Manipulating the Monkey

Winter was the quiet time in Jocobo. Most of the shops closed up and those who could afford it went to Florida or some other warm far-off place.

But, believe it or not, some people actually lived in Jocobo year round. When the cold north wind whipped off the slopes of Mt. Elb and the legendary Vinegarroon snowstorms left 45 feet on the ground these hardy folks brought a few more cans of food up from the basement and checked their e-mail for messages. If they had to go out they’d fire up the old 4-By and churn across the frozen wastes for a candy bar, to return a DVD, or maybe even go to work if they were fortunate enough to have a job.

Winter could be just as trying for a cat.

Squeeks, asleep the moment before, sat up suddenly, listening carefully. Yes, the Monkey was home and he was in the kitchen. Squeeks jumped off the bed and made his way quickly downstairs.

There he was, rooting around behind the door where he kept the good stuff—the meat, the gravy, the yogurt, and the milk. C’mon, big fella, give it up.

“Squeeks, how many times do I have to tell you to stay off the table?”

Hearing his tone of voice the cat immediately lay down amongst the books, papers, pliers, styrofoam coffee cups, couch innards, paper clips, pizza rinds, etc., etc.

“You are so bad,” the Monkey said, picking the cat up and placing him on a chair. Squeeks stayed for a moment, watching the big ape move about the room, then hopped back onto his table.

“Look,” said the Monkey while sticking a spoonful of applesauce in front of the cat’s nose. “This is what I’m eating. Do you really think you’d like some?”

Squeeks turned away with disgust, dropping off the table with a loud flatfooted thud.

“Good cat, look, I saved a little cooked chicken for you.”

Later, Squeeks stood by the door waiting for the Monkey to let him out but when the door opened the landscape was white, cold, and uninviting. Squeeks stood there, tail twitching back and forth as a frigid wind blew in.

“Will you go out, already?” The Monkey complained until Squeeks turned around and came back inside. Five minutes later Squeeks was back at the door again. The Monkey was usually good for three or four of these little rejections before he wised up. Then Squeeks would go stand in front of a closet until it was opened. The Monkey usually responded because he was afraid of having mice in his closet.

Then it was time for a snooze.

They went through the whole routine again in the afternoon except maybe Squeeks would sit by the window looking sad, expecting the Monkey to open it. The stupid primate could never seem to remember how to operate a window in the winter and would stand there gibbering even when it was plain what Squeeks wanted him to do.

If the Monkey happened to be sitting asleep in front of the television, as he often did on Sundays in the winter, there was some amusement to be had in lying three or four feet in front of him, crying repeatedly until the dumb animal opened its eyes.

The idiot would then fall back to sleep until Squeeks meowed again. Over and over, it could go on the entire afternoon until the Monkey would finally get up and let Squeeks lead him into the kitchen where he would stare dumbly at a cat bowl full of that dry stuff and ask once again what Squeeks wanted. “Like it’s not obvious, you big dummy! I want what you’re eating. Monkey food! Why do you get all the good stuff?”

Monkeys, what can you do with them? As servants they’re second rate, as companions they’re only fair . . . but they sure are warm on a cold winter’s night!

The Pirate of Peppercorn Creek

It was the time of year that many in the Liars Bunch lived for. When the streets of the village of Jocobo were packed with strangers looking for a good time. They were searching for an answer and the Liars Bunch—a’settin’—on their bench, were there to give it to them.

Some of the boys even dressed up for the part although it was hard to figure out what part exactly they were playing. Joe “Peets” Moss might have looked the artistic type if it hadn’t been for the cheap all-sport shoes he was wearing. Zack Hardy affected the hog farmer style, with the bibs and the softball sized chaw tucked demurely in his cheek. The expensive watch on his wrist kinda gives his game away, though. Erv Roadapple looked like a bum, but it’s only because he’s not married and hates ironing his clothes. Harry Whelp, the one-eyed dentist, rarely bothers changing from his work “whites” with their splotches of dried blood arcing across his shirt and pants. Old Bart, however, is the very picture of a small town sage in his black slacks, white shirt, and thin black tie with a silver clasp. A cowboy hat wards off the hot sun and his silver belt buckle is cast in the shape of a lone American eagle, pouncing, with its wings flung high and talons extended.

A stuffed eagle sat in one corner of Calamine Pete’s cabin. It was a trophy he’d taken from an English “naturalist” right before he’d made him walk the plank. He hadn’t even bothered to pause and watch the lubber drown. “Let Nature take her course,” he chuckled.

Oh, yo ho ho
You dirty old dog,
Gonna cut you up
Like an ol’ fat hog!
Yo ho ho
And a bottle of beer . . .

“Jimmie!” He heard his mother calling him. “Jimmie!”

“All right,” he thought, “make that a bottle of root beer.” He got up from his favorite spot along the bank of Peppercorn Creek with a sigh, watching as the little reed boats he’d made that afternoon floated forever downstream. He wished he could go along, he thought, while starting home for supper. He could still hear the pirates singing their song.

Yo ho ho,
And a cask of scum
Effin’ you see us comin’
You better run . . .

Vinegarroon County was not the kind of place you’d expect to find a band of scurvy pirates but there they were, inside the head of the dreamy little boy sitting in the back row of the classroom. They were starting classes earlier every year it seemed. Why, summer wasn’t even close to over and here they were already learning geometry! He’d show them some geometry, by golly—the geometry of chasing Spanish treasure off Haiti and Jamaica! The geometry of a well-placed shot into ships’ rigging! The geometry of walking the plank! Ho ho ho!

“Um, could you repeat that question again, Mrs. Greech?”

Abby Greech shook her head with disdain. “Jimmie Bartholomew, you may want to stay after today’s class and clean the blackboards.”

“Aw.” Pa would have a fit if he wasn’t home in time to start his chores.

Later, with the room empty, as he stood beside her desk, Mrs. Greech said. “Jimmie, I told a little fib. I don’t want you to clean the blackboards.”

Jimmie looked up at her questioningly. Mrs. Greech was an old woman, at least 30, but she came from the city and had university training and so she was a little bit scary.

“I want you to write on the blackboard exactly what it is you’re daydreaming about during my class. You can go home as soon as you’ve finished.” She handed him a piece of chalk and walked out of the room.

“Gee whiz,” he thought, scratching his head. He stared at the board for quite some time before shrugging. “Why the heck not?”

He wrote down what was in his head until he’d filled up one blackboard and continued on to another. When he’d filled that one up he continued writing on the one in Mr. Grassgold’s room, then the room across the hall. Oh, Pa was mad that night and he’d gone to bed without supper and grounded for a month, but the growls his belly made were like the sweet groans of the mast as the sails shifted with the evening breeze.

Mrs. Greech had made him a writer. And he had had a wonderful career as the gadgets columnist in Popular Morbeau Magazine. Over six million readers worldwide and they even paid him, too, somewhat.

The warm breeze felt good to Old Bart as he snoozed on the Liars Bunch’s bench.

The fury of a storm just passing had left Calamine Pete and his scurvy crew helpless as a British frigate approached. The King Canute had no mercy for pirates. The battle was short and brutal as the Canute battered them from afar. Explosions ripped the deck and killed his men as Calamine Pete labored in vain to strike back. Finally the British ship of war approached deliberately, menacingly, grappling hooks pulling at what rigging was left. Calamine Pete and a few crewmen made it over the side and into a dinghy only moments before the bomb they’d set in the magazine took both ships in a towering gout of flame.

Old Jimmie Bartholomew sighed as he opened his eyes and gazed benignly out on the peaceful scene in downtown Jocobo on a warm summer’s evening.

A Quick and Dirty Tour of The Liars Bunch

“Vinegarroon County is one of those places where anything can happen,” reflected Babe Martin to the visitor as he absent-mindedly guided his hurtling pickup down the steep, winding mountain road. The guardrail was bashed and bumped and occasionally breached but Babe never gave it a thought.

When they reached the overlook he pulled the truck to a sudden halt, tossing a few empty beer cans into the trash barrel there. “The cops in Jocobo are getting a mite ambitious,” he reflected. “They don’t need much encouragement to open an investigation.” Babe roamed Vinegarroon County like a nervous dog, never able to lie down long.

They could see a good part of the county down below. Every ledge and rocky outcropping had a home, small farm, or small community nestled there.

“Jocobo is down that way,” Babe pointed towards the county seat part way down the side of the old volcano. “It was named for "The Kissing Saint" by the first white man who may or may not have passed through this way over 200 years ago.

“Lake Doofus is over there and you can just see an edge of Clyde’s Fungal Growth Park and below it there is Bone Head and Sleepyville. This place is full of legends and ghosts, artists, writers, wannabees, and just plain folks—like you and me.” Babe slipped the truck back into gear and soon they were once again hurtling down the state highway.

They soon reached Jocobo. “Whataya want to see first? Don’t blink. Ha ha! Hey, there’s old Quink Otis. Street-singer, but he ain’t much appreciated.

There’s Eustice Wigg—don’t look!—the nosiest gal around. What was that? You think calling her a gal is demeaning? Jeez, Louise, get used to it, the ’90s are so over!”

Suddenly Babe stopped the truck.

“Here’s some guys you really ought to talk to,” he said after they stepped onto the sidewalk. They were as far downtown as Jocobo got, by an old brick courthouse in the shade of an immense sycamore tree. There wasn’t much moving, especially on a long bench outside the courthouse where several mostly old men sat peacefully.

“No, they’re not dead,” Babe snorted. “Well, not so’s you’d notice, anyway. Let me introduce you. This is Chas Boatwell, Pops McCreakle’s the one that needs a shave. The fella on the end is Horse Chotely, ’cause he’s so pretty. Harry Whelp, the one-eyed dentist, is over by the Vietnam War plaque and Taney Applegaw is the one coming over here with an ice cream cone and his sweet little crying granddaughter, Tweena.”

“Rawk!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s Nevermore, the Liars Bunch’s raven. Why are they called the Liars Bunch? Guys?”

“It’s because we’re short men with tall tales,” replied Pops McCreakle.

“Some of us are tall men with short tales,” Granpappy Labas immediately contradicted.

“Every small town had its liars’ bench where crotchety old coots set a spell, carefully watching the world go by, careless with their opinion,” Babe said quietly, after looking around to make sure no one was listening to them. He needn’t have worried. They were all listening to themselves. “I blame the tourists, they encourage ’em,” Babe added. “But what can you do?”

Old man Croesus was holding his own conversation at the other end of the bench. “Have you noticed how people say ‘absolutely’ nowadays when they mean yes? Like yes isn’t good enough anymore, it’s too vague or something. I guess yes isn’t definite enough.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” replied the others without cracking a smile except for one young fella who said sincerely, “You know, I never noticed that before.”

“Psst!” Babe hissed. “It’s past time we were moving on.”

2009 Flickr

by unvmebad86

What I'm Watching.

Ergo Proxy

My Goodness

“My goodness, it’s Christmas time again,” said old Aunt Sallie. “Wonder what the Claus brought you this year?”

“Socks,” said little Agamemnon, disbelieving. “And turtle eggs.”

“Chinchilla coat,” Louise reported. “Again!”

“Got me a choo-choo,” Tarvis grinned and then chugged out of the room in the general direction of the kitchen where Maw was serving up breakfast—lots of biscuit, a little bit of gravy, and eggs on the side with a whiff o’ ham squeezins. The only day of the year they ate like this—or wanted to, really.

“Oh, give me a Rome where the buffalos home and the uhm-a-mm-mm-mm-mmm,” she never knew the words, who did?

“I’m going to the Mall tonight.”

“You can’t, stupid, it’s Christmas.”

“Awk. What am I going to do?”

“Come over here, honey, and help me set the table.”

“Do I gotta?”

“If you want some squeezins, honey.”

In one corner of the room, way down on the floor, was an area that didn’t get much attention. It was a place where dust settled despite everyone’s—well, Ma’s—best efforts. Most of this time the area sat behind a big old potato chip can, forgotten, collecting things: a twist-tie, a dried blade of grass, a ball of cat hair, pinhead sized clumps of dirt from who knows where, and hundreds—yes, hundreds—of tiny, almost invisible, dust-mite skulls. Above the ossuary, within an old and dusty web, sat the ruler of this corner of the world, a tiny yellow spider.

Most of the time she snoozed peacefully, waiting for a wayward gnat or some other critter to stumble into her web—it only had to happen once—but this morning was different. Someone finally took the potato chip can away.

“Ew,” cried little Davy. “That’s just gross!”

The cat headed immediately for the corner. “Diego, no!” they cried. “Stop him!”

Diego’s tail swished through the tiny skulls, dust, and webbing like a . . . well, a . . . dustmop. Anyway the next thing the little spider knew she was scurrying ass over teakettle into the middle of the floor. Ominous dark clouds rolled back and forth across her sky, emitting threatening bellows of fear and confusion that she couldn’t hear—but certainly could feel. She was almost trampled many times before reaching the far shore where she skittled beneath immense boxes, bows and ribbon, toys, clothing, fruitcake, and crumpled wrapping paper. Every once in awhile a huge pine needle crashed thundering down. There she found a soaring metallic framework, and realized with joy that the god of spiders had shown her the perfect place for a web.

Sure enough, in the spirit of Christmas, the spider found a little present of her own underneath that Christmas tree: a blue-spruce pox beetle, an invasive species that had hitched a ride in from the country. Cracking open its carapace, the little yellow spider sat down for a fine holiday feast, one that would finally allow her to fulfill her destiny by implanting her eggs in the beetle’s nourishing body before dying in peace, fulfilled. She smiled lovingly down upon the quivering beast beneath her. Sensuously, she impugned its integrity.

“Merry Christmas to all,” she whispered, “and to all a good night!”