New Jersey Me

by Ferguson, Rich;

  Doc Morton’s voice was as rough as a potholed road. But whenever he spoke with animals, it was placid as the Third Lake on a calm day. “Howya doin’, little fellah?” he said to Mr. Jeepers. He carefully extended a meaty index finger.

  With most pets I’d had in the past, they all would’ve been cowering, whimpering, or trying to bolt for the door. To them, vet equaled death. But that wasn’t the case with Mr. Jeepers. He leaned forward, sniffed Doc Morton’s finger. Then he reached for the stethoscope hanging from the vet’s neck. He sniffed that, too. Then he bobbed up and down in his seat, hooting delightedly.

  “There you go, little fellah,” Doc Morton said. “You got good taste in humans.” The vet grabbed a clipboard from his desk, swiped a black pen from his lab coat pocket. That coat was so well starched it rustled every time he moved. In that harsh voice of his, Doc Morton asked Jimmy and me to join him at the table. He noticed our bedraggled appearance—our rumpled clothes and weary eyes. “Looks like you two soldiers had a wild night,” he said.

  Jimmy and I looked at one another, then back at the vet, and nodded.

  He then asked how we got the chimp.

  Jimmy and I tag-teamed, going back and forth, recounting the story. When one of us forgot a detail, the other would jump in and complete it, then add a new detail, or part of one. The other one of us would then complete that detail and move the story forward. It went back and forth like that until we’d assembled all those pieces into a complete picture.

  Instead of lecturing us like I thought he would, Doc Morton said: “I might’ve done something like that when I was your age.”

  He ran some basic tests on Mr. Jeepers: took his temperature, checked his heart rate, and pupil response. After each test, he’d click that black pen of his a few times, then jot down notes and check various boxes on an intake form attached to his clipboard.

  The whole time, Mr. Jeepers sat patiently on the exam table—alternately looking at Doc Morton, then at Jimmy, then his dad, then me, then back at the vet—all the while, gently hooting, making kissing sounds, and occasionally playing with his toes. He barely flinched when Doc Morton drew blood.

  “I won’t be able to test it here,” the vet said. “I’ll have to send it out.”

  The last thing Mr. Gigliotti wanted right then was to have his name associated with a stolen chimp—especially if the Wilbur Brothers ended up filing a missing animal report with the police department.

  Doc Morton placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Frank. I’ll have a zoo vet buddy take care of it. It’ll all be hush hush.”

  As Doc Morton continued examining Mr. Jeepers, that lab coat of his rustling, he asked Jimmy and me more questions. Stuff like: “What did Mr. Jeepers look like when you found him?” “What was his health like?” “Did he seem happy?” “Did he exhibit any odd conduct?”

  Again, Jimmy and I tag-teamed: “The chimp was dirty…” “He seemed kinda out of it, like maybe a little drugged…” “He was wobbling on his feet…” “He wasn’t vicious…” “He seemed friendly…” “No weird behavior.”

  Based on our responses, Doc Morton said that the circus workers had probably given the chimp a mild sedative, which had probably worked to our advantage when kidnapping Mr. Jeepers. “From what I see so far,” he continued, “your chimp seems to be in decent spirits and exhibits no real injuries.”

  It was when Doc Morton said that last word that I flashed on his Purple Heart certificate. I knew Mr. Gigliotti was involved with it on account of his Silver Star displayed in his hallway at home. But whenever I’d asked Mr. Gigliotti about that award, or any of his other ones, he’d only offer up so much information, then deflect. Why dredge up old war stories, he’d always say, when there are so many brave people all around us—doctors, nurses, power plant workers—fighting their own battles every day, so we can live a little better. Referring to that Purple Heart, I asked Doc Morton to tell the whole story.

  He took a break from examining Mr. Jeepers, motioned toward Jimmy’s dad. “If it weren’t for this brave man, I wouldn’t even be here to tell it.”

  Mr. Gigliotti waved away Doc Morton’s commendation. “Aww, Doc, you always do this. It was nothing, really. You would’ve done the same for me.” He leaned against the sunshine-yellow wall. His hands remained shoved deep in his overall pockets, his eyes on the drab gray floor, as Doc Morton recounted the incident.

  “In the spring and summer of 1953,” the vet began, “the Americans, along with the Chinese and Koreans, were negotiating a peace treaty. That’s when Pork Chop Hill happened.” He explained how on July ninth and tenth, the Chinese divisions were engaged in battle. So was the Seventh Division. But on the morning of July eleventh, a US commander decided to abandon Pork Chop Hill. He withdrew his troops under heavy gunfire. That’s when Doc Morton took a .30-caliber bullet to the leg. Luckily Jimmy’s dad came along, dragged the vet to safety. That’s when Doc Morton pressed pause on his story. He shook his head; his voice grew soft and somber. “So many good men killed for a lousy nine-hundred-and-eighty feet of land,” he said. His already weathered face wilted even more when he added: “So strange people call the Korean War a forgotten war. I can’t forget it at all.”

  Jimmy and I had no idea what to say after something like that.

  The same could be said for Mr. Jeepers. He sat motionless on the exam table, regarding Doc Morton with those huge, soulful eyes of his.

  Mr. Gigliotti was actually the one that brought some life back to the room. For a change, he served up his own war memory. “Pork Chop Hill wasn’t the literal translation of the Korean name for that hill, ain’t that right, Doc?”

  As Doc Morton considered that one, an easy smile slinked across his face. He stuck out a thick index finger, lightly tapped Mr. Jeepers on the nose.

  The chimp swayed side to side, then rolled onto his back and waggled his wrinkled feet in the air.

  “Go ahead,” said Jimmy’s dad. “Tell the boys about it.”

  Doc Morton explained how Pork Chop Hill had sounded a lot like the Korean phrase—bok jop hae—which meant it’s complicated. “That’s what the Korean officers would say when referring to the situation on Hill 255,” the vet said. “‘It’s complicated.’”

  The two war buddies—not bitter about the past, just grateful to be alive and going about their business—had a good laugh over that one. Then they got quiet.

  Doc Morton went back to observing Mr. Jeepers. As he checked the chimp’s reflexes and limb range of motion, he asked: “How’s the cancer these days, Frank?”

  Jimmy’s dad thought about that one, then said: “Bok jop hae.” He launched off a sly grin, then his tone grew more serious. “I think I got it on the run.”

  “Good to hear,” said Doc Morton. “What about your animals?”

  Mr. Gigliotti shrugged. “A little here and there. What about yours?”

  “Saving Blackwater’s finest one dog, cat, and chimp at a time.” Doc Morton tickled Mr. Jeepers’ belly. The chimp brought his knees into his chest, extended his arms, tried tickling back.

  Once Doc Morton had completed his tests, he concluded that, while circus life had left Mr. Jeepers a little rougher for the wear, he at least seemed to be in fairly decent health and spirits. “But we won’t know everything until we get the blood work back,” he said. Again, he noted my rumpled appearance, Jimmy’s too. Raised right eyebrow, wrinkle farm. “I get it, you boys wanting to help an animal in distress. But chimps aren’t like the ones you see on TV.” The vet related how primates are incredibly strong and fast and can easily overpower humans. “If you’re going to keep him,” the vet continued, “you better get some books and do your homework. Think you’re ready?”

  Jimmy and I weren’t so much concerned about Mr. Jeepers flipping out on us. We were more worried about him falling prey to our pet jinx. Jimmy flashed me a look. Code for: Maybe this wasn’t such a good id
ea. As for me, I figured since we’d dodged that sneeze scare, we were golden. I flashed my own look: Don’t sweat it. We’ve outgrown it. Then I glanced over at Doc Morton. “Absolutely,” I said.

  The vet advised us that we should start with simple things like bedding: hay perhaps, shredded-up newspapers and magazines could work, too. Also plenty of mental, physical, and visual stimulation: TV, games, running around, placing the chimp’s cage near a window. And make sure he gets plenty of fluids: water or fruit drinks. Don’t forget food: stuff like fruits, vegetables, seeds, and nuts. Beyond that, Doc Morton said he’d make a few calls, see what additional advice he could offer.

  Once we’d scooped up Mr. Jeepers, had given our thanks, and were heading for the door, the vet said to Jimmy and me: “Let’s hope this fellah lives a long and happy life.”

  Chapter 30

  That phrase, “It’s complicated,” could sum up so many areas of my life. It could also sum up my next seventy-two hours, in a big way.

  Immediately following that vet visit, Jimmy, his dad, and I drove around, gathering up chimp books from the library, along with hay, a cage, and other supplies from various businesses. Then, Jimmy and I left his dad and Mr. Jeepers in the car, while we bolted inside Shop-Rite supermarket.

  That Friday afternoon—like most Friday afternoons—the usual Blackwater party crowd was stocking up for the weekend: teenaged and twenty-something guys decked out in Smokey and the Bandit-era trucker caps, biker jackets, ripped jeans, and Springsteen facial hair circa Born to Run. With them were pale, doughy girls sporting equally ripped jeans, Doc Martens, feathered hair, flannel shirts, and wasted, unfocused eyes. The store’s fluorescent lights offered an additional creepozoid effect, made everyone look like they’d taken an injection of plutonium straight to the heart.

  Jimmy and I made a beeline for the fruit section. We tossed apples, bananas, and melons into our shopping cart.

  Once we encountered the coconuts, I was reminded of that Webster’s word I’d learned while cruising the dictionary at work—hubble-bubble. One would expect that since Jimmy and I were new parents, we’d put aside all our partying, at least for the time being, and get serious about life. Maybe it was our lack of sleep, or our inability to completely shake our old numbskulled ways, but once I told Jimmy that story about coconut bongs, he was sold. We tossed four into our cart.

  Armed with all our supplies, we waited in line behind a couple of customers buying dog food, Preparation H, Liquid Plumber, TP, and Miller Tall Boys. Inching our way closer to the cashier, Jimmy whispered in my ear: “Check her out. She’s hot.”

  “But I didn’t think you liked—”

  Jimmy shrugged. “A guy can change his mind.”

  What was even more surprising than his sexual reorientation was the cashier. Whether due to my exhaustion or the harsh fluorescent lights, she seemed a mess to me. Her furrowed brow, extra junk in the trunk, and eyes as crazed and off-kilter as a turbot fish I’d seen in the Ts of Webster’s gave her that all-too familiar look of still another recent Blackwater High School graduate, already ruined by the radioactive real world. Add to that: her hair was an auburn wrecking yard. Her mouth: crammed with braces. Her face: a billboard for acne. Just below that face—which resembled so many of the faces that hung out at the First Lake every summer—on a polyester-shirted chest that looked to be about a 28A, she wore the nametag Marlene. That was a name that sounded like a type of fake butter or feminine hygiene product. I leaned into Jimmy. “I dunno,” I said loud enough so he could hear me over the store’s Muzak version of “Lost in Love.” “If you’re gonna go girl hunting, I think you can do better.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “You’re dumber than a Jackson White.”

  The Jackson Whites were a group of outcasts living up in the Ramapo Mountains. Jersey lore had it that, as far back as the Revolutionary War, they’d been the descendants of crazed Indians, escaped slaves, Hessian deserters, and prostitutes, which, over time, had been inbred to the point of mutation.

  “You’re the Idiot Wind,” I shot back. “Either that or you’re blind, stoned, or both.”

  Up close, though, I realized Marlene was pretty hot. Definitely Second Lake material. Possibly even Third, depending on her partying skills. She was clean-cut Sears catalogue model-type, crossed with extra sassy Tiger Beat. Fair skin. Clear brown eyes. And her breasts: they’d grown to 32Cs. Her auburn hair: straighter, more lustrous. The acne: mostly freckles. The junk in the trunk: chalk it up to a brush and a wad of keys in her back pockets. And when she smiled, she didn’t bother concealing her braces. All that perk and self-confidence was light-years beyond most local girls. Had I been alone, I would’ve hit on her. But since Jimmy saw her first, he had squatter’s rights. I grabbed him by his shirt, yanked him in front of me. “Marlene, I’d like you to meet Jimmy. Jimmy, Marlene.”

  Marlene didn’t seem to mind our rumpled appearance. She giggled. Had you frozen the moment it could’ve been her cheery high school graduation photo. “Glad to meet you,” she squeaked. She began ringing us up, her shimmering red lips quietly counting as she pushed the repeat button on the cash register.

  “By the way,” I said, wanting to speed things up in the Let’s Get It On Department, “Jimmy thinks you’re cute, Marlene.”

  “Shut up,” Jimmy said, punching me in the arm. “No I don’t.” He glanced at Marlene, then down at his checkered Vans, fidgeting about.

  “Then what?” Marlene said, glancing up from the cash register keys. “You don’t?”

  “Don’t what?” Jimmy said to his sneakers.

  “Think I’m cute,” said Marlene.

  Jimmy’s brow scrunched so that his two dark eyebrows drew close like two little furry beasts kissing. “No…I mean yeah,” he mumbled.

  Marlene blushed. Her face was a freckle-faced time bomb. She began bagging all the fruits. Referring to the coconuts, she asked: “You guys going to a luau?”

  “That’s way too upscale for Blackwater,” I replied.

  “Easy,” said Marlene. “The town ain’t that bad.” The way she spoke—it wasn’t so much out of ignorance or blind admiration. It was more like she could find something good in even the worst situation.

  I put that to the test. “Name one thing not so bad about it.”

  Marlene mulled it over, then offered: “Well, you guys are here. And you seem okay.”

  Now I was the one to blush. I grabbed a coconut, tossed it from hand to hand. “We’ve got a new pet chimp. Ain’t that right, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy—all stoner-dozy eyes, tousled mop of dark hair, and baby-faced looks slowly crawling toward manhood—nodded dreamily then shook his head.

  “You’re so wasted,” Marlene chirped. She flashed a bracey-bright smile, then said: “Are you serious? An actual chimp? Like a real one?”

  Jimmy brushed a sweep of curls from his eyes. “His name’s Mr. Jeepers.”

  Just then, some skinny dude in ripped jeans and a Harley T-shirt got behind us in line. He was armed with a quart of JD, a six-pack of Schlitz, and breath that smelled like old cat litter. Suffering that breath, I leaned in close, and said: “Go to the other line, will ya. I’m trying to help my friend score.”

  Mr. Cat Litter Breath flashed a right on, bro look and took off.

  As Marlene continued bagging everything, she asked: “Can your chimp open the coconuts, or do you?”

  Still looking more at his shoes than her, Jimmy responded: “Oh…those are for hubble-bubbles. Something we got from the dictionary.”

  Before Jimmy could continue, Marlene interjected: “You read the dictionary?”

  Not sure whether to feel proud or ashamed, Jimmy didn’t respond.

  Marlene offered another silvery smile. “That’s so cool. I do that, too.”

  Jimmy looked at me.

  I smiled a: See, I told you words could help set
you free.

  He turned back to Marlene, looked her straight in the eye. In that one moment, he possessed more confidence than he ever had in his entire life. “Do you know what it means?” he asked. “Hubble-bubble?”

  When Marlene said she didn’t, Jimmy said through a snicker: “It’s a coconut bong.”

  “Rad,” Marlene cheeped. “How’d it get its name?”

  Had he not been sleep deprived and hangover hazy, Jimmy could’ve easily responded. Instead, he flashed that sad smile of his.

  I jumped in to salvage the moment. “It’s ’cause of the sound they make when you smoke them.”

  “Wow,” said Marlene. “Like onomatopoeia.”

  Jimmy grew more nervous. He flashed me a look: What the hell’s she talking about?

  Ever since I’d learned that word—onomatopoeia—in high school English, I’d fallen in love with the sound of those six bouncy syllables. Kept them on replay in my jukebox brain. “That’s when something gets a name that sounds like what the thing does,” I said.

  “Exactly,” said Marlene. “Like ‘tinkle’ or ‘buzz.’”

  “Or ‘chickadee’ or ‘murmur,’” I said.

  Marlene beamed at me. Her face was more incandescent than a Duffy’s Budweiser neon sign.

  I brightened, too. Not only was she cute and optimistic, but smart. And while she didn’t possess Baby’s pedal-to-the-metal sex appeal, or Callie’s quiet charm, she had a certain snap crackle pop that rendered me even more weak-kneed and stupid-headed than sleep deprivation and Jimmy’s weed.

  “What?” said Marlene. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “No reason,” I said. I left it at that. If our flirting continued, she might be trading her brainy DNA with me instead of Jimmy. Now I was the one staring at my shoes.

  Marlene turned back to Jimmy. “Well I think it’s cool you read the dictionary. And that you’ve got a chimp and that you’re making coconut bongs.”