Brass Monkeys

by Terry Caszatt

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Where’s the music?” I pointed at the empty music stand.

  She gave me a mousy look, then whispered, “Supposed to have it memorized.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never seen the music, or even heard it,” I whispered back.

  A flicker of uneasiness crossed her face. “Believe me, you’ll hear it today.” She suddenly stopped and looked toward the gym door. I followed her gaze and saw a tall, hatchet-faced man walking slowly toward the director’s podium.

  I gave Harriet a questioning glance and she mouthed back, “Fundabore.”

  Where Strobe’s face had been fiery with zits, Fundabore’s looked dry and white, like the underbelly of a toad. His eyes had a yellow caste to them, and they were sharp and unfriendly. Strobe had moved in a kind of goofy frenzy, while Fundabore seemed to take forever just to walk to the podium.

  “Goood mooorning … stuuudents,” Fundabore said, dragging out the words in a mournful, hollow voice. Slowly, he put a briefcase on the podium, then opened it and began searching inside for something. Finally, after what seemed like years, he brought out a small brass monkey. I recognized it immediately as identical to Strobe’s incense burner.

  Fundabore carefully placed the monkey on the podium and lit the incense. It seemed to take endless more hours to do this, and his movements made me irritable and restless. I began jiggling my foot up and down.

  “All right everyone,” Fundabore droned, sounding as if he were sitting in the bottom of a barrel. “Let’s tuurrn to our muusic, ‘Maaarch of the Midnight Scholars.’“

  When he said the word “Scholars,” I could have sworn I saw a spurt of dust fly out of his mouth.

  “Innnstruments … ready?” said Fundabore.

  Normally this would be an exciting moment for me. The director’s baton was up and we were about to begin some new music. But I had no idea what I was supposed to play, so I kept my horn down on my knee.

  Harriet and Alvin flashed me a warning gesture to get my trumpet up, so I quickly raised it to my lips. Perhaps too quickly. Right away

  Fundabore turned, like a slow radar screen, and gave me a look of irritation.

  Then he raised his eyes slightly and said, “Monnnkeymiiind.”

  When he said that, I flashed a triumphant look at Harriet, but she didn’t react at all. She kept her eyes focused completely on Fundabore. I was stunned. There was that same stupid word! I would have chanced a peek at Weeser and Alvin, but I didn’t dare because Fundabore was looking at me again.

  Finally, after pausing for what seemed like a century, he brought his baton down and the band began a piece of music that will haunt me the rest of my life.

  The march began with a kid in the percussion section shaking some bells that gave off an eerie jangling sound. This was joined by a slow thumping beat from Weeser on the bass drum. With a nerve-jangling trill, the woodwinds came in. This was followed by a thunderous rush from the brass, then the whole band moved into the main theme.

  It was grim sounding and made me think we were marching in a slow funeral procession toward some dark and final resting place. And we kept marching until it seemed we’d been moving forever at that horrible pace. For a long while I didn’t feel secure enough to play a note, but gradually I became so used to the theme that I started playing a bit.

  I thought participating would perk me up, but instead it affected me in the opposite way: I felt bored and sleepy. The music droned on and on. I thought several times the piece was over, but Fundabore simply went back to the opening and began again. I stopped a couple of times and yawned widely.

  The kids around me looked as if they were in some of kind of trance. Alvin and Weeser appeared pale and ill. Harriet glanced my way once and I thought she looked frightened. But of what? Really, I felt nothing but a big emptiness.

  Someplace along here I dozed off and nearly toppled from my chair. I bit my lip savagely, trying desperately to stay awake, and it must have been the taste of blood in my mouth that got me started. I didn’t know what I was doing at first. Then, with a horrible jolt, I realized I was putting a Spanish twist on the music.

  Fundabore snapped around, a look of amazement passing over his face. That was followed quickly by a squinched-up grimace, which almost looked like—fear.

  I tried desperately to stop the sharp Latin sound, but it continued to grow. I ripped up an octave above the other trumpets and the march started to sound like a bullfight in Spain—bee de deeeee, diddly dee! Then it was a crazed mariachi band at fiesta time—bi ya ta ta, bi ya ta ta! And I couldn’t stop myself.

  With an explosive sound, Fundabore slammed his baton down and put both hands over his ears. The band straggled to a stop, but I managed to get off a few more wild bars—zee-yah bittely-dee-waaah! before I petered out. I caught a glimpse of Harriet’s wide-eyed look, then I realized Fundabore was walking towards me, his hands still over his ears. That’s a scary way to see an adult coming at you.

  When he reached my chair, he lowered his hands and leaned toward me. I got a good look at his pale yellow eyes, which seemed filled now with only rage.

  “I knnew what you were trying to do the whole time,” he said in his hollow voice. A spurt of dust came flying out of his nose when he said “knew.”

  I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Yeess, and don’t give me that phony ‘Excuuuse meee’ stuff,” he went on, his bad breath rolling over me. “I suspected you were going to try something like this, and I was waiting. And if you ever again put that Spaanish touch on your music in here, you’re going to find yoour-self in a mooost unpleasant sssituation.”

  I sat there with my mouth open, my heart thumping crazily. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do next, but luckily the bell rang. Fundabore gave me a narrow-eyed glare, then spun around and walked back to the podium.

  I glanced over to get Harriet’s reaction, but I couldn’t spot her in the crowd. Alvin and Weeser gestured at me to follow them out into the hall. Quickly I put my trumpet away, trying not to notice the scared looks of the kids around me.

  As I rushed out of the room, I caught a last glimpse of Fundabore lifting his incense burner, kissing it lightly, then putting it into his briefcase.

  9

  ming the merciless

  When I got into the hall, I found Harriet, Alvin, and Weeser waiting for me. They looked scared, but excited too.

  “Fardex, man, you finally made your move,” said Alvin with a huge grin.

  Harriet’s eyes gleamed. “You were wonderful! I loved the way you played the march. I mean, I hate the music, but that Spanish sound—”

  “You woke us up, man.” Weeser blurted out. “It was exotic, mesmerizing—”

  “It blew my boxers off,” Alvin broke in.

  “So what did Fundabore say to you?” Harriet gave me an eager look.

  I shook my head bleakly. “He’s crazy. He said he knew all along what I was trying to do and he was just waiting for me. And did you guys catch the ‘Monkeymind’ stuff again?

  I got the same blank looks as before.

  Harriet frowned and ran a hand through her short curly hair. “When did it happen? I didn’t catch anything like that.”

  “Me either,” said Weeser. “And I watch and hear everything.”

  Alvin stroked his chin. “Maybe you imagined it, Tonka-bud?”

  I groaned. “Guys, listen to me. That’s twice now—”

  A couple of teachers fell in beside us and we stopped talking and snapped our eyes straight ahead.

  Harriet slowed and the rest of us followed, letting the teachers move on ahead.

  “That’s Ming’s classroom coming up,” she whispered. “We’re out of time.” She gave me a little apologetic look. “Sorry, Eugene.” She hesitated. “You may be absolutely right about what you heard.” She let out a nervous sigh. “I think we’ve been missing things lately.”

  “You’re right,” said Weeser in a low voice. “I’ve felt right along we’ve been losing it
. Something’s happening to us.”

  “Maybe,” grunted Alvin, “but it’s too late to yadda about it now.”

  I saw a yellow classroom door just ahead, and as we drew nearer I saw the name on a brass plate just to the left of the door: MRS. MERCI MINGLEY.

  Harriet whispered quickly to me, “Watch out for traps. She’s clever.”

  “Traps?” My voice yodeled.

  Harriet nodded. “She’ll be looking for your weakness.” She turned to Alvin and Weeser. “Stick together,” she whispered fiercely. “And read what you want.” She turned to me and squeezed my arm. “I have faith in you, Eugene. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

  “Start slow, finish big, Tonka-bud,” said Alvin. He gave me a buddy punch in the chest that nearly stopped my heart.

  Harriet shot me a last encouraging look, then the three of them walked on into Ming’s classroom.

  I stood there as if my shoes had been nailed to the floor. I could barely breathe. I saw an exit door out of the corner of my eye and started to edge toward it. Escape plans roared through my brain: I’d get plastic surgery and hide down in Mexico. I’d become a monk and live out my life in Katmandu. I’d dig a hole, grow fur, and live under—

  “Hello, Eugene,” came a soft melodic voice near my elbow. I snapped around and found myself staring up at Ming the Merciless, who was looking down at me with an amused gaze.

  She had to be at least six feet tall. My head came barely to the level of her large bosom. I found myself staring at a metal brooch that was pinned to her black jacket. It appeared to be the image of a monkey leaping toward the moon.

  “Welcome to our school,” she said.

  “Themk yew,” I mumbled, falling into my worst habit of garbling words whenever I got nervous. “It’s gree to beep here. I mean, it’s great to be here.”

  Her smile broadened and I thought I was returning it, but in all likelihood I probably looked like a mouse gazing up at a king cobra. I had never seen a face that frightened me so much. Mrs. Mingley’s powdery white forehead seemed delicate, but her cheeks flared into a heavy jaw. I remembered her pale blue eyes, but now I saw something I’d missed the first time: a large mole at the corner of her chin.

  “Did you wait out here just to introduce yourself, Eugene?” Her eyes glittered merrily, as if she knew that was the last thing on my mind.

  “Hoo yes,” I burbled on. “Thought I should, yew know.”

  The smile disappeared. “Wasn’t that thoughtful.” She grasped my shoulder, her nails digging in painfully, then turned me around smartly and started me through the classroom door. “But now it’s time to get to work, don’t you think?”

  I nodded mutely. As I passed through the open door, I felt a terrible chill run down my back. “Roo,” I mumbled. I knew it was too late now.

  When I saw the inside of Ming’s room, I thought I had been teleported to an alien planet. The floor was carpeted in black and there were pukey-looking yellow throw rugs scattered about. The shades were drawn, and the room was dimly lit with the same kind of yellowish-orange light I’d seen in the halls. Also, the room was hot, almost as if there was an open fire close by. To complete the scene, I saw the familiar brass monkey incense burner on Mrs. Mingley’s desk.

  Harriet, Weeser, and Alvin had their eyes fixed on me. Their faces were pale and tense. The other kids were still rustling around with their backpacks and talking in low voices, until they spotted Mrs. Mingley. Instantly the kids took their seats, their voices dying away.

  “Class,” said Mrs. Mingley, “I’d like to introduce our new student. Eugene Ithaca Wise.”

  A heavy-set boy—a spy—snickered loudly and said, “Ithaca?”

  I thought Mrs. Mingley would jump on him for this, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard a thing.

  She went on silkily. “We don’t know why Mr. Wise decided to favor us with his presence this late in the year. We all find it rather odd, suspicious even. I sincerely hope he hasn’t come here to disrupt things. I guess we’ll soon know.”

  I was nearly shaking my head off my shoulders in denial of all this, but it didn’t seem to help.

  “Find a seat, Mr. Wise,” snapped Mrs. Mingley. The melodic voice was gone. She was all business now. As a kid, I recognized the change immediately. Lots of times adults pretend to be friendly at first, but brother, when the crowd gathers, they toss you to the wolves.

  I hurried to a desk near the back, passing Alvin and Weeser, but they looked frightened and kept their eyes straight ahead.

  Mrs. Mingley seemed to pay no more attention to me. She strode to her desk and picked up her record book. “Let’s turn immediately to the task at hand, students.” She swept the class with a challenging look. “Let’s find out if certain individuals in this class are going to cooperate, or are going to continue to be disruptive. Let’s get out our poems, please.”

  Harriet threw me a warning glance. The battle was about to start. There was a general rustling of paper as the kids got out their assignments. Feeling totally lost, I pretended to look for a pen in my backpack.

  While this was going on, I heard Mrs. Mingley discussing with the class which incense to burn. There were suggestions of “Rainy Day” and “Jungle Nights.”

  “How about Monkeymind?” Mrs. Mingley called out. When she said that the class froze and simply stared at her. A quick peek at Harriet, Alvin, and Weeser showed the same response. They hadn’t heard the word at all.

  “I think Monkeymind is an excellent choice,” cooed Mrs. Mingley. She scratched a match and lit the incense in the brass-monkey burner, then turned and grinned at me.

  “Is that a good choice, Mr. Wise?”

  “Sure,” I mumbled. “It’s a good choice, I guess. Why not?”

  The class came alive now and gleeful laughter rattled around the room at my dumb response.

  “All right, everyone,” Mrs. Mingley went on. “Let’s begin today’s lesson. I can’t wait to hear some good poetry. But first, let’s have Selene tell us what the assignment was so our new student knows what we’re doing. Selene?”

  Selene, a plump, blonde-haired girl, stood and adjusted her sweater fussily. “The assignment,” she began in a high-pitched voice, “was to choose a poem by one of our poets, Mr. Higgenbottom, Ms. Pitts, or Ms. Potts, and read it. It’s supposed to be a poem that really really reflects what Mrs. Mingley has been trying to teach us this year. And no excuses,” she ended with a cutesy grin.

  Mrs. Mingley didn’t respond to the grin. “That’s right, Selene. You always do everything exactly as I instruct. So gratifying. Recite your poem.”

  Selene patted her hair and frowned at her paper. “My poem is by Ms. Potts,” she said. “It’s called ‘The Sycamore Tree.’” She began reading in a singsong voice a poem about some poor old tree that was freezing to death in the winter. That was bad enough, but then there was a twist at the end. It turned out the poet hated the tree and wanted it to die. I only remember one depressing line:

  To the ash heap old shaggy bark, I rejoice in your death.

  “Isn’t that a lovely, inspiring poem?” Mrs. Mingley said.

  I thought she was joking, but she wasn’t. Not at all.

  She clapped twice. “Vision?”

  “Dark and bleak,” cried the class.

  “Exactly. Fine work, Selene. And who’s next?” Mrs. Mingley had her head down, putting a grade in the book, when she said silkily, “How about Walter?”

  Weeser shot me a fearful look, then stood slowly.

  “And what are you going to read, Walter?” Mrs. Mingley’s voice had an undertone of menace in it, and I knew the battle was about to heat up.

  Weeser looked miserable. “My poem is called ‘In the Dung Heap of Life,’ by Ms. Pitts.” When he said this you could hear a sigh of relief sweep around the room. I saw Harriet bite her lip in disappointment and look away. Alvin snuffed and kept his eyes on the floor. Mrs. Mingley smiled.

  “My, my,” she said. “I’m so surprised but ple
ased, Walter. Recite it!”

  Weeser launched into a gloomy poem about some guy who was unhappy about life and ended up sleeping on a pile of cow manure. I’m not kidding! The first lines went something like this: I shall lie forever on my little heap, lulled by flies and the weeping wind.

  It turned out the guy hated everything so much that he burrowed down in the poop until he was completely covered. Then, with his eyes and nose all stopped up, he dies. I almost said “Yuck!” out loud, but it’s a good thing I didn’t.

  Mrs. Mingley clapped a hand to her bosom. “Oh, my goodness! That poem hits me right here. Heartfelt! And so accurate! Vision?”

  “Dark,” chanted the class, “and bleak.”

  “Yes, it is!” cried Mrs. Mingley. “Dark and bleak! And so perfect for you, Walter. So much better than that silly thing you read last time by Robert Frost.”

  Weeser flashed me a defeated look as he sat down.

  Mrs. Mingley smiled out at us. “Things are going so well in here,” she said. “I’m so impressed with your work. Let’s inhale!”

  The kids breathed in deeply, and at first I didn’t understand. Then Mrs. Mingley said, “There’s something about my incense, isn’t there? A good deep breath makes everything so much clearer! Doesn’t it?”

  “Hmm,” went the class.

  “And who’s next?” went on Mrs. Mingley. “How about you, Alvin?”

  Alvin started nervously, then lunged to his feet. The class tittered.

  “Our little earthquake boy,” said Mrs. Mingley, but there was no trace of humor in her voice. “Always disrupting things, aren’t you? Well, let’s see what you have this morning. And I hope you’ve thought very carefully about this.”

  I held my breath. It was obvious Weeser didn’t have the chest hair to go against Mingley’s assignment, but I knew Alvin was a different matter.

  He cleared his throat. “I guess I don’t much care for Pitts, Potts, and whatever,” he began. “But even so, I’ll stick with the assignment.” He swiped at his nose and gave Harriet a beaten look. “This one’s by Higgenbutt,” he said.