Shelby (4 page)

“I knew it. Whitman?”

“How do you know all this?”

“It's in your face, your eyes—now go! Pick up the Upanishads, the Koran, the Bible! Read them as myth! James Joyce! Dante! Aldous Huxley! Let it move you!”

“Sir, I'm intrigued but I have to—”

“You have to
throw
down that exam and run far away from this dilapidated sanatorium!” I didn't move, petrified by the panic in his eyes. “Look at these wrists,” he cried, turning over his hands to reveal zigzags of scar tissue.

“Good Lord.”

“Look me in the eyes!” I looked. “Look me in the
eyes
!”

“I'm looking.”

“Can you see yourself?”

“Not in this light.”

“You came up here wanting to break from the constraints, didn't you?.”

“Actually—”

“Dammit, man, act on your instincts!” He yanked at my shirt and twisted me towards the class. Students looked up, curious at the commotion. “Dead,” he said. “All of them.”

I turned to the man. “Sir, I—”

“Go! Before the chance is gone!”

“But I haven't finished the exam.”

“Lead our children!”

My bowels rumbled. “Sir, I really—”

“Will you be that man?”

“Go!” he cried, head dropping forward, wrists flat out before me.

“I'm going … but not … I have to … my bowels …” I turned, staggering towards the exit, all eyes upon me. Would I be
what
man? they wondered. Heart cracking in my chest, head spinning with confusion, I dashed into the men's washroom, undoing my corduroys in transit, and crashed into the nearest stall, relieving myself upon landing. My sweaty head dropped into awaiting, trembling hands.

It was awhile before my bowels were emptied. Pushing myself up, dizziness caused my eyes to close. The man's horrific wrists reappeared. How did he know of my fondness for Blake? What right did he have to unload his past blunders on me? especially with the final section of the MCAT still remaining. I pushed the stall door open, revealing myself to a wall of mirrors. Before me I saw misery, confusion and a fiery boil on the forehead of a man who believed that one person
could
alter the shape of history for the better. And the question lingered: Would I be that man?

I never went back to the auditorium. I returned to my dorm and slept. And later that night, bewildered and frightened, I arrived at The Cruel Elephant to find Eric gulping hard liquor at the bar. He was distraught over SMEGMA BOMB! not getting a sound check because the doors letting in the public had already opened. He was convinced the last band to set up had intentionally stalled.

“Those bastards'll be sorry, man, when they're tuning my guitbox backstage and bringing me fan mail,” he said, spraying my face with soggy consonants. “And if that never happens … well fuck 'em then …”

Four hours and three bands later I was sitting on the edge of the stage shaking. Bryan was slack-jawed and asleep at a table at the back and Eric was crumpled at the bar in an alcoholic haze. It was ten to one and the place was barren. A staff member approached the stage and sat down beside me.

“Listen pal,” he said, “I know you guys have been waiting all night to play. But, you see, the thing that makes
rock
really
roll
is the crowd … take a look around.” He looked around. I looked around. “If there's no one here … there ain't no show.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So what say we pack up this little Woodstock right now and get the hell home?”

“Rock and roll's got nothing on poetry,” I replied.

Suddenly Eric came hurtling towards the stage with his swollen face and his fist thrusting skyward. In a horrible English accent he shrieked: “We are carrying the torch of rock 'n roll! The show must go on!
Anarchy
!” He slipped and fell, badly bruising his thigh. We played. We were awful. And all the while nobody knew that Shelby Lewis, scholastic prodigy, perhaps only in his own mind, was a university dropout.

III

Surely some revelation is at hand
.

—W. B. Yeats

By five-thirty the following A.M. as the sun rose outside my window like a flashlight behind a gray sheet, I had packed all of my belongings into four boxes and was startled at how easily I could tie up my life. Pulling the cap off a Jiffy Marker, I scrawled on the wall above my desk:

IT IS RIGHT IT SHOULD BE SO

MAN WAS MADE FOR JOY AND WOE

AND WHEN THIS WE RIGHTLY KNOW

THROUGH THE WORLD WE SAFELY GO

—WILLIAM BLAKE

I shrugged and smiled. Gazing out the window, I took a final survey of the campus that had come to be home over nearly three years of toil—good years all in all. The streets were barren save a scattering of crows and the occasional car pulling in or out; the tennis courts were wet, the Student Union Building was dappled in fog. I touched the pane like one would gazing through plexiglass at an imprisoned lover. The coldness on my fingertips was soothing. Goosebumps sprouted across my forearms. I shivered, then lay back on my bed and quietly masturbated in my dorm cot for what I knew would be the last time. Minnie was involved.

I arrived at Eric's apartment just after seven. The door was unlocked. I put my belongings in the corner of the front room and stood there, warmed with sadness—if that's possible. Eric wasn't up yet and I doubted he would be for a few hours. The place was ripe with beer and cigarette odours. I went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee but couldn't find any. I scoured through the cupboards for something to nibble on and ended up settling for a glass of water. I went back into the living room.

“
Shelby
?” said a croaky voice.

Startled, I turned my head to see Eric peeking his head out from the hallway. “Hi Eric!” I was happy to see him.

“What are you doing here?” he said stepping into the room. He was in his underwear and surprisingly muscular. He appeared concerned.

“Oh … dear God,” I said, just then realising what I had done. “I forgot to ask you if—”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Um … I was in desperate need of lodging and I remembered you had mentioned that your Dad had moved out—”

“Boozed out,” he said.

“I'm sorry—”

“Missed three rents. Last I heard he was in the Yucatan selling sandals.”

“I … didn't … I'm sorry about all that. But I've got some news of my own. I didn't tell you at the concert. I've quit university.”

“
What
?”

“It's true. And now I'm in extreme need of shelter until I can ramble up a few coins and establish permanent lodgings elsewhere.”

“You quit?”

“I'm sorry I didn't call. I don't know what's come over me lately.”

Eric rubbed his eye, sighed, and reached down the side of the couch, pulling it out into a bed. “You can sleep here,” he said, giving it a wack. Dust mushroomed up in a cloud of mildew.

“Really?”

He walked away. “Yeah.”

“Eric?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He turned around. “Straight up, Shel, are you a fag?”

“Homosexual?”

“I thought so.”

“I'm not! In fact I find the whole concept unnatural and …”

“Look, man, what … I just … there's just something about you. My mistake. You got a girlfriend?”

“Not at present.”

“Tell me you've been laid.”

“I can't. But it's by choice. Abstinence is very common among scholars. Isaac Newton died a virgin.”

“So did Fig Newton. What's your point?”

“A man of single-minded pursuit must be true to the call.”

“Okay, what's your angle?”

“Angle?”

“Shel, you're built like my ex-girlfriend. You talk like you've got a small house shoved up your ass, you've never been laid and you just B & E'd my apartment. Somethin' ain't right.”

“I assure you I am as I appear to be … and I didn't
choose
to be an ectomorph. Many a night I've longed for a rippling chest—much as my brother Derek's. As for my breaking in here without calling, I implore your forgiveness.”

He grinned. “Look, I'm going back to bed. I'll see you in a few hours. We'll talk rent …”

I lay back on the pull-out couch and eyed a stain on the ceiling that was reminiscent of a large fig. Less than a day had passed since I quit school. I was the same person except now the rules were my own. I rolled over and slept.

Popping and cracking sounds from the kitchen woke me up what seemed like minutes later. I peered over the top of the couch. Eric was frying what appeared to be eggs.

“Good morning,” I said.

Eric looked over, one hand on a frying pan. “Afternoon,” he said back, “how you doin'?”

“Uh … Fine … you?”

“So you're taking a year off, eh?”

“Hardly. I'm seeking whole new roads. Life is a continuum.”

“I thought you said university was your destiny—you want an omelette?”

“You're misquoting me. I was merely referring to the exploits of our greatest visionaries, Newton, Einstein et al., and my desire to contribute to humanitarian causes. I've since realised destiny cannot be achieved, it can only be experienced. Surely you must have some aspirations of your own?”

“Two-ten.”

“Two-ten? What's that?”

“Your rent. I've decided every time you act like an asshole, it goes up ten greenbacks. End of the day I'll give you the total, at which point you can take it or leave it.”

“That's extortion. I refuse to change the essence of my personality to get shelter. I'd rather wind up on the streets than succumb to such badgering.”

“Two-twenty. So what's it like being an old virgin?”

“Old? Your question is as inane as asking a black person what it feels like having a lot of melanin. It's like asking
you
how it feels having blue eyes.”

“Two-thirty.”

“Two-thirty. For what? I'm dumbfounded. Your system is Machiavellian. I've booked a room with Josef Stalin …”

“Two-forty.”

“And I couldn't be happier.”

Much like indigenous peoples throughout the New World who have yet to recover from having their mythology—indeed, their very foundation—slaughtered by the influx of pious Europeans, I, too, had difficulty grasping my new
mode d'existence
. Yes, I still believed my contributions to humanity would be forthcoming. But in the meantime, what was I to do with an excess of leisure time? Where does a free-thinking intellectual go for stimulation? For the first time in my life I found myself absorbed by television; intrigued by soap operas, talk shows and home improvement programs. Not only that, my bed-ridden depression prevalent mere weeks earlier had returned. Only a fear of starving to death urged on a search for part-time employment—a motivation hindered by the alternative fear of becoming trapped into yet another social labyrinth. As for contact with the outside world, I avoided my parents altogether but called Gran on several occasions, confessing to her my dreams and fears without actually admitting to having left university.

“… and I saw a Peace Corps commercial that piqued my interest—sort of a primer in humanitarian causes. Out in the desert digging wells and planting millet and so forth. I wrote the number down.”

“Doll, you bruise like a peach … you get burned in a well-lit room.”

“I could wear a big hat.”

“What about school?”

“Oh. Fine. Fine. Why would you ask that?”

“Why would I ask? Last week you tell me the family dream is in … what was the word?”

“I believe it was peril.”

“That's it,” she said, chuckling, “and I didn't even know we had a family dream. Now you're thinking o' signin' up with the Foreign Legion.”

“The Peace Corps and school's going fine,” I said, ashamed to be lying.

“You sound bored.”

“Bored? How could I be bored?”

“Look, Doll, you gotta get out o' that dorm once in awhile and start givin' 'er the ol' Atomic Drop.”

“What?”

“Give 'er the figure four leg drop. The pile driver. The half suplex. The body slam.”

“What are you talking about?”

“
Life
, Shel. It's like wrestlin'. You gotta get out there and
slam
it. You don't need to dig wells.”

“What's wrong with digging wells?”

“Nothing. I just figure that before my little Shelby up and leaves the country he should at least make a few decent friends.”

“With all due respect, Gran, this notion of slamming into life head first is at best perilous—what with AIDS and gurus and gangs and drugs. Fact is I'm a little disappointed you're trying to steer me in that direction.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

“I know that. It's just-”

“Stop thinking so much, Doll. Give your head a rest.”

“What's wrong with thinking? I'm a thinker!”

“True. But if it takes away your courage, what's the point? You got no life.”

“Thinking does not take away my courage.”

“Doll, you never do anything but study.”

“I just said I was willing to dig wells in some African hellhole. That's hardly
nothing
. At the very least it's courageous.”

“That's true.”

“I have a lot on my plate these days.”

“I know. You're right,” she said, conceding, “and you do have to be careful out there. I keep forgettin' that I was a kid at the turn of the century. Different ball game.”

“It's not that I don't appreciate your feedback, Gran.”

“I know, Doll …”