“Who? What?” Kevin rubs a hand through his tousled hair and across his face.
“Jilly. Lorene. Lyle. I heard them laughing out there this morning. I thought for a minute that they were drunk, but it’s way too early.”
“What’d they do?”
“They’ve drawn bars on the windows of his car with shoe polish or something, and they’ve written stuff like ‘Dirty Old Monkey’ and ‘Beware the Beast.’ He’s still in there, asleep.”
“Oh, he’ll think it’s funny. He doesn’t mind. They’re always joking over there, calling him ‘Stinky’ and whatnot.”
“I don’t know. Somehow, this is worse. Too personal. Come look. ”
“Jilly. Lorene. Lyle. I heard them laughing out there this morning. I thought for a minute that they were drunk, but it’s way too early.”
“What’d they do?”
“They’ve drawn bars on the windows of his car with shoe polish or something, and they’ve written stuff like ‘Dirty Old Monkey’ and ‘Beware the Beast.’ He’s still in there, asleep.”
“Oh, he’ll think it’s funny. He doesn’t mind. They’re always joking over there, calling him ‘Stinky’ and whatnot.”
“I don’t know. Somehow, this is worse. Too personal. Come look. ”
Kevin gets up and wraps himself in his robe. I follow him downstairs and out onto the back porch. Over Kevin’s shoulder I can see Nigel’s battered station wagon parked near the shed. Nigel’s sitting up in the back, his hair matted and poking at odd angles away from his head. The windshield has bars drawn on it with something that looks like white paint, and the words, “Come see the Monkey,” are written across the vertical lines. The side and back windows have more bars drawn on them. “Dirty Monkey” says the window on this side.
We hear laughter. Lyle and Jilly and Lorene are standing on the back steps of A Cut Above. They point at Nigel, still sitting in his car, and make monkey noises, “Hoo-hoo-hoo.” Lyle jumps off the porch in an ape-like crouch, holding his arms low to the ground. He throws himself around the garden, hoo-hoo-hooing and pretending to swing from the trees. His thongs smack the bottoms of his feet loudly.
Nigel opens the back door of his car and crawls out. He brushes out the wrinkles in his overalls and rakes his hair back under his cap. He turns and looks at his car, moving around it, reading the words on the windows. Even from our porch, I can see his ears get redder. The weathered back of his neck glows above his crumpled collar. I put one hand on Kevin’s shoulder in front me and lean on him.
Nigel turns to the laughing trio. I’ve never seen him so pink, so freckled, so burned. He opens his mouth, but it takes him a few tries before any words come out. When they do, they sound torn. “You assholes. You fucking assholes.” His voice wavers and cracks its way up an octave. “I may just be an old queer, but I’m not a monkey, dammit!” He stops. He takes three sweeping steps to the corner of the shed, where the Weed Scourge is propped. He grabs the Scourge with both hands and waves it over his head, hoeing the air. Jilly and Lorene shriek with laughter. Lyle hoo-hoo-hoos and dances from one foot to the other.
Kevin turns to me, his face ashen. “This is a big mistake.” I nod and watch.
“Stop it. Stop it!” Nigel runs at Lyle. He lifts the Weed Scourge high and throws it. It falls about three feet short and bounces once in the grass. “Stop! It!” Nigel screams.
Jilly and Lorene fall silent. Lyle freezes in mid-crouch. Nigel strides over to him and picks up the Scourge. Lyle flinches, moves sideways. Pretty quick for a fat guy, I think. Nigel holds the Scourge more carefully now, almost tenderly.
Lyle straightens. “Hey, guy. Can’t take a joke? Come on. Can’t take a joke?”
Nigel turns back toward his car, holding the Weed Scourge close to his side. He puts the Scourge in the back and walks around to the driver’s side.
“Come on, Nigel,” says Lyle. “Don’t go. Can’t you take a joke? Come on. Don’t go.”
Nigel gets in and backs his car away from the shed. He stops, opens his door, and reaches out to wipe the windshield with his shirt sleeve. The painted bars smear across the glass. Nigel drops back into the car, slams the door, and drives away, leaving us staring after him, locked in a wordless tableau: Lyle on the edge of the parking lot, his hands still monkey-clenched; Jilly and Lorene on the Cut Above porch steps. Kevin and I draw back into our house and close the door softly.
It’s late, but I can’t sleep. Kevin’s been lightly snoring beside me for two hours, but I stare and stare at the wall. There’s a full moon tonight; even with the curtains drawn, there’s enough light in the room for me to see the pattern on the wallpaper. I haven’t seen Nigel since Saturday. He hasn’t come back to get the week’s check, Lyle tells me, and the waitress at the Whitman says he hasn’t been there in four days.
The garden committee came this morning and gave Lyle his blue ribbon and a little plaque that says “Best Wild Garden.” There were still a few things left to finish up, but neither Lyle nor I got around to them. Guess it didn’t matter to the committee. I didn’t go outside while they were here, I watched Reverend Bleat and Mrs. Farnsworth and some other woman walk around and ask Lyle questions. Mrs. Farnsworth even patted the new Boner on the head while she was showing the other woman the berms. It’s hot, hotter than it’s been so far this summer. We kicked the sheets off right away, and Kevin is clear over on his side of the bed. I sit up and lift my damp t-shirt away from my body. Then I get out of bed and pull back the curtain. The moonlight makes everything the color of cement. If I look far to the right, I can see the new Boner sitting obediently between the berms. His sightless eyes are fixed on a bushy azalea, its grey blossoms heavy with moonlight.
There’s another statue in the garden tonight. A man leans, motionless, on the Weed Scourge, one heavy, rubber-booted foot cocked behind the other. He surveys the last of his labor, the filled borders, the graded berms. He tucks a grimy bandana into his pocket, props the Scourge against a low tree, and, with gloveless hands, lifts the hem of his shirt high over his head, sweeping his cap off with it, too. He bundles the cap and shirt against his chest, then drops them on the ground. The moonlight washes the hard knots and sinews of his shoulders and back. The silver planes of his chest rise and fall rhythmically. He’s beautiful, and, from my window, I love him.
[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]
[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]
