Mercy on These Teenage Chimps (6 page)

The young woman's face softened.

"I know who you are." She beamed happily as she accepted the purchase. "Coach Puddlefield's my dad. You're the one who climbed the rafters last night."

I stalled briefly, but confessed without shame that I would never attempt such an athletic feat.

"You sure? I was there with my boyfriend. You look like the boy." She opened the plastic bag and brought her face to it—she sniffed and remarked that the contents smelled nice.

"I'm sure," I maintained. "I'm Ronnie and my friend is Joey. Joey's the one who climbed up there."

Still, Coach Bear's daughter appeared puzzled. She was positive that I was the one who had retrieved the balloon.

Mrs. Puddlefield edged herself into the doorway. I rigged a smile. "My mom told me to deliver you your products."

The daughter pressed the bag into her mother's arms and disappeared when the cell phone in the waistband of her jeans began to sing a melody. I was thinking of getting out of there, as my job was done, when Mrs. Puddlefield, fiddling with a curler on her head, asked, "Can you do something for me?"

"I guess. What?"

"Climb up on the roof."

"Climb up on the roof," I echoed. She, too, held the notion that I was Joey, the boy who could scale dangerous heights and live to tell his story. I didn't take the time to correct her. I would just help her out and be on my way.

Mrs. Puddlefield leaned a ladder against the house and sent me up to the roof, where I was instructed to turn on the water valve to the evaporator cooler. It was an easy task, and provided me a moment to view the tidy street where neighbors were lacing their lawns with crystal-like fertilizers and children were patting beach balls back and forth. In backyards, laundry swung in the breeze, dogs frolicked, and a father was scouring a barbecue grill with an old rag.

"Joey," I called into the wind. I missed my amigo, my buddy. A weekend was wasted all because of his stubbornness. I blamed him for a second, and then realized, no, he's just in love. He can't help it.

But my lament for Joey vanished when I sighted Jessica two houses away. She was in her backyard jumping on a trampoline. She appeared to be waving at me, but it could have just been her hands going up as she went down.

"It's her," I whispered and then screamed, "Jessica, it's me, Joey's friend! Remember?" No response. I turned up the volume: "JESSICA. IT'S ME! JOEY'S FRIEND!" I then had reason to really scream. In my excitement to get Jessica's attention, I stumbled on the pitched roof, slipped onto my rear end, and began to slide, my palms doing their best to slow my perilous ride. I pitched off the roof into the flower bed, putting an end to the lives of three daffodils that had probably felt pretty with their faces full of the afternoon sun.

"Are you okay?" Mrs. Puddlefield asked. She rushed from the porch, unleashing a few curlers from her head. "Are you hurt?"

My palms stung, and my butt hurt. "Nah, I'm okay."

She began to swat dirt from the back of my pants.

"Really, I'm okay," I argued. I bent over and gathered up her curlers, then spilled them into her palms.

"Oh, my," she sobbed. "I wouldn't have had to even ask you to get on the roof if my husband was still with..."

At that moment I realized that my tumble from the roof provided me an opportunity to extend my role as Cupid. Sure, Mr. and Mrs. Puddlefield had been married for years and years and their hides were thick, so my Cupid's arrows might bounce off them. Still, I had to take the risk.

"Mrs. Puddlefield, I saw your husband at the creek."

A curler rolled from her hand.

More risk. "He seemed sort of sad. He was just sitting in this really small chair and staring at the water."

Another curler rolled from her palm, but, quick me, I caught it. I picked up the other one from the lawn.

"What were you doing there?"

"I was looking for him because—" I hesitated. How could I explain the drama of last night and how Coach Bear, this woman's husband, had belittled Joey? But I licked my lips and divulged the truth. I told how Coach Bear—though I didn't use that name—had gotten mad at Joey for risking his life and the lives of others. Shoot, Joey could have fallen on anyone, just as the innocent victim was slipping a cookie into his mouth.

"What was he doing up there?"

"He fell in love."

"He fell in love," she repeated slowly. "What did he fall in love with that was up on the ceiling?"

"Rafters," I corrected. "He was in the rafters. And he fell in love with Jessica. Your neighbor. You should have seen him."

I described Joey's smitten nature, minus the drooling. "His knees were so weak I thought I would have to hold him up. That's how much he's in love with Jessica."

"You mean the girl who lives over there?" Mrs.Puddlefield pointed at the house behind her hedge where two sparrows were bickering among the darkness of the thorny leaves.

"Yes, her—the gymnast. She got an award for doing flips or something." I realized I'd better speed up my narrative—Jessica might climb into a car and vanish before I could talk to her again.

"Coach really does miss you," I blurted out.

"How do you know this?"

"I saw it in his face." I put on a brooding demeanor to illustrate his condition, but told her it was far worse.

She prodded a tear from her eye. She admitted that they were separated and it was her fault.

"Maybe his fault, too, but who cares? I know he wants to get back together." I was not savvy about what causes marital breakups, including my own father's final exit. But I had my calling as Cupid. In my mind, I pulled back the largest bow I could imagine and fired an imaginary arrow—my aim wasn't good, but the effect worked. Her heart, it seemed, began to beat a little harder. Her knuckle found its way into her mouth as she gazed at the yellowish lawn.

"Where did you say you saw him?" she finally asked.

"Yonder," I answered. "Yonder at French Creek."

***

I had done my job as Cupid for Coach Bear, but I wasn't finished. I galloped to Jessica's house, where I scraped the residue of squashed daffodils from the bottoms of my shoes on her front doormat. I was nervous. I sensed the cologne on my neck had worn off and that my chimp smells were wafting off my body. I stared at the doorbell. What would I say? Tell her how much Joey loved her, or begin by asking if she could teach me to do a backflip? In exchange, I could teach her how to climb a roof and fall off without breaking any bones.

"Here goes," I whispered and was raising my wandlike finger to the doorbell when I heard "Hey, orangutan butt!" I turned.

"Who, me?" I asked, pointing a finger at my chest.

"Yeah, you, doofus."

Cory and his two friends were standing on the sidewalk, breathing like rhinos. Their faces were dirty, their hair a forest of grass, leaves, and small twigs.

"We need another person to play football," one of Cory's friends bellowed. "You can be on my team even though you're a wimp."

"But I gotta go do something," I answered earnestly.

"You don't need to do anything," Cory retorted. "And Joey isn't around to help you. Heard he's in a tree and ain't never coming down."

My best friend had assigned himself to a tree for the rest of eternity. How would I get along without him? Would it mean that Cory would return to beating me up daily? Or would force me to play football so he could beat me up on the field?

I lowered my head, full of disappointment, and stumbled down the steps as one of Cory's friends began to drag me to the sidewalk.

"Hurry up, man," he growled. "I gotta be home by six!"

But some good had come out of my jaunt to Mrs. Puddlefield's. Besides learning how to turn on the water valve of an evaporator cooler, I turned on the valve behind Mrs. Puddlefield's eyes—she did sob for a few seconds. I prayed for her reconciliation with Coach. I prayed they would come together in time to eat those two other fish he had snagged from the creek.

But, best of all, I had located Jessica. I would visit her later and plug her with my arrow.

As the sun
dipped behind springtime trees and the blue jays reined in their screeches for the day, I returned home with mud on my knees, elbows, pants, and the previously unblemished territory of my face. Mom smiled as she sized up my filth. She sang with gusto, "Oh, you're still my little boy!" Then she ordered, "Get the vacuum. You're dirty!"

From the closet I pulled out our small round vacuum cleaner, whose unwieldy hose was like the tentacle of an octopus. I submitted to Mom's getting the worst of the dirt off by running the hose around my head, across my chest, over my belly (I laughed as the suction pulled at a layer of my skin), and down to my wiggling toes. Later, when I emptied the paper filter, I was amazed by the amount of dirt that had come off me.

"I'm way hungry," I crowed. I couldn't believe how much energy it took to be repeatedly tackled by Cory and his friends. But Mom ordered me to shower first.

In the shower I assessed my bruises—three on my legs, four on my arms, and scores more on my back. Cory's friends played pretty rough. They all outweighed me by plenty, and toward the end of our game, I was just too slow to avoid their tackles. I hunched my shoulders, lowered my head, and gritted my teeth. I saw stars of various shapes when our heads bumped. I limped. I rolled on the ground. Cory threatened that if I quit, he was going to deploy a new kind of karate chop only a few special practitioners had mastered. Though only a yellow belt, he threatened to unleash an inner power that could break a coconut. He snarled that my head resembled a coconut and this secret chop of his would do the trick.

So I played.

Now at home, fresh from the shower, I sat down to a comfy meal of macaroni and cheese, a salad with ranch dressing, and—spoiled me—a banana milk shake with a cherry on top. I ate and burped as I scratched my contented belly and rolled my tongue around my mouth. After I was satisfied, I remembered Joey. I pictured him clutching a tree limb, empty of belly, his tongue hanging out for want of drink, maybe weeping, maybe sucking his thumb from loneliness. I pictured a horrific storm climbing over the mountain, the same mountain where sometimes on windy days we were sure we heard the faint musical sounds of people having fun, pleasures that never seemed to reach us folks in Pinkerton.

"Mom," I announced with both hands resting on my belly. "I'm going to go see Joey." I had spent so much time playing Cupid for my best friend that I hadn't made time to actually be with him.

"Did you get enough to eat?" she asked. She didn't look away from the television.

"Mom, Joey's in a tree, and he needs my help."

"Don't worry, I'll do the dishes."

"Mom, you're not listening!" I was now down on my knees at her side.

Mom peeled off her glasses from the bridge of her nose. "Why?" she inquired.

"Because he's in a tree, I told you, and he won't come down."

Mom munched on a fingernail as she mulled over whether to give me permission to venture out in the evening. "And so you want to live in a tree, too? Monkey see, monkey do—is that it?"

"Mom, we're not monkeys," I replied. "We're chimps. Monkeys have tails and chimps are more like people. Don't you know that chimpanzees can type?"

"What do they type, sweetheart?"

"They can type things like
help
and
hungry now.
"

Mom cooed that I was her sweet boy. She teased that when I was still in my Pampers, "Hungry now" had been my favorite phrase.

"Come on, Mom. Can I please go?"

She sighed and gave in. She said that I had to be home by—she peered at the Porky Pig clock on the mantel, a clock that wagged its piggy tail for each second—by nine, nine thirty at the latest.

I departed with my pockets stuffed with two bananas and an apple, a little sustenance for Joey. I was hightailing it on foot when I decided to return to get my bike—I preferred my skateboard but it was now in Wilson's hands. I hurled myself onto my bike, found the pedals, and sped away.

Within three blocks of my house, two older teenagers motioned me over. Their truck was in the middle of the street, stalled, both doors open. Music was coming from the cab, but its twangy country chords left me cold.

"Give us a hand," the one with a doughnut in his hand said in a demanding voice. He bit into the doughnut and most of it disappeared.

I swung a leg off my bike and held on to the handlebars.

"I'm not that strong," I confessed.

"You look strong," he countered after he cleared his throat of doughnut.

At this compliment, I puffed out my chest. After all, I was thirteen and growing in quarter-inch spurts. And when I did sit-ups, didn't my stomach reveal the start of a six-pack? Weren't shadows playing on my biceps when I did chin-ups? And what about the three hairs on my chest?

"What you got in your pocket?" the other teenager asked. His voice, almost girlish, sounded as if he had been inhaling helium.

"Bananas and an apple," I answered, my head hanging. I could see these two smart alecks were ready to pitch laughter into my face.

They only laughed a little. The one who had eaten the doughnut asked, "Are you a monkey?"

Couldn't people get the difference between monkeys and chimpanzees? Plus, why was he so high and mighty? He had the makings of a warthog; tusks were showing from his closed and bulky mouth.

I set my bike at the curb, relinquished the better of the two bananas to the warthog, and got down to business.

"Come on, man, put something into it," the warthog belched. He had positioned himself on the driver's side, and his friend was stationed on the passenger's side. Both seemed to be putting a lot of effort into the task.

At the back of the truck, I gritted my teeth and pushed with all my might. In my belly, the banana shake sloshed and, I guess, was turning into energy.

"Come on—push!"

"I am," I snapped.

The truck picked up speed and came alive when the warthog jumped in and popped the clutch. The other teenager hopped in and the doors slammed like gunshots. They didn't yell "Thanks" or wave a hand from the window. No, the truck coughed smelly black smoke I could see against the streetlight. It disappeared, its red back lights full of evil.