Suspicion

Gonga sighed. This day was just dragging along. It was worse than sitting through the most boring philosophy lecture ever. At least then you could count the number of times the professor got off topic. And at least then the professor had to end; if only because the next class was pressing against the doors for entrance and the following professor was giving him the death stare from the side-lines.

Oh, the weather was nice enough. The sun was shining and all. But Gonga just didn’t feel like playing his accordion. He sat slumped at Speaker’s Circle, watching the crowds mill past.

Ok, enough of this. He picked up his accordion, then paused.

There was something strangely familiar about the guy in the gray zip-up hoodie shuffling towards him. The hair on the back of Gonga’s neck stood up. But he couldn’t pin-point why. What was so familiar about this person? And why did his heart start pounding in his ears?

A non-descript backpack sagged off his shoulder and bumped against his back as he walked. Gonga fiddled with his accordion, following the guy with the corner of his eye as he shuffled past towards the library.

The guy didn’t even look at him.

He didn’t know why, but he had to follow him. Carefully, so as not to appear rushed, Gonga slid his accordion back into its case. Then he too wandered into the library.

At first the guy strolled over to the computers and slung his bag to the ground. Gonga settled down in a comfy chair across the room from him and pulled out a book from his accordion case.

He wasn’t sure why. But he needed to watch this guy. At any rate, his day was going slow enough that this couldn’t possibly slow it down anyway.

Three hours later he was just turning the last page of his book when he noticed the gray hoodie stand up and stretch. He slung his backpack on his shoulder and picked up a piece of paper, then head towards the stacks.

Gonga left his accordion case underneath the chair and tucked his book under his arm. Then he too headed toward the stacks.

Were his instincts misleading him? Was this just a false alarm? The white piece of paper was probably just call numbers the guy had written down for a research project.

Gonga tried to calm himself down. But his guts still churned. Why did that guy seem so familiar?

Gonga and Football

You would think that a gorilla would be good at football, right? I mean, anyone around 6 foot tall weighing three hundred pounds should be great. Just stick him down front and center and tell him not to let anyone get through.

Oh it’s a great plan all right. Until you realize that he’s not really three hundred pounds. Try half that and you’d be closer. I know. All that fur. It’s very deceiving. It certainly keeps him warm in the winter. And nice and sweaty all summer. But it weighs about two ounces. And that doesn’t go very far when it comes to football.

In that case, why not make him a wide receiver? Let him stay on the outside, away from all the plows, and use his wilderness sharpened speed to get right where the opposing side doesn’t want him?

Except that the opposing side really won’t care where he is after they see him try to catch the ball. Those hands are better suited for crushing blows to the skull than catching anything.

But he plays an accordion! He’s got to have some sort of dexterity.

Yep. He fumbles the accordion just like a football. Ever wondered why he usually has it on a strap around his neck? If you could just strap the football around his neck like that, you could send him from one side of the field to the other and no one would catch him. Unfortunately, the rules don’t allow it.

Which is why you’ll see Gonga on the sidelines on game day, yelling at the band to play louder, shouting at the players to run faster, and trading hugs with Truman the Tiger every time he comes by. Some of the kids actually like Gonga better than Truman. It does seem that Gonga’s face would be more frightening than Truman’s. But maybe it’s the relative size of the thing that makes the difference.

If you see Gonga at the next game, go try to shake his hand and ask him why he doesn't play football. Actually, better just give him a hug. Those hands don't always behave as expected!

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.