Mercy on These Teenage Chimps (7 page)

Evil—that's the word. When I went to retrieve my bike, it was gone.

"They stole it!" I cried. I was certain that the two teenagers were scam artists. A third friend must have been hiding in the bushes.

I stood defeated in the middle of the street, my arms at my sides, suddenly tired. It had been a long day that started with a blue sky over beautiful daffodils, but now the smell of truck exhaust hung in my nose.
How could they do that to me?
I lamented.
I wouldn't do that to them!

I had lost my bike, but at least I still had Joey. I embarked on my legs—trusty getaway sticks—to go get sympathy from him. And as I walked in the gathering dark of Pinkerton, indifferent to barking dogs and the occasional security light going on as I ghosted down quiet streets, I wondered if Joey's tree would one day be a shrine for those seeking love.

To my amazement, Joey was enjoying modern comforts such as a tiny television (presently off and trailing a long extension cord), an ice chest with a thermos of mango juice, a radio (battery operated), a three-speed blender (also battery powered) for smoothies, an air mattress, a kerosene lamp, and a small library of
National Geographies.

"Wow," I exclaimed.

I had climbed into the tree via a rope ladder and reiterated a second and third "wow" when I spotted a colossal fruit bowl filled with a cornucopia of nature's best. The banana and apple in my pockets seemed a paltry gift; yet, I pulled them out. The banana was so mushy from my fiery strides pushing the truck that I contemplated heaving it and the bruised apple away. But Joey said he would toss them into the blender and whirl them into a smoothie for a nightcap. Here I issued another "wow," and listened to a brief lecture from my friend on waste not, want not.

"It's like home!"

"Yeah, it's nice. I figure if I'm never coming down, at least I should live well."

Joey said his mind would not turn into mush like my banana. He would continue his studies. He opened a laptop computer and its screen glowed like a treasure.

"I could even take college classes later."

"Shut up."

"Yeah, really." He went to a website and a catalog popped up, displaying courses for eager-beaver students who were bored with high school and were searching for a challenge.

"You've got everything." I was bewildered. I had been convinced that Joey was suffering as he wasted away, hugging a limb to keep from falling. But I had been too hasty. "Does that mean you're never coming down?"

"Why should I?" He said this without anger or stubbornness. He pointed to a high crooked branch. "Follow me, Ronnie."

I climbed awkwardly behind him. He was more sprightly than me because he had many hours of practice living in a tree. The two of us tottered on a branch that was skinny but pliable.

"That's Venus," Joey pointed out.

"It is?" I didn't know my planets or stars, though I did enjoy their twinkly effect and was glad that they kept their distance from Earth. I had heard that if a star just grazed our planet we would flare like matchsticks. I was too young to go up in smoke.

"Over there is Orion and the Big Dipper." He informed me that an astronaut could be shot up in a spaceship going a zillion miles an hour and never reach Orion.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah, really. So it's better that we don't try. We would be like really dead by the time we got there."

We returned to the platform and sat cross-legged on pillows. Joey handed me a blanket. I was grateful for its warmth, as it was surprisingly cold in the tree. Joey next explained that the tree was mostly water.

"Shut up!" I crowed.

"Yeah, really! Trees are mostly water because they are thirstier than you think. They pump up gallons and gallons of water daily." Joey acquainted me with more news: we were mostly water, too.

"What about our bones?"

"They're water, too. Well, mostly."

He went on to point out that porcupines, elephants, and even tarantulas were mostly water. I smacked my lips, an unsubtle hint that we should break for a drink. Joey, a good host, poured me a paper cup of mango juice, though I would have preferred hot chocolate. The night was chilly.

"What have you been doing today?" Joey asked.

I licked the sweetness from my lips and offered him a big fat lie, or at least a partial one. "I went down to the creek to look at fish." I was reluctant to bring up Coach Bear's name, or to inform him that I had been scouting for Jessica. One, I wasn't sure my efforts would pan out. Two, I was now relishing a second cup of mango juice, along with a trail mix of crushed almonds and walnuts, unsalted sunflower seeds, and tiny chocolate chips. Three, I judged if I provided a list of my accomplishments—plus failures—it would alter our mood. It was good to see Joey enjoying his new life in the tree.

Then I reported the bad news.

"Someone stole my bike, Joey."

"No!" Joey put down his paper cup and finished chewing a mouthful of his trail mix. "That's messed up."

"Yeah, I was riding over to see you, and these two guys tricked me. Their truck was, like, in the middle of the street, and they needed me to help them push it." I painted a picture of my shoulder pressed to the back of the truck and pushing with all my strength.

"I'm surprised the truck didn't shoot off into space. You got a lot of leg strength."

I eyed Joey. "You mean that?"

"Yeah, Ronnie, you're stronger than you think."

I enjoyed hearing those words and was waiting for him to say more when the truck I helped rounded the corner onto Joey's street. It approached loudly.

"That's the truck!" I stood up, angry and ready to parachute from the tree and run after it.

The truck popped foul exhaust, and from the cab a bottle flew and crashed against the ground. Then a banana peel flew out from the driver's side.

"I gave him that banana," I bawled.

At the stop sign, the truck barely applied its brakes as it rounded the corner. By the glow of a streetlight, I could see my bike in the back. I considered swinging from the tree and running after the truck, but what would have been the use? I was fast, but not Superman.

"I know that truck," Joey announced. Even in the dark, I sensed a hot glow on his cheeks and fire in his eyes.

"Who are those guys?"

"That's Cory's half brother. He's in eleventh grade but my brother used to wrestle him." Joey turned to me. "Are you sure he's the one who stole your bike?"

I nodded. For a long time we stared at the place where the truck had recklessly skidded around the corner and listened for the sounds of the truck's popping exhaust.

I borrowed Joey's mom's cell phone and called Mom to ask if I could sleep over at Joey's. She agreed, but said she wouldn't take me to the hospital if I fell out of the tree and cracked open my head. Of course, this was sort of a joke, and I released a chuckle to suggest that she was a really funny mom. However, I could sense that Mom might be worried about my new status as a tree dweller.

I bedded down next to Joey. For a while we watched the stars slowly wheel westward. Then Joey got up and made that smoothie out of the banana and apple I had brought from home, adding portions of a pineapple and some sort of berry. That sweet brew was history in no time.

Then it was back to bed.

"Joey," I mumbled, near sleep. "Are we going to stay chimps?" I had my fingers crossed that we were just in phase two of our growth as human beings, that in a few months we would wake up and find new faces in our steamy bathroom mirrors. We would wipe the mirrors, and discover we were just regular boys.

"I think so."

"Really?" I had expected a more philosophical answer. I was too tired to worry. I yawned and pulled on the blanket—Joey was a hog when it came to sharing it. I folded my hands behind my head. Through the leaves I followed the flights of occasional airplanes, and had started inventing stories about the people in the planes when a shock ran through me.

I sat up and scratched my head.

"I know what to do," I mumbled. Joey, thumb in his mouth, was asleep. I lay back down as I played out my plan in my mind. It took me only a short while to lower my eyelids and slide down a roof into a happy dream.

The next morning
when I returned home on foot, I found Mom in the kitchen stirring a pot of oatmeal. She seemed nice and toasty in her fleece-lined robe, and her big woolly slippers added to this image.

"How did you sleep?" she asked. She raised a wooden spoon to her mouth, and her tongue, lizard fast, darted out for a taste.

"Pretty good but the birds woke me up," I answered. I would have broken the news about my stolen bike but I didn't want to spoil her breakfast. I poured myself a mug of milk and sat down at the kitchen table, where I took a knife and, in a swashbuckling manner, cut a chunk of coffee cake.

"Mom," I said. "I'm going to church." Last night I had remembered the church bumper sticker on Jessica's car and had a hunch that she would be there that morning.

"You're what?" Mom appeared confused.

"I'm going to church." My mouth churning a piece of coffee cake, I repeated my Sunday morning plans before I dipped another piece of cake into my milk. Crumbs floated on the surface, but there was no escape for them. It would be only a matter of time before I drained the mug.

Mom put the wooden spoon down and shifted her oatmeal to the back burner. She squeezed me affectionately.

"I'm proud of you! My little monkey is going to church all by himself."

"Yeah, Mom, I thought I would try it out." I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl.

Moved by my apparent holiness, Mom spooned me a bowl of oatmeal and blessed it with a handful of raisins. Then she rushed from the kitchen and returned holding up a Sacagawea dollar.

"Take this for the offering." She dropped the coin into my shirt pocket.

After our breakfast dishes were steaming on the drainboard from a good scrubbing, I looked in the phone book for the name and address of the church. The sticker, I remembered, showed something like a cross with a red scarf. Maybe I could find the symbol in the church's listing in the Yellow Pages. When I did, I saw that Jessica was United Methodist. I didn't know the church, as our household belonged to St. John's. We seldom went to Mass, which, Mom said, was a sure sign we were Catholic.

I checked the address. "Easy," I whistled. "I know where that is."

The church was downtown. I looked up at the Porky Pig clock on the mantel. It was 9:35.

"I'd better hurry," I muttered.

I would have asked Mom for a ride, but she was sweetly content in her recliner, a blanket around her knees. She was tapping a finger as she waited for the San Francisco Giants, her favorite team, to come on television. They were playing back East.

I dressed in my best clothes, sprayed my throat with cologne, and brushed my teeth until they hurt. While I was slipping into my dress shoes, an idea came to me.

"My trike," I murmured. I realized that I would look absurd—a thirteen-year-old dressed in Sunday clothes riding a trike—but I needed a way to get to church pronto. My skateboard was lent out and my bike was stolen. If I stood up on the pedals I figured I could still get there faster than by walking.

I pulled the old trike from the garage, wiped its seat and handlebars free of dust, and spurted oil on the front and back axles. I swallowed my pride. If I pedaled really fast maybe no one would recognize me. My face will be a blur, I tried to convince myself. People will just think I'm big for my age.

A horde of kids along the way, plunging Popsicles into their stained mouths, recognized me. But what did I care? I was resolved to get to church on time. I guessed it would probably start at ten o'clock, but I was late by ten minutes. I raked the sweat from my brow and upper lip, shook at my shirt to cool my back, and strode into the church. But I braked immediately.

"Uncle!" I cried. Shouting on holy ground was probably bad form. I punished my mouth for its outburst by slapping a hand over it.

"Ronnie," Uncle Vic greeted. He was dressed in a brown suit and white shoes with silver buckles. His socks were orange. His tie was eggplant purple and rippled with wrinkles. I wasn't up on churchy fashions, but it was my feeling that Uncle was dressed weird. I wondered if he was color-blind.

"So this is the church you go to?" I sensed my mouth was hanging open and I closed it. "Mom said you were going someplace different."

"This is it!" He beamed at me and jokingly asked, "Who lowered your ears? Your haircut looks just awful!" Uncle was unaware of my sensitivity about my ears, but he knew who had run barber clippers recklessly around my head.

"It's good to see you!" he cried. He gave me a quick hug and patted my cropped hair. I presumed he was the usher when he held open the door to the sanctuary and gave me a strong push. I entered with my hands in semiprayer; the fingers were laced, but not shaped into a steeple. Music played while I lingered by the back wall for a few minutes. I scanned the members. Almost all the men sported the same kind of haircut that crowned my gourd. Everyone was singing with gusto and scenting the air with breakfast smells. I smelled ham and eggs, and waffles with little weenies on the side. The congregation was well fed, even sort of porky. One woman was so large that many children could stand in her shadow and be cool on a hot day.

The pastor, though, was a skinny man with a skinny tie. His singing voice was weak and his face plain as a piece of toast. But I liked him because he didn't embarrass me by announcing my sudden presence with a loud, "Now, who's this young man?" He just nodded his head in my direction.

I found a seat near the front. I spotted Jessica immediately, for she was at the piano—the girl was multitalented! Her pretty hands were on the ivories, except when she had to spank her sheet music back into place. It kept trying to close as she drummed out a slow song about rocks, flocks, and mighty winds.

The song ended and Jessica stood up, smoothing the back of her dress. She started to take her seat in a pew, but paused when she recognized me, then maneuvered in my direction. As she sat next to me, she smiled.