Shelby Read Online Free Page A

stayed low.
    Finding the door locked, he edged a few feet to his right, pulled down his sweat pants and urinated on the wall. Hearing footsteps I turned to see Eric running up the road with a guitar in each hand, his trench coat flipping in the wind. Instinct beckoned me to warn him of danger but my head froze at the thought of cross-fire.
    â€œBryan!” Eric yelled, face grinning, a soggy looking cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
    The man, still peeing, turned to Eric. “The door’s locked. It’s raining.”
    Eric broke stride. “I know. Hey, man, thanks for coming on short notice.” I stepped out of my car. Eric turned to me. “Hi, Shel,” he said, out of breath and soaked. “I brought you a guitar. Amps are inside.”
    â€œThe door’s locked!” Bryan cried again, startling me. He pounded his fist against the wall.
    â€œBad boy, Bryan,” Eric said with a smile while pulling a key from his pocket. He shook his head like a wet dog and introduced us while turning the lock.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, extending my hand, “I don’t recognise you from the Town Pump.”
    â€œBryan wasn’t—”
    â€œShelly?” Bryan said. “What kind of name is Shelly?”
    â€œShelby.”
    â€œLeave him alone, Bryan,” Eric said. “The guy’s a genius.”
    â€œThen why’s he wearing that fag tie?” he said, staring as though daring me to respond. I felt my chin quiver. He laughed in my face. We went in and set up.
    The rehearsal was nerve-racking. I’d never used an electric guitar before and its heaviness made it cumbersome. Ironically, the strings were more easily pressed down than on my acoustic. Nonetheless, my back ached. Amidst a ruckus that sounded more like a mob of Arabs burning an American flag on the evening news than music, I became plagued with apprehension. Is civility possible in an uncivilized world? How had I allowed myself to be manipulated into playing the music that I loathed? Moreover, was my weakness any different from that seen in many Germans during the late 1930s? Finally, beyond Gran, Mom, Dad and my brother Derek, was it true that I had no friends?
    My questioning ended upon hearing a song called “Sally Jean Won’t Eat Meat”—in my opinion Eric’s only melodic creation. It began with a rambling slur of angry words that burst into bloom with Eric at the apex of his range singing, Sally Jean Won’t Eat Meat to which Bryan and I replied chant-like, Oh wo, no she won’t . Eric would then bookend the chorus with, But she’s got legs up to her hips and red and ready lips , and so on. Humiliating as it is to admit, I found the jaunty, infectious feel libidinous—and demanded we play it again.
    Back at the dorm later that evening, with my ears ringing and my head deep into my MCAT study guide, it occurred to me that I’d be returning home to Revelstoke after the MCAT and the Monday concert; back home to await the acceptance response from my medical school application, back home for long talks with Gran and Mom and hours of indulgent, reflective reading, back home for a four-month stint as ditch-digger for Uncle Larry, a man who hates everything but God.
    Larry’s perception of the universe revealed itself some fifteen years ago, shortly after his wife ran off with his business partner. My Dad, being Larry’s brother, invited Larry to move in with us to get support during his time of crisis. We were of little help. Larry, being Christian, had views that clashed with my family’s, also Christian. Almost from the day he arrived he started having religious visions by night and come breakfast he’d insist on sharing them with the family. As a six-year-old, I was enthralled. His most frequent caller was Mary Magdelene, and with her visits came short parables loosely based on her salvation from harlotry. At the