How many people get a second chance to discuss the end of their life? The only example I can think of is A Clockwork Orange; bloodthirsty Alex finally maturing beyond his nightly visits to the milk bars with his droogs and the intoxicating rush of a touch of the ol’ ultraviolence afterward. I hadn’t planned on it, certainly. I thought I was finished there, all over but the shouting. When the bullet pierced the Melville, driving seventy-two pages of dense maritime symbolism deep within my chest cavity, well, that was it as far as I was concerned. I felt Ishmael’s journal carve itself through what turned out to be the lining of my right lung, the leaves neatly perforating the tissue with their gilded edges, and an extraordinary fragrance filled my nose as I collapsed, a spicy mingling of blood and ink. If one gets to choose their final sensation on this plane of existence, it was the most appropriate scent I could ever have hoped for.
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/2001experience 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.
After all, I’ve become quite the celebrity here. I’m respected and admired within these walls to a degree I never could have anticipated. I’d like to impose a bit of irony to the story here, take some literary license with my memoirs, make up some sad paradoxical Outer Limits ending that would please my detractors, maybe being placed in charge of the prison library, a library that consists exclusively of Munroe Purvis Book Club releases. Picture the scene: the camera pulls back slowly, a crane shot, revealing your hero surrounded by boxes and boxes of the very thing he despises. He raises his arms to the sky and screams, “Noooooooooooo! Why, God, why?” He collapses to the floor. Music swells. Fade to black. Credits roll. Please deposit your empty popcorn bags in the nearest trash receptacle on your way out. Now that’s a scene that cries out for an actor of Luke Perry’s calibre.
But other than working in the library — how could the warden not put me in charge of that? — none of this is true. It turns out the inmate population here has just as much animosity toward Munroe as I have. Not for the same reasons, of course; some years ago, Munroe did a week-long exposé on the woeful inadequacies of the prison system, concluding that all criminals should be lined up and shot (his words) rather than continue to drain valuable tax dollars from the pockets of honest citizens. It was a very popular program, and as an indirect result, all prisoners have a fond daydream of one day being released, tracking down Munroe, and shanking him, sticking a shiv between his ribs and hearing him squeal. I’ve heard what that sounds like, and I understand the appeal.
Predictably, I am treated with the sort of deference and awe usually bequeathed upon deposed godfathers and made men. Prisoners seek my opinion on matters. I have attained folk hero status. The Man Who Would Kill Munroe. I have started up a temporary book club — in here everything is temporary, and our meetings are always one unruly pedophile away from being shut down — and somehow I have managed to sensibly discuss the merits of Jonathan Lethem and Barbara Gowdy with murderers and rapists within a climate that usually precludes such endeavours, instead preferring fight nights and the occasional riot to relieve tension. I won’t claim that prison life is a breeze, but I can sleep at night now, secure in the knowledge that my cellmate and new Michael Chabon fan Vincent will kill anyone who tries to do me harm. Little old me, with a bodyguard. I don’t think even Munroe himself is so well protected.
Actually, speaking of Munroe, I do have one chief regret; we honestly should have killed him. We had the chance to stop Osama, but chickened out and left him with a stern warning instead. Well, I chickened out. Sure, we made an impact on his sensibilities: how could we not? But sad as it is, the new Munroe, all twisted and scarred, is infinitely worse. Becoming mentally unhinged may have cost Munroe his day job, but he is making a killing on the lecture circuit. He’s still spewing the safe righteous indignant ignorant crap, but it’s not an act anymore. He honestly believes it. Watching clips on the evening news of his speech at Bob Jones University, propped up by Jerry Falwell and blathering on about “secular humanist sodomites” and “intellectual Osama bin Liberals” and “the Democrat plague,” it’s clear we took a bad thing and made it even more reprehensible. Before he was an irritant; now he has the ear of the President.
But again, all is not bleak. I expect no reprieve, these walls are my home, but as I’m sure you’re aware, I have become the cause célèbre du jour, the new poster boy for celebrities needing a cause to fuel their days. Small c celebrities, but still. Boy, you know you’ve made a difference when your fellow yardbirds are envious that E. Annie Proulx has come to visit. I’ve had quite the number of bookish luminaries visit me in the last few months. Douglas Coupland came in just to shake my hand. Tim Winton, Roddy Doyle, and Ha Jin called to wish me well. Thomas Pynchon brought me a signed copy of The Crying of Lot 49: at least, he said he was Pynchon. James Ellroy interviewed me for a Vanity Fair piece, but I’m afraid I came off looking rather insane; it was too soon after my capture, and the daily triple-doses of Paxil had not yet taken effect. I don’t recollect half the conversation, and the half I do remember is a three-hour bi-polar mishmash of ranting, sobbing, and seething against the injustice that Ellroy has not yet won a Pulitzer. Apparently I also discussed the Shelf Monkey trial, but it’s all a blur. I do recall being dragged from the interview in restraints and sentenced to two days of “quiet time.” Norman Mailer and I had a good long chat; he offered to smuggle me in a cake with a file in it, and looked somewhat crestfallen when I told him I didn’t wish him to publish my life story. I’ve said all I’ve need to say, and I should not suffer the great Mailer the indignity of telling my tale. I’m no Gary Gilmore, and the man who wrote Tough Guys Don’t Dance deserves much better than that. It hasn’t all been accolades; Tim LaHaye condemned me to Hell, but that was pretty much a given anyway. Sadly, Eric hasn’t dropped by, but I can’t blame him. I did damage his career, what with the uproar from certain quarters that his novels were somehow the instigators of my deeds. It all blew over, but the harm may be irreversible. Lynn Coady said she’d pass on my apologies, but I don’t expect he’ll be too eager to renew our acquaintanceship. His novels have been selling quite briskly, though, so perhaps some reconciliation is possible. Down the road.
No doubt you’ve read my book reviews in The New York Times. I thought it was weird, but authors evidently consider it a badge of honour to have their book critiqued by a Shelf Monkey. Much as a painting by John Wayne Gacy is highly sought out by art collectors, I suppose. I try to be kind, but I don’t pull punches. Either way, the books sell very well. People want to read the books I like, and even more people want to read the books I dislike, all Munroe supporters of course. They think that to purchase books on my “hit list” (the editor’s idea, not mine) somehow allows them to get back at the man who mangled Munroe. Like buying these books teaches me some valuable lesson about not torturing celebrities. Here’s the truth: I’ve been stringing them along. I’d never hate a novel by W.P. Kinsella or David Bergen or Greg Hollingshead or Eden Robinson or Yann Martel; I have nothing but capital A Admiration for them. Didn’t anyone even get the joke when I called Joseph Heller “an over-praised relic who coasted on the goodwill created by Catch-22 for far too long”? What, too subtle?
But if there is one way that all Munroers are alike, it is in their uniformity of response, and if my foolish trash-talking of Messrs. Updike, Vanderhaeghe, Vonnegut et al. allowed those authors to get a little extra pocket money, then I take it as a victory. The idea that an Agnes Coleman admirer should be so incensed at my acts that they should willingly purchase and read a James Morrow to get back at me makes me feel all giddy.
As much as I’ve enjoyed this little fling with fame, the best is still to come. Rex Murphy has invited me participate in his Cross-Country Checkupreview of the season in books. It’s by phone of course, and I expect a full grilling from Mr. Murphy, but how could I say no? He’s a Canadian institution, and I expect that to be verbally crucified by him, live and on-air for the amusement of millions of Canadian listeners, will be the highlight of a very busy life.
Where are the others?
Well, that’s an easy one. I have no fucking clue. If I knew, do you honestly think I’d tell? I am the Judas in this little tale, but I think I’ve done my part for law and order. Let the cops figure it out for themselves. Or maybe Emily’s the Judas. She’s certainly received more than her share of silver for her troubles, and got Leelee Sobieski to portray her in the bargain. All I got was the guilt.
I initially scoured the hate mail I’ve gotten for some code as to their whereabouts — you’d think with all the trouble they’re going through to keep me chemically upbeat the prison officials would withhold such potentially unnerving correspondence from me, but no, I get hundreds of death threats a week — but I never found any hidden messages there. After a time, all the “hope you die” and “burn in Hell fucker” and “I believe in Christ but you don’t deserve to live you horrible horrible man” comments just become one big blur, leavened slightly by the occasional offer of marriage. Munroe was right about that at least: there are some very sad and lonely people out there. If the other Monkeys have tried to write me from their cells, their mail has not gotten through.
But there are other ways to get a message. I guess this is the true reason why I’ve decided to confide in you, Doc. I havereceived word from the outside. Certain channels have been established, and a plump, damning little note has fallen right into my lap. Literally. I was inspecting the new arrivals for the library, and I happened upon a new edition of Catch-22. As I never ordered it, the title kind of leaped out at me. What, I’m not going to open it? I flipped through the pages, and there it was.
Dear Thomas:
I guess an apology at this point won’t cut it?
Danae and Warren have warned me against writing you a note, saying it’s too risky, but you deserve the truth. You were always there for me, in the end, and you never acted less than a true friend should. When I called you brother all those times, it was meant in the truest sense. We are brothers in pain, and the fact that your pain is ongoing causes me no end of grief. I don’t at all expect this letter to bring a halt to your sufferings, but every story needs an ending, of sorts.
We were all prepared to take you with us. Yes, the three of us always planned to run; there was no way we could hope to get away with our Purvis-cide. At most, we’d have a few days’ grace to put some distance between the police and ourselves. But I have (or had, rather) a tidy nest egg put away. I was a far better businessman than I let on, and between investments and savings, I guess you could call me rich. Or rich enough to comfortably hide ourselves away. I managed to sell my share of the store before the shit went down (yes, I did think that far ahead). My guess is there’s a very silent, very upset city councillor looking at the store’s plummeting finances right about now. He couldn’t believe the price I quoted him. Munroe’s appearance was primed to make READ a national force in bookselling, and here I was jumping ship in calm waters. In receivership, I hear. Aye, she was a cursed vessel from the start, and woe be those hands who went down with her. Page, where are you now?
So, thanks to business acumen, I can now take the risk of sending out this missive. Hearing of your current position as librarian out at Stony, it was fairly simple to get a letter to you. A bribe here, an inserted note there, and voilá. The only real problem was ensuring that you get the note before anyone else; what book would you peruse? If you’re reading this, then I guess the obvious choice was the correct one. If someone else is reading this, well, shit happens. Could you get this to Thomas Friesen when you’re done?
You were the X-factor, Thomas — the one truly unpredictable element. The others, they were sheep, and sadly, I hold no real affection for any of them. They drifted into our circle over time, but they were acquaintances, not friends. Book club friends, if anything. Emily was the only one I ever cared about, and you know how that turned out. Do you ever hear from her? I suppose not. They were all only bit players in my life story, only existing to keep the narrative flowing until a new plot twist came along. They all have their own stories, but I was never all that interested in reading them, if that makes any sense.
I should have guessed how you’d react to everything. I did guess, actually; I just hoped I would turn out to be mistaken, that you would surprise me. But true to form, you just couldn’t follow through. Yes, you were there, you participated, you extracted your pound of flesh, but in the end, your heart just wasn’t in it.
Yossarian suited you, I thought: the lone voice of sanity in the wilderness of madness, the calm in the middle of the storm, that sort of thing. A fine complement to my admitted habit of tilting at windmills. From the start, you were special. Raw, unfocused, slightly manic and bi-polar, highly suggestible, but special. Danae, Warren, they’re special as well, but I somehow felt a stronger kinship with you. Maybe you were the stabilizing element I needed; I probably would have gone ballistic far earlier without your companionship. Strange that your character was what I admired, and yet in the end was what disappointed me. Irony?
Like you, Yossarian was never a doer, he was a follower. He was a commenter on humanity, never an active participant. You performed the tasks asked of you, Thomas, but like Yossarian before you, you’re a reactor, not an actor. You’ve never been in control of anything. Yet in the end, Yossarian triumphed through acceptance of the madness that assailed him. He fought madness with madness. You never embraced the madness. You sought conformity. You could have done anything that evening: called me out, shot us, pushed Warren into the fire, led the others in armed uprising against me, anything, and I would have admired you for your passion. You’re not a Yossarian. You don’t deserve such an admirable appellation.
You’re not a lead character, Thomas. You’re secondary. The best friend. The shoulder to cry on. You’re not even the main protagonist in your own story. You’re the one who watches, the one who almost but not quite understands what’s going on, the one who is always just one step behind the reader.
You’re the sidekick, Thomas.
You’re the Watson.
Jimmy Olson.
Sancho Panza.
Rosencrantz and/or Guildenstern, grasping vainly for clues as to their existence.
You know who you really are? Nick Carraway. There’s poor Nick, watching, commenting, narrating the actions of others, and never once comprehending what is going on. Sure, he’s the first person narrator, the survivor, the filter through which events are processed, but in the end, who remembers him? No one. They remember Gatsby, that enigmatic playboy. And well they should: Nick is boring. And so are you, although you were so close to being interesting. If you’d just taken that final step. But you took the side of traditionalist values.
Danae was so proud of you, Thomas. She honestly believed you to have joined us. She cried for days afterward. Danae has her own demons, which I cannot pretend to understand. An abusive father? A child of divorce? There is something missing in Danae, something she fills with books, with the lives of others. As we all do. You got closer than anyone, and I don’t know if she’ll ever fully trust anyone again. She talks very little these days, while Warren, frankly, won’t shut up. We are not the close-knit trio I’d hoped we’d be, but we are all we have, and it holds us together.That, and books. For now, anyway.
I could go on in this vein, but like poor Nick, I’m going to leave you with the mystery. What was the driving force behind my obsession? Perhaps you were never meant to know, but you never even thought to ask. Gatsby never wrote his own book, why should I? All I can say is, I never regretted for a moment what I did. My only regret is you, and you know what?
I’ll get over it.
Goodbye, Yossarian. I very much doubt you will hear from me again. But keep reading the newspapers, I might pop up somewhere. I’ll burn a ‘tag for you, when Dan Brown shits out another bestseller. Do the same for me, for old time’s sake?
Yours,
Don Quixote
Now is it just me, or is this just a tad hurtful? How could I win? If I follow Aubrey, then I’m not a follower. If I don’t follow him, I’m a follower. Yossarian never had this kind of conundrum to think out.
Maybe it’s not real. Maybe the note is a plant, a ploy to enrage me enough that I give up my friends. Possible, but unlikely. I choose to accept it as truth, if only for closure’s sake.
Is it all true? Am I simply a follower? I’ve had ample opportunity for self-reflection lately and I think Aubrey has a point. But are you a follower when you’ve done what you truly wanted to do anyway? So what if Aubrey was in charge; I chose to participate. No one forced me. Maybe part of it was to get close to Danae, but even if love is not a choice, my actions always were. I could have walked away. Could have quit anytime I wanted to. Just didn’t want to. Doesn’t mean I was addicted or anything. Who gets addicted to burning novels?
Still, I did get Danae if only for a moment. Give me that, at least.
I’m glad they’re still free, though, together or not. In my daydreams, the Americans got their way, and I’m strapped to a metal cot with a needle brimming with death inserted into my arm. Aubrey, Danae, and Warren have somehow sneaked in, and watch from the bleachers as the poison is pumped into my system. Danae smiles, but I don’t know why. Does she miss me? Does she wish it were her finger on the plunger? But my last conscious image is of her smile, and whatever its intent, it is a glorious thing.
And there you have it. The summary of the rest of my life. There’s no point in writing any more about it. Every day is so similar to the last as to make no discernible difference. A pleasing routine is now the norm for the rest of my life. I don’t lack for companionship, I get regular exercise, and as for women, I can’t claim to miss them, as the drugs they’ve got me on are so powerful that sex would be an impossibility were it to ever cross my mind, which it rarely does, due in large part to the aforementioned drugs. Every day is waking up, getting dressed, having breakfast, working in the library, writing reviews, and reading for three or four hours before slumber claims me. Bliss.
When I do feel an itch for something beyond the routine, I answer fan mail. There were only a few at first, but every week the pile grows a little larger. People asking for advice on what to read, and more and more often, what to burn. I don’t want to frighten you, but there’s something happening out there. I can feel it in my bones. Mark my words, people are gathering. In basements and apartments and public parks. They finally feel an itch they didn’t know they had, so long have they ignored it. But it itches now, worse than ever. It’s in a place they cannot scratch. On the advice of co-workers, they buy the latest bestseller, and they are overcome with hives. There’s only one cure for this allergy. It’s tentative at first, a tearing of a corner. Many will laugh at themselves, and shrug at their silliness. It’s only a book. Not worth getting upset over. But some will do more than tear. They will rend. They will shred. They will mince. Grind. Crumple. Split.
And in the end, they will burn. They will remember us, and think we were on to something. They will seek out others of their ilk, and congregate, and prepare lists of members, and start newsletters and blogs and zines. It will grow beyond the ability to control itself. It will spread. It’s the new flu. Monkey flu. People will be helpless once infected.
And I will stay here, in the pen, and read, because it is what I was born to do. On sunny days in the spring, I will choose a novel from my personal stash, and go for a walk in the yard. My neck will ache from looking down at the book in my hands, but it’s a pain I enjoy. The wind will pick up, and a familiar scent will take me back to happier times. Somewhere, out on the far side of the mortar and grout of walls now so familiar to me I cannot easily recall the world that exists beyond, someone is setting fire to a Barbara Cartland.
And I will envy them their freedom, and wish them well.