Monkey Island

Edwin took his sweet time to order a beer. Molly, his sister, wondered what Clint Eastwood would say to her brother if he ever met him in a bar. Maybe Clint would hold a .44 Magnum to his head and say something cool like, “Whatcha gonna do punk?” He might do that. Clint Eastwood was the kind of man who carried a gun, deflected bullets with his bulging confidence, and ordered the same drink all the time, like a man. Her brother was pleasant, which is to say, he was nothing like Clint Eastwood.  He wore a light blue suite, a paisley tie and a shirt that was wrong at the collar. He was all soft features, with a fat face that he covered with a bushy red beard.

Molly was a redhead, not the bottle kind, or the ugly kind. She was home from the university. While she was at school she wrote papers, and developed a religion. The religion had to do with the weather, what time she woke up, what time she went to bed, how much she drank, how long she spent putting herself together in the morning, how much she wrote in a day, and the way all of this effected how late or early the bus arrived at the bus stop to take her through the frozen city to the lecture hall.  She was sure of the causal relationship between what she did, and when the bus arrived. She tried to do enough good things in a day, so that the bus would arrive exactly on time.  She threw parties with her girlfriends in her dorm, drank cheap vodka, and hated everything unromantic about the cold.

She was bundled in blankets watching the news and writing a paper on Isadora Duncan, who was a modernist dancer at the turn of the 19th Century, when Boris Yeltsin handed Russia over to Vladimir Putin. She was writing a paper on whether or not Woodrow Wilson was affected by Mussolini, when Sony Playstation 2 was released in North America. She did not buy a gamming system.  And when the towers fell, she was writing miserable things about her roommates in her journal.  Later that same year when the American Attack on Afghanistan began, she froze in her tiny dorm with hardwood floors and breezy window panes reading Dune. While the United Nations discussed the United State’s occupation of Iraq, Molly sat in her dorm alone drinking vodka from the bottle, reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Unforgiven played unnoticed in the background on her tiny little television. The wind blew. She did not wait for the bus. By that time she turned her assignments in online.

Her time at school ended. Her mom and dad went north and shivered. They congratulated her on a good job. They sat through an hour of clapping, and took her home. She hung her degree on the wall, and vowed that she would own a car. Tonight she rode with Edwin.

Edwin sat in a high-backed stool with his finger in the air and held it there until the waiter came over. The waiter said, “Can I help you?” Edwin looked at his finger for a moment as if he was surprised to see it in the air. Then, he used that same finger to point at his menu. He said, “Yes. Could I taste the Angmen Dopple?” The name of the beer rolled off his tongue with an accent for a language Molly did not believe existed.

“Sure thing.”  The server looked at Molly. He was tall with dark hair, and big brown eyes. She said, “I’ll have a whiskey”

“What kind?”

“I’ll have the brown kind.”

The server excused himself and walked to the kitchen. Molly watched him walking until he disappeared behind a swinging door.

This place was her brother’s idea, but it was nice. The lighting was low, and all the furnishings were leather and mahogany. Cigar smoke hung around the lights, and old men sat in booths staring at rocks glasses and flipping dominoes. It was located right next to the Big O and a strip mall, still, it was like walking into the part of England they put in story books mixed with a little 1940’s 52nd Street New York, New York. They had beer, liquor, and men. It was not cold. Molly liked this place.

The house band made the sound system squeak as they unpacked trombones, trumpets and guitars. The drummer made a racket, banging on one drum, then another, then another, then shouting at the sound man.  A black woman in a white sequined dress walked to the microphone and started to sing nonsense, just sounds. It was beautiful. She looked through the room with a sad smile, then walked to the sound booth, and put her arm around the man working the soundboard. She said a few things in his ear, and walked to the bar.

A guy wearing a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and combat boots, pushed through heavy wooden double doors, and walked clumsily to the bar. He sat with his head rolling side-to-side, looking around. The bartender walked to him to pick up what looked like a discussion from earlier that day. Molly was trying to hear or guess what they were saying, but the waiter returned.

“Here you go.” He placed two fingers of brown liquor in front of her. She downed half of it and winked at him.

“What did I get?”

“That, ma’am, is Jack Daniels single barrel. We don’t do house liquors here.”

“Oh, well, it is awesome. Good job.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Now, for you sir, the Angman Dopple.”  The waiter put a rocks glass filled half way with an amber beer in front of Edwin. Edwin held the glass up to a low hanging light to look at the color, sniffed the beer, and drank holding the beer in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. Molly saw her brother do that, and finished her liquor right there. The waiter went on, “This is a big beer, lots of floral.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting that.” Edwin said.

“Would you like a glass or a bottle?”

“When you say bottle, how many ounces?”

“It’s like a wine bottle…so I’d say 32 ounces?”

“What is the alcohol percentage?”

“Eleven. This beer will knock you on your ass, sir.”

“I’ll have the bottle.”

“Cool.” The waiter looked at Molly and her glass.

“Do you want another?”

“Could you bring another glass with that bottle? Someone has to drive.” She winked again.

“Totally.” He grinned, and walked back to the kitchen, back through that same swinging door with Molly watching the same way she did before.

A thin man in a suite stepped up to the microphone and introduced the band. They were called the Clockworks. They started playing and everything that was peaceful about the little place went wild. The area in front of the bandstand filled with half dressed women, and the men attached to them. They all looked dumb, like each one of them was moving to the pulse of a song only they could hear, but they were having fun touching one another. Molly watched. The underdressed guy walked out to the center and started to show everyone how drunk dancing was done. It was a spectacle. Molly watched that too. There was clapping, and the band started a new song. The lady in the sequined dress took center stage, and began to sing. It was the kind of thing that made a person feel happy, and guilty for feeling happy. Mostly, it was a sad song.

The waiter returned with glasses, and the bottle. He set them down silently, smiled at them both, and walked to the bar. Molly didn’t notice.

The sad song ended, and the band started a new song. This song started with the upright bass putting down some slow bowed notes. The drums joined, and then the guitars, then the horns in a succession of slow chord changes. The drummer rolled the snare, and upped the tempo. It was a rush of power Molly could feel in her chest. She was sitting there enjoying herself, when she noticed a smell.

It was the guy. He stood three feet away staring at her. He walked over when she was distracted. His breath stank of cigarettes, and booze. When he saw she looked his way he waved hello, and stepped forward. “Hey man, they can really play right?” Molly ignored him.

“They really can.” Edwin said. She had forgotten about Edwin. Hearing Edwin reminded her of her glass. She filled it, and refilled Edwin’s glass. The guy said, “Hey yeah, I love these guys.  Love’m. What do you think dollface?”

“I was just listening to them. This is a great song.”

“Yeah, I love these guys. Love’m.”

He pulled a stool to their table, and sat down. He leaned toward Molly and stared. Molly decided he was not an ugly man; he was an unwashed man who was sitting too close to her. Edwin saw her discomfort and tried to help. “Hi, I don’t think we were introduced. I’m Edwin.” He held out a hand. “Oh hey, didn’t see you there. Good to meet you.” They shook.

“What brings you out tonight?”

“Oh, Clockwork, that’s the band.  Leni, damn, she’s something. Right? Yeah. Love these guys.”

“So, you came to see the band?”

“Yeah, Tuesdays and Thursdays. That’s when they play.”

The  guy was just getting started. He said, “Hey do you want a hug?” Molly laughed, and pulled back. Edwin smiled. He said, “I hadn’t thought of it, but sure. Let’s hug.”

They hugged. It was a solid hug that lasted a full three seconds. They sat down, and the guy called the waiter over to ask for another glass. The waiter looked the question at Edwin. Edwin nodded that it was ok. Molly finished her glass and poured another. She said, “So hey guy, whoever you are, where do you work?”

“What you don’t hug?”

“What you don’t work?”

“Oh.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then smiled.

“Say? You folks ever been kayaking? Kayaking is the best. Me and my friends, we go all the time. We go way out there to places you wouldn’t believe, and we see all kinds of things. One time my friend Gabe says he knows this easy spot up the mountain. It is an hour out, maybe two. I say sure, so we go. The river had some Indian name like all these rivers with rapids do. I can’t recall exactly where it was. Pro’lly doesn’t matter. It’s not like the two of you are gonna head out look’n for the place tonight right? Man, I do love this band. Just look at her. Well, we were going down this river, and we hit some rough stuff, like really rough. I get rolled. I’m under for thirty seconds, scraping and fighting to get up. It is an age, but I get up. I look at my hands, and they are both bleeding. See? Look at this.” He holds both his hands up and shows them a scar that runs continuously across both his hands, and laughs. “I don’t know what I cut’m on, but it was deep. So I came to this section of the river, and the river splits around this little, not even an island. But, that is what it was, an island. I thought I would just paddle over to this island and take care of my hands,” He paused, “I get to this island and I see monkeys. I shit you not. Monkeys. I looked it up one day when I was drunk, so who knows when it happened, but the damn place is called Monkey Island. Monkey Island. The government did it. Can you believe that shit? I’m just standing there with my hands bleeding, and… monkeys. Tell me that isn’t the best damn story you ever heard?” The waiter arrived with the extra glass. The guy thanked him as did Edwin. Edwin poured the glass, but it came up short, so he ordered another bottle. Edwin looked at the guy and said, “You went kayaking, cut your hands, nice scar, and wound up on an island the government stocked with monkeys, called monkey island?”

“Yes.” The guy said. Edwin erupted with laughter. Molly did too. They were all feeling alright. Edwin said, “Have you ever been to Putnam’s Creek?”

“Oh, sure.”

“What about Mac’s Table?”

“Up Hwy 6?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe, but that’s a local name. I guess it’s new name. Before it was called Mac’s Table, it was the Immokalee.” He shrugged, “I remembered that one. It was named for the waterfalls, instead of that rock structure up top. Yeah, I’ve been there lots.”

“Did you like it?”

“Sure did.”

“Well?”

“Well what? Hey, we should go do something.”

“You and me?”

“Yeah sure, unless dollface here wants to come too. Let’s drink to it.” Edwin and the guy shared a toast.

The guy and Edwin decided to climb the radio tower on Sweet’s Hill. Molly agreed to watch, so long as they promised not to hurt themselves. They both swore to her that they were invincible. They believed it too. Molly waved the waiter over so they could pay and go. He heard what they were discussing and wanted to come along. They all agreed that was a good idea, so they ordered another bottle. The waiter brought the new bottle with the glasses, and another whiskey for Molly. She would grab his hand in both her hands whenever he came by to talk, which he started to do more often, and she would hold his hand next to her letting her head drift toward his shoulder. Then he would find a bit of work to do. They did that for two more big bottles of expensive beer, and three more hours, until the waiter’s shift ended. The waiter brought the tab as the Clockworks moved guitars, trombones, and drums out the back door. They paid the tab split an even three ways. The second whiskey and the third bottle were on the house. They had all managed a very affordable classy drunk feeling, except the waiter, who insisted that he drive.

A few moments into the drive Molly said that she would go no further if the guy, whose name she still did not know, did not brush his teeth. They stopped at a gas station to buy a toothbrush, toothpaste, mints, and deodorant. They did not find a tooth brush and toothpaste, but they did find mouth wash, mints, and deodorant. They forced the guy to use them. He seemed a little hurt, but he gurgled the mouthwash like they asked. Everyone peed. The waiter made it clear to the clerk at the gas station that he was sober, and he was driving. The clerk made it clear that he did not care, and he hated his life.

They left the gas station, only, Edwin remembered that he had work the next day, and he needed to go to bed. Everyone in the car threatened to hurt him. He was forced to leave his boss a voicemail explaining the imminent and unavoidable reasons why he would not make it to work the next day. Then they all told Edwin that he was the swellest guy of all time. He believed it. They were almost to the radio tower, when the waiter said he was hungry.

They went back to the gas station, and bought hot dogs and coffee. No one spoke to the clerk more than they had to. The clerk appreciated the gesture. They arrived at the radio tower at the time of night when the red line resting on the horizon just starts to glow, but morning is still a long way off. It was still dark when Molly stepped out of the passenger’s seat of the waiter’s car. The guy was already out of the car with a lit cigarette, walking to the fence around the radio tower.

Sweet’s Hill was a place teenagers went to find a rite of passage. Glass, and broken bottles littered the ground. Graffiti covered the brick walls of the radiostation. It was not the good graffiti. The graffiti on Sweet’s Hill was not the kind put on railroad cars by real artist of the underworld living in heaps in the big cities of the America. This graffiti was done by punk kids in pleated pants. Sweet’s Hill was where every new batch of star-crossed lovers came to consummate their love, before school broke for the summer, and their parents patted them on the back and sent them north to write papers. That is the kind of place Sweet’s Hill was. It was covered with broken down buildings, and useless fences. The old radio tower stood near a hundred feet high. The elevation of the hill was just enough to allow a view of the town from above. Kudzu ran down a steep embankment to a small clearing with a blue street light mounted in it. There was another light and another until all the lights looked like stars, and the horizon was pink and orange and above that there were real stars and a crescent moon against a deep blue.  Molly stepped out of the car and saw a pair of panties stuck through the mesh of a fence at about eye level. She leaned against the car and the waiter joined her. She took his arm. The guy from the bar looked at the waiter and said, “Hey Gabe, do you remember where to jump this thing?”

“It’s right in front of you.”

“Oh.”

The guy looked down at the ground and picked up a roll of carpet. He unrolled it, and had Edwin help him throw it over the razor wire. He climbed over the fence, and helped Edwin over. Molly watched them stomp down the tall dead grasses around the tower. When Edwin touched the ladder at the bottom, she looked at the guy beside her.

“So you are Gabe?”

“Yeah, I’m Gabe.” Molly watched brother climbing. He was about 20 ft off the ground now.

“So, have you ever heard of a place called Monkey Island?”

“Monkey Island?”

“Yeah, Monkey Island.”

“He told you about that then?”

“Yeah, he told me about that.”

“Shit.”

Gabe  ran toward the fence. He cleared it, and started shouting up at the two guys climbing. “Hey Jinks, what are you doing?”Jenkins shouted down,

“I’m doing what we always do!”

“Not this time Jinks!”

“Not this time?”

“Not this time!”

“Bullshit! You give her the damn key.”

Gabe flicked Jenkins off, and walked back to Molly.

He handed Molly a tiny key. He said,

“Hey, I just want to say that I really like you. I really do. My buddy Jenkins just handcuffed your brother to the top of that tower. I know. I’m sorry. He’s going through a really hard time. He likes to play this game, and usually we just do it to punk kids. I don’t know how we got started on it. So you can give us all your stuff or you can climb up there yourself to get him down. I didn’t hear him tell the monkey island story, so I thought we were just going to hang out. I swear. I’m really sorry.”

Molly looked up, and Edwin was waving down amiably, handcuffed to the top of the tower, as the sky turned the same pastel of his stupid blue suit. Jenkins was smoking while he worked his way down the tower. Molly thought Jenkins looked a little like Clint Eastwood. She kicked Gabe in the balls.