Summer Employment

After that last adventure in Mississippi I was ready to head back home and finish out a good summer of hard work. That is, if I could find a job. I mean, the whole Textbook Game gig was pretty good, but it wasn’t giving me quite the hours I had hoped for. They only wanted so much Gonga accordion playing each day. Without flyers and the rush of students to keep him busy, Gonga was getting bored. Gonga needed more work.

Gonga strolled casually down 8th street in downtown Columbia. The lunch crowd bustled about him making it’s way along the sidewalks to various restaurants. Gonga paused in front of Starbucks. What would it be like to serve coffee? he wondered. He ventured in and stood in line behind a short man with glasses. The air conditioning seeped through his fur as the line inched along.

Finally Gonga stood at the counter.

“What can I get you?” the barista asked, peering down at her register.

“A job,” Gonga grunted.

She looked up and laughed. “We’re not hiring right now, we have more people than we can use at the moment. I haven’t gotten the hours I was promised in three weeks.”

Gonga rubbed his fingers through his hair. Sand left over from the beech sprinkled out on the floor.

“Ugh,” the girl said. “Besides, you’d get sand and fur in the coffee! We can’t hire you.”

Gonga turned and shuffled mournfully out of the shop. He tried a few more restaurants along the street, but even at Lakota’s they told him the same thing. Too many employees. Not enough hours. And please move away, you’re getting sand in the coffee.

So that’s why people don’t go to the beach. Sand. Everywhere. Gonga paused on the street corner, waiting for the cross-walk to turn white. And I thought people would appreciate a little texture in their coffee.

Oh well, not much time left in the day for looking for jobs. The Textbook Game wanted Gonga and accordion to roam the streets of Columbia that night. Bright red t-shirt with white lettering, accordion pumping Russian like themes into the streets; Gonga would publicize his company for the world to see. Or at least, those parts of Columbia where people abstained from mixing sand with coffee.

Mississippi Salt

Sand crunched under Gonga’s fingernails as he scratched his head. The breeze skipped along the beach, spraying salty air into his face and making him sneeze. He took another couple steps and launched into a new accordion song.

Last night I called my buddy, asking him which apartment was his, then asking him to come out and show me where to park. I was hiding on the other side of the door when he came out of the house. I couldn’t resist. I knew it was stupid. I knew I would get pummeled. I simply underestimated the fear factor associated with my Gonga costume.

He must have jumped two feet in the air when I did my Gonga howl. He was six inches from vaulting over the railing before I stopped him from a concrete death. I hit him pretty hard. I mean, I had to save him from jumping!

I got knee to the mouth. Good thing Gonga didn’t try to add singing to his accordion act.

A group of children scuttled past as a distance, looking at Gonga curiously and then pausing to listen to the music. I nudged the big straw hat lying at my feet. A few stray dollars and random change lay on the inside.

“Can you play ‘Happy Birthday’?” a little girl in a bright pink swimsuit asked, pushing wispy black hair out of her face.

Gonga nodded, doing his best to smile. I winced, better let the mask do the smiling for today, I thought. That salt air was stinging.

The girl jumped up and down and clapped her hands as Gonga switched over to a raucous gypsy rendition of ‘Happy Birthday.’

“It’s my birthday!” she cried, capering around on the beach.

“Here honey,” a somewhat pink looking man came up and handed her a paper bill. “Give the gorilla something for playing your song for you.”

I watched appreciatively as she dropped the five into my hat. That was nice! If only more people understood how the traveling musician gig worked.

It took at least five minutes of explaining from a chokehold last night before my buddy finally realized who I was. He was pretty mad. When he finally let me in and I got my mask off, he calmed down some. The blood streaming out mouth and nose was pretty convincing. He gave me a cold pack and we sat up late talking.

Now we were both at work.

Him, in the office.

Me, on the beach.

I think I got the better end of the deal. Even if the Mississippi salt air did sting.

Bikes and Beaches (and Gorillas)

The humidity drenched wind tore through Gonga’s fur, first drenching it, then standing it on end and finally pushing it almost straight back as he roared down I-55 on his motorcycle.

Ah the freedom, the thrill of travel! It was summer and as Gonga’s responsibilities at The Textbook Game eased up, he decided to take a short treck down south to see the beach.

He eased up the throttle on his bike and leaned forward. The Harley responded with a welcome surge of power and he easily careened around the slow going motorist ahead of him. He turned sideways as he passed, grinning his plastic gorilla grin and waving at the motorist.

I guffawed to myself as I caught the look of shock in my side view mirror as the motorist processed what had just driven past. That’s how it worked. Gonga went on adventures and I shocked people with his costume.

Gonga peered south again, wondering when the ocean would finally come in view. The rolling hills of Missouri had long since given way to the flat coastal plains of Mississippi. He was nearing the Coast Guard station in Gulfport, and aching to smell salt for the first time that year.

I wondered what my buddy’s reaction would be when I showed up at his apartment later on that night dressed as a gorilla. I eased back on the throttle a bit. Better not make it too late. I wasn’t sure exactly what my friend did for a living. But judging from the number of spy novels and marshal arts literature lying around his house, it was best not to delve too deeply into learning what moves he might have learned.

But now, the beach!

Gonga turned onto a wide road bordering the coast. To the south, as far as he could see, lay the Mississippi sound. Full of salt, mud and maybe even oil. Gonga headed straight for adventure.

The Shin-Kicker Again? Part II

When I reached the alley I heard a muffled yelp and looked around the corner just in time to see the shin-kicker tumbled on the ground with two guys on top of him and a third ripping the backpack off his shoulders.

I wanted to cheer. Finally someone was getting what they deserved. Let them take his textbooks. He could spare the couple hundred bucks of cash. Let him get tripped up in a dark alley on a muggy Missouri evening. It served him right.

It was like a club descended out of the darkness and crashed against my skull.
“Remember the mission!”

The mission? No way. No, please. The mission didn’t include the shin-kicker. Not him! I was supposed to protect people. That meant normal people. Not people who go around kicking immigrant gorilla’s shins for no reason. Come on. Please. Be reasonable.

No good.

With my most fear inspiring gorilla howl I sprang around the corner of the alley, both arms flailing to increase the perception of my size, praying that the dimness of the night and the padding in my costume would combine to form the image of an invincible foe in the minds of the attackers.

The guy with the backpack, who had been charging toward the alley entrance froze. I couldn’t really tell how big he was. All I saw were the whites of his eyes. In a second he had dropped the backpack with a thump and whipped around down the alley. The two thugs on top of the shin-kicker raced after him, slowed only momentarily by the shin-kicker grabbing at their heels as they leapt up.

I let out one more Gonga howl and stopped right in front of the shin-kicker. I held out my hand.

He paused for a second in shock, then grabbed it and jumped to his feet, almost
toppling me over in the process.

I pounded my chest and threw back my head in a vicory howl, then ran down the alley after the attackers. I knew a shortcut home from there. And besides, I really didn’t want to stay around and talk to the shin-kicker. Saving his books was one thing. Letting him thank me was quite another.

The Shin-Kicker Again? Part I

It was a muggy Missouri evening. I had spent the day in my gorilla suit, walking around campus and playing Gonga. Thankfully I spent a good part of the day sitting in the shade at Speaker’s Circle, playing my accordion while my buddies handed out flyers.

I was hot. I was sweaty. I was stuffed up from that ridiculous cold which had decided to make me it’s pet and kept me from hearing much of anything. So I probably stank as well. But at least I couldn’t smell myself. I’ve never washed my costume…never mind.

I saw the familiar flash of white teeth and curly black hair as my campus nemesis, the shin-kicker turned down the street ahead of me. Thankfully he hadn’t seen me. He swung easily along, his huge knees bending at each step and his feet seeming poised, even at this distance, to fling a kick at the shins of any haphazard passerby who happened to be dressed in an anonymous gorilla suit. At least, that’s how he always treated me. I had taken to avoiding particular parts of campus at particular times because of him.

I slowed to a shuffle to let him get further down the street. It would be a good end to the day if I could avoid him.

He turned down an alley, his neon green backpack flashing in the dusk.

I breathed a sigh of relief. And yes, I took my time. Let him get as far away as he wants.

But of course, things never happen the way they should.

To Make A Buck Or Two

Gonga will do anything to support his family. He is a very loyal, self-sacrificing individual. He also loves playing music, which makes for perfect harmony when you place an accordion in his hands and tell him to go play in public. Back in Africa, he liked to set a little cap on the ground and play tunes for anyone who threw money into the cap. Sometimes people just threw pennies. But every now and then a gold dollar would land in the cap. Then Gonga would dance as well as sing!

Now he doesn’t set a cap on the ground. Instead he sets up his board with his employer’s logo and plays to his heart’s content. He likes it much better that way. Now he doesn’t have to worry about the “shin-kicker” coming along and stealing his hard earned wages.

But playing for money only works for those with musical ability. What if you can’t keep a beat to save your life and even the birds fly away squawking when you open your mouth? Besides investing in a psycho-music-therapist, there might be an easier way to get a buck or two.

Yes, I’m talking about selling textbooks. But what if you’ve already sold all your books and are sitting around a home, wondering how to afford to go out this Thursday (or Friday, if you’re not lucky enough to be in the business school and have Fridays off.) So you pick up your room-mate’s biology textbook and trot it down to The Textbook Game. Viola! You have $$$!

Better yet, after exhausting your room-mate’s stash (thankfully he’s at some study group for most of the day) you could go stake out the library. Just wait till someone leaves their nook for a bathroom break. Nonchalantly saunter over to their hide-away and pick up that big fat Calculus textbook. Slip it into your own knapsack and carry it off to The Textbook Game.

On second thought…maybe not.

(Disclaimer: The Textbook Game is not liable for anyone who interprets this advice as anything but farcical and will refuse to purchase textbooks which it has reason to believe were stolen.)

To Become A Pirate

All you need to become a pirate is to learn to say “Arrr-bi-trahz” with your head cocked to one side, your left eye squinted and a perfect leer plastered all over your face. Just don’t look at yourself in the mirror when you do it. They tend to crack.

Actually there is a fine line between true dastardly pirate-ness and legitimate arbitrage. Sometimes it’s only the line between being in jail or out of jail. But not everyone bothers to know the difference.

The main element required for a successful arbitrage is information. For better or worse, thetextbookgame.com provides a piece of that very information.

You can go to the website and type in an ISBN number. Within 24 hours you know exactly what price The Textbook Game will offer to buy back your book.

Next you, the astute student, go online and find an amazing steal of a deal. Quickly doing the math, you realize that you will still make money if you overnight the book to yourself. Finally you bring it to The Textbook Game to resell for a higher price.

But that’s a lot of work. It’s even easier if you already have the textbook sitting in your dorm or off-campus location and can just pick it up and carry it over and sell it. You can even go online and see who will get you the better deal? The University Bookstore, or The Textbook Game? Want to know who wins every time? Why don’t you find out!