Brass Monkeys

by Terry Caszatt

  “Bottom,” snapped Mrs. Mingley, eyeing him sharply. “Higgen-bottom!”

  “Right,” said Alvin. He straightened his shoulders and began reciting a really sick poem about a guy who goes around destroying all the things kids like. I only remember a couple of lines:

  Childish smiles, a dog’s bark, shadows on the grass,

  I blacken all with my poisonous brush.

  “Wonderful, Alvin!” cried Mrs. Mingley. “What great strides you’ve made today! A lovely choice. And read quite well, too, I must say.” She turned now and looked over at Harriet, giving her a challenging smirk. “And what about you, Miss Grove? This might be a good time for you to show us your true spirit today.” The smirk on Mingley’s face disappeared. “Stand up and recite!”

  When she said this, Ming suddenly looked away from Harriet and shot me a grim look as if I, too, were involved in some way. I didn’t move a muscle or try to meet her eye. I could feel the quivering buzz just over my head, and I knew that if I made one false move, the dreaded bolt would come down on me.

  10

  the trap doses

  “Stand up, I said!” thundered Mrs. Mingley.

  Harriet hesitated, sighed softly, and stood up.

  A large vein appeared on Mrs. Mingley’s forehead. “And let me tell you something right now,” she hissed. “If you read the wrong kind of poem, Grove, you’re getting a failing grade for this assignment. Do you understand?”

  I could see Harriet’s lips trembling, but she nodded and never looked away.

  “To be truthful, I feel the same way Alvin does,” she began. “I know our vision is supposed to be dark and bleak, but it seems to me poetry is so much more than that. So, I decided to read a poem that sort of goes in the opposite direction. It’s by James Kavanaugh and it’s called ‘Sunshine Days and Foggy Nights.’” Then she began to read in her clear bell-like voice a poem that went so totally against the “dark and bleak” vision that I figured the roof was going to cave in.

  I was born to catch dragons in their dens

  And pick flowers

  To tell tales and laugh away the morning …

  The large vein on Mrs. Mingley’s forehead began swelling darkly.

  To drift and dream like a lazy stream

  And walk barefoot across sunshine days …

  I was born to rub my hands in dirt

  And walk green hills—

  I looked away. I couldn’t stand the tension. I heard Mrs. Mingley striding toward Harriet. This was followed by the awful crackle of paper as the page was snatched from Harriet’s hand.

  “That’s enough from you, Miss Grove!” Mingley ground out the words as she wadded up the paper. “Such a stubborn girl! Is this the correct vision, class?”

  “No!” shouted almost everyone in the room. Even I formed the word.

  “No, it is not,” Mingley continued. “And this brings me to one of the saddest moments of my career. We are poised here, on the edge of an abyss. The wrong decision can plunge us into one of life’s tragic mistakes. What are we to do, students?” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you trust me to know what’s right?”

  “Yes!” cried the class.

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Mingley. “We must return to our true vision as quickly as we can. We must stamp out the effect of this last horrible poem, and the only way to do that is to hear words from a better, truer poem.” She paused dramatically. “Who in here has a poem that will carry us back to where we belong? If you do, you will not only save this class, but also Miss Grove who may fail the entire marking period!”

  The class gasped, and I saw Harriet falter under the blow and start to sit down.

  “No, stand up, Grove!” cried Mingley. “I want you to face the seriousness of this.” Her eyes swept over the class. “Unless there’s a young scholar in here willing to help, you are in very grave trouble.”

  The room was deadly quiet. Harriet glanced up then and gave me a small pleading look. And that’s when I did the most foolish thing in my life. I suddenly raised my hand.

  When I looked back on it later, I realized how easily I had fallen into the trap. Part of my weakness was my desire to be the big hero and save Harriet, but I had an even greater crack in my armor, which Ming the Merciless must have sensed.

  “Well, look at this,” said Mrs. Mingley. “What have we here? Our new student wishes to step in and rescue Harriet? Stand up, Eugene. What do you have?”

  “It’s a po-em,” I stammered, “called ‘Toad Man.’ Uh, Mr. Heilbart, my English teacher from my old school, used to write it on the board … and we had to memorize it. I think he actually wrote the poem.”

  Mingley’s bulging eyes studied me intently. “Well, this should be interesting. And it had better be good, Mr. Wise.”

  I suddenly sensed my idea might be a huge mistake, but I was in too deep now.

  I caught a glimpse of Alvin and Weeser watching me in awe. But Harriet’s face made the greatest impression: her eyes glowed with such hope. She thought I was riding to the rescue. And I thought I was, too.

  I began to recite in a stammering voice old Heilbart’s poem:

  I am the Toad Man at the end of days

  The moon is dead, the sun is dying;

  I have them in my bag.

  The toad days are upon us, endless and dark …

  As I spoke, Harriet’s hopeful look began to die. Weeser and Alvin looked baffled, then shocked. I knew they had expected me to go bravely against the “dark and bleak” vision. Instead, I was convinced the only way to save Harriet was to read a poem that Mrs. Mingley would like.

  Harriet suddenly put a hand over her eyes and sat down, and I could tell she was crying. I knew right then that I had made one of the great blunders of my life. Mrs. Mingley didn’t seem to care that Harriet had disobeyed her by sitting down; she was beaming happily at me as I mumbled on:

  Yesterday is dust, tomorrow is gone;

  Welcome to the night.

  For a moment there was dead silence in the room. Mrs. Mingley was nodding and smiling like crazy at me. Finally she said, “Magnificent, Mr. Wise! Nothing could sum up better what I have been trying to say in here. You have not only saved Miss Grove and her grade, but you have saved us. So let’s show Eugene how much we appreciate his effort!”

  She began applauding and the class, except for Harriet, Weeser, and Alvin, began clapping right along with her.

  The bell rang then, and while I gathered up my things, several kids slapped me on the back and said, “Good work” or “Nice job.” The heavy-set spy came over and drew me into a handshake before I could think about it.

  “We’re together now, buddy,” he said. He gave me a big wink.

  I nodded dumbly and then turned quickly so I could let Harriet know I wasn’t really buying into this baloney, but she, Weeser, and Alvin were already heading for the door. I had only a glimpse of Alvin’s scowling look.

  I picked up my things and rushed after them, finally catching up to Weeser and Alvin by their lockers. There was no sign of Harriet.

  “Wow, that didn’t turn out quite like I expected,” I began breathlessly. “But at least I got Harriet off the hook.” Alvin wouldn’t look at me, but Weeser gave me a green-eyed stare.

  “You didn’t get anyone off the hook,” he said. “You just kissed butt.”

  “I didn’t kiss butt,” I said indignantly. “Listen, I knew if I read a great poem, it would have just made things worse. So I took the smart way—”

  “Bullroar,” growled Alvin. “You didn’t help Harriet by reading some old fardexy thing like that. A bunch of ‘Toad Man’ crud.”

  “C’mon, you guys can’t blame me,” I said, desperately. “You read some pretty gloomy stuff in there, too.”

  Weeser’s eyes widened angrily. “Duh-wang. The point is you weren’t supposed to, Mr. Hotshot B.B.”

  “You crushed Harriet in there,” said Alvin in an awful, level voice. “She was the only one who hadn’t given up, and you dumped on her by cav
ing in.”

  “You took the coward’s way,” said Weeser, “the yellow-bellied, weak-kneed—”

  “Wussy way,” finished Alvin. “You’re not the Tonka-bud I thought you were.”

  Before I could say another word, they slammed their lockers shut and walked off. A prickly heat rolled over me and I leaned against the lockers, too weak to move. I groaned, a pitiful sound that I instantly hated. In desperation, I thought about running after them and begging them to reconsider. But I knew it was too late. I had lost the best friends a kid could ever hope to have. And I had a terrible, bone-deep feeling I’d never win them back.

  11

  the coward’s lonely path

  The rest of the day went by in a depressing whirl. The next thing was hot lunch, and I got so rattled in the cafeteria line that I chose what the kid behind me called “mystery meat.” This was a horrible-looking purple meat pattie with black dots all over it. To make it worse, I had to sit alone. Even the spies avoided me.

  Then there was history class with Mr. Pelkaloose. He ate crackers while he lectured, and wet, blobby pieces kept landing on me. Harriet was in there, but she avoided me like the plague. After class I started over to her, all nerved up to apologize, but she saw me coming and hurried out of the room.

  I spent a miserable hour in gym class with Coach Bullmiester, a pot-bellied man with a mean look. His idea of gym class was to spend the whole period playing a game called “Bashball.” Basically, you tried to brain your opponent by hitting him in the head with a volleyball. Alvin and Weeser were in there and ignored me, except once when Alvin urged another kid to nail me. “Hit the little coward!” Alvin yelled.

  Finally, the day ended and I was desperate to find Harriet and try to explain myself. I had been rehearsing all afternoon what I was going to say, and I felt if I could just talk to her, maybe I could smooth things over.

  I spotted her waiting in the bus line and I hurried over. She pushed quickly past the other kids and boarded, leaving me standing there. Then, to make matters worse, I found out I couldn’t ride the bus because the driver didn’t know me. I saw Alvin and Weeser pulling out of the parking lot and I waved hesitantly at them. They thundered on by with Weeser staring at me as if I weren’t there.

  Watching that Jeep disappear into the falling snow made me more depressed than I’ve ever been in my life. I knew Mom would still be at work at the salon, so rather than call her and have to explain the whole disaster, I shouldered my backpack, grabbed my trumpet case, and started down the snowy road. To really put me in the pits, the wind began to pick up and I walked head-on into the blowing snow. In a way that was good, because no one could tell I was bawling my guts out.

  When I finally got to the house and staggered inside, I found a message from Mom on the answering machine. In her chipper voice she told me she was going Christmas shopping with Doris right after work and wouldn’t be home until seven, and that could I find something to eat? Then she added, “Hope you had just the best, most amazing day at school, honey.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I said to the empty kitchen, “it was amazing all right.”

  I looked in the fridge for something to eat, but didn’t see anything I wanted. I wandered into the living room, plopped down on the sofa and thought about dying. How was I ever going to tell Mom that my new school was a nut house and my first day a total disaster? I stayed on the sofa for a long time moaning and making a fuss, but it didn’t seem to help. Finally, I got up and put on my Spanish Nights CD. After about the third time through “Malagueña” I felt better, and for a moment I stopped thinking about the cowardly thing I had done to Harriet.

  I decided to listen to the music again, but as I got up to hit the play button, I happened to glance outside and saw something coming along the road. I moved closer to the window and peered out. It was nearly dark, and with the wind whipping snow around, the yard was a blur. Then something—it looked like a human figure—floated phantomlike down the driveway toward the garage.

  I ran quickly to the kitchen and peered out the small window over the sink. A cloud of white obscured everything. I reached over and snapped on the outside yard light. Just then the snow cleared and I had a brief glimpse of a bicycle disappearing through the big door of the garage. An orange bicycle. Then the door came down. Funny Frank was back and this time he was in our garage.

  “Frank, you big clunk,” I said. “You’re really getting on my nerves.” I felt a flood of anger. As if I didn’t have enough trouble, now the town crackpot was back. “It’s time you and I had a little chat.”

  I grabbed my coat and started for the back door. I considered turning the outside light off, but then I thought about how spooky it would be, so I left it on.

  I eased out the back door and hurried over to the garage wall where I flattened out next to the side door. At that moment something crashed to the floor inside the garage and like the air rushing out of a flabby balloon, my boldness left me.

  “Easy, old son,” I muttered, falling into the war-movie talk I use to get my nerve up. “Hold your fire and don’t panic.” Maybe I didn’t need to chat with Frank after all. Maybe all I needed to do was open the door and yell at him to go home and play Chinese Checkers with his dog, or whatever.

  I reached for the doorknob, but just as I did I heard something out in the darkness. I snapped around and squinted into the blowing snow. At first I saw nothing but the dim field and a dark fringe of pines at the far edge. Then, with a jolt, I saw some figures emerge from the trees and start across the field.

  My eyes widened. They were coming straight toward me and moving in a strange, awkward lope. I thought I could hear the faint jingling of bells. With my neck prickling with fear, I had totally forgotten about Funny Frank.

  The next thing I knew, a hand was clamped over my mouth and I was being dragged backward into the garage.

  Funny Frank may have looked old and helpless, but he was strong as an ox. I struggled wildly as he kicked the door closed. At one point I got his hand partly off my mouth and burst out with, “Cut it out, Frank.”

  “You stupid kid, I’m not Frank,” he hissed in my ear. “It’s me, Webster. I’m not going to hurt you, but we’ve got visitors coming this way who will. So shut up.”

  He leaned around and the outside light revealed his green cap and the bushy gray beard that framed his iron-gray eyes. There was a wild look to them, but also something so urgent and truthful that I stopped struggling.

  He took his hand away from my mouth and yanked me down behind a stack of boxes. “What’s the matter with you?” he rasped out angrily. “Why were you kicking and screeching like that? I told you I’d be looking you up tonight.”

  “Whaat?” I stammered out. I tried to twist around to see him better.

  “Sit still,” he rasped out. “If they spot us, we’re dead ducks.” He pulled out his sword and laid the blade across my shoulder. I could see the sharp edge and it sure wasn’t plastic.

  I could hear clearly the jing jing jing of bells now, and I was struck by the fact that they sounded like the bells in the “March” we’d played at school.

  “Those stupid bells,” snorted my companion. “They think the sound scares their quarry, but I’ve got news for them.”

  Guttural voices floated in on the wind.

  “Listen to ‘em jabber,” said Webster. “I’ve been leading them all over town, and the Stormies hate it when they lose the hunt.”

  “Stormies?” I said.

  “Storm Teachers,” he snapped. “Just like I explained in my letters. The worst of the worst.” He laughed in a low, crazy way. “People think bad teachers retire and play shuffleboard in Florida. Not hardly! Mingley hires them all!”

  “Mingley? You mean my Eng—?”

  “Shhh!” Webster grabbed my arm in a painful grip. The guttural voices and the jingling bells drew closer, then suddenly ceased. For a few seconds all I could hear was the wind. Then with a high chinkling of bells, a column of figures lurched by the garage wi
ndow. I counted six of them. They had on flowing black cloaks with small silver bells sewn to the fringes. I couldn’t see their faces clearly because they were looking toward the house, but their gray hair certainly caught my attention. Each figure wore a crazy, swirled hairdo as if the stormy wind had combed it, but it was the last detail that really made my eyes widen: the wicked-looking, curved swords they carried.

  A few tense seconds ticked away and the bells faded into the distance. I expelled my breath. Webster gave me a crack-brained smile.

  “Scary aren’t they? Wait until you see them up close.”

  “What are they, zombies or something?”

  “Zombies? They’re not zombies! They’re humans! It’s just the way they look after thirty years of being bad teachers, working in bad schools with bad administrators, and then getting a final dose of her.”

  He yanked me up and dragged me toward his bike. “All that poison and hate for the kids is right there in their faces. Real pretty characters. And now, since you’ve accepted the mission, they’ll be after you.” He chuckled as if this were the funniest joke in the world. “What’s worse, old Mingley will be after you.”

  “Okay, hold it,” I said. I was in a total daze. “I think we need to talk.”

  “Talk?” He barked out a laugh. “Way too late for that, sonny. Just hold the light and stop whining.” He snapped on a flashlight and handed it to me. Then he bent over the suitcase, undid the clasps, and began rummaging through what looked like dirty laundry. At this point I could have made a run for it, but I was so dumbfounded, I just stood there holding the flashlight.

  He began tossing clothes left and right and grumbling. “What a generation! I explained everything in the letters, and what’s the first thing you blat out? ‘We need to talk.’ That takes the cake!”

  Some red long johns went flying past me. “I went over and over it,” he continued, “right down to the smallest detail. I told you how Mingley operates, how she looks around for an ugly, depressing school and how she and her two stinkers—Strobe and Fundebore—move in and drive out the good teachers. And of course, I assumed you read it all! But your generation—you don’t read either! Little button brains!”