The Stacks III

Silently, Gonga stood to his feet, listening as the hoodlum crept down the aisle between the books. He was on the third floor of the stacks, in the inner part of the library surrounded by cages. He knew he had heard that sound before; the sound of the safety on a Ruger clicking off.

Gonga crept along the stack of books, tracking the sound of footsteps.

“Hey pal,” he heard someone say, “know where I can take out a loan?”

The voice sounded friendly enough.

“What?” a sleepy sounding voice responded. A sharp intake of breath followed.

“Yeah dude, I really need to get another student loan. Something came up, and I need some cash,” the friendly voice continued. “Got any idea who I can talk to? Maybe you can help me.”

Gonga slid down to the floor and poked his head around the base of the stack, knowing that people would be less likely to look to the floor to catch someone spying on them.

A figure stood silhouetted from the neck down against the light of the cage. The plastic shower curtain on this cage was folded back just far enough to leave his head in complete shadow.

“I-I don’t know,” the grad student stammered.

“Oh, you can help me,” the figure said, “I know you can.” He spoke confidently.

Gonga noticed his elbow twitch slightly as he gestured with his outstretched arm.

“O-okay,” the student reached toward his backpack.

“No rush,” the figure added.

Gonga stood to his feet quickly. This had to stop. In two quick steps he was around the stack of books and flying through the air towards the attacker’s knees. The silhouette went down like a rag doll under the onslaught of 200 pounds of gorilla.

In a second, he had halfway twisted around, but Gonga’s fist connected with his jaw, knocking him unconscious. The gun clattered to the floor. It failed to fire.
Gonga swept the gun into his hand and clicked the safety on.

The student sat frozen, his hand halfway into his backpack.

“Do you have a phone?” Gonga asked. He shoved the pistol into an unoccupied locked cage two doors down. “Call the police.”

With that, he turned and slipped out of the library.

There. Mission accomplished! He smiled to himself.

Now maybe he could think about Spring Break.

The Stacks Part II

What was the mission anyway? Why was he here?

The thought had begun troubling him again even as he wore his gorilla costume and assumed the personality of Gonga. He knew he had received training specifically to accomplish the goal he had been sent to Columbia, Missouri to achieve. But after playing the part of Gonga for so long, he sometimes had trouble differentiating himself from the gorilla who spent his days advertising for a bookstore and whose family was in Africa.

The mission had seemed so clear when he was back in training. Protect people. Keep the world safe. Thwart the evil forces. It almost sounded like something a superhero would try to do. And back in training he had felt like a superhero.

But now…

He hunched over a little more, remembering that he was supposed to look like a gorilla. A gorilla in the middle of the library stacks, watching a National Geographic documentary of Congo. He snickered. It was all so surreal sometimes.

The door on the other side of the library stack opened and shut. Another weary studier shuffled into the room. Something metal snicked.

The hair on the back of Gonga’s neck stood up straight. The last time he had heard that sound was as he snapped the safety off on his Ruger handgun.

All his instinct snapped into high gear as he stared at his computer screen, clicking the mute button on his headphones and willing himself to see what was going on behind him through sheer sound.

Nothing moved.

Absolute silence.

Gonga leaned back in his chair, letting it squeak loudly as he stretched and yawned.
Beneath the sound of his own movements, he heard the rewarding sound of steps sidling away down one of the aisles between the shelves of books.

~To be continued.

The Stacks

The sun bit into the edge of the African plain, trying to burn a hole through the dust with the fury of its glow. The very effort seemed to make the sun grow larger before finally disappearing into the ground in rage.

All nature paused to consider the outcome of the nightly contest. Somewhere in the distance a hyena laughed when the last orange rays disappeared into the darkness.

Gonga shifted in the creaky metal chair and reached forward to adjust the sound coming out of his lap-top. The glow from the screen lit up his face in the semi-darkness of the library stacks. His chair squeaked again as he settled back.

Something hit the ground across the room from him. Someone swore, and the plastic shower curtain fluttered as the prisoner bent down to retrieve his book. The door of his metal cage clanked softly.

Only the most desperate of graduate students rented out these chain link shielded prisons. Things the librarians euphemistically called “carrels.”

Carols? Wasn’t that something happy you sang at Christmas time? How in the world did these rooms of torture, these chambers of brain masochism become mixed up with jolly songs of “ho-ho-ho”, presents and hot cocoa? Perhaps the idea of the ruler of the world coming to join the rank of humanity as a tiny baby in one of the lowliest families on earth had something to do with it. Surely those who imposed the strict isolation of the carol on their studies had similar ideas of long term benefit.

At any rate, Gonga was here as well; but without the benefit of a chain link gate or shower curtain to shut out the sight of his fellow isolationists. Instead, he used this quiet chamber on campus to allow him to travel. To revisit his child-hood’s favorite vacation spots and hear the sounds of home.

Even the laugh of the hyena that night had been comforting. It was true that Missouri had coyotes, which were similar in size to their African cousins. But they lacked any ounce of jollity in their howling. It usually degenerated into a crazed mass of yipping which had no comparison to the hilarity of Africa.

Gonga sighed, peering deeply into the screen of his lap top, willing himself to be home for once, surrounded by the crazy mass of family, relatives and friends-who-deemed-themselves-related. It had been months since he had experienced the joy of close companionship. And even the mission had begun to lose its appeal.

What was the mission anyway? Why was he here?

If You Give A Gorilla A Banana

If you give a gorilla a banana, he will snarf it down in three bites. Unless of course, that gorilla happens to be Gonga. If you give Gonga a banana, he will want a ‘Nilla Wafer to go with it. As he’s thinking about where to find a ‘Nilla Wafer, he will carefully peel away the skin and look around for a trash can.

While he’s looking for the trash can, he will realize that his trash at home is overflowing and will want to go home to change it. On his way home, he’ll see a person riding a skateboard.

Naturally, he’ll want to try riding on the skateboard himself.

When he offers his banana as a trade for a skateboard rider, the rider will laugh at him and race away as fast as possible. Skateboard-riding teenagers do not eat bananas or anything else resembling health food. At least, not in public.
Feeling the sting of rejection, Gonga will look at his banana contemplatively, wondering what can be done to improve it. Which is when he will remember that the only true complement to a banana is a ‘Nilla Wafer.
So Gonga will head towards home once more, intent once more on finding his ‘Nilla Wafers.

When he gets home and finishes pulling every single box out of his cabinet, he will discover that his box of ‘Nilla Wafers is empty. After turning the plastic inside-out and licking every last crumb, he will regretfully drop the cardboard box into his trash bag. At which point he will see that his trash is overflowing.

Gonga will carry his trash out to the dumpster, still clinging to his banana in with one hand. But in his herculean throw to get the trash bag on top of the dumpster heap, he will drop his banana among the refuse. In his haste to find his banana, he will stumble backwards and squash the banana firmly into the ground.

And if he squashes his banana, he will have to find some sort of replacement.

The store across the street sells icecream, so he walks in, hopefully.

“Do you want a Sundae?” the owner will ask, seeing as he is a gorilla.

A smile spreads across Gonga’s face as he takes the banana bathes in chocolate sauce and smothered in icecream. But of course, he’ll still want a ‘Nilla Wafer to go with it.

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.