Jubilee of the Monkey

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Vincent bought Sally a baby monkey which she soon learned to love. The creature would cling to her bosom while she went about her morning chores, humming tunes and singing gaily to herself. He acted just as content to ride.

And then during the heat of long, sultry afternoons, the monkey found delight splashing in shallow waters of a rock pond Vincent had recently built for Sally (he had later installed a suitable diving board for the little monkey’s pleasure).

Sally took to sunbathing on a chaise lounge and reading novels to herself while monitoring their tame pet.

A nearby cherry tree offered cool shade and succulent fruits. One hot day at the height of summer harvest, the monkey scoured lush grass under its limbs , searching for the tastiest of the well-ripened cherries. Sally continued to read, unaware of the intoxicating fruit her darling monkey kept devouring.

She did notice, however, when he staggered over to the diving board. So she laid her book flat to watch.

First he weaved and then he tottered, this way and that, till he arrived at the edge at the end of the board. There he stopped and turned to look at Sally. And then the drunk monkey grinned once, and then waving its arms in loopy circles, it fell backwards.

The wet thing immediately shot from the water, but only to scamper back onto the spring board, and for awhile entertain Sally with his silly business. But the reckless behavior came to an end after he gently laid his head in Sally’s lap, where he moaned and passed out.

When Vincent returned from work later and heard the news, he went and tried to rouse the ape from its stupor so he could get an encore act up and running. But the chimp refused to cooperate, and from then on wanted no further relationship with any rock pond or low board or those sweet but evil cherries.

Dan Dances the Tarantella

Felix ran a smooth shop which ordinarily displayed the mildest of manners. But Felix uncharacteristically surprised the entire crew the day his tarantella arrived.

Weeks in advance, he quietly requested the spider from a soldier headed for desert maneuvers who agreed to capture one for him. His face shined when the dusty man returned, grinning and holding a white shoebox aloft.

“I got you one!”

In two seconds flat Felix had the lid off the box. Then he stuck his hand down inside. A portly man standing nearby turned to see what the commotion was about, but almost spit out a cigar stub as his head jerked back.

Inches from the portly man’s face hovered an out-stretched palm. In the very middle stood the hairy beast, motionless and staring blankly at him. He blanched when Felix made the offer.

“Want to hold him for a minute, Dan?”

If a gentleman who chews cigars all day suddenly finds himself caught in a room of Marines who all begin to watch his next move, then the man must act boldly.

“Sure” Dan stammered and stuck out a hand.

It turned into a pitiful spectacle. People next had to stand up and watch as a grown man made a serious attempt to escape from his arm and all of its glorious containments. Up the wrist the hideous beast came, and onward, and the man’s head leaned back even more. The spider tap-tapped its way across his huge forearm and the neck of the man struggled in vain to stretch just a bit farther away.

Each Marine would later admit to enjoying the on-going tragedy, especially when they saw the slow-footed spider politely march past the man’s straight and locked elbow, going upwards as it were, headed for the higher parts of the shoulder and all he could conquer, and then there, at that precise moment, saw him also try to appear like he knew total peace, but the sweat beads gave him away.

All heads hurriedly turned away then: it being both difficult and embarrassing to see a man fall from grace.

A Wild Cat Tale

Allen snorts but rolls over and lays still, so Thelma eases her body out of bed, hurriedly buttoning a thin gown against the chilled night air. Then quietly removing a shotgun from its roost over the headboard, she crept from the darkened room to investigate the racket near the end of the dam. Her henhouse just recently sounded an alarm and most of her chickens were excitedly hard at work on the project.

But by the time Thelma got to the area, things inside the coop were back to normal again, all but for a sampling of discontents who grumbled unsettled thoughts amongst themselves, chicken-style.

A sudden movement in nearby bushes frightened the poor woman, and so she reflexively aimed and fired a shot.

Thelma stands up now and stretches an arm up over her head to indicate just where and how she held the lifeless bob cat by the scruff of his neck.

Then she clucks her tongue twice and shakes her head once.

“His tail still dragged the ground, honey.”

Early Gifts

“Dad!”

The word travels muted, like a foghorn.

“Dad!

Dad?

Dad!”

The pitch of the note modulates, rising to try a solo flight.

“Dad!”

Tony darkens my doorway holding a new case of Corona, a bag of fresh limes and a large tub of imported diplomacy.

“What’s happening? What’s going on, my brother? Good to see you as always. Alright now!”

A flurry of hand motions, fist-pounding, knuckle-knocking, palm-slapping as well as yelps of joy. All of this hogs the remaining light with exuberant hugs. Each proclaim that the Good Times just arrived.

“Hand me a knife so I can slice one of these babies up. How the hell are you, man?”

In due time a tape recorder becomes a witness. Later on, it delivers honest sounds of beers, guitar and howlings at the moon.

“IS THIS THING ON?”

A static fuzzy sound fades out but then returns.

“Judas priest, how you get this mother fucker…?”

Static sounds dot one edge of the scene.

A loud click leads off on a rhythmic four-chord progression. With eyes closed, Tony sways and sings.

“Mamma said, mamma said!”

For the next half-hour, music blossoms.

It is difficult, but if you stay focused you will find that no types or sorts of real musical talent rest for any length of time in or anywhere near the vicinity of my good pal, Tony. He cannot carry a loose tune halfway across an average room, not in a legal sense in any legal case on the docket (neither fact bother the man at all and he refuses to care).

Tony makes up lyrics. I make up melodies. He provides words while I provide tunes, and we jam for a while.

The tape rolls and records it all. Our occasion rates a second side of the tape to be recorded before trouble raises a voice.

(listen for the faint cries of David, who is five and lays sick in bed. He woke up complaining, so his loving mother confined him there before dashing off to spend her day at the market. Tony showed up around noon) <p>

(David groans between lines)

Dad!

“Momma said, momma said!”

Tony always starts off singing that.

“Momma said, momma said!”

Dad!

I accent with a hint of A minor before returning to the immense realm of the deep E7th.

“Momma said, my momma said…”

Dad!

(slap-a-de-doody-whop on the strings)

David’s one-note tune competes and struggles to outlast the surfing bass tone which bolts from A to land dead-center in the key of my E.

“DA-A-AD!”

After that brief but magical wave of music tumbled down from a height to crash and explode into flurries of tossed foam, the old guitar was content to lean and rest while smoke and a cold beer went to have a dance.

Tony trots down the staircase, looking for a urinal.

A voice bellows up the shaft.

“Sweet Jesus! Man, David done went and opened up all the Christmas presents!”

My tape recorder broke right after that, so more details are scarce. Besides, I have to go anyway -- the wife don’t trust me being alone much anymore.

Remember

Okay, so I must defiantly (or is it definitely?) be growing older.

I currently seem to find myself more fascinated by music, which years ago, inspired me only to try.

And, it seems, I now find artists, who once only encouraged me to go forward and experience new things, just staggering.

First, few remember the title. But most all of us, no matter what the age, recall the tune; a little song called Wheels, first recorded by a group called the String-a-longs.

They hit the charts in 1960. I remember it well, because the band hailed from my hometown of Plainview, Texas: population, abt 20,000. Imagine that.

All of the members of the band were two years older than me and the gang I ran with at the time, but everyone around town felt proud: somebody from our area had actually made it big in the world.

Now, give a listen to Jimmy Torres as he plays the lead guitar: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=maRHBwtY1Qo and see if you remember.

Then, take a look at the current artwork of Henry Casselli at: http://www.henrycasselli.com/.

I met him when he was a combat artist for the Marine Corps, during the Vietnam era.

And yeah, we were both young, back then.

The Problem with Harry

I worked a summer job briefly at our local country club. It was to become my first and last job as a caddy.

Arriving early the first day, a kind man directed me toward a shed which stood near a putting green. A dozen or so boys, my age and older, stood outside, milling around and talking to each other.

Within minutes a golfer approached us and hired a boy. His partner quickly took a second one from our band. Soon two more were chosen. They in turn hoisted individual bags effortlessly as they followed smartly after their twosome.

Feeling excited, I leapt forward when another man motioned to me. But after covering the first fifty paces down the green, my youthful jubilation changed to painful remorse. The staggering weight of the leather bag caused the strap to cut into my shoulder, while each leg begged me to stop and collapse there on the grass.

Relief came at the end of the ninth hole. There the duffer announced that he was done for the day, and tossed me a quarter before he left. By day’s end, I earned a grand total of one dollar and seventy-five cents.

I endured three more tiring days of wobbly knees and torturous heat while struggling at every turn to identify the confusing array of golf clubs. I suspect that I must have been paid by many due to their sympathetic nature rather than for my poor skills.

Now. Even as a young child, I disliked my given name. It made no solid sound like Bob or Tom or Pete. It lacked the musical qualities afforded by names like Louis or Charlie. The sound of my name offered no personality like Doc or Bud. I really disliked it a lot. But I never could decide what might be a better substitute, until I found employment as a golf caddy.

One cheerful client asked me my name just before he teed off. That was a most unnatural act. Few of the duffers had said much to me beyond, “Hand me a five-iron, boy” or “No, that’s the wrong club, son”.

So with no hesitation, and with little thought beyond “Here comes my chance at last!” I blurted out a fresh, new name.

“Henry, sir!”

I regretted the decision instantly.

Henry, after all, sounds no different than Harry.

It has the same amount of letters.

They both begin with aitch and end with why.

What is the matter with you, I wondered?

“Henry, eh? Well, Henry, let’s go play golf.”

The man was a hearty chatter, I discovered. Between shots, he talked constantly, and of course he spiced up his conversations with lots of additional Henrys.

“Henry, did you know that…”

Or

“Henry, have you ever heard of…”

By the third hole, I looked for ways to vanish off of the face of the earth. By the eighth hole, my regrets began to weigh more than the leather bag, with all of its clubs combined, and I wished to throw the entire lot and my new dumb name into a near-by water trap.

I was also fearful that friends of my father or my mother might spot me and mention something embarrassing, like saying aloud my given name.

But mercifully, as he retrieved the ball from the cup on the ninth hole, he handed me his putter to put away before handing me a crisp dollar bill, plus one additional silvery fifty-cent-piece.

“That’s it for today, Henry. You did a good job, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I took that to be my cue, which thus ended a cruel career.

Ta Da!

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