by stabbings, it’s not so bad.”
She placed her hands in her lap. “Done. Just please try to get a phone soon, before Page finds out what I’ve done.”
“You’re scared of her, too?”
“I’ve met nicer rabid dogs.” We shared a smile of mutual terror. “Are you always so flirty?” she asked.
“Opening night jitters,” I said. “I kind of ramble on when I’m nervous.”
“What comes after Q?”
“R?”
“You’ll do fine.” She stood up. “Follow me, Thomas, and I’ll give you the grand tour. Or do you prefer Tom, or Tommy?”
“Thomas,” I said, a little too forcefully. “I, um . . . I’ve never liked the name Tommy, that’s all.” She took a pause, looking at me with a distinct tilt to her head, the tilt that says you’re hiding something, and you’re doing a shitty job of it, but I’ll let it slide, just be aware that I’m aware, you dig?
“Okay, Thomas it is,” she said. We strode off in a westerly direction. “Now, the biggest part of your job will be handling customer requests. Page doesn’t approve of lengthy discussions as to the literary merits of any particular book, so keep your answers short.”
“What does Page approve of?”
“Sales. Volume, not discourse, is the lifeblood of this store. Did she give you her used car analogy?” I nodded. We walked in silence for several hundred metres before reaching what appeared to be the Fiction acre. Danae stopped and blew an errant strand of hair from her face while she thought about something. “Listen, Thomas, I don’t mean to freak you out, what with this being your first day and all, but you heard what happened to Emily, right?”
Danae took a breath. “Look, you seem relatively stable. But this place, it can have an effect on you.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I mean to. Emily was like a lot of us here, she loved books. I mean, why else would sane people work here, right? But this place, it isn’t about the books, it’s about the sale of books. Got me?”
“With you so far.”
“Emily, well, got a little frustrated with Page and the whole money thing. She began to berate the customers for their ignorance. Eventually, Page got wind of it, and . . .” Danae made a motion with her hands, wiping invisible crumbs away. “Page got rid of her. One day here, next day, poof.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
She sighed, revolving her eyes ceilingward. “Because I egged Emily on. We all did. The place’ll affect you, you know, in a Hill House sort of way. We can all get that way, and as it turned out, she was the one to take the bullet for the team.” She noticed the oblique terror in my eyes, and put her hand on my arm. “Don’t mean to frighten, sorry. Aubrey says you’ll do well, I just want to make sure.”
“He said that? I’ve known him like four minutes.”
“He’s a good judge of character. That and books. Never wrong about books.” Danae peeked at her watch. “Sorry, gotta go. Page and I have a meeting about sales figures or some bullshit thing. I’ll find you at lunchtime, see how you’re making out.”
“What should I do?”
She pulled out a degrading trainee tag and pinned it to my vest. “Just stay in this general area, answer questions, and if anything gets too complicated, find another employee, or direct them to the front of the store.”
“And where’s that?”
“Just say, by the big head. You know the one I mean?”
“Intimately.”
“Remember, women account for eighty percent of all hardcover sales, so push the big books on the females. Weird, but true.” She walked off, waving goodbye over her shoulder.
As instructional training goes, I’ve had better. I take a linebacker stance in Fiction, my designated area, thank Christ.
An intercom click, husky voice on loudspeakers. “The store is now open.”
“Music” fills the aisles, vanilla pudding for the ears.
Ah, Gino Vanelli. Perfect.
“Hello, may I help you with anything?”
“No, thank you, I’ve found what I was looking for.”
“All right.” That wasn’t so hard.
When you get caught between — Hey, wasn’t this the theme from Arthur?
“Hi, can I help you find anything?”
“Yes, my son is a science-fiction fan. I’d like to buy him something for his birthday.”
“I see. Well, we have a wide variety of choices. Does he like the work of Asimov, or are you looking for something a little older, say Bester or Sturgeon? Maybe a Zelazny?”
“Well . . .”
“You cannot go wrong with Philip K. Dick. He’s one of the old grand masters of the genre. Ubik , that’s his finest, I’m sure I could find you a copy around here somewhere, or maybe Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?”
“That’s a weird title.”
“Well, it was made into a movie, Blade Runner, years ago, but the book is much better. Very dark. Very philosophical.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Trust me, your son will thank you.”
“I’ll think about it. I know he likes video games. Aren’t there any books based on video games?”
Sigh. “Yes, just over this way, I think.”
“Thank you. Oh, Brute Force , this is perfect. Oh, and Star Trek , too. Why didn’t you just point me over here?”
“Sorry.”
Bette Midler warbles about the air underneath her armpits. Great, that’ll be stuck in my head all fucking day.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“Yes, why don’t you have a legal fiction section?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Every week I’m here, every time I have to go through every goddamn aisle looking at every goddamn title. Why don’t you have a section on just legal thrillers?”
“Well, I could mention it to . . .”
“Every goddamn week. No one does anything. Every goddamn week! That’s all I want, why don’t you guys ever listen?”
“Sir . . .”
“You got your science fiction section, you got your horror all over there, you got your westerns, why no legal thrillers, huh? You think I like having to go through all this crap?”
Barbara Streisand? Who the freaking hell listens to Streisand anymore?
“Can I help you find anything, Miss?”
“Yes, where’s the newest book, I heard it on the radio?”
“Uh . . .”
“They were talking about it this morning, did you hear it?”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t listen to the radio this morning.”
“Huh. It’s about this guy who’s afraid? Of something? I think it was in Africa, or Italy. No, Kansas. It sounded really good, it just came out, I’m sure you must have it.”
You gotta be kidding me. “I’m afraid I need more information, miss.”
“Oh, what good are you? Why don’t they ever hire people who understand books?”
Céline Dion screams the theme from Titanic. Should have seen this one coming.
“Hi, how are you today?”
“I don’t know, where do you keep the John Grisham?”
“Oh, you file books alphabetically. That’s handy.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Do all stores do it this way?”
“No, we’re the first.”
REO Speedwagon? Oh, come on, who the hell even remembers them anymore?
“Hi, can I . . .”
“Where’s the latest Munroe book?”
“Under the giant head, next to the cash registers.”
Peter Cetera. Wow, I was honestly just in the mood for the theme from The Karate Kid II.
“Excuse me, where’s the head?”
“By the front door, can’t miss it.”
More Streisand, now with Kris Kristofferson for added emotional impact. Even Streisand doesn’t listen to this much Streisand.
“Yes?”
“Yeah, where’s the head, I couldn’t find it?”
“By the front doors, right to the . . . wait, you mean the Big Head? Or the washroom?”
“The can.”
“Sorry, uh, I have no idea. First day.”
Wow. Anne Murray. Is she even still alive?
“Hello.”
“Yes, hi, have you ever read this?”
Oh, thank God. “Yes, that’s Slaughterhouse-Five , it’s a classic.”
“Looks interesting, do you think my son might like it? He’s just starting college.”
“He’ll love it, guaranteed. It blew my mind when I read it in high school. It’s about a man flipping through time, going from World War II to a future where he’s caged by aliens.”
“What?”
“I know, it sounds strange, it is strange, but trust me, Vonnegut is a genius.”
“Well, maybe I’ll get him something else. I don’t like that title anyway. Where’s the latest Munroe . . .”
“Giant head, cash register.” Fuck.
Chris DeBurgh. Now I know I’m being punished for something.
“Hello.”
“Yes, I want to return this book.”
“OK, you just go down that . . . A Confederacy of Dunces? Why?”
“It’s stupid, it’s too long, it’s boring.”
“But . . . it won the Pulitzer. It’s a classic.”
“Who cares, it’s dumb, I don’t want it.”
Who are you people?
Elton John, you Hakuna Matata–singing motherfucker, get out of my head!
Clan of the Cave Bear? Follow me. The Prodigal Project series? Right this way, under Religious Fiction. Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend? Over here. The Celestine Prophecy? Around the corner. Buffy the Vampire Slayer? In Children’s Books. The Bear and the Dragon? Under C for Clancy. Sean Hannity? You seriously want to buy a book by Sean Hannity? What the hell is wrong with you? Why don’t you just stamp “ignorant dumbfuck” on your forehead and get it over with! Stop. Breathe, breathe. Happy place, find your happy place.
Cher, sans Sonny. Don’t hum it, don’t hum it. Damn.
Lunch.
Aubrey sat at the table as I walked into the employee lounge, his head buried in a copy of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest while absent-mindedly consuming a suspicious concoction of eggplant, tomato, and some spice undoubtedly never meant for human consumption. After a solid minute of being ignored, unconsciously whistling some Beyoncé tune, I ahemed for attention. Aubrey slowly lifted his head from the Wallace, his head seemingly weighed down with thick prose, and smiled in acknowledgement as he took me in. “Hey, brotherman, how goes the good fight?”
“Ignorance is winning, Vegas odds seven to two against common sense and good taste.”
He chortled, sprinkling his food with hair dust. “There are some horrible books out there, no question.”
“It’s not the fact that bad books exist,” I said. “That I can deal with. But there’s so much good out there, it breaks your heart when they just sit there on the shelf, all lonely and unwanted.”
Aubrey nodded as he scooped another suspicious morsel into his mouth. “Yeah, and meanwhile, you manage to sell three Star Wars novels and two Karen Robards. It’d be funny if it weren’t so goddamn tragic.”
“You think you got it bad, you have no idea,” said Warren, walking in behind me. He sat next to Aubrey, hoisting his size fifteens to rest on the tabletop. “Take a look at this.” He tossed a glossy paperback onto the table. The Love Market , written by Edward Miller, published under the imprint of Munroe Purvis himself. Aubrey gave a cry and shielded his Wallace from the unholy taint this book was sure to imbue on any literature within its strike zone. “I know, I’ve already finished the first fifty pages on my washroom break. Better than Pepto, two pages in and the shit just flowed out of me.” I daintily picked the book up by a corner and read the back cover, taking care to to touch as little of it as possible.
Once again, Munroe Purvis brings you a story guaranteed to tug at the heartstrings, a gut-wrenching tale of love gone awry, of beliefs displaced, and of the unbreakable bonds of family.
Freddy Conrad thought he married the woman of his dreams, when he one day awakes to the ugly truth of who his wife really is. Despite being pregnant with twin boys, Edith has turned away from Freddy and taken up a volunteer position with an abortion clinic. Torn between the woman he loves and the need to shield his unborn children from her insanity, Freddy takes a step that may lose him his wife, but may save his soul.
“Edward Miller’s The Love Market made me realize who I truly am, and I hope his extraordinary novel affects you as strongly as it has me.” — Munroe Purvis
I laid the object back down. “Wow, it just screams quality, doesn’t it?”
“Yes indeed, and it reads even worse, and now I ,” announced Warren as he brusquely slid the book off the table, “ I have to lead an evening seminar on the merits of this bestseller. I mean, what could I possibly say? What does Freddy represent? Does the novel function as both a story and as propaganda? Aubrey, you’ve done this before, got any pointers?”
“Cram their gullets with cake, and they’ll be satisfied. Believe me, they have no desire to talk of themes or subtext, they all just want to gush over how wonderful Munroe is for opening this world to them. Keep the coffee flowing, try to keep your nausea down, and you’ll be fine.”
“Is it always like this?” I asked the pair. My first day, and the despair over my choice of lifepath was already building.
“Well, you’ve kind of entered the store in a transition phase,” Aubrey said. “Page recently let someone go, and we’re all a bit upset over it. I think you’ll feel resentment from some around here, but it’ll pass. It’s not your fault, after all.” I nodded, remembering the blast of frosted air I received from others during the morning meeting when Emily’s name was mentioned. “You getting on all right, otherwise?” asked Aubrey.
I walked to the vending machine, opting for the least unhealthy chocolate bar and bag of chips available. “Otherwise, I’ve been lost all morning. This place is gargantuan. I don’t think I’ve seen one other employee since we’ve opened.”
“Oh, we exist, you just have to know where to look,” Warren said. “God, am I hot.” He began to take off his vest, which sat atop a sizable bulky black sweater.
“I’m not surprised,” I remarked as he pulled the sweater over his head. “Why are you wearing DEAR JESUS GOD WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR ARMS?”
I should say at this point, Eric et al, that I am not normally the sort of person who points out another person’s deformities in a deafening and ignorant fashion. Like most people, I downplay the physical limitations of others, taking pains to treat a person as an individual, composed of the same emotions and needs as the rest of humanity.
However, what Warren suffered from was so clearly not natural, not typical, not in any way a standard deviation from the norm that I blurted out my exclamation before realizing the possible offensiveness of its content. Nevertheless, I stand by my startled little-girlish scream. Warren was a freak. His sizable arms, now bare to the fluorescent lights, revealed an array of colours and ridges never conceived by the human body. The hands and wrists were pink and healthy, untouched; beyond the wrists, gangrenous green meshed with sickly black, while veins of red pulsed around scaly patches of scarlet. It all melded into a shade I shall charitably describe as ochre, until disappearing beneath his undershirt.
Aubrey looked stumped, but composed. “Jeez, dude, what was it this time?”
“A mixture of natural and artificial ingredients, including the distilled venom of the queen bee,” Warren said. He pirouetted his right arm in the air admiringly. How he kept from shrieking in pain is beyond me.
“You’re allergic to bees, aren’t you?” Aubrey asked. Warren drooped his head timidly, letting his arm dangle loosely beside him. “Jesus, bro. You could have been killed, idiot. Didn’t you think to ask beforehand?”
“Rent was due,” he said. “Besides, it’s not as bad as it looks.”
Aubrey’s eyes bulged. “Should it be so . . . bluish?”
“You should have seen it two days ago; it looked like an over-stuffed kielbasa. Black, too. But the hallucinations have subsided, that’s something.”
Aubrey turned to the corner of the room where I had busied myself with cowering in terror. “Mr. Krall here, you see, earns extra money offering up his body for science. I have offered counsel to him in this regard, even offered him a place to stay should eviction become imminent, but as you can plainly see . . .” He motioned toward Warren, who was now gaily waving his arms in my direction, visibly enjoying my discomfort.
I swallowed down my gorge. “I don’t mean to pass judgement, Warren, live and let live and all that, but good Christ that can’t be healthy.”
A mild shriek rose from the lounge doorway. “God, put those away before Page sees them!” said Danae as she entered, tut-tutting disapprovingly. Warren acquiesced, donning his sweater while muttering about the heat. “Well, you should have thought of that before you came to work, numb-nuts,” she scolded, retrieving a bag lunch from the fridge and plopping down next to Aubrey.
“Well, I’m sorry, Danae, but these things show through anything lighter than a parka,” Warren said, a wide grin on his mug. “They glow in the dark, too. But, good news, the company paid out to keep it quiet, so I’m set for a while.” His sweater on, he appeared more or less normal, for a seven-foot-tall giant.
Danae pulled a yogurt carton from her lunchbag. “What does this make, now, eight?”
“Nine,” Warren bragged. “I have been injected, swabbed, lathered, scrubbed, boiled, rubbed, and rolled in nine yet-to-be-released beauty and medicinal products.”
Aubrey rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I thought you had sworn off your crusade after your testicles retreated.”
“They dropped back out a few weeks later,” he groused. Warren’s gaze latched onto my potato chips, which I had all but ignored in the excitement. “You gonna eat all those, Thomas?”
I tossed the bag aloft. “Enjoy. I’m not as hungry as I thought.” Warren snagged it with one lengthy arm, shovelling its contents into his mouth with alarming speed and precision.
“Nice manners, buddy,” said Danae. “Oh, hey, let me ask you guys something. Is it more depressing that Britney Spears can get a book published, or that people actually want to read the damn thing?”
“Uch, don’t get me started,” said Aubrey. “Thomas, you have an opinion?”
“Well, much as I hate the fact that a person who has never read a book thinks she can write one, there’s no way she wrote it by herself, so I’m not so much depressed as annoyed by that. But someone wanting to shell out thirty-five bucks plus tax for such drivel, well, that makes me weep for our species.”
“Fuckin’ A, dude,” said Warren.
“Nail on the head,” agreed Aubrey. “Oh, I got one. Who’s got it worse, Jane Austen for being shelved next to Jean Auel, or Steinbeck for having to share shelf space with Danielle Steel?”
“Steinbeck,” Danae said. “Not because Steel’s any worse than Auel, although that’s arguable, but because Steel’s fan base is so much larger. Both are popular, but Steel’s more prolific, so on average more people visit Steel’s area, and so there are that many more opportunities to see and ignore Steinbeck than Austen.”
“Steinbeck was selling pretty about a year ago,” Aubrey reminded us. “Oprah.”
“Well yeah, but until that, you couldn’t force people to read it. If Steinbeck were water, they would have died of thirst rather than take a sip, at least until Oprah came down from on high and ordered the acolytes to drink.”
“See, this is what I think,” I ventured, wanting to get in on the conversation and impress them with my insights. “You ever been inoculated?” All three nodded. “Okay, so what is an inoculation anyway? It’s a tiny virus. You’re intentionally making your body sick in order so that you can fight sickness later.”
“This isn’t going to be a government conspiracy thing, is it, Thomas?” Aubrey wondered. “Not that I have anything against that sort of obsession, I’m just wondering how we got on this topic.”
“No, follow me on this. This is why people cannot summon up the gumption to challenge themselves in their reading habits. Literature is a virus, see. For whatever reason, parental insistence, an attractive school librarian, no TV, whatever, we were inoculated at a young age against literature. Sure, it made us all cry at first, having to concentrate our fragile minds, but after a while the body adapted. My mom made me read Hop on Pop , and now I can read Pynchon without flinching. Others, however, the inoculation didn’t take, or they never got the shot and now they’re too old to survive the initial needle, and consequently they’ve remained allergic to literature, they have no built-up immunity. Sure, they can still take the low-grade fever viruses okay, they can survive a Mary Higgins Clark with no serious after-effects, and maybe they even like the thrill of pushing their tolerance by reading a Crichton or a Dan Brown, something that makes them feel like they’re smart. But dare to put a Pynchon or a Helprin or your Foster Wallace there under their noses and wham! Anaphylactic shock. The nervous system can’t take it and shuts down, and the victim is paralyzed, and must now suffer a Who’s the Boss? marathon on TBS to recharge their batteries.” I broke off my rant as the others seriously considered this.
“So that’s why the customers run from us,” Danae said. “It’s not from annoyance at our hyper selling techniques and eagerness to please, it’s a visceral, instinctual reaction to what we represent. We’re carriers of the plague.”
“I like it,” Warren said. “Makes perfect sense. Typhoid Warren, that’s me.”
“While it may make some sense logically,” Aubrey offered, “the analogy may serve to turn people off the art form further. ‘Literature is a virus’ is hardly the slogan you’d want to promote too actively, it might ensure that parents never introduce their children to the written word. Think of how it would look on a T-shirt, it’d be a relations disaster. We can’t change the world, much as we’d like to. All we can do is try and keep the good books out of the sales racks, try to keep the authors afloat.”
“It makes me cry, seeing good books get remaindered,” Danae said. “Kind of like watching a friend fail miserably at something.”
We looked at one another across the expanse of the table, a vague unhappiness permeating the spaces between us. I felt the sudden urge to link hands, form a circle, start chanting to ward off the encroaching darkness. Instinctively, I fingered the meds in my pocket.
Danae broke the silence. “Oh, since we’re on the subject, guys, I’ve got a perfect montag for the next meeting.”
“Oh, yeah, me too,” gushed Warren, suddenly perked up. “It’s a sweet ’tag, when’s the next meet?”
“Shut up, the both of you,” whispered Aubrey viciously. “Oh, man, sorry,” said Warren, glancing at me. “Wasn’t thinking.”
“Sorry, I forgot, sorry,” Danae said. She blushed as Aubrey scowled at her, lowering her head, a red stain appearing from her neck to hairline. A good colour on her. The three of them busied themselves with their food.
“What?” I asked. I was on the receiving end of a very cold front. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, friend,” said Aubrey. “Nothing at all. Just . . . stuff between us, that’s all. Right, guys?” Warren grunted into the chip bag. Danae pensively contemplated her yogurt cup.
“What stuff?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. Aubrey studied a particularly vexing paragraph. Danae fished Patrick Ness’s The Crash of Hennington from her purse. Warren continued inhaling my bag of Old Dutch Bar-B-Q. I waited under an oppressive passive-aggressive umbrella of silence, feeling left out. “Well,” I started. Danae jumped at the noise. “Much as I’d love to continue this atmosphere of rejection, I guess I’ll go check the shelves, see if anything strikes my fancy.”
“What do you read, friend?” asked Aubrey, his face submerged in Wallace’s prose.
“Whatever strikes a nerve,” I said testily. I was ridiculously offended, somehow, that these strangers had secrets they didn’t want to share with me. “I’ll read whatever I choose. If, of course, that’s all right with the three of you.” I stalked out, immersing myself in the territory of words outside.
After work ended for the day, having been instructed by Danae on how to search for unavailable books and deal with difficult customers, i.e. keep agreeing with them until they’ve worn themselves out, and exhausted from the unending barrage of best-forgotten consumer questions (a highlight: “Where are the books where animals solve crimes?”) I fled into the night, an Auster wedged under my arm. I passed Aubrey on the way out, saw him nodding approvingly at my reading material, and decided to play the small-minded victim and snub him.
I walked home, curled up in my papasan, cracked open The Book of Illusions , and did my best to forget the day, forget the past, forget that this was undoubtedly the first day of the rest of a very long, dull, disappointing life. I should have quit then, but the lure of more free books brought me back the next day.
I think I’ll leave on a cliffhanger. My fingers are tired, and Detective Daimler is undoubtedly itching to get this letter to the shrinks down at Quantico to glean some fresh insights into my psychosis.
Yours truly,
Thomas