APPLAUSE
Munroe: Now, I pledge to you, this isn’t going to be one of those scary book clubs you’ve all heard of, where people sip tea and eat crumpets, and discuss the metaphor on page 172. I mean, what does that even mean? What the heck’s a crumpet anyway? I promise that
this is going to be about books people actually read! Faulkner? Who? Forget it. Steinbeck? Steinblech, am I right? Wolfe, Russo, Pinter? Forget those Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! Who here has ever read
Moby Dick
? Who wants to? It’s not a book, I’ll tell you what it is, it’s broccoli, that’s what, something you’re supposed to eat because it’s good for you, not because you like it. Well, I hate broccoli, I won’t eat it, I’m a grown-up now, I can do whatever I want. I’ll eat what I want, I’ll read what I want, and I’ll be gosh-darned if some highfalutin professor with bad posture is going to make me feel bad about it. I’ll choose my own books, thank you very much.
APPLAUSE
Munroe: Books about me, about us, you and me here, normal folk with normal problems. Good people. Decent people. People like Janice here. People who work for a living, who pay their taxes on time, who go to church every Sunday. What do the problems of some dead Dutch prince who can’t make up his mind whether or not to kill himself have to do with the likes of folks like us, am I right?
APPLAUSE
Munroe: So in this vein, my first guest this afternoon is a wonderful author who has just published her first novel. In fact, I couldn’t help myself, when I read it, I started up my own publishing company, MuPu Incorporated, to print and distribute this wonderful story.
APPLAUSE
Munroe: It’s about a woman who is faced with a terrible choice, whether to sacrifice the life of her husband for her child! I tell you, I cried buckets when I read this story.
Audience mem: Marry me, Munroe!
Munroe: I’m afraid Janice may have first dibs,
Miss, but if things don’t work out, well, I’ll keep you in mind.
LAUGHTER
Munroe: I’m so excited, I can’t wait, let’s bring the author out right now, give her a big hand, Agnes Coleman, everybody!
APPLAUSE
ENTER AGNES COLEMAN
Munroe: Agnes, thank you for coming out here today.
Agnes: Oh, like I could ever resist you, Munroe.
I owe you everything.
Munroe: How so?
Agnes: Your show kept me sane, through my divorce, my child custody lawsuit, and the
writing of this book!
Munroe: You’ve had a difficult life up until now, haven’t you?
Agnes: Oh, Munroe, I . . . oh, God . . .
Munroe: It’s all right, Agnes. Here, take my handkerchief. Better?
Agnes: Yes, thank you. I’m sorry, I promised myself I wouldn’t . . . it’s just that, I don’t know, it was so hard for so long . . . Munroe: That’s just fine, dear. You take your time. After all, if it weren’t for your pain, you wouldn’t be here today, would you?
Agnes: No. I just felt I had something to say, and through the years of therapy and writing and soul-searching and prayer, I was able to survive.
Munroe: And thank God you did, am I right, people?
APPLAUSE
Munroe: Now, I don’t want to give anything away, but in your book,
My Baby, My Love
, your central character, uh —
Agnes: Margaret?
Munroe: Margaret, yes, thank you, Margaret faces a difficult decision.
Agnes: Yes, that’s correct, Munroe. Margaret’s only daughter Amber is dying, and Margaret’s husband Peter is the only possible donor, but the operation will kill him.
Munroe: Fascinating. But Peter, now, he doesn’t want to die, does he?
Agnes: Oh, no, if it were up to that (expletivedeleted)
Munroe: Please, Agnes, your language. This isn’t HBO.
LAUGHTER
Agnes: Oh, I’m sorry, Munroe. I get so worked up when I talk about Margaret. Peter treat . . . he treated her so badly. I’m sorry, I . . . Munroe: I understand completely. I hated him too. In fact, the entire audience will. If you’ll check under your seats, you will each find a copy of Agnes Coleman’s wonderful novel
My Baby, My Love
, plus a complimentary Munroe Purvis tote bag.
APPLAUSE
Munroe: We have to go to commercial, but when we return, Agnes will let us in on how she wrote such a remarkable book. And so short! You can read it in an hour, I promise!
CUT TO COMMERCIAL
FROM: |
SUBJECT: |
Dear Mr. McCormack,
If you are reading this, then I’ve succeeded in convincing you to throw caution to the wind and open this attachment. Let me assure you, this is not a hoax. I am not a deposed Nigerian prince begging you to help retrieve the vast millions I have stocked away in a Swiss bank account by supplying me with your credit card numbers. Nor is this a virus waiting for your gullibility to overcome common sense, patiently awaiting its destructive release onto your hard drive. I wouldn’t know where the fuck to even look for a virus, let alone how to send one along. Nor am I willing to help you with the length of your penis, get you instant financing for a fourth mortgage (provided you’re a Christian), or Get.U.Horny.With.BlackChicks.
I promise you, I am that Thomas Friesen. The Thomas Friesen with his mug plastered on the front page of every newspaper and rag on the continent. The subject of rcmp manhunts and G-Man profiling. My very own
America’s Most Wanted
special. Cursed by millions of housewives and television personalities. Hiding out with Elvis, Gandhi, and Sasquatch, if
The Weekly World News
is to be believed. I wonder if Bat Boy is here. Salman Rushdie ain’t got nothing on my
fatwa
; at least he had the British government to keep him warm at night. I even managed to push a suspected al-Qaeda operative off the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. A little overboard, don’t you think? It’s not like I’m out there strapping dynamite to my chest and striding naked through The Gap or anything.
You may not remember, I’m hoping you do, but we met once. You were travelling cross-country on a book tour promoting your novel,
The Dutch Wife.
I was in the Winnipeg audience at McNally Robinson Booksellers, eagerly clutching my copies of
Paradise Motel
and
The Mysterium
, listening as your Scottish burr rolled over passages from your work.
Actually, audience is an overstatement; only myself and one other were in attendance purely for your reading. The others were there pretty much for the food, noisily munching on arugula salad and provolone-laden sandwiches, blissfully ensconced in an orgy of
culinary blandness, doing their substantial best to drown out your voice.
You, on the other hand, manfully contended with crunchy cauliflower and muted whispers, bravely ploughing on when it was apparent people were more concerned with attaining yet another cup of imported Mocha Java. By the end, when the diners had fled, only the two of us remained, offering up what meagre applause we could.
You took it in stride, however, signing my copies (now in the clutches of the rcmp or CSIS, no doubt) and surprising both my fellow listener and I by sitting down and talking to us personally. We shared a glass of red wine, discussed books we both enjoyed, and you promised to send me a copy of
The Dutch Wife
, which I thought was astoundingly generous of you, thank you. Loved it, by the way.
You also mentioned something, really an off-the-cuff remark, but something that is the impetus for my risking the time to write to you now. I was railing against the works of some author or other, Dean Koontz maybe, ugh, when you drew me up short. You leaned over the table, staring at me as if I had just clubbed a baby harp seal to death and offered its remains to you as a gift. “Thomas,” you said. “Thomas, every author deserves respect. Many of them spend years of their lives to bring you their work, their thoughts, their beliefs. You may not like what they have to say, or the manner in which they say it. It may be the worst thing you have ever seen put to paper. But they spent a lot of time and energy on it, and that deserves your respect, regardless of the quality. Be critical, yes, by all means, but be kind.”
I’ve thought about that a lot lately, obviously. Does the effort count? Does the time spent in invention nullify the trouble it may take a person to finish a novel? Should I admire
The Bridges of Madison County
simply because Robert James Waller took three years to write it? Should that count, even when the result is a steaming heap of utter crapola?
With all due respect, sir, no. Not at all.
What’s my point? you ask, no doubt reaching for the phone to call the police. Please don’t. I have scant energy left, and I’m afraid of what might happen if I can’t keep my spirits up. Being on the run is no picnic, despite the allure of the open road. Kerouac was given a choice. I have none. My options ran out months ago, the money soon after, and I’m rapidly running out of places to hide. As I write this, the
television in the corner (I’m at a café, that’s all I’ll tell you), the television is broadcasting my face into every home, every bar, every trailer park. Vegas odds on my capture are rising. Oprah has taken on extra security as a precaution. Phil Donahue has gone on Larry King to call for my execution. Geraldo has organized televised manhunts. The world of syndication is becoming a police state, thanks in no small part to my efforts. I’m keeping my head down, but it’s only a matter of time now.
I’m writing to you to plead my case. I do not seek absolution. Bless me, author, for I have sinned, am continuing to sin, and see no end to my sinning. I do not ask for sanctuary. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am guilty, no question. There may be a case for a lesser charge due to mental defect, I could exploit that, but I admit, I knew what I, what we did, was wrong. Evil. Deluded and insane. Even though it felt really, really, oh so good, so unbelievably right at the time.
All I want is to apply a level of context to it all. A reason for the hoopla. Without context, terrorists are simply disgruntled psychos with bad hair days. I’m not disgruntled, Mr. McCormack. Never been. If anything, I’m gruntled to the extreme, an exemplary instance of maximum gruntlitude. I crave the context, I need to define the purpose behind my actions, the motivation for a complete disregard for all things good and moral. I’ve spent a great deal of energy on self-reflection lately, and I cannot simply up and disappear. It was all for nothing, otherwise.
You are an author, Mr. McCormack. A good one. You were short-listed for the Governor General’s Award, you’re no stiff. Words and phrases are your instruments, you understand the process, both of writing and reading. You write of lives. You study and present the human dilemma with skill and empathy. You might understand why I did it. You might even sympathize.
Also, you are a disinterested third party. It’s been said the act of confession is easier when it involves someone one has no chance of ever running into. There’s simply no one else whom I can risk contacting, anyway. My family has disowned me. Mom and Dad, I could never risk it. They’ve suffered enough anyway. The way they’ve been publicly reviled, you’d think they’d given birth to the unholy cloned mélange of Manson, Hitler, and Michael Jackson. I understand they’ve uprooted themselves several times to escape my infamy, and
good for them. The farther away from me, the better.
My friends — well, the few relations that I had in school, anyhow, friends mainly because the desk map dictated we sit together in math class — they can simply not be trusted. They’ve been doing the talk show circuit, milking every last drop of money and airtime they can from their past association with the psychosis that is I.
If you are interested, write back at this e-mail address. I’ll check it when I can. I don’t know how fast an e-mail can be traced to its place of origin, or even if that’s possible, but I’ll have to take the chance.
Yours truly,
Thomas Friesen
TRANSCRIPT
The Munroe Purvis Show — Episode 1056 (excerpt)
Announcer: It’s three o’clock, and who is it time for?
Audience: Munroe!
ROLL CREDITS
Announcer: That’s right, Munroe! This afternoon on Munroe, it’s the seventeenth meeting of the Munroe Purvis Book Club. Joining Munroe today will be author Gerry Ewes, discussing his new novel,
Diamonds out of Diapers
. And now, put your hands together, everyone, it’s time for nroe!
ENTER MUNROE PURVIS
Munroe: Good afternoon, everyone, how’s every little thing?
APPLAUSE
Munroe: We have a terrific show today, as I’m sure you are all aware. Today is the latest meeting of my fabulous Munroe Purvis Book Club!
APPLAUSE
Munroe: Thank you, thank you, please, if you applaud all day, we’ll never get to the book!
LAUGHTER
Munroe: If you’ll all look beneath your seats, you’ll find a copy of this month’s book, so that you can follow along. It’s an absolute pearl of a novel, it’s called
Diamonds out ofDiapers,
and you are going to love it, guaranteed, if you haven’t already read it. I don’t see how you couldn’t have, it’s been number one for what, three weeks now? Still, there may be one of you out there who never got around to reading it. ‘Fess up, did someone here not do their homework? Don’t be afraid, raise your hands.
LAUGHTER
Munroe: Everyone? Everyone here read it? Well, that is just . . . wait a moment, I do see a hand up there. Mark, can we get that gentleman mike? What’s your name, Sir?
Audience Mem: Carl.
Munroe: Well, Carl, what’s your excuse? It better be a good one, we’re holding up the show for you.
LAUGHTER
Audience Mem: The bookstore was out of copies.
LAUGHTER
Munroe: Perfect answer, A plus, Sir, well done.
Well, I’m sure you’ll catch up if you pay attention.
Audience Mem: I promise, I’ll get the next one.
Munroe: That’s all I ask. In fact, so you’ll have no excuses, I’m giving you a copy of next month’s book right now, how about that, folks?