Missery

That is the only way Gonga can describe the weather he has been experiencing the last few days. He has decided that his state should not be Missouri. Instead, he prefers to mispronounce it as “mis-sery.” Rain and snow, and sleet and freezing drizzle. And all of that in the past week!

Gonga staggered past the Student Union, wind whipping around the clock tower and catching him sideways. A damp newspaper fluttered through the gust and plastered itself to Gonga’s leg.

There were times his job did not pay him enough.

Gonga peeled the newspaper off his leg and decided that this was one of those times. He didn’t care how many flyers he had left in his satchel, it was time to go home. No one else was out in this weather anyway.

The suitcase carrying Gonga’s accordion tugged wearily at his shoulder as he headed toward his downtown apartment. The wind cut through his fur, chilling him to the bone. Just a few more blocks and he would be inside his nice, warm quarters. Just a few more steps.

He caught himself as he slipped on a icy patch on the sidewalk. That wasn’t right. Rain spattered around him, on his face, in his fur, on his suitcase; and yet he almost killed himself on ice. Ice and rain should not exist in the same location at the same time.

Missery.

Gonga decided.

This state should be called Missery

The Food Dare

Gonga stretched on tiptoes to reach into the cabinet above his refrigerator. His plasticine face contorted with the effort as he pushed boxes aside and scrabbled towards the very back of the shelf. His hand closed over the cardboard box he was searching for, and he pulled it out. ‘Nilla Wafers. His most favorite of favorites.

But the only problem with ‘Nilla Wafers is that you must have bananas to go with them.

So Gonga set out on a quest. First he visited the Mark Twain dining hall. No luck. Then he headed towards south campus, and the plethora of dining halls on that end. Eva Jae’s was packed with apples and oranges as well as other food. But no bananas. Wearily, Gonga trudged towards Plaza 900, wondering if his search would end in vain.

He pushed through the glass doors of Plaza 900 and stood in the entry-way to the little market area. Sometimes they had fruit, but he wasn’t sure if there would be anything for him today.

“I dare you.”

Gonga ignored the voice.

“I dare you,” a short, red-headed boy swaggered past.

His buddy just rolled his eyes. “And why would I ever be scared of one of your dares, Jeremy?”

Jeremy shrugged. “You won’t do it. Those bananas are a week old by now and probably mush. I can’t believe they haven’t thrown them out yet.”

Gonga swung around at the word, “Banana.”

“Fine, show me where they are,” Jeremy’s friend caved.

And so Jeremy showed him. But he never got to fulfill the dare because a large, hairy shape flitted between him and the mound of browning bananas. When he disappeared, the bananas went with him.

Some say he could have discovered the whereabouts of his missing bananas if he had cared to follow the trail of brown peels and ‘Nilla Wafer crumbs. But he never tried.

TV Star

Dear Mommy,

Gonga typed slowely, his massive gorilla fingers hunting for each key.

Today I am TV-Star.

He paused, trying to determine how to describe the excitement he had felt earlier that evening while watching the brief TV spot featuring a narrative of his exploits. The camera caught him at various intervals on campus, playing his according or talking to random students who strolled past. His bright red Textbook Game T-shirt blared throughout. But more importantly, his accordion melodies haunted the background of the entire program.

Go to see this link.

He decided not to attempt description. His family would have to just watch for themselves. They probably still wouldn’t understand. But at least they could be proud of his accomplishments.

Carefully he navigated to the appropriate web page and copied the link into his e-mail.

http://www.komu.com/KOMU/d7e22582-80ce-18b5-00da-1cf7368e40a3/02f273e7-80ce-18b5-0050-651c2a888b4e.html

He grunted in satisfaction. The cursor hovered over the send button. But he paused.

Love,
Gonga

There, he had almost forgotten again. He knew she hated it when he forgot to write his love. Though sometimes he wondered why simply writing an e-mail updating his family on his activities was not enough. Wasn’t it obvious that he loved them if he took the time to type up an e-mail every week? Oh well. That thought could wait for another day.

He clicked the “Send” button and swiveled away from the computer. His accordion lay on the floor next to him. Smiling gently to himself, he picked it up and began playing. Joyous sounds swirled around him, conjuring up images of brightly dressed dancers, whirling scarves of red and blue and peacock green.

Snow Days

Snow in his fur. Snow stuck between his fingers. Snow packed in the creases between his costume and his ankles. Cold, cold, cold. And worst of all, one great big icicle hanging down from the nose holes in his mask. There were some days they did not pay him enough to be Gonga.

He crested the top of yet another snow drift on his hike across campus. Gonga himself enjoyed the brilliance of the snow, once the wind stopped blowing and the sun came out. He liked the strangeness of the power puffing out from beneath his foot, and the excitement that seemed to permeate the campus as students finally emerged from hibernation.

The campus had just survived the great snowpocoalypse of 2011. A grand total of 17 + inches of snow and three snow days in a row! That would not happen again in this decade.

Gonga paused next to a massive drift near one of the few plowed parking lots. He squinted in the sunshine, gauging the height and width of the drift. With a grunt of satisfaction, he knelt down and began to paw away at the side of the drift. In less than fifteen minutes, only his feet could be seen sticking out of the drift, twitching wildly as he carved out a snow cave. Every few minutes he emerged, dragging a huge pile of snow with him.

Once he finished the cave, Gonga crawled in a curled into a little ball. The effort of excavation took over and he quickly drifted into a deep sleep.

Thankfully no snow plows came along during his nap.

When he woke up, he capered over to Stankowskie field and spent the better part of an hour tramping out “THE TEXTBOOK GAME RULES!!!” in the snow. Having completed his work for the day, he added a pair of hearts to the edge of the field and inserted his initials in one. The other he left blank, unwilling to reveal even the first letter of his true love’s name. (And even more unwilling to admit that he had yet to meet her.)

Needing Cash

Let’s face it. Everyone needs a little extra cash at times. It’s finals week. You need cash for coffee to keep you going. You need cash to go see movies with friends. You need cash for that new date who all of the sudden has all kinds of time for you since classes are done.

So Gonga wanted to share a couple ideas on how to get a little extra cash. His first suggestion is that you learn to play the accordion and go sit on the street corner with a hat or open suitcase. On further consideration, he decided he doesn’t want competition, so he suggests you learn to play the violin, or the oboe. Both take more skill, and both are more affected by cold weather, so he has hopes that you won’t be serious competition.

His next suggestion is that you fork over all those textbooks you’ve been holding on to all semester. After all, finals are here, and if you haven’t read it yet, you aren’t going to. Of course, The Textbook Game offers the best prices, so unless you are too lazy to walk all the way north of campus, you should come sell to The Textbook Game. Or, if you are too lazy, you can convince someone to drive you.

Be careful where you find those textbooks that you plan to turn into cash. Most room-mates really don’t appreciate it if their textbooks disappear. Especially if you have the luck to have a room-mate who is exceptionally studious and is actually studying his textbook this week.

If you simply must have cash, you could set up a booth outside the dorms and offer to collect used textbooks for some charitable cause. You, being poor, are a charity worth contributions. So students should be pleased to shed a few pounds of books for you, right?

Gonga hopes you find plenty of Christmas money, and that you will remember his family back in Congo when you walk past him playing his accordion. If you have an charitable inclinations, he will gladly accept them.

Christmas Decorating

All over campus, the signs of Christmas were popping up. Starbucks had their annual Mint Mocha’s coming out, McDonald’s extended holiday greetings, students scurried past, thinking about finals, and the long Christmas break coming after them. There was even a Santa Clause on the corner of Maryland Ave. and Rollins, ringing his bell next to the Salvation Army stand and beckoning to all the inhabitants of Greek town to disgorge their parent’s money into it’s happy red coffers.

Gonga trudged happily across campus as well, toting his accordion and sending glorious Christmas melodies dancing across the frigid air. He loved seeing all the Christmas lights showing up on the buildings down town; the brilliant window displays, the greenery and wreaths. He reveled in the joy welling up for the occasion.

One day, venturing a litter further south than normal, Gonga noticed one spot lacking any spark of Christmas. Old dorms next to the hospital were being knocked down to give room for some expansion project. The carefully fenced and screened area was only a pile of rubble, with huge machines crossing and re-crossing, bent on their task of demolition. From the hospital, one could see the tops of the cranes weaving back and forth, and the heavy bucket of the digger rising and falling rhythmically.

Colored flags waved on top of the cranes, and blinking lights flashed, warning the medical helicopter of their position.

Gonga took one look at those blinking lights and knew that he had to bring Christmas to that place. He spent the afternoon scouting out the largest Christmas wreath he could find. Then he bought dozens of strings of icicle lights. As soon as it grew dark, he strolled down to the construction zone.

The gates were locked, but Gonga didn’t even bother. He heaved the monster wreath over the fence and crawled after it, hauling his pack of lights. Using all his ape-like skills, he scaled one crane, attaching a cable to the top and hanging the wreath. Then he climbed the second crane, stringing up the other end of the cable. After that it was only a matter of sliding out to the wreath and stringing icicle lights all the way across the cable.

Gonga worked quickly, stringing the lights down bother sides of the cranes in magnificent festoons. He grunted happily as he worked. There were no lights like these back in Congo!

Finally he reached the ground and scurried around the construction zone with the final end of the extension cord in hand. After scouring the area for roughly fifteen minutes, he found an extension and inserted the plug.

The lights flashed on in a dazzling imitation of ice.

Grinning marvelously, Gonga swung back over the fence and darted across the street the top of Parking Structure #7. From there, he relaxed against the hood of car and observed his Christmas decoration with satisfaction.

Gonga’s Thanksgiving

Gonga managed to Skype his family in from Congo on Thanksgiving day and spent a miserable time trying to imagine his Pumpkin Pie was half as good as the roasted termites his family so exuberantly enjoyed on the other side of the ocean.

After finally saying goodbye, Gonga mournfully pulled out a piece of paper and began drafting a list of the things he was thankful for.

1. Publishers who update their editions every year. This means students have to choose between buying the new expensive editions, or choosing to buy used.
2. Professors who require more than one textbook for their class.
3. Publishes who pay professors to require more than one textbook per class.
4. Students who drop their books in puddles of water.
5. Students who sell their books back to The Textbook Game instead of giving them to a junior classmate.
6. Students bored enough to stand and listen to Gonga’s accordion playing.
7. Even better, students who throw money in Gonga’s hat for his accordion playing.

I felt the urge to add a few items myself as I gazed on Gonga’s handy-work later that night.

8. A warm costume in which to mascarade.
9. A mask which securely hid my identity.
10. A mission much bigger than simply selling textbooks.

Overall, it was a good thanksgiving day. My superiors had contacted me briefly, confirming that they were actually paying attention to my movements and were please with my performance to date. I even managed to slip home for a quick bite of turkey and stuffing with my family halfway through the day. What more could I want?