New Jersey Me

by Ferguson, Rich;

  Luckily, I was present enough to point toward the wooded area beyond the circus. “We’re outta here,” I said. “It’s Miller time.”

  The girl nodded an approving cool then hurried off.

  Jimmy and I passed exhausted, mud-covered elephants. Bears, lions, and tigers huddled into cages so small they could hardly move. A few bore visible whip marks. The sight of so many animals peering at us through their prison bars, flashing tragic eyes as we passed, undazed some of our drug haze.

  “Hey,” I said. “Check it out.”

  There was a lone cage behind an empty trailer. Inside that cage, atop a skimpy bed of piss-fouled hay, sat a chimp—dusty, unkempt. Was missing some hair on his arms and head, and across his chest. Was about the size of Lancelot Link, that secret agent chimp I’d seen on TV as a kid. He stared at us with big droopy brown eyes—eyes a lot like Jimmy’s—and stuck a hairy hand through his cage bars.

  I brightened slightly. “Looks like he likes us,” I told Jimmy.

  At that moment, we knew squat about primates; we were just taking a wild guess about its sex. But over the next couple days, after plowing through some Jane Goodall books we’d borrowed from the Ocean County Library, and talking to a friend of Jimmy’s dad—the local vet, Doc Morton—we’d learn the chimp was indeed a male, about three years old, and surprisingly well-adjusted given what he’d gone through.

  When Jimmy and I reached for the chimp’s hand, he exhibited very little fear. Barely whimpered, only briefly made a pouty face.

  Jimmy handed the chimp some of his salty, sugary caramel corn. The chimp bobbed his head, grunted, begged for more.

  The more Jimmy and I fed him, the more he warmed up to us. He groomed Jimmy’s arm, my arm.

  “We should give him a name,” I said.

  In considering that one, Jimmy’s face scrunched up like a crumpled beer can. It was only when he uncrushed himself that he said: “Mr. Jeepers.”

  I repeated the name a few times aloud. Those four syllables danced between tongue and teeth. Felt and sounded like a circus in my mouth. “Sounds good,” I said.

  Once we’d handed over all the caramel corn to Mr. Jeepers, Jimmy said: “What now?”

  I eyed a tire iron leaning against another trailer’s back tire. Then I glanced around—not a carnie, human cannonball, or contortionist in sight. “Let’s take him,” I said.

  Those words flew in the face of the pet jinx Jimmy and I had repeatedly experienced when we were younger. No matter what types of pets we’d owned, no matter how well we’d cared for them, they’d always wound up belly up.

  Looking more at Mr. Jeepers than me, Jimmy said: “You sure about that?”

  I told him absolutely. Said it had been years since either of us had owned a pet. Surely we must’ve grown out of that phase. Besides, I added, jinx or no jinx we could give the chimp a way better home than these skeevy circus people. Then I grabbed the tire iron. The crowd noises and circus music were so loud I couldn't even hear the cage lock pop.

  Once I opened the door, Mr. Jeepers just stood there, wobbling slightly on his feet, and looking at us all loose-lipped. There was, however, a moment where his brow furrowed, his lips pulled back, baring teeth. At the time, I thought it meant he was pissed. But later, after going through a chimp behavior book, I’d realize it meant he was scared shitless. “Maybe we should sing to him,” I whispered. I woozily crooned Steve Miller’s “Jungle Love.”

  Jimmy joined in.

  By the time we hit the chorus we had Mr. Jeepers smacking his hands against the floor of his cage, and spitting the occasional Bronx cheer through his lips.

  “Now,” I said.

  We each grabbed a hairy arm, hoisted the chimp from his cage. Upright, he was a little over two feet. Around twenty-seven pounds I’d later learn—slightly less than a flat tire. At the time Jimmy and I were foolish enough to believe all chimps were like the trained, docile ones we’d seen on TV. We’d soon read how chimps were naturally territorial, stronger than humans comparable to their size. Given our wasted state at the circus, Mr. Jeepers could’ve easily inflicted some serious wounds. But that night, and for all our time together, the chimp remained chill.

  I grabbed Mr. Jeepers’ hand. While wrinkled and leathery in appearance, it was soft to the touch. Jimmy grasped Mr. Jeepers’ other hand. With unsteady voices we warbled through “Jungleland,” “Welcome to the Jungle,” “Bungle in the Jungle,” “Telegram Sam,” “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”—any song we could think of that had the word jungle in the lyrics as we stumbled along, not sure of where we were going, just knowing we had to stay clear of the main roads.

  We bolted along side streets dotted with vacant lots and shotgun-blasted stop signs, cars propped up on cinder blocks on dirt lawns and shabby trailer homes where no lights shined through the windows at any hour of the day. We roared past oak trees riddled by gypsy moths and dilapidated shacks where beer-guzzling Pineys lounged in easy chairs, completely mesmerized by alcohol and the TV’s dull blue flicker.

  We continued running. Breath panting. Shoes and bare feet slapping against road.

  Whenever Mr. Jeepers needed a rest, Jimmy or I would carry him in our arms. Whenever we heard a barking dog or squealing tires, the chimp would briefly hoot, holler, and latch his arms tighter around our necks. Between all our singing and gasps for air, Jimmy and I assured Mr. Jeepers everything would be okay.

  Through the streets we continued running.

  The warm and clear, pine-scented air, riddled with cricket chirps and bullfrog grunts, felt good against my face. Mosquitoes buzzed the dark like tiny winged torpedoes. From inside one of those trailer homes we passed, a radio cranked Tom Petty’s “Refugee.” Just like all those evening sounds and smells, I felt completely electric and alive.

  The three of us paused to rest in the alley behind my work—the Rainbow Casket Company, which was owned by one of my old man’s drinking buddies, Mr. Delaney. In that dreary alley, Jimmy, Mr. Jeepers, and I were blanketed mainly in shadows. Only a thin sliver of moon grinned down on us.

  Jimmy let go of the chimp’s hand so he could inspect a wadded-up Kleenex someone had tossed out in the alley. Mr. Jeepers brought that tissue to his nose, then extended it toward the night sky. He repeated the gesture, as if he were not only trying to blow his own nose, but a ghost’s nose. As he did so, I flashed on all those caskets filling the Rainbow showroom. Especially my nemesis: the child-sized Heaven-Sent. How I’d managed to spend so much time around that casket, and all the others, without slitting my wrists, was a complete mystery to me. I gave the chimp’s hand a squeeze. He glanced up at me, mimicked that squeeze.

  “Here’s the deal,” I told Jimmy. “We’ll have to keep Mr. Jeepers at your place.”

  “What about all the stuffed animals?” Jimmy asked. “Think that might freak him out?”

  I shrugged. “Not as much as a pissed-off cop.”

  We continued our singing and running through the streets, only now in the direction of Jimmy’s. As we did so, I told Jimmy that for Mr. Jeepers’ food and upkeep we’d need to kick in cash from our jobs, in addition to selling all our crappy footwear to Mad Man Milligan—a crazy local that, for years, had been buying our old socks.

  “Speaking of which,” I said. “Let’s make a pit stop.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  We ended up in a dirt lot across from Mad Man’s squat shoebox of a shack, located in a wooded area dotted with other ramshackle homes, alongside the town’s Third Lake.

  About Blackwater’s three lakes.

  The First Lake was a summer Siberia. It’s where all the overweight, zit-faced, and socially awkward orchestra and glee club geeks got stuck. Also the moms and their little runts. Every year they’d all end up with pink eye and hellacious earaches from so much rancid bacteria in the water.

  The Second Lake was a step up. There you’d get better looking peop
le. JC Penney catalog model types. Wholesome boys and girls with clear skin and all their teeth. Every so often you’d get a wild card—a bikini-clad tourist girl from out of town who didn’t know the scene.

  But the Third Lake: not only was that where Mad Man lived, but it was also the place where the slutty ex-cheerleaders, washed-up jocks, and guys like Jimmy and me hung out. Our common bond: booze and drugs. Every summer—in our weed, pill, and JD haze—we’d strut around like the beautiful Venice Beach–bronzed gods and goddesses we’d seen on TV and in the movies.

  Dotting the Third Lake’s perimeter that evening were souped-up muscle cars—Camaros, Mustangs, Pontiac GTOs—where equally muscled and tattooed dudes, along with their halter-topped and bikini-bottomed sweethearts, were either leaning against vehicles, downing brews and listening to stereos blasting classic rock, or huddled inside, making out—windows fogged.

  Since Jimmy and I had already sweated and sung out most of our drug haze from running through the streets with Mr. Jeepers, I was relatively clear-headed when I called out the title of an old Clash song: “Julie’s Been Working for the Drug Squad.” That was our signal to inform Mad Man we were ready to do business.

  Burly as Gentle Ben, he ambled out of his shack. Highlighted in the streetlight glow was his face: pockmarked as the bullet-blasted road signs lining the highway. There was also his Flock of Seagulls sweep of dyed blond hair, Magnum, P.I.–style Hawaiian shirt, Sex Pistols–style ripped and safety-pinned jeans, and Doc Marten boots.

  “Well if it ain’t The Really Wild Show meets Blackwater,” Mad Man said, eyeing Jimmy and me, then focusing on Mr. Jeepers. “What have you gents done now?”

  “We stole him from the circus,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy tailgated. “He’s our monkey, Mr. Jeepers.”

  Mad Man shook his head. “If you’re gonna keep him as a pet, Bucko, you better get it straight. He’s a chimp, not a monkey.” With a meaty hand, he clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Lots of people make that mistake.” Then Mad Man flashed a smile that accentuated the lines around his eyes—eyes as blue as the ribbon on Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. He looked at me. “How’s it hanging, Spicoli?”

  Jeff Spicoli: Sean Penn’s character from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. For years, Mad Man had said that my shaggy dirty-blond hair and spaced-out grin reminded him of that Southern California stoner.

  I motioned toward Mr. Jeepers, then said: “Looks like we might need to reestablish sock detail.”

  “Anything to help out a fellow primate,” said Mad Man. Whether due to instinct, or because he’d watched tons of nature shows, he seemed to have a natural rapport with the chimp. He knelt down, gently extended a hand. Even though that hand, along with the rest of Mad Man, reeked of spray paint, he must’ve had some strong, subliminal pheromones giving off positive vibes. Mr. Jeepers jerked free of Jimmy’s grasp, lazily extended his hand in a begging gesture toward Mad Man.

  Mad Man let Mr. Jeepers latch onto his hand, then said: “He seems pretty cool right now. Probably a little drugged. But you better be careful.” He warned us that while chimps were in the same family as us—the great apes—and that they were social creatures, and shared 96 percent of our DNA, they could still be easily angered.

  I was foolish enough to say that we had everything under control. Everything would be okay. Said Mr. Jeepers especially liked it when we sang to him. Then I added: “You know how music soothes the savage beast and all.”

  This time, Mad Man clapped me on the shoulder. “Actually, Spicoli, the phrase is ‘music has charms to soothe a savage breast.’”

  “Whatever,” I said. “Shakespeare, right?” I’d paid enough attention in high-school English to learn that he’d penned most every cool and noteworthy phrase.

  “Ehhh,” said Mad Man, sounding like a game show buzzer. “It’s actually from The Mourning Bride written by William Congreve.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Once through the door of Jimmy’s place, we were slammed by the usual olfactory stew of Ben Gay, Lysol, and stale cigarette smoke. Jimmy had grown immune to it all. As for me, while I’d hung out with him for over ten years, the stench still made my eyes water, my nose scrunch up like a piece of tossed litter. It had a similar effect on Mr. Jeepers. He alternately rubbed his nose, and swatted at the air as if trying to make those smells go away.

  Jimmy gathered the chimp into his arms and led him through the vestibule where an assortment of his dad’s bowling trophies and Korean War memorabilia lined the walls. Mr. Jeepers hooted softly and smacked his lips as he touched the gold-plated bowling trophy tops, along with the framed war certificates: US Army Korean Service and the Silver Star.

  Upon entering the living room, however, the chimp got quiet. Surrounding him was an odd assortment of stuffed animals—a sleek gray fox, a huge striped bass, a ten-point buck head, a lumbering black bear, and more—all orders that customers had never picked up from Jimmy’s dad’s taxidermy business.

  We let Mr. Jeepers roam through that quiet jungle. He did this slightly wobbly three-legged walk toward the stuffed fox. He got in its face, carefully observing its marble eyes and snarled expression. Ran a finger along the fine muscle detail Jimmy’s dad had built into the animal’s legs and back. Mr. Jeepers picked at its fur, sniffed it, licked it, murmured in its stiff raised ear.

  I motioned toward the empty reclining chair.

  Jimmy and I thought it odd. His dad was hardly ever gone. Normally, he would’ve been sitting in that recliner, watching the tube or admiring his animals. Since we’d been worrying about his health, we scoured the house. Jimmy’s mom was snoring like an asthmatic muffler in her bedroom, but no Mr. Gigliotti. At least his portable oxygen tank was also gone, so that was a relief. After we’d fed Mr. Jeepers some apple juice and celery sticks from the fridge, we carefully led him down to his new room.

  Jimmy’s basement room was a toxic waste dump, but in a good way.

  Three pot plants—Larry, Moe, and Curly—sat atop an old pool table, a constant sixer of Rolling Rock by a crappy Sears turntable, some of Jimmy’s mom’s sickly-sweet codeine cough medicine beneath his pillow, and the latest killer batch of homegrown was stashed inside the sleeve of his Tubes album, featuring the song “White Punks on Dope.” It was all right there: everything we needed to make the walls throb, the music shimmer, and the rest of the world—no matter how tragic or mundane—seem like one long, laugh-your-ass-off episode of The Three Stooges.

  Unlike those upstairs smells, the basement smells were altogether different: old bong water and Nag Champa laced with a tinge of musty basement puddles. Those smells never really bothered me. The same could be said for Mr. Jeepers. He jerked free of Jimmy’s grip, extended that hand, grabbed at the air—like he wanted to bottle those smells, take them with him everywhere.

  Jimmy sparked up a fresh stick of incense. Then he sparked up Rhiannon. That was the old dented dryer by his bed. Jimmy never used the puke-green appliance for drying clothes. He’d just turn her on for her warm, soothing white-noise song. While he did that, I cued up Pink Floyd’s Animals on the crappy Sears. “Pigs on the Wing (Part One)” scratched through the speakers.

  With our downstairs soundtrack established, Jimmy rushed back upstairs to search for his dad. I gave Mr. Jeepers a quick tour of his new home. The chimp sniffed and picked at everything: Rhiannon; the pot plants; the grow lights—two, sixty-watt bulbs clamped to busted microphone stands; the old pool table with the felt all fucked up from places where pool cue tips had repeatedly dug into it; the oddball poster collection slapped up onto cinderblock walls; the BB-cracked window looking out onto a grim, gravel lawn; the ceramic gnome whose pointy hat doubled as a coat rack; and the tower of plastic milk crates filled with a various assortment of family photos, bongs, and board games. Mr. Jeepers even explored a portion of the basement just out of reach of bare-bulb light. The spot was cold, shadowy, cobwebby. Jimmy and I
rarely hung out there. We called it The Dark Side of the Moon. That’s where his parents stored stacks of water-stained boxes stuffed with family junk, moth-bitten clothes, rusted tools, and banged-up kitchenware.

  When the tour was complete, Mr. Jeepers and I plopped down on the concrete floor right by Rhiannon. At first, the chimp was freaked by her warm white-noise hum. He’d touch the pulsating appliance with a craggy finger, then pull away. Touch, pull away. Eventually, the chimp chilled out. He groomed himself—licked his fur, picked out bits of circus dirt and debris; the whole time his jaws worked, making chewing, clicking sounds. Once done, he leaned against Rhiannon, got still and quiet. Had an elbow propped atop his knee, chin resting in hand. He was a spitting image of Rodin’s bronze sculpture—only much smaller and hairier. The chimp sat there, all dozy eyed, staring straight ahead.

  I couldn’t tell whether he was missing someone or something, wondering what to do next, or perhaps still under the effects of some mild circus tranq. I mirrored Mr. Jeepers’ pose, doing my best to remain as still and quiet as possible.

  The chimp sniffed the air between us, puckered his lips. Gradually, his dozy eyes opened into a more natural and enlivened expression. His mouth eased into a slack wide grin, bottom teeth barely showing. Later I’d learn that was his expression for Play. At the time, however, I had no idea what he was trying to tell me. I did my best to mirror his look.

  He panted, hooted. Slapped a hand against Rhiannon.

  I panted, hooted, slapped a hand against Rhiannon, too.

  Mr. Jeepers’ eyes grew as wide as the eyes on one of those wind-up, cymbal-crashing monkeys. He sprang to standing and wobbled through the room, a combination of knuckle-walking and hulking along upright.

  Around that time, Jimmy returned to the basement. He didn’t have to say a word. His wadded-up facial expression translated into: No pops.

  I did my best to take his mind off the situation. I had him join me in imitating Mr. Jeepers as he roamed through the basement. The three of us bounced up and down on Jimmy’s smooshy-springed lumpy bed, played Twister. We even rolled around on that basement floor littered with musty puddles, dust bunnies, and black smudges from where Jimmy and I had squashed out joints too tiny to smoke anymore.