Bradford Pear Tree Vendetta

The chainsaw bucked in Gonga’s grip as its teeth bit into the tree stump. He withdrew the blade and began again, making a smooth incision into the wood. White petals fluttered down around him. The Bradford Pear tree shuddered and leaned to one side, then fell with a splinter of wood and a spray of petals. Gonga raised the chainsaw high above his head in triumph.

The sound of the engine was louder now.

Gonga groaned and rolled over, slowing coming to the realization that it was actually just a lawn-mower outside making the noise, and not the chainsaw he had been fantasizing about.

He tried to blink his eyes open, and failed. Snarling with frustration, he lurched out of his bed and stumbled to the bathroom where he turned on the hot water, then fumbled around for a rag. A few minutes later he finally managed to un-glue his eyelids and open then a crack.

An un-shaven, un-combed, puffy eyes gorilla with gunk running out the corners of his eyes and down his face greeted him from the mirror.

Oh, he hated Bradford Pear trees. If he could cut down the entire arboreal population in one fell swoop, he would do it. Even if it took him a year. People could whine about missing the pretty white flowers as much as they wanted. He would never miss the stench. Or the millions of tiny pollen particles that attacked his tear ducts and sinuses every spring.

Even a skunk would smell better than those things. Skunks at least never made anyone’s sinuses swell shut.

Hmm…

Gonga put the rag down on the sink.

A skunk would be a nice pet…

He pictured the adorable black and white striped creature curled up at the foot of his bed. He room-mates would probably stop short-sheeting the bed if he left his skunk on guard. He could even take her on campus with him! Then all the kids who thought is his shins as a kicking block would think twice.

Of course, he would probably have to get her glands removed. Otherwise she might get startled and spray someone by mistake. That could make your eyes swell shut.
And the odor that lingered afterwards?

Well. Anything beats Bradford Pear stench.

The Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

Spring Fever

The birds were singing. The sun was shining. A soft breeze wafted through the windows. And Gonga was staring down the biggest pile of laundry he had ever seen in his life. Trust me; he wasn’t staring at it because he wanted to. He would much rather be outside enjoying the weather, even if it meant suffering on a climbing wall with Derrick.

The problem was Derrick. He had decided that Lilia and he would have dinner with friends that night. And Gonga’s apartment just so happened to be the lucky place that was picked for their gathering.

Gonga hadn’t wanted to admit his terrible house-keeping habits to Derrick. So, he had accepted vigorously. And now he was facing the consequences.

Gonga sighed. He couldn’t believe how much that pile had grown since he moved in last fall. He hated doing laundry. So he tended to just pick up freebie t-shirts on campus and wear them for a couple days, let them air out in his room, wear them for another couple days, and when people started wrinkling their noses and shifting around to stand up-wind of him during conversations, he would finally cast the shirt into exile in his closet. The only problem was that he had cast far more shirts into exile than he remembered. And at the moment, he really wished he could stand up-wind of the closet.

It didn’t help at all that the basketball game had gone terribly wrong the night before. Not that Gonga really followed sports. But it did mean that his room-mate had come home in a terrible mood and started lifting weights. He claimed he’d tripped and the 25 pound dumbbell had simply fallen on the washer machine and somehow bumped it enough to break the water connection. Gonga hadn’t been home when the incident occurred. But there had been a police report filed on his apartment the night before for disturbance of the peace. The first line of the recorded phone call said it all. “Someone’s swearing like crazy and beating the crap out of something!”

And now he had at least fifteen loads to haul to a laundry-mat somewhere, along with the gallon of quarters it would take to wash that much. Gonga was tempted to pick up the dumbbell and finish what his room-mate had started.

The Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

The Fallout

At first Gonga’s plan had worked like a charm. He found the boring librarian person. Vivacious, unfortunately. Very interested in all he said. Decidedly on the “I don’t care” side of fashion. But, most of all, a librarian. That was the best part. Derrick would never in a million years consider going out with a librarian.

Which is why Gonga didn’t tell him she was a librarian. He simply set his friend up on the blind date, telling him to carry his bright blue camel-back with him to The Upper Crust and lay it on the table. That’s how he had told her to find him. Yeah, the camel-back would stand out like a sore thumb in a fancy restaurant on Valentine’s day. But that was the point. And Gonga was past caring about Derrick’s comfort.

He had expected to see Derrick again in about two hours, fuming about what a jerk Gonga was to set him up with such a horrible person. Maybe three hours, if the waiter took his time. But Derrick hadn’t come back.

Gonga stayed up till two in the morning, waiting for a desperate call for rescue. But none ever came.

The next day he ran into a very giddy Derrick standing in the coffee line at Starbucks.

“Oh man, do I ever owe you!” Derrick crowed, slapping Gonga on the back and giving him a bear hug.

Gonga frowned.

“That was the best thing you’ve ever done for me. Oh man, oh man. What a friend! Buddy, you’re fantastic.”

“I try,” Gonga grunted, shrugging his shoulders. He wondered what kind of drugs the girl had introduced Derrick to.

“She’s amazing!”

Gonga looked up sharply. That tone of voice had only before been associated with worship of the most daring of feats. But this was even something more.

When Derrick proceeded to gush about Lilia for the next hour, Gonga knew he has made a mistake. Apparently his boring librarian pick was none other than the resident expert in the history of outdoor adventuring and exploration. Not only a historian, she had made it a goal to spend at least a month each summer somewhere abroad, climbing a mountain or trekking through some jungle or swamp. And she’d done it without fail since the year she turned fourteen.

Gonga finally excused himself, saying that he had to hand out flyers for The Textbook Game, and kindly reminding Derrick that he had already missed one class that morning, and it would probably be wise to try to attend the rest, if only for attendance points. Gonga doubted he would hear a word of the lecture that day.

Then Gonga went off to sulk. Part of him hoped that Derrick would snap out of it in a week or so, and resume his normal routine of ridiculous exploits and insane pranks. But something told him that this would be different. Somehow, he knew. He had just lost his best friend.

Blind Date

Gonga cracked his knuckles. For once, he had his work cut out for him. Time to do his good buddy Derrick a favor he would never forget. He grinned. Gonga would have fun with this one.

Derrick has been whining the past few days about finding a date for Valentine’s day. For some reason, the idea of spending the whole day on the face of a rock wall was starting to lose its appeal. Historically, this is how Derrick always spent special days. Somewhere outside. Climbing. Hiking. Camping. Usually picking up a scrape or two, and always putting his life in harm’s way. But this year was different.

Gonga wondered whether his brief adventure as King Kong with “Ann Darrow” over Halloween had influenced him at all. Since he’d done nothing else with “Ann,” aside from wave cheerily as she walked past on her way to class each day, he decided it couldn’t possibly be the root. Knowing Derrick, he would want something that went a little deeper than saying hello every time he met someone on campus.

After about an hour of patient prodding, Gonga had finally extracted an agreement from his friend to try a blind date. Now he, Gonga, was setting out on a quest to find a likely female who would also acquiesce to his insane ideas.

The blond bombshell he stopped on her morning jog turned him down flatly. But she was just the first person he’d seen, so it didn’t phase Gonga too much. The next girl, someone he had noticed frequenting the greenhouses listened with interest as Gonga described his friend. Tall. Fast. Not exactly movie-star handsome, but better looking than average. Adventurous. Gonga held back a bit on this last snippet. He didn’t quite want to make the girl think that Derrick would probably die next week on the winter ascent of Pike’s Peak he and two of his crazy Mt. Everest friends were planning. What girl wanted to go out with a still warm corpse?

The girl seemed likely enough. Gonga surmised than an interest in growing things would at least equal an interest in the outdoors, which would go a very long way with Derrick. He noticed she seemed to be fidgeting her hand a bit, but it wasn’t till he was done talking that she finally waved it almost under his face.

“You know you’re being really great for your friend,” she said. “He sounds like a fun guy…but I’m already engaged.”

Then Gonga noticed the diamond.

The girl dropped her hand. She frowned. “But I might know someone who’s a bit more available.” She scribbled a name and number down on a scrap of paper. “She’s usually in the library at four. You should try to catch her there and see if you can sell her on the idea. You never know. She might be in the mood for a blind date.”

To be continued…

The Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

Gonga Goes Skiing

The new semester started smoothly enough for Gonga. He wasn’t directly involved in taking classes himself, but his work schedule definitely revolved around that of the students. No students meant no work. Lots of students meant lots of work, and lots of new students meant lots of unexpected work. Thankfully he had managed to survive the first two weeks of the semester without miss-hap. Until Derrick showed up.

Most of the time Gonga liked hanging out with Derrick. But there were times he really wished he had fallen off a cliff during his last mountain expedition. Today was the one of those times.

Gonga stood at the top of a sheer mountain of white snow. His goggles were still firmly attached to his head, but that was about it. His poles had gone flying when he clattered off the ski lift. And even his skis had somehow managed to detach themselves and twist into an undecipherable mess.

“Come on,” Derrick panted, “everyone falls off the lift their first time. Let’s go!” He made to push off, then he noticed Gonga’s confusion.

That was the one nice thing about Derrick. He might be a complete dare-devil. But he still managed to sense when others were uncomfortable. With Derrick’s help, Gonga sorted out his ski gear and got ready again. He still thought it was a ridiculous idea. He pondered letting Derrick go without him, removing the skis and simply walking to the bottom on the slope. It seemed a safer solution. But his toes screamed at him from inside the ski boots and he realized that even without the skis he wouldn’t manage to get far.

Gonga sighed. Why, oh why hadn’t Derrick gone plunging over a cliff last month? Then at least he could attend a nice, cozy memorial service in the comforting flatness of central Kansas with Derrick’s family.

Oh well.

Gonga pushed off.

At least, he tried. It took several minutes of painful coaching from Derrick before he worked up enough courage to begin the decent. But by mid-afternoon, he was stuttering down slope with less than two wipe-outs each run. Derrick had long since abandoned him for the double black diamonds. But Gonga didn’t care. He was finally beginning to make progress. He had actually managed to get off the lift without falling twice in a row!

For that Gonga was happy. But after seeing the bruises on his knees that night, he promised himself that never again would Derrick convince him to go on a “short weekend trip” to anywhere in the world. He didn’t care how “short” Derrick promised it would be.

Passing out flyers for the Textbook Game might take longer, but he never ended up feeling like he had been run over by a truck.

The Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

The Occupational Hazards of Campus Life

Every occupation has hazards that simply go with the territory. Welders know they will likely go blind early. Car mechanics know that oil stained fingers will just be a fact of life. Wood workers know that missing thumbs and fingers are signs of true experience. In their case, missing one finger isn’t bad. But missing more than one may mean you don’t learn from your mistakes.

Campus workers face similar occupational hazards, especially those who work in the engineering building. Daily struggles include doors which open into brick walls, a maze of interconnecting passages which include slopes and twists and turns so that those who enter from the west never quite know which door they’ll come out on the opposite side, and the infamous elevator. Passengers are never quite sure the elevator will decide to work when they enter. The intrepid still take the risk daily, skipping the stairs and their supposed healthful effects in favor of the Russian roulette of the elevator.

It operates like many octogenarians. Slowly, and creakily, with occasional lapses in memory. “Was I going up or down?” the elevator seems to wonder as it pauses midway between floors. The occupants wait with baited breath, sometimes punching the button a second time to remind the elevator of its direction, other times holding back, afraid that any sudden movements will send the elevator’s rickety belts crashing downwards without warning.

With a jerk, the elevator resumes its upward movement, stopping at the next level and waiting an interminable time before deciding it is safe to open the doors and allow its passengers a shaky kneed exit.

Gonga experiences all of these hazards, and more as he makes his way across campus daily, passing out flyers for The Textbook Game and playing his accordion. It’s really not that much different than dodging cobras and tripping over rotten logs in his home in the Congo. Some things just go with the territory. Though he could really do without the people taking advantage of his poor peripheral vision to dodge up behind him and steal his hat; or worse yet, the tip money out of his suitcase. That just ruins a gorilla’s day. The only thing worse is discovering a banana shortage at the store. But that’s a story for another day.

The Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

Winter Doldrums

Fans of maritime adventures know the devastating effects of the doldrums on the moral of sailors. Those long, lazy stretches of sea where the wind has completely died out and sailors have nothing but the grinding sameness of routine to mark the time from day to day. With the modern convenience of coal power, or some other sort of internal combustion, the doldrums no longer prove much of a nuisance. But less than a hundred years ago, sailors dreaded having to pass through those latitudes. The only cure for doldrums seemed to be scrubbing the deck, or making fancy knots or playing game after game of cards. In such confined quarters, it never took long before you lost your shirt, and maybe everything else along with it. But then again, the card shark could never quite get away from you either. And who knew, if you kept playing, you just might win it back again. Anything, and nothing could happen in the doldrums.

Gonga read about the doldrums last week. And the only reason he had time to read about such things was his own experience suffering through the doldrums. As a result, Gonga had taken to likening the down week of break after Christmas to the doldrums.

The first couple of weeks of break are fantastic. Christmas preparations, parties, food, songs, colored lights everywhere! But then the festivities end, all the decorations disappear, and you’re left with two more aching weeks before classes begin again. True, about three weeks into the semester, and you’ll be wishing you were back in doldrums, enjoying the peace and sunshine. But for now, you’re stuck in it, just waiting.

Gonga has been through his CD collection three times now. The first time he re-arranged all the CD’s so that they were in the proper case. The second time, he threw away CDs he decided were trashy, and made a list of the music he would like to acquire in the next year. The third time, he arranged them all in alphabetical order by artist.

He’s not sure what to do next. He’s almost wishing he had a deck to scrub, and a grumpy skipper to crack a whip and make him scrub it. At least then things would be a bit more interesting.

When the skipper failed to materialize, Gonga sighed and leaned his chin in his hand. Was it almost morning in Congo? Then at least he could Skype his parents and see if anything interesting was going on there.

Gonga tapped his fingers against the table top. Repetitive. Endlessly repetitive. Oh how he hated the winter doldrums.

The Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

Gonga’s New Year Resolutions

Gonga has resolved to change a few things about the way he works. For one, he has spent so many hours hearing his boss complain about people showing up late for work, that he has decided to lessen this experience for himself. In other words, Gonga has resolved to show up to work at least two hours late twice this year. That way he has reduced his time spent listening to complaining by four hours.

Gonga has also determined that he will set a completely new standard when it comes to the expectation to work overtime. He will double anyone’s overtime. This means that when his buddy Derrick works three hours of overtime, Gonga will figure out how to work six hours of overtime. It also means that when his boss puts in 35 hours of overtime doing the final inventory count for the year, Gogna has resolved to put in 70 hours of overtime during that same period. How exactly he intends to do this, he hasn’t quite determined. However, since there are 168 hours in a week, he doesn’t think that hitting 110 hours should be too much of an issue. Besides, he likes the idea of bringing a sleeping bag to work and camping out between the shelves of books for the night.

Historically Gonga has struggled with his weight. He can never quite manage to get it under control. He eats like crazy one week and makes a slight gain. But the second he catches a cold, or the second Derrick proposes some new crazy adventure, the gains slough off to nothing. He often despairs of ever attaining anything close to his father’s grand 250 pounds. So this year Gonga has set a new goal. He will eat a quart of icecream every single night. He will also make himself stop by Dairy Queen for lunch every other day and add a tall milkshake to his diet. Hopefully this will add 25 pounds by the end of the year. He’d have to gain 75 to match his athletic younger brother. But Gonga knows better than to hope for that. If he can just gain 25 pounds this year, and keep it on for at least two weeks, he will be thrilled.

I know that at this point, a number of you are beginning to resent Gonga. Perhaps you wish that you could come to work late a few times, end up sleeping at work in a sleeping bag and gain 25 pounds this year. I’m not sure that I would recommend this course of action for anyone besides a gorilla. But I can assure you that this particular set of resolutions is probably within your grasp, if you so choose.

Happy New Year!!!

~Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

The Magic Tree: Part III

Gonga hurried back home that night, eager to rest and make plans for his adventure. He wanted to time his arrival at the Magic Tree to coincide with darkness, when the lights would be most beautiful. He knew he was a fast walker, and could easily cover ten miles in less than three hours. But it was already past midnight, and he wanted time to plan his route to avoid the highest traffic areas.

He also had a strange desire to walk into the sunset at the beginning of his trek. Somehow, walking into the sunset seemed like it would add just the touch necessary to bring his wishes to fruition. Just maybe something would happen. Just maybe, somehow, he would re-gain contact with his family.

He lay awake for over an hour that night, and when he did sleep, confused images of his family filled his mind.

He spent the morning passing out flyers for work and took off early to pull up maps and plan his route.

The clouds had finally parted, and as he set out, he watched a spectacular red sunset. Gonga smiled to himself. Things had started well. Maybe, just maybe they would end well also. How in the world going to the Magic Tree would help him in his search for his family, he had no idea. But one can always hope. And so he did.

A scant three hours later, he stood in front of the Magic Tree, witnessing its glow for the first time in his life. He watched in awe as the lights faded almost imperceptibly from red to blue, or from blue to green and back again. It was bigger than he had imagined, and more beautiful. He smiled wryly. Few things managed to exceed expectations like that.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “You from Congo?” A teenager wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie regarded him solemnly.

Gonga nodded, wondering how the boy had been able to tell.

“I keep getting these random texts from someone. They think I’m their son or something. Or at least, they did. Till I texted back and told them they had the wrong number. They tried to call too. But I didn’t answer. My phone plan doesn’t cover international calls. No way.”

Gonga felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Then they started asking me to contact their son. Said that he was from Congo or something. Anyway, you looked different, so I thought I’d ask.”

Gonga stuttered, “My family in Congo…” then his words failed him.

In the hours of conversation that followed, he finally unraveled the mystery. In his family’s haste to escape the approach of a gorilla band, the notebook with his phone number and other contact information had been forgotten. His youngest brother had insisted that he had Gonga’s number memorized, and so when the family reached one of the major cities, they bought their first cell phone and tried contacting their son. But his brother had unwittingly flipped a couple numbers, and the only responses they received were ignored calls and strange text messages.

Until…Gonga visited the Magic Tree.

The Magic Tree: Part II

Gonga kicked at a bottle cap and watched it skitter down the road. He hadn’t heard word from his family in over a month, and he was starting to lose hope.

Gonga’s eyes drifted upward and he paused. Something bright was reflecting off the street just around the corner. He hurried down past ColdStone, staring at the tree in front of Shakespear’s pizza. It was so beautiful!

Someone had wrapped brightly colored strands of Christmas lights around the trunk, around every single limb and all the way out to individual twigs. The tree glowed in brilliant detail.

Gonga stood beneath it, staring up into the branches. Blue, green, yellow, pink, red and every shade in between.

Someone laughed. “You think this is great, you should see the real magic tree.”

Gonga’s heart twisted inside. The Magic Tree? It sounded wonderful.

“Where is it?” Gonga asked, looking at the college student sporting a windbreaker and a black and gold baseball cap.

He jerked his thumb, “Oh, somewhere down in the Cherry Hill shopping center.”

Cherry Hill? That sounded even prettier. “How far…to walk?” Gonga jerked the words out.

“Walk?” the man looked surprised. He guffawed. “You couldn’t walk that! It’s probably ten miles at least.”

“I will go walk,” Gonga breathed. “I must see this Magic Tree.” Visions of his family flickered through his mind. Maybe, just maybe something would happen.

An Artist’s Follies

One would think that being an artist himself, Gonga would know the wiles of the artists and be adept at avoiding them, especially the female artists. Unfortunately, this has proved a false assumption. The simple fact that Gonga is artistic has both blinded him and made him more susceptible in a single blow.

The most recent example happened a week ago. Gogna was sitting near Middlebush, playing his accordion with all his might. A few passers tossed spare change and dollar bills into his suitcase. Between classes, students gathered in a knot around him to observe his playing and enjoy the music.

One girl in particular placed herself squarely opposite him on the ground and listened with rapt attention. Her reddish hair gleamed, and her peasant style shirt fluttered slightly in the breeze. He liked having her watch him. He liked it even more when she threw back her head and laughed at his fumbling, and his exaggerated clownish behavior.

This particular girl with the broad face and rapturous smile sat and watched him for two days in a row. On the third day, she came by a bit earlier in the morning. But this time she had a frown on her face.

Her voice was gently accented when she spoke, “I’m horribly sorry. I feel like such an awful person even asking this.” She paused, “I have no money for the parking meter. And I thought…” her voice trailed off and Gonga watched her eyes drift to the coins lying in his suitcase.

“Take,” he grunted in his gorilla voice, reaching down and catching up a handful of quarters.

“Oh thank you!” she cried, her eyes shining.

And so began a very long habit of the peasantly artistic student using Gogna’s accordion money to fill her parking meter day after day. She sat and watched him occasionally after that. But more and more, she looked rushed. At times she would appear covered in clay or pottery. Other times it was paint. And once her hair even looked as though it might have been dyed purple with wash-out dye, but there hadn’t quite been time to thoroughly get the dye washed out.

Of course, the height of it all occurred the day she, stammering, asked to borrow the textbook someone had just dropped in his accordion case. He planned to sell it at the Textbook Game and make some real money for a change. But she looked so forlorn as she explained that she had that very Physics test in less than four hours and desperately needed to study.

Gonga let her borrow the book.

It wasn’t till that evening when he headed back to The Textbook Game that he realized he had been taken in by a fellow artist. She popped out of the store right as he entered, refusing to make eye contact with him, and rushed on her way. Gonga saw the cashier lifting the book he had just purchased from the girl and putting on the trolley behind him. It was the Physics book.

Gorilla Fears

What would cause a gorilla to jump off a bridge? What could be so horrible that anyone would be tempted to jump from the solid security of masonry and brick into the cold, cold waters and face the terrifying sensation of liquid slowly filling your nostrils and lungs, covering your eyes and cutting off all hint of life.

Well, the potential of banana extinction could bring him close to that state. After all, seeing the devastation of the rain forests on TV over Thanksgiving break brought a lump to his throat. No, not a lump of sadness, but a lump of fear. The cold, sheer terror of wondering whether there would be bananas tomorrow, or the next day, or a year from now.

After crashing into a roller-skater while dodging traffic across College during rush-hour, Gonga also fears riding his skateboard. In fact, he now refuses to ride his skateboard anywhere near real traffic areas. And if he sees even one roller-skater, he gets off his skateboard and carries it home.

Gogna has the usual workplace fears as well; getting kicked in the shins, running out of flyers, having someone steal the cash tips out of his accordion case or even the occasional pie in the face. Yes, shin-kicking gorillas seems to be a hazing activity of one of the fraternities, hence Gonga’s increasing desire to wear shin-guards while at work. He figures if construction workers get to wear hard hats, he can at least add his own form of protection.

But one fear that truly makes his blood run cold is the fear of textbooks going online. If textbooks go online, then there will no longer be used copies for re-sale; only used log-in credentials. And since those are usually limited to a certain time-period, the resale value drops dramatically.

Even online textbooks wouldn’t quite cause Gonga to rush to find the nearest bridge. However, the thought of student loan companies going bankrupt does. After all, without a steady supply of fodder for the textbook mill, “The Textbook Game” will fail, and Gonga will be begging on the streets again. Even the thought of student loans becoming more difficult to acquire makes Gonga queasy on the inside.

The Impotence Of Proper Spelling

I am sure you have had the necessity of proper spelling drummed into your head from a tender age. Teachers say it, parents preach it and your friends all compete at spelling in those ‘honerous’ contests called “spelling bees.”

Gonga has always wondered why they’re called spelling bees anyway. After all, proper spelling of the noun for those little insects which fly around gathering nectar to turn into honey is not all that difficult. No, it’s words a bit longer than that which trip Gonga up.

In response to one worried note from a teacher which attempted to convince Gonga that he should work harder at learning to spell properly, Gonga sent another note asserting that he agreed that proper spelling was impotent. The teacher took this to mean that Gonga thought her teaching style was impotent. From that point on, Gonga was on his own.

He later posted on a girl’s wall, telling her, “You are such a sweaty girl!” Not only did he accuse her of overactive sweat glands, he also happened to forget to insert the comma before “girl,” which is probably why she immediately sentenced him to a life-time of Facebook friendlessness. Less than a year after that he made the mistake of messaging another friend, stating that the deodorant he used was utterly senseless. He meant “scentless” of course, but that friend called him up and started cursing him out in the middle of class. Suffice to say that this time Gonga had the pleasure of de-friending the person and deleting all the vulgar things that had been posted on his wall in the interim.

More embarrassing, and also more damaging, he addressed a thank-you letter to the donor who had funded his scholarship that year to, “The Deer Fiend.” Apparently that individual did not appreciate being likened to some sort of four footed, cloven hoofed demon and promptly revoked any future funding to the school.

In general, Gonga forgets letters and often confuses the proper use of vowels. When he writes his mother that he is going to get ‘beat’, she has finally stopped worrying for his safety and realized that he is simply talking about vegetables. He will also occasionally write home, telling that that he accomplished a spectacular ‘feet’ in finding shoes large enough for his ‘feat’. This inevitably sends his parents into ‘contusions’ of laughter.

Guy Fawkes Day

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,

Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason why the gunpowder treason,

Should ever be forgot.”

Gonga stared at the flat-screen, watching the scenes of blackness and fire swirl around each other. Indeed it was the fifth of November, and he for one was not forgetting the treason Guy Fawkes had almost perpetrated on the British Parliament over four hundred years ago.

It was a fascinating story to Gonga. How could a person manage to smuggle over a dozen barrels of gunpowder into the cellar underneath Parliament and then not quite detonate them?

Now children all over England burned their own bits of gunpowder every fifth of November in celebration of the British version of the US’s 4^th of July. Well, almost their version of the 4^th of July. There were some notable differences, but Gonga decided not to parse it out right now.

It was enough to stare into the flickering screen and enjoy the newly Holywoodized version of the story behind Guy Fawkes’ Day, “V for Vendetta”.

Then he paused. It would be awful fun to make an effigy of Guy Fawkes. Find some old clothes and stuff them with paper. Maybe even grab one of those “V for Vendetta” masks that the protesters downtown often wore. Then take him to the middle of campus, on Speaker’s Circle and light him on fire.

Gonga started chuckling. It would probably draw a crowd.

Children in England may get away with burning stuffed “Guys” on this day, but it was hardly accepted cultural practice on the United States. People could get away with flag burning…but Gonga wasn’t so sure about this.

Still, he had to give it a try.

He hit the second speed dial on his phone, “Derrick?”

King Kong

Gonga was starting to think that running around on campus after midnight wasn’t such a bad idea this time of year. Any other time and he’d be the only non-human out and about. But it was only three days till Halloween, and apparently a lot of people felt the need to give their costumes a trial run.

A cat purred past him, walking on her hind legs. Gonga did a double-take. She was hand-in hand with a very large baby…with chest hair. He shuddered. Some people needed to take their costuming a little more seriously.

Why had Derrick dragged him out to go scare his professor tonight of all nights? There were so many other crazies running around campus, there’s no way the professor would look at the window unless he actually threw a rock through it and broke something.

A goulish-half dead figure drifted past on the opposite side of the road. Gonga hated those plastic head masks that made you look like a zombie out of a horror movie. They were just too realistic.

Pouding on the window of Derrick’s professor’s lab was about as disappointing as Gonga expected. The man didn’t turn a hair. He just kept going from one test tube to another, taking notes.

Derrick ribbed him, “Pound harder.”

Gonga pounded again, then Derrick started pounding and Gonga let out a full throated gorilla howl.

At least then the man looked towards them. But he only scowled and went on with his work.

“Well that was lame,” Derrick grunted.

Gonga shrugged and struck off across campus. No sense in hanging out here. And now that he was thoroughly awake, no sense in going back to bed.

He strolled towards Jessie Hall, enjoying the sliver of young moon hanging in the sky.

Wonder what Ann’s up to tonight, he thought. What was her real name again? Oh well. It didn’t matter. She was going to be Ann Darrow, and he was going to be King Kong for Halloween. That’s all that mattered.

He stood, staring up at Jessie hall. Then he got an idea.

Pranks

Derrick was pounding at Gonga’s door again.

Gonga groaned. When would that kid ever leave him alone?

“Kid” may not have been the best term to apply to the strapping 6’ 4” mountain-climbing hobbyist standing outside his door at the moment. But it encompassed a certain amount of derision that Gonga felt was fitting.

It was as if they guy was still in college or something. Why in the world was he banging on his door at 1 AM this morning?

Gonga stumbled to the door and flung it open. “What do you want?”

“Good grief. What do you want me to do, call the police and file a ‘missing gorilla’ report? No one takes half an hour to answer their door.”

Gonga glowered at him.

Derrick shouldered his way past Gonga into the house. “And why didn’t you answer your phone?”

Gonga’s response stretched taunt as a frayed nerve. “I was sleeping.”

“With you phone off?” Derrick rolled his eyes. “Come on, you have to be accessible! The world needs a good gorilla like you at their beck and call.”

Gonga turned and stumbled towards his bed. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Aw come on man,” Derrick’s hand caught his shoulder before he’d taken three steps. “I have something I need you to help me with.”

“What?” Gonga didn’t turn around.

“Remember my physics prof? The one who gave me a C-? He’s working late tonight. I saw him through the window in his lab. I need you to go bang on that window and howl.” Derrick paused. “Please?”

“You woke me up to go scare someone? Seriously?”

“Aw, come on,” Derrick pleaded. “It’s a Friday night anyway. You’re not supposed to be sleeping right now.”

Gonga closed his eyes. This had nothing to do with the mission he was struck trying to solve. Now even his best friend was coming up with the silliest excuses to get him out and about in the middle of the night. It was bad enough that he couldn’t sleep half the time anyway with all the puzzle pieces dancing through his brain. Now this.

“Fine. But you owe a dozen banana splits for this one.”

Derrick grinned. “No problem, buddy. Come on!”