Mickey the Monkey

Chapter 3 - The Opposite of Florida

We headed on to the mangroves. As we walked Lenora asked, "What was going on back there?"

"Just Ezra doing his normal crazy man stunt," Cotton said.

"Not Ezra. You two. I saw that look you gave each other when Mister Waller asked if you'd seen anyone suspicious."

"That wasn't a look," Cotton objected.

"The heck it was," she replied. "Ray Daniel, tell me. What's going on?"

I had my fishing pole over my shoulder and tried to keep looking forward. "I'm not sure..."

"You know I can keep a secret. What's going on?"

"Go on," Cotton said. I know you'll tell her later anyway. You always do."

She smiled. "You do?"

Ignoring her last question I let the cat out of the bag. Or rather the monkey. I told her the whole thing, including Cotton's murder of my father's shirt.

"Wow, a genuine monkey!" she gushed. "Right here in Moon Mullet. But you know what? It's not surprising."

"Why's that?" Cotton asked.

"My uncle from Flomaton," she started, "said he heard a monkey got lost outside of Elberta about six months ago. One of those medicine show fellas was driving from Foley to Elberta when he got caught in a storm. He crashed his truck into a Cypress tree and killed himself Labor Day weekend. They say he had a circus monkey with him by the name of Mickey. And they haven't seen hide nor hair of him since."

"Lord, Lenora! Why didn't you tell us this before?" Cotton exploded.

"I don't know. I never thought to. It was just dinner conversation. They all reckoned a monkey wouldn't last a week in these parts, what with panthers and bobcats and such."

"How far is it from Elberta to here? Maybe fifteen miles?" I asked.

"About," replied Cotton.

"Well, there you go. We got us a monkey on the loose. A thieving little monkey and he's even got a name. Now all we got to do is figure out to catch him. Not only will we get a great pet, but everyone in town'll shower us with good will and reward money. "

"I know how to catch him!" Lenora blurted.

"How, smarty pants?" Cotton asked.

"Go out in the woods dressed up like a banana," she said with a laugh.

We all laughed. It was funny and her dimples sure were cute when she said it.

We did some fishing and didn't catch much. It'd be dusk soon and the three of us decided to head home. Along the way we passed the general store. It would be closing soon but we went in to get a drink of water. Inside, Thomas Stringfellow, a crusty old outdoors-man in buckskins who lived in the woods listened quietly to Miss Shelby the school teacher and Mister Overton, the banker, ruminating on the prospects for improving the economy.

"They say all the Yankees are spending their winters in Florida these days. Lots of folk along the gulf making tons of money catering to 'em. Hotels, restaurants, real estate."

"I heard the same," Miss Shelby said. "My aunt Lynette spent some time in Tampa last winter and said the town is plum thick with Yankees. And they got money to burn."

"Well," Overton replied. "I don't see what's all fired different from Florida to where we are. We should promote Moon Mullet. Print up post cards and write the town up in the New York press. Maybe we could get some of that Yankee money down here. Lord knows we could use it."

"No doubt, Mister Overton. No doubt. But there is an important difference between the Florida coast and ours."

"What's that?"

"They got nice sandy beaches and ours isn't quite up to the same standard."

That stopped him in his tracks.

Even us kids knew that. We've got a shallow bay, mosquitoes the size of buzzards and no proper sand beaches. Not to mention oyster shells that'll cut your feet to ribbons if you're fool enough to wade into the bay.

Stringfellow, until that time silent on the subject, finally spoke.

"Yankees. They say there are only two kind."

"What kind is that Mister Stringfellow? Miss Shelby asked.

"Well, there's Yankees and then there's damned Yankees," he replied as he petewied a honking wad of chewing tobacco and rang the spittoon with an audible tink.

"And Mister Stringfellow, what exactly is the difference between the two if you don't mind my asking?" Mister Overton asked.

"Not a blessed thing," Stringfellow answered with a deadpan expression.

The room grew silent for a moment while everyone absorbed the statement.

"Well," I bravely spoke up. "What about the New York Yankees? You don't think Gehrig and DiMaggio and the rest are damned Yankees, do you?"

Stringfellow screwed his mouth up and gave it a thought.

"No. Those is good boys. They ain't damned Yankees at all. But the rest of 'em can go to blazes far as I'm concerned. They're pushy and got no manners at all." Then as if to complete the response he added, "Overton, we ain't Florida. We aint' ever gonna be Florida. In fact we're the opposite of Florida."

That left 'em scratching. And with that he strode out the door with moccasins hissing along the dusty oak floor.

"Well, I nevah," Miss Shelby said. "The opposite of Florida. I nevah heard such a thing in all my born days."

Overton chimed in. "He may have a point Miss Shelby. Strange as he is, he may indeed have a point."

We got our water and parted ways. I half-ran home with Lindy keeping pace. As I walked through the front door I smelled chicken frying and my stomach began to growl. My older sister, Sandy took a swipe at me in the hallway and punched me in the shoulder. "It's about time. We're starving waiting on you," she complained.

During supper we caught plenty from Pa about his Sunday shirt being ruined. "Looked like it was hacked to death with a bowie knife!" he said. "Blamed-ist thing I ever saw. But with all the strange things going on around town, with the thievery and what not, there's no telling who's behind it." I kept my mouth shut except to let the lot of them know I was nowhere near the scene of the crime, but down at the bay fishing.

© RDBrooks 2015

Cover art painting by William Skilling (1892-1964)