Speaker’s Circle

Anyone familiar with the University of Missouri campus knows about the infamous “Speaker’s Circle.” Right in the middle of the path you have to take between classes, or from your dorm to campus, Speaker’s Circle almost never fails to have some sort of excitement to entertain you.

It also happens to be one of Gonga’s favorite spots to sit and play his accordion. He loves getting out there at 11:30, just before the noon rush. He’ll set up his white-board, complete with his employer’s logo, and open up his briefcase. Then he settles into a relaxing couple hours of accordion playing.

Part of the reason Speaker’s Cirlce remains one of his favorite haunts is the fact that he is not the only source of entertainment.

Someone is always handing out flyers to something. During election season the Republican and Democrat student groups set up competing canopies and try to out-represent their sides to the passing students, most of whom rush by without a glance. Music groups pass out invitations to their concerts. Hapless psychology students stand about with the stack of surveys they have to get completed for their class projects.

There’s even a bean bag tossing performer of sorts who shows up occasionally. He wears very short shorts, reminiscent of the 70s basketball teams. No shirt. Usually sets up a camera to record himself. And he has a small bean-bag, or ball type object which he sends spinning high with a swift pop of his toe, only to have it to glance off his elbow and knees or whatever other hard point of contact he can use to stave off the imminent ground contact.

Today, Gonga hopes the bean bag tosser will show up. He has the perfect accordion accompaniment all worked up just for him. Maybe together they’ll set a record!

But most of all, Gonga is just glad to be back on campus, holding down a steady job and having a ball with his music.

Steal Your Dollar City

After the unexpected good fortune of inheriting a U-Haul full of textbooks, Derrick was primed for adventure. He paced the five steps back and forth in Gonga’s living room, eyes darting from side to side.

Gonga pealed another banana.

“I know!” Derrick whirled and planted himself in front of Gonga. “Silver Dollar City.”

Gonga looked blank.

“It’s a theme park, roller coasters, funnel cakes, hand-made knives...”

And that is how Gonga found himself in the car rubbing his eyes at 4 am one morning as Derrick pulled out of the driveway and headed down to Springfield.

At first Gonga balked at standing in line, packed amongst people twisted back and forth around wooden barriers. But after his first ride on Wildfire, it was all Derrick could do to keep up with him as he flew from the exit back around front to get in line again. And again. And again. After the fifteenth ride on Wildfire, Derrick finally managed to grab Gonga’s arm and explain that Wildfire was not the only ride in the park.

Powder Keg, Thunderation, The Barn Swing and Fire in the Hole followed in quick succession.

Toward the afternoon as the adrenaline surges began to wear thin, Gonga noticed the food. Ice cream, funnel cakes, fried potatoes, fried chicken, fried tacos, fried everything. And more and more ice cream.

“Here’s to textbooks,” Derrick lifted his plastic cup of shaved ice and strawberry slurry.

Gonga grunted, too busy with his banana split to respond properly.

When the park finally closed, Gonga and Derrick were the last to leave. Gonga was fairly bouncing with excitement. His whole family wouldn’t believe the stories he would tell them now! Gonga kept doing scissor-kicks and beating his chest. Derrick shook his head.

“Ok buddy. I can’t handle this. You drive, I’ll sleep.”

With Gonga’s hands and feet occupied, Derrick hoped the drive home would be uneventful. But he had forgotten to account for Gonga’s mouth. He groaned and rolled over in the back seat, trying to shut out the noise.

He heard every mile of the 215 mile drive home.

The Inheritance

Derrick set the phone down on the sofa and blinked. He had a strange look on his face; as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

Gonga pulled a banana off the bunch sitting in the kitchen and threw one at his friend.

Instinctively, Derrick reached up to catch it before it smacked him in the face. “That was my Mom,” he said. “Apparently Great Uncle Hubert just died.”

“Who?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I’m not even sure how I’m really related to him. But apparently he had a heart attack last night. They’ve set a date for the funeral and now they want me to come up and help clean out all his junk.” Derrick grimaced.

“Did he do cool stuff, kayaking, climb mountains? Did he like bananas?”

“Oh yeah, just go paw through his junk and take stuff I want, huh?”

“Well, did you know him very well?”

“Naw. Not really sure what he did. No. Wait. He wrote textbooks. He helped edit a bunch of them too, I think. Something about biology. Not sure really.” He kicked his feet up on the sofa and put his hands behind his head. His mouth twisted as he studied the ceiling.

“Well, if you want to get cash for textbooks, Gonga can help.”

“Thanks,” Derrick rolled his eyes. Then he sat up. “Actually, that might not be a bad idea. Want to come on up to Kirksville tomorrow and help me load up a trailer full of stuff?”

“Trailer?”

“Yeah. Trailer. That guy’s got a whole basement full of boxes of books. At least, he did five years ago when I saw him last. I doubt anyone else will want them. I’ll double check.” He pulled out his cell phone.

“Trailer how big?”

“He’s got a trailer up there I can probably borrow. I bet it’s big enough for just three trips. Hello Mom?” Derrick swiveled away.

Gonga stared at his friend. What in the world was he getting himself into?

River Running

It was time.

Gonga looked forlornly at the bright red kayak penciled into his calendar. The 340 mile long Missouri River race was scheduled for this week. At least, it had been. That was before the flooding began. Now the ground was parched, but the river had never stopped running strong. It was high. Too high.

Gonga sighed.

The MR-340 was postponed. And Derick no longer had any incentive to show back up in Columbia. Gonga was doomed to boredom.

He kicked the dry bag full of camping food across the room. It was over. He was tired of the whole thing. Tired of having his hopes up. Tired of packing. Tired of planning. Tired of things falling through at the last minute. This was not how the summer was supposed to progress!!!

Something thumped against the door to Gonga’s apartment.

Gonga growled.

It thumped again, harder.

“Dude, hurry up!” Derick’s voice sounded muffled by the door. “I can’t hold this thing forever!”

Gonga jerked the door open to see a bright red tandem kayak hull sailing towards him. Derick stumbled inside with the kayak on his back and flipped it over onto the living room floor. He shrugged off a couple backpacks and dropped the paddles before pausing to straighten his back.

“How’s it going?” Derrick asked, grinning broadly.

“It’s cancelled.” Gonga glowered. He was not going to let his hopes rise again just to get crushed. He was sick of the rollercoaster.

“So, we’ll pick a different river. I was thinking about doing the Gasconade. Or maybe the Current. What do you think?”

Gonga stared at him.

“Oh come on dude. Just ‘cause they cancel the race doesn’t mean we can’t have fun!” Derrick punched Gonga in the shoulder. “We just have to come up with plan B.”

Gonga shook his head, still reeling from the shock. No. He couldn’t believe it.

Textbook Imagination

Gonga slouched in his chair, staring out the window of his apartment. He looked away, blinking at the dancing bits of darkness imprinted by the sun. He was bored. So, so bored. He had survivled his trip to South Dakota and now he was just waiting for Derick to show up again. Waiting for Derick to come crashing through the doors with his energy and spunk and a whole boatload of new adventure stories to share.

A page flapped in the breeze of the fan rotating above.

Gonga glanced down. It was an old, old textbook about horticulture. He guessed it was copyright 1972 based on the design on the cover.

Horticulture.

Now there was an idea!

Gonga bent down and stripped a page out of the book. It had pictures of some sort of roses on both sides. He bent it between his fingers, swiftly crumpling and shaping the paper. The red splotches blended together with the black and white text, creating a mottled surface for the flower petals that began to appear between his hands.

The next couple hours were a flurry of tearing and shaping and cutting and pasting and more tearing. Gonga paused to admire the boquet of Cowslips that rose out of the glass in front of him. Then he started working on something a bit more complicated. Roses.

Before he knew it, his eyes were straining in the dark to see the next page. Gonga blinked. Had the day really flown by so fast?

OK, time to put away the flowers and go enjoy the outdoors while the sun way gone.

Actually, no! Don't put the flowers away. What was he thinking!?! He knew exactly where to take them. He grinned broadly and set out.

Mount Rushmore

Gonga quivered with excitement as he stood in line at the Mt Rushmore tourist center ticket booth. All his life he had heard about the stone faced men who lived in South Dakota. Now it was time to see them in person.

Taking his ticket, he followed the herd of other tourists down the walkway out the back of the building.

Would the men speak to him? Would they even acknowledge his presence? What did they think of gorillas? Surely they would be kind to him. Only a few people seemed to hold particular grudges against Gorillas. And most of those people were individuals whom Gonga had knocked down or frightened away in the middle of one of their dastardly deeds. So beyond failing to ingratiated himself with the more dangerous segment of the population, Gonga had few enemies.

But you never knew when you met someone new.

“I can’t wait to see George Washington!” a girl in ponytails skipped ahead of Gonga, clapping her hands and tugging on her mother’s jeans. “Will he look just like the history books?”

Gonga squinted his eyes. He remembered one of the books The Textbook Game had sold the previous year. It had a beautiful picture of Mt. Rushmore on the front, with word bubbles floating out of the mouth of each individual. He tried to remember what they said, but it escaped him.

Through the pine trees ahead of him, Gonga caught a glimpse of granite. The gray stood in stark contrast to the evergreens.

Gonga continued his pilgrimage, listening to the kids around him whine or groan of squeal in proportion to their interest in historical stone figures.

More and more stone appeared between the trees until suddenly Gonga came out into a clearing. He gasped. The others seemed overwhelmed by the sheer size of the heads carved above them, but Gonga’s attention was fixed in the far right figure. It was a gorilla! In fact, it looked exactly like Gonga’s great-great-great grandfather who had been instrumental in one of the WWII expeditions the U.S. had made in Africa.

Gonga chuckled. He laughed. Then he kicked up his feet and spun around. His very own three times great grandfather! Up on Mount Rushmore.

His trip was complete.

Black Mountains

Gonga rolled the window down. “One McChicken,” he grunted, “and one chocolate sundae.”

The electronic voice crackled back at him, muttering something unintelligible and his order flashed up on the screen in front of him. He assumed they were asking if it was right, so he said, “Yes, that’s all,” and pulled forward.

It was a hot muggy day. Typical for Missouri weather. Even after driving north half the day, Gonga had not quite made it out of the state, and the temperature had only continued to climb.

Black mountains. The phrase echoed around his mind.

They sounded so mysterious, so ominous. Which was precisely why Gonga had decided to drive out to see them.

He rolled his window up after receiving the food from the drive-through window and proceeded to work the wrapping off his McChicken sandwich. Oh how he loved the peppery tang of those chicken sandwiches.

With the icecream melting rapidly in the cupholder beside him, Gonga pulled out onto the highway once more. He needed to make better time. No more stopping to tour each rest area which presented itself, no more darting down side roads just to see where they went, and definitely no more stopping for food every hour. It was time to get serious. The Black Mounatins were waiting.