Summer of the Monkeys

by Wilson Rawls

  Daisy giggled again and said, “Jay Berry, if I see anything like that, I won’t only be surprised, I’ll probably faint.”

  “You had just as well start fainting then,” I said, “because you’re going to see it all right.”

  I wanted to get away from Daisy as soon as I could, but I lost a good thirty minutes having another go-around with Rowdy. He had followed me for a little way, but when he saw that I was going toward the bottoms he sat down on his rear and refused to come along.

  I tried scolding and shaming him at first but it did no good. Rowdy just ducked his head and wouldn’t even look at me. Then I tried sweet-talking him into going with me but he wouldn’t budge an inch. I got around behind him, lifted up his rear end, and tried pushing him. This didn’t work either because Rowdy just simply lay down.

  I had one trick left and it was a good one because it had never failed. I sat down, buried my face in my arms, and made a lot of choking, sobbing sounds like I was crying. Rowdy couldn’t stand this. He came over, whimpering and whining and licking me all over. I loved him up a little, got to my feet, and walked on. Rowdy came along, but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead of staying in front of me, he stayed behind with his tail between his legs.

  I always felt guilty fooling my old dog that way, but the idea of going anywhere close to those monkeys without him was something I wouldn’t even consider.

  I waited until I was a good way into the bottoms before I started my monkey calling. Taking an apple from my pocket, I held it out in front of me and called, “Here, Jimbo! Come on, boy! I have an apple for you.”

  I never felt so silly in all my life. I was blushing all over and could almost feel a hundred people watching me.

  Not seeing or hearing anything, I walked a little way on the game trail, stopped, and started calling again. “Here, Jimbo! Where are you, boy? Come on now!”

  The only thing my calling attracted that time was an old hog that nearly scared me to death. With a loud grunt, he took off through the bottoms, popping the brush.

  “Rowdy,” I said, in a quavering voice, “what’s the matter with that crazy old hog? He must think I’m a bear or something.”

  Grumbling to myself about how scary hogs were, I walked on a little way, stopped, and started calling again. “Come on, Jimbo! I’m over here! Come on now!”

  Rowdy couldn’t understand what was going on. He knew that I was calling something, but I wasn’t using his name, and he was all mixed up. On hearing him whimper, I looked behind me and saw him sitting on his rear in the game trail, with his ears standing straight up, looking at me with a puzzled expression in his friendly old eyes.

  Still burned up about that old hog scaring me, I said, “Rowdy, if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll send you to the house. It may sound crazy to you, but I’m calling a monkey and I don’t know any other way to call one.”

  I was walking along; calling, looking, and listening for monkeys when all at once I smelled something. It was a sweet-sour odor, and I recognized it right away, for I had smelled it before. Somewhere close by there was a whiskey still, and what I was smelling was the odor of fermenting sour mash.

  “Rowdy,” I said, “some moonshiners have set up a whiskey still down here in the bottoms. I bet it belongs to those Gravely boys. They couldn’t sleep good if they didn’t have an old whiskey still stuck around somewhere.”

  I had found several stills while prowling the hills and river bottoms, but I always kept my mouth shut about finding them. I had learned that it wasn’t a good idea for anyone to start blabbing about the location of a whiskey still. The moonshiners didn’t like it at all. I always figured that I had enough trouble of my own, and didn’t care to have a bunch of moonshiners chasing me all over the country.

  I was standing there, sniffing the air to locate the direction of the whiskey still so I could stay away from it, when I heard that Jimbo monkey let out a loud squall. Then I heard the little monkeys screeching and chattering, and making all kinds of racket.

  “Listen to that, Rowdy,” I said. “That’s the most noise I’ve heard those monkeys make. They must really be having a good time. I wonder what they are doing now.”

  Leaving the game trail, I started picking my way through the underbrush in the direction of the commotion. As I walked along, I noticed that the odor of whiskey mash was getting stronger and stronger.

  I found the monkeys and the whiskey still at the same time. I was so shocked by what I saw I dropped the apple I was holding in my hand. I just stood there with my mouth open, looking things over, and trying to figure out what was going on.

  Jimbo was standing up close to a mash barrel with a tin can in one paw and holding onto the rim of the barrel with the other paw. He was looking straight at us and didn’t seem to be either mad or scared.

  Taking my eyes off Jimbo, I looked at the little monkeys. They were milling around the whiskey still: screeching, chattering, and chasing each other. They seemed to be having a lot of fun. Some were lying on the ground, rolling over and over, and kicking up the dust. They didn’t seem to care the least bit about Rowdy and me being there.

  “Rowdy,” I whispered, “there’s something wrong with these monkeys. They’re not acting right.”

  Just then one little monkey, no bigger than a small cat, climbed up onto the rim of a mash barrel. He stood there for a second squealing his head off; then he leaned over, and kerplunk, he fell in the barrel.

  This scared me, because I could just see a two dollar bill drowning itself in a whiskey mash barrel. I was just about to dash over and lend the little fellow a helping hand when Jimbo let out a squall, darted over to the barrel, reached in with his long arm, caught the little monkey by the scruff of his neck, lifted him out, and set him down on the ground.

  The little monkey was a mess. He was sopping wet and covered with foam from the fermenting mash. Immediately about a dozen other monkeys darted over and started licking him all over. The little fellow just squatted there on the ground, all humped up, with his eyes closed, and let the other monkeys lick away.

  I was laughing and watching what was going on when I realized why the monkeys were acting so strangely.

  “Holy smokes, Rowdy,” I said, “no wonder these monkeys are acting so funny. They’ve been drinking that sour mash and they’re all drunk. Look at them.”

  I wasn’t too surprised, because I knew that practically all animals were fond of the stuff that went into the making of sour mash.

  Rowdy was watching the monkeys and I could tell by his actions that no matter if they were drunk or sober, he wasn’t having anything to do with them.

  Picking up the apple I had dropped, I said, “Rowdy, you stay here. I’m going to see if I can’t make friends with Jimbo. But I’ll tell you one thing, if those monkeys jump on me and you run out on me, I’ll make you sleep in the corn crib with Daisy’s cats for ninety days and nights.”

  Rowdy couldn’t get along with cats at all.

  Holding the apple out toward Jimbo, I took a few steps and said, “Come on, Jimbo. Look what I’ve brought you. Come on now. Let’s be friends.”

  Jimbo didn’t make a move. He just stood there, holding the tin can in his paw, blinking his eyes, looking first at me and then the apple.

  I was so scared I was shaking like a corn tassel in a high wind. If Jimbo had opened his big mouth and jumped at me, I would have fainted dead away. But I had the feeling that he had recognized his name and was more curious than mad.

  Taking a few more steps toward him, I said, “Come on, Jimbo. Here’s an apple for you. Come on now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  That time I got a little reaction out of Jimbo. Bouncing up and down on his short stubby legs, he pushed out his rubbery lips into the shape of an “o” and grunted at me a few times.

  I smiled and said, “I don’t know what you’re saying, Jimbo, but whatever it is, it sounds all right to me. Just don’t get mad now and everything will be all right.”

  With my con
fidence built up, I eased over quite close to Jimbo, held the apple out to him, and said, “Look what I brought you, Jimbo. Come on now, let’s stop fighting each other and be friends. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  As if he were trying to read my mind, Jimbo just stood there with no expression at all on his face, looking me straight in the eye. Then, dropping the tin can he was holding in his paw, he reached over and took the apple from my hand. I wouldn’t have been more pleased if I had found a bottle with a genie in it.

  All the time that Jimbo was eating the apple, I kept talking to him. I told him what a smart monkey he was and how much I’d like to be his friend.

  Because I had given him an apple Jimbo decided that he wanted to give me something. Picking up the tin can, he reached down in a barrel, filled it full of sour mash, and offered it to me.

  I smiled and said, “That’s all right, Jimbo. You don’t owe me a thing. Besides, I don’t think I’d like that stuff.”

  My refusing to take the can of sour mash made Jimbo madder than I had ever seen him. He threw the can to the ground and started grunting, squalling, and bouncing all over the place. Then he started throwing sticks and dirt at me; and everything else he could get his paws on.

  Some of the little monkeys came over to show their dislike of me. They stood up on their skinny hind legs; screeching and chattering, and showing their teeth. By refusing Jimbo’s offering of sour mash, you would have thought that I had committed the one sin that was unforgivable by all monkeys.

  I backed off to one side and waited until the monkeys quieted down a little. Then I started talking to Jimbo again.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting mad for, Jimbo,” I said. “I didn’t do anything. Come on now, let’s not fight each other. Let’s be friends.”

  There was one thing I could say for Jimbo, he had an awful lot of determination. He picked up the can, filled it full of sour mash, and again offered it to me.

  I would no more have refused the can of sour mash that time than Santa Claus would have whipped one of his reindeer. The last thing in the world that I wanted to do was to make Jimbo mad. I didn’t figure that I would have to drink it anyway. I figured that if I took it, Jimbo would be satisfied, and everything would be all right.

  How wrong I was. Jimbo didn’t seem to like the idea of my just standing there, holding the can of mash in my hand. He started getting mad again. Looking me straight in the eye, and waving his long arms in the air, he started grunting and squalling.

  It was plain to see that he wanted me to drink some of the stuff.

  “All right, all right, Jimbo!” I said in desperation. “Don’t get mad again. If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll have a little drink with you.”

  I tipped the can up and took a couple of swallows.

  Jimbo couldn’t have been any more pleased than he would have been if he had just found a bushel of apples. He grunted, clapped his paws, and turned a few somersaults.

  At first, the sour mash tasted so nasty I thought I was going to get sick. Then all at once it didn’t taste so nasty any more. My tongue and throat started tingling and tickling, and my stomach got as warm as eggs in an incubator. I burped a couple of times and said to no one in particular, “Well, what do you know! That stuff doesn’t taste half as bad as I thought it would.”

  I sat down on a stump, tipped the can up again, and took about three swallows that time.

  From the brush where he was hiding, Rowdy could see that I was getting along all right with the monkeys. He came crawling out of the brush on his stomach, heading straight for me. He always was jealous if I talked to or petted any kind of an animal. He couldn’t even stand to see me petting an old hog, or a cat.

  I held my breath and watched to see what the monkeys would do. They kept their eyes on Rowdy, but made no effort to jump on him.

  In every way that he could, Rowdy was showing those monkeys that he was the friendliest hound dog in the world. His long tail was fanning the air, and he was whimpering and inching along on the ground, one foot at a time. He was a very pleased dog when he finally made it over to me all in one piece and sat down by my side.

  To show Rowdy that he also wanted to be his friend, Jimbo found another can, filled it full of sour mash, and set it down on the ground right in front of his nose.

  Rowdy always did figure that anything I ate or drank was plenty good enough for him. He leaned over and stuck the tip of his long pink tongue into the sour mash and then looked at me.

  “You see, Rowdy,” I said, “that stuff doesn’t taste half bad, does it? Go ahead and help yourself.”

  Rowdy must have liked the taste of sour mash, for he lapped up the whole can. Jimbo was the best bartender that ever was. Every time our cans were emptied, he saw to it that they were filled again.

  By this time I was feeling so good I wanted to sing. Waving the can of sour mash and tapping the ground with my foot, I sang all the songs I knew and made up a few more.

  Because I was singing, Rowdy decided that he, too, would sing a little. Lifting his old head high in the air, he started howling a hound-dog tune.

  Not to be left out of any of the merrymaking, the monkeys gathered around us, screeching and chattering. Jimbo danced all over the place, clapping his paws, squalling, grunting, and turning somersaults.

  The first thing I knew, monkeys were climbing all over me. They poked around in my ears with tickly little fingers, explored my eyes, nose, and mouth. I had a giggling fit when they ran their arms down the back of my shirt.

  Rowdy was going through the same thing I was. Monkeys were all around him, looking through the hair on his body as if they were searching for fleas. They lifted up his long floppy ears and peered down in them. They played with his tail, crawled upon his back, lifted up his lips, and inspected his teeth.

  Rowdy was really enjoying his new-found friends. With friendly whimpers, he was lapping every monkey he could reach with his long pink tongue.

  I never knew when I went to sleep, but I sure knew when I woke up. It was late in the evening and I was as cold as a bullfrog. My stomach felt as if I had swallowed a handful of cockleburs and I was sicker than I had ever been in my life. My head felt as big as a wagon wheel. It was pounding and throbbing, and felt like it was going to split wide open any second.

  I couldn’t see very well and what I could see seemed to be all out of focus. There must have been a hundred different trees in the bottoms but they all looked alike to me. Every one of them was leaning way over—sideways.

  I thought that if I could close my eyes and give my head a good shake it might straighten things out a little. I tried it and squalled like a stepped-on cat with the pain. My head felt as if it had exploded, and I was sure that my eyeballs had popped right out onto the ground.

  I couldn’t understand why I was so cold. My teeth were chattering and I had goose bumps all over me. When I finally did discover why I was so cold, I jumped straight up and hollered in a loud voice, “Hey, my britches are gone!”

  I still had my shirt and shorts but that didn’t cover up very much of me because Mama never did make my shirts long enough. I looked all around for my britches, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  Rowdy was lying on the ground about five feet away, sound asleep.

  “Rowdy!” I said in a loud voice. “Wake up! You’re a heck of a watchdog. You laid there sound asleep, and let someone steal my britches. Wake up now, and help me find them before someone sees me like this.”

  Rowdy got to his feet, but then he just groaned and lay down again. He didn’t seem to care if I found my britches or not.

  “I know you’re sick, Rowdy,” I said, “but you’re not any sicker than I am. Now you get up from there, and help me find my britches. It’ll soon be dark and I can’t be running around in these bottoms half naked like this.”

  Rowdy got to his feet again but made no effort to walk. He just stood there, stiff as a board, with his head down, and his legs spraddled out.

  I
started over to see if I could help him, but something went wrong. I couldn’t seem to walk straight, and kept angling off to one side. I missed Rowdy by a good five feet, and had to grab hold of a sapling to keep from falling down. I was drunk and that’s all there was to it.

  After a lot of grunting and whimpering, Rowdy got his feet to working and started over to see if he could help me a little. But he seemed to be in about the same shape I was in. He wobbled all over the place and his rear end kept trying to get ahead of his front end.

  “Boy, Rowdy,” I said, holding my throbbing head in my hands, “I didn’t know that sour mash would make a fellow like this. I thought it had to be made into whiskey first before it could make you drunk.”

  I had forgotten all about the monkeys, and when they did cross my mind, I started looking for them. I looked all around the whiskey still and up in the trees but there wasn’t a monkey around. It was so still in the bottoms that all I could hear was the gurgling of sour mash fermenting in the barrels. The very sound of that stuff gurgling made me sicker than ever.

  “Rowdy,” I said, “I can’t understand where my britches went. I don’t think anyone would want them because they were patched all over. I wonder if that Jimbo monkey took them off me and ran away with them. I’ll bet anything, that’s what happened. Now I know why he kept pouring that sour mash down us. He wanted to get us drunk so he could take my britches.”

  Up until that time I hadn’t given much thought about how I was going to explain to Mama about losing my britches. When I did think about it, I got really shook up. There just wasn’t any way that I could explain anything like that to Mama.

  As far back as I could remember, Rowdy and I had run along those game trails like two wild deer. But on that day, the trail didn’t seem to be any bigger than a twine string. The only way I could stay on it was by holding to the bushes on each side.

  Rowdy was behind me and was having all kinds of trouble. He just couldn’t seem to keep himself pointed in the right direction.

  We finally made it to the rail fence around our field and there we ran into another problem. Rowdy and I had jumped that old rail fence a thousand times, but that day the fence looked like it was twenty feet high.