by Jim Meirose.
Mote in the eye. Rheumy said take this box to Monkey, and handed over directions on a blue lined sheet. So, Harold went. Handling his car expertly, he sped along, glancing down for the next line of the directions. Garden State Parkway to exit ninety-eight. The blacktop rolled under. Signs came up on the left. Harold opened the box on the seat by him. More than a dozen of them lay in there; lay silent in there, long and slender. Harold closed the box; got to watch, now. At the second traffic circle, take route thirty-five south. Harold had to get the box to Monkey. Then he’d find out why Monkey needed the things in the box. Rheumy wouldn’t tell him. Maybe Rheumy didn’t know. Funny; they’d called Monkey Monkey, since he was five. He never seemed to mind it—seemed proud, actually. Somehow, it just added to his stature. All people knew was he’d started some kind of trading business. Trading in exotic things—but exactly what, well, who knew, but; the car jolted hard across a sudden bump. Thank God Harold’s tires were new. Yes, thank God for that—on these roads. Yes, Monkey. Some said he’s insane, that damned Monkey. The Manasquan River bridge passed under the car. The long iron railing slid past quick and a long drop fell away down the other side. Harold wanted a ham sandwich. Dry. No mustard—but, wait, look—where’s the Red Hat gas station? Harold’s hand went on the box—yes, the directions say take the first left past the Red Hat gas station, then, a quick right onto Broadway. Through the turns, sunlight glinted off the car hood. Steady now, steady. A rise came up. Fields of yellow flowers flowed by both sides. Harold really had no dreams. Only wishes, and odd thoughts. His hand stayed on the box. Why does Monkey need these things? Go slow, here. Ocean avenue. Nobody needs these kinds of things. Close now, close. Watch, be careful; careful of the people suddenly clogging the sidewalks. This is it now, almost it; yes, Jenkinson’s parking will be on the left—slower. Multicolored crowds sparkled by him all around, having no idea of what’s in this box. Not even knowing it’s on his seat at all—but, watch. Pay attention, look alive. Find the sign for the lot—there it is.
Thank God.
After parking, Harold crossed over to Jenkinson’s, clutching the seemingly fragile box to his side. He walked up the ramp beside Jenkinson’s to the boardwalk, then down the ramp on the other side onto the sand, and out toward the unmanned lifeguard’s station halfway to the ocean. The sea breeze blew cold here. Rheumy had told him to meet Monkey here. Harold stood on a board facing the boardwalk, holding the box closed under his arm. It had no latch and nothing was tied around. The top lay loose—so, he held it fast. A dim daytime moon hung high in the blue sky. Unusual. The crowd grew steadily, up on the boardwalk. Where is Monkey? People began coming onto the beach from the boardwalk. It seemed suddenly that streams of people flowed down past Harold. Early in the season for so many, but—who knows why? He held the box fast. Where was Monkey? Where was he.
Monkey emerged out of the crowd. His thin face. His eye.
Got the box? he asked.
Nodding yes, Harold handed it over. It felt funny to do so. Somehow better and freer. Taking the box, Monkey opened the lid.
Now I will know, thought Harold.
Monkey put his hand in the box, got one of the things out, and dropped it in the sand.
Harold looked around. No one noticed. People flowed around, but no one noticed. Monkey swept his foot across, and buried the thing over.
See, right in the midst of them, I can do this, said Monkey, before dropping and burying another, then a third, and a fourth.
Harold tried to speak, this was his chance, but—his throat was now much too dry.
Much too dry.
The movie is old, said Monkey, low—the actors are all dead. They’re not supposed to be there, so they’re not there, even if they are, said Monkey.
Harold stood frozen.
See? I can drop them in the sand, said Monkey—but no one will see them.
He dropped and buried another one, and another, then threw back his head. Laughing, he shouted, Oh, they are stupid, they are all so stupid—and he went on laughing and yelling from there, as he dropped and buried the things one by one, until they were all gone. Then he threw the box down, and smashed it flat—while the people flowing by talking, and laughing, and shouting all the while, never noticing; or, if they did, they just did not care.
Suddenly, Harold had to pee. This snatched his attention from Monkey, who continued grinning and laughing and addressing the sky—so, he turned and walked off back to the boardwalk, where he bought a coffee at a tiny shop, to become allowed to use the men’s room. He knew Monkey was probably still laughing back on the sand, but, that now being much too far away to hear, he would never really be sure.