Banging the Monkey

by Tod A

  “What do I know about anything? They pay me, I produce the verbiage.”

  “Yes, but couldn’t you do that from Brooklyn?”

  “Frank said he needs me there. To see the merchandise. To capture the culture, the ambiance.”

  “And what exactly is this Frank importing and exporting?”

  “Furniture. Antiques. Religious artifacts. Stuff like that.”

  “Mm-hm,” she said. “So what if you get all the way over there and it’s some kind of scam?”

  “What kind of scam?”

  “How should I know?”

  “The guy was wearing a twenty thousand dollar watch, for crying out loud. I don’t think he’s hurting for cash.”

  “Maybe he fancies you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “He was with a woman. A pretty hot one, actually.”

  “So, what’s it like, this Madu place? Tropical paradise? Cocktails on the beach? Grass skirts?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll be very happy there.”

  “I’m not exactly the happiest man in New York these days.”

  “No, you’re not, are you?” she said, looking momentarily concerned.

  She was doing well enough, without me to hold her back any longer. Thankfully, we hadn’t had any kids or much money to bicker over.

  “Look, Blake, it’s not about the job. It’s about a change. A new environment. Plus it’s a good place to finish my book.”

  “Ah, yes, the book. How’s that going?”

  “It’s coming along.”

  “Coming along how?”

  “Gradually.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know, Mark. Of course I wish you every success. But something about this thing just smells peculiar.”

  “Well, life can be peculiar sometimes, no?”

  “I suppose.” She lifted her drink and summoned a smile. “To paradise. May you live to tell the tale.”

  Blake had good reason to be skeptical. She’d been married to me, and my track record was patchy at best. Most of my efforts ended in failure. I’d begin projects but abandon them unfinished. My big mouth cost me jobs and relationships. Writing was my life, yet it never seemed to pay the bills.

  The money-gigs became fewer and farther between. I wrote every day, but had only a handful of stories to show for it. And the second novel, well, it just never came.

  My depression grew worse. My meager earnings went toward shrink bills, meds and drink. Is this how it has to be? I would ask myself. Does real art only come from suffering? Van Gogh had endured a torturous life, and now his paintings sold for millions. But Vincent never saw any of that cash. And who would have wanted to be married to him?

  In the beginning Blake had loved me, believed in me, forgiven me my faults. But I’d proved to be a classic case of squandered potential. We lurched from one financial crisis to the next, the seeds of bitterness taking root, the gulf between us growing. After a decade of diminishing returns, one morning she said we needed to talk.

  “I’m sorry, Mark, but I just can’t go on like this. I want the things that normal couples have. Vacations. Kids. All I am asking is for you to promise me that something is going to change.”

  I couldn’t blame her. But it was a promise I knew I couldn’t keep.

  “I’ve never lied to you,” I said. “I’m not going to start now.”

  “So that’s it,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s it.”

  When the catalog company laid me off and the Madu flight confirmation arrived on the same morning, I felt that fate had stepped in. I tried to push any lingering doubts to the back of my head.

  There was a lot of weight riding on this Madu job. It was my ticket out of the New York rat race, a doorway to a new life. It was my escape from America, a country that had never felt less like home. And it was a chance to prove to Blake that I still had what it took to pull through.

  I sold most of my books and records and put the rest in storage. Seven cardboard boxes held the sum of my worldly goods.

  As I packed my suitcase, my head was filled with visions of a leisurely ex-pat existence: a cushy day job, sultry evenings under the stars, a quiet bungalow where I could finally hunker down over the typewriter and produce. I was tired of being a ghost. I had found direction, my mind was focused, and I was ready to live again. I flushed all my meds down the toilet. No matter what Madu held in store for me, it would have to be better than how I was living now. What was the worst that could happen?

  I splurged on a taxi to Newark Airport, giving Bushwick the finger as I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge. On the turnpike I caught one last view of the Manhattan skyline. Downtown still looked butchered without the Twin Towers, like some legless veteran. But my spirits were high.

  I was finally cutting loose. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I was certain that the thing I sought was out there waiting for me. All I had to do was find it.

  { 3 }

  For Problem, Ring 9

  The world was sideways. For hours, the sound of waves had washed through my heavy head, a seasick sound that seeped into my dreams. In the night armored beasts had crawled from the sea to dig pits in the sand. Now something hot was rasping at my cheek, rousing me from my darkness.

  A thick pulse fluttered behind my eyes, like a bat behind a window pane. I clenched my lids to stem the tide of nausea. Again the hot flesh licked at my face. I pushed the dog away and she limped up the dune on three legs. I puked into the ashes, and fell naked back onto the sand. The world was still sideways.

  Sails drifted up the glittering vertical sea. A jet descended like a crucifix, its vapor trail wobbling in the horizontal plumes of heat. A tangle of ants danced in the dregs of the bottle. I managed to sit up. The world lurched, but this time I didn’t vomit. The horizon was back where it was supposed to be, the ocean in its proper place.

  The beach was pitted with small craters. The sea turtles had been real after all, but someone had come before dawn and dug up their eggs.

  My clothes lay strewn about, but I couldn’t see my luggage. I finally found it hidden in a thicket, and vaguely recalled stashing it there before passing out. The three-legged dog panted beside the dead fire under the morning sky.

  I staggered down to the waterline and splashed around until I sobered up, then I collapsed onto the sand and dried off in the sun. Foggy memories crept back: the drunken flight, the lost wallet, the lonely epiphany on the beach. The three-legged dog watched me all the while, her ribs rising and falling.

  It dawned on me that I was really here. Not there anymore, but here: Madu, where the sun rose over the dark mountain at my back.

  I licked my chapped lips. Rubbing the salt from my eyes, I spotted a restaurant sign about a quarter mile up the beach. I dressed, gathered my belongings, and stumbled toward it. My head was pounding. I needed fluids. The three-legged dog hopped along beside me.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, pal.”

  She wagged her tail hopefully.

  “Never seen a fool before?”

  Sweat coursed down my face as I labored down the shoreline. Possessions only weigh you down, as any mediocre guru will testify. Yet the morning air was fresh and there were no other humans in sight. I felt my spirits lifting.

  A weathered sign swung from a crooked pole at the foot of a narrow suspension bridge: ‘Cooney’s Lagoon Saloon—Drinks, Food, Music’. The bamboo bridge spanned some brackish water to a thatch-roofed building on the rocky shore. So this was a lagoon. The only one I’d ever seen was on Gilligan’s Island.

  The crippled dog dodged the bridge’s missing slats like a pro. I was a sideshow clown, balancing my bags as the cables swung woozily with my every step. Below me, five Madunese knelt at the water’s edge, setting adrift offerings. At the far side of the bridge, a few tables
and chairs stood on a parched lawn below strings of Chinese lanterns. An old boat lay belly-up in the shade of a flamboyant tree.

  I climbed the front steps and dumped my stuff on the floor. Christmas lights blinked on a bamboo bar. On the wall a beer clock was scrawled with the legend ‘Beer O’clock!’ in magic marker. I was still catching my breath when twin doors in the back wall swung open and a wiry foreigner in a faded t-shirt entered carrying a case of liquor bottles. He gave me a sidelong glance, then began putting the bottles away.

  “You look a bit worse for wear, mate. Rough night?”

  I looked down at my mud-encrusted clothes and tried to think of something to say. I felt ridiculous standing there like a half-boiled lobster.

  “You look like you could use a nice cold Oh-Cha.”

  His accent was either Australian or Kiwi—I could never tell the difference.

  “Is that beer?”

  “Only Madu’s finest.”

  I looked at my watch. It was 9 AM. Then again, it was nine at night back in Brooklyn.

  “Why not.”

  “I see you’ve met Tripod,” he said.

  The dog lay panting beside my luggage.

  “Your dog?”

  “Nah.”

  He pulled a bottle from the freezer, popped the cap, and set it on the bar with an inviting thunk. It was twice the size of the beers back home.

  “She’s just a beach dog. But very special. Watch this.”

  He crouched down and barked like a madman. Tripod jumped up and moved her jaw, but no sound came out, just a thin rasp of air. The dog was mute.

  “As if having three legs wasn’t bad enough,” I said.

  “I wish they made women like that.”

  “With three legs?”

  He laughed. “No, with the off switch.” He slid the beer toward me. “Here you go, mate. Hair of the dog.”

  I took a grateful swallow.

  “I’d join you, but it’s a bit early for me.”

  He turned and continued putting the booze away. After a few minutes he finished his chores.

  “So, where do you call home, brother?”

  “I used to live in Brooklyn. Now nowhere, I guess.”

  “Ah, the Big Apple, eh? I used to get up that way quite a bit in the old days. So what brings you to the back of beyond, then? Looks like you kipped on the beach.”

  His face was weathered like saddle leather, his hair cropped short. His eyes were bright, with a look that told you he had lived more than a little. He could have been an aging punk or an ex-marine.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  It was, and I didn’t feel like going into it. Beer tasted strange first thing in the morning, strange but good. I told myself I was toasting the start of my new life, my new-found freedom.

  “Aren’t they always,” he said.

  “I came here for work.” I took out my cigarettes and lighter and set them on the bar. “Unfortunately, the guy who hired me appears to be temporarily . . . out of town.”

  “That’s a bit rude, eh? Ring the bugger up and give him a piece of your mind.”

  “Can’t. No phone.”

  “No? Pick one up in town. Cheap as chips. Nabbed this one for a pair of tenners. Typical Chinese shit, of course, but I’m always dropping ‘em into the fucking lagoon.” He spun the mobile around on the bar. “Anyway, don’t you worry. Plenty of opportunities on this rock for a man with a little piss and vinegar. What you do, then?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Ah, a journo.”

  “No. Books.”

  “Oh, a literary man. Write anything I might have heard of?”

  “I doubt it. I have more of a cult following, I guess.”

  “What, like Dianetics or something?”

  I laughed. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Thank fuck. Those people give me the Fear.” He grinned and stuck out his hand. “Cooney.”

  “Mark.”

  “Mind if I have one of these?” he asked, tapping my pack of Chesterfields.

  “Help yourself. I picked up a few cartons at Duty Free in Singapore.”

  “Thanks, mate. I quit last year. But you don’t see one of these darlings around here every day,” he said, sniffing it like a fine cigar.

  “So you quit buying them, you mean.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he laughed. “Actually, the wife badgered me into it.”

  He lit up and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

  “Well, whatever works for you.” I lit one myself. “I gave up the wife instead.”

  He laughed. “Me too. Eventually.”

  “Hey, you don’t do anything like breakfast here, do you? I’m starving,” I said.

  “Maday does a very nice Nasi Goreng.”

  “Does it involve eggs?”

  “It certainly does, mate.”

  “I’m in.”

  He shouted something in Madunese over his shoulder. A face appeared from behind the kitchen door.

  “Maday, one Nasi Goreng for our friend, please.”

  Maday gave me a big smile, then disappeared back into the kitchen. I soon heard the sounds of chopping and sizzling. Cooney flicked a switch and Hound Dog Taylor came on the jukebox.

  Cooney sang along tunelessly. “Give me back my wig! Honey now let your head go bald!”

  “So what about you?” I asked. “How did you wind up on Madu?”

  “Eh, I reckon I just washed up here same as the rest of ‘em.” He spat into the sink. “But to quote the noted British philosopher Steve Jones, I stuck around for the booze and the birds.”

  Cooney was the kind of guy who was good at getting you to talk about yourself without ever revealing too much about himself in the process. Yet I was able to glean that he was from someplace called Port Broughton, a podunk fishing village not far from Adelaide. After many years as a yacht captain in the Caribbean he’d grown weary of it, sold his boat, and bought this plot of land. He’d built the bar and the bungalow behind it himself.

  Maday brought out my plate: fried rice with an egg on top. I tucked into it like a prisoner.

  “Yeah, me and boats are quits,” Cooney said. “Too much bloody maintenance. Worse than a woman.”

  And then the world wobbled.

  Tripod leaped from the floor and tensed on her three legs, expelling gasps of air. The floor shimmied underfoot, as if the ground had turned to Jell-O. Maday burst from the kitchen banging on a pan. Bottles swayed on the shelf behind the bar. One toppled off, but Cooney caught it with a deft lunge. The building leaned and creaked and juddered, then came to rest. All was quiet again, save for the barking of the local dogs.

  “What the fuck was that?” I breathed.

  “Ah, that was just a baby,” Cooney said. “Happen all the time here. Welcome to the Ring of Fire.”

  Maday smiled at me and retired to the kitchen.

  “Wow,” I said. “That was, I don’t know. I’ve never been through an earthquake before.”

  “Wait till you feel a big mother.”

  “I can wait,” I said. “Why was he banging that pot?”

  “Scares away the evil spirits.” He winked. “Well, no rest for the wicked. Feel free to use me mobile if you want to try and track down your boss. As long as you’re not ringing Burma or something.” The kitchen doors swung behind him.

  I picked up his mobile and punched in the number printed on Frank’s business card, but reached only an answering machine at the Naga office. I left a message and put down the phone.

  “Shit.”

  Last night’s euphoria had receded with the tide. I was homeless, nearly penniless, and without any proof of identity. I needed to find somewhere to hole up until Frank surfaced. I needed to call the taxi companies to see if someone had turned in my wallet.
I needed to find the US consulate and report my missing passport. I needed to do a lot of things.

  Cooney came out with a case of red pepper sauce and set it on the bar.

  “Not to break up the party, but I’ve got to run a few errands in town. We don’t usually open till noon, but you looked like you could use some sustenance.”

  “Thanks, man. What do I owe you?”

  “You can settle with Maday,” he said. “I’m off. Good luck.”

  I heard him kick his motorbike to life, and the chainsaw-whine of the engine disappearing up the gravel road.

  Maday returned and placed my bill on the bar. It was nothing, just a couple of bucks. Lucky for me this country was cheap. All I had to live on was the wad of rupees in my pocket, and it wouldn’t last forever.

  I asked Maday if he could call me a taxi. Just then the Christmas lights went out and the music stopped: another power outage.

  “No electric city,” Maday said, smiling.

  A wisp of steam rose from the mountain like smoke from a smoldering cigarette.

  Lucky Luxury Guesthouse stank of fish, mildew and stale sweat—not an olfactory combination I would recommend. To add insult to injury, their only vacancy was the Emperor Suite. It cost forty-five bucks a night, an outrageous rate on Madu. But all the other hotels were full and it was getting dark.

  I’d been riding around for hours in the back of a moto-rickshaw, getting turned away at every establishment. It was a bank holiday weekend, and the hotels were packed with families from Jakarta and Singapore, all come over for a little fun in the sun.

  I didn’t relish the idea of sleeping on the beach again, so I paid what the man asked. In return I got purple walls, faux-Greek columns, air conditioning, and satellite TV. I’d try to find a cheaper place tomorrow.

  I’d wasted most of the day in search of my wallet, in the misguided hope that my taxi driver had been an honest man and turned it in. I couldn’t remember the name of the taxi company, so I’d tried them all: Lucky Taxi, Black Bird, Chung’s, all to no avail.

  Giving up, I bought a prepaid mobile, then called my bank in New York and canceled my ATM card. Finding a room had killed the rest of the day.

  I switched on the TV, flipping through commercials for instant noodles and skin-lightener as I sipped my complimentary Oh-Cha.