Mongo Hits the Mark
Perhaps you’re into bondage. Or maybe you’ve stood in the outfield, shading your face and peeking out through the webbing in your glove. Then again, you might be a prisoner in your own skin. If so, you know the sensation of breathing through hot leather.
The orangutan did. In the hot sun in the middle of the ring, he squatted, breathing through his muzzle. His knuckles, encased in little red boxing gloves, rested on the canvas. Hot, black canvas trunks covered his unused genitalia with Everlast inscribed at the waist.
The faint scent of oil on his mother’s nipple and the smell of moldy leaves on the forest floor were forgotten memories. Since his capture, he was separate. Alone. Everything was the same now.
No orangutan had ever called him Mongo, yet that was his name. These people, he wanted to bite their faces off. All these years and he’d never sunk a tooth. All these years and he had only the cage, this ring and the next man.
Excitement, danger and opportunity added breathlessness to those carnival-goers who hurried down dirt roads to this clearing surrounded by swamp. Two young men, Ronnie and Dick, pushed through the crowd and thick Floridian humidity.
There were women to be had here—easy women—the kind who would fall for a man who’d just beaten another man in a hard, bloody fight. They might be tattooed, braless, barefooted. They might curse in public or dip snuff. Besides, half the people in the world were women and 1972 was the apex of sexual freedom. Yesterday was payday. Ronnie and Dick liked their chances.
Dick took the lead, feigning a casual stroll in tight Levis and a white undershirt. He had the self-confidence of a young man who had just looked in the mirror and seen that his hairspray was still holding. His friend, Ronnie, tall and gangly, pushed his glasses back up on his nose, hitched up his pants and fell a step behind.
Dick was eager for that day in his life when circumstance would leave him no alternative but to exhibit his skill in karate.
They passed the Ladybug ride, the corn-dog and cotton candy booths, the three-lead-pins-and-the-softball booth, the doomed goldfish. Without intention, they were headed toward the canvas ring, the kind of place where legends were made.
“Stay three short minutes in the ring with the monkey! Fifty bucks gets you three hundred!” The carnie caught their eyes and smiled a dare.
Ronnie didn’t know it was history in the making, but when he saw Dick look into the ring, when he saw the Clint Eastwood squint-and-sneer, he knew just what his friend would say.
“You know what, Ronnie? I’d kick that monkey’s ass.”
Ronnie looked over and saw a man who traveled all over the South with an orangutan. A man who made a living breaking down and setting up this little boxing ring. In that moment, two things were clear: Carnies didn’t work for free, and now was the time to put an end to all the talk about karate. “I’ll spot you the fifty,” he said.
If they’d been paying attention, they’d probably have heard conversations soften, then stop. They’d have felt the eyes of the opportunists, who knew that a gift was about to be offered.
Ronnie put his fifty in the open hand. “My buddy here says he can whip your monkey.”
Dick sauntered up and looked disdainfully at the inanimate figure slumped on the small square of canvas. He had taken lunch money from kids livelier than this. “Piece of cake.”
Meanwhile, Mongo sat in the ring, slouching like wax melting in the sun. Inhaling slowly, he noticed the familiar scent of money mixing with that of his next opponent. His owner, as always, commanded his sensory periphery. The demands of heat, hunger and thirst began to diminish. The gathering crowd became a single, breathing pulse. Mongo blinked once, slowly. Soon.
Dick removed his watch and necklace, handed them to his friend, stepped up on the apron, then ducked through the ropes. He began bouncing around on his toes, bobbing his head and shaking his shoulders. He saw a couple of girls in bikini tops join the growing crowd. They smiled at him, so he winked, nodded, and threw a couple of karate chops their way.
Ronnie noticed the girls, too, but he saw much more than that. He saw a large, serious crowd—10, 15 deep, and more coming. They seemed to be sneaking up. And there was something else: no sound. The carnival was silent. People were holding their breath and licking their lips.
Backed into a corner, arms resting on the top ropes, Dick closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and centered his chi. Calm and confident now, he exhaled, opened his eyes and checked on the girls. He skipped around the ring backward, Muhammad Ali-style. He looked out over a surprisingly large crowd, bigger than he’d expected to see, and raised his arms. His gesture permitted the crowd a release and they cheered as if he’d just scored a touchdown. He wild-eyed the girls and then looked at the carnie and nodded.
“You got to hit him to get him started, son.”
Dick stepped in front of his foe, reached out with his left hand and slapped the side of the ape’s head. Nothing. He looked over at the carnie.
“No, boy, I mean really hit him.” He smiled. Two top teeth were missing.
Dick felt a little cruel, yet there were $300 and the two girls to consider. He stepped directly in front of the monkey at striking distance. He pressed his left fist against his waist, palm down, elbow slightly back, knees bent. Then, with a loud “Keeyi!” he snapped out a palm strike.
The captive from Borneo jerked his head back, avoiding the blow, and in one smooth, practiced move, grabbed the man’s ankles and jerked his legs out from under him. The man landed flat on his back.
Mongo then jumped high in the air, arms up, elbows forward, palms back, his knees tucked against his stomach. As he landed on the man’s chest, he magnified the power of his impact by thrusting his legs down. Then he folded at the waist, bringing the top half of his body down in a whiplike motion that increased the speed of his arms as he backhanded the man’s face with his knuckles. Then, as always, Mongo bent down to gnash against the muzzle at the face before him.
To the crowd, seeing an orangutan jump up and down on a healthy young man was ghastly, exciting, and hilarious. Vicarious confusion gave way to recognition of their place in the spectacle. Thus released, they roared with laughter. Ronnie laughed too, but not as freely.
The second time the ape landed on him, Dick tried to fight back. Frantically, he thrust and chopped up at his enemy, but couldn’t pull his elbows back for a proper strike. When he did connect with a punch, his arms buckled under the weight. The result was a pathetic flailing and slapping. As the orangutan jumped up yet again, Dick pulled his legs up for a bicycle kick.
Mongo was waiting for this and thrust his legs down instead on the man’s balls. Now Mongo was free. Free to satisfy his rage. Free to beat this man in a way that assuaged the frustration of life in the cage with the feces and the heat. He could release his impotent fury at the noose and the electric shocker. The man rolled over on his stomach and Mongo continued pouncing, hitting and biting at the neck from behind the muzzle.
Dick lost his courage and started crawling for the side of the ring with panic and determination. Just before he reached safety, just as he put his hand out to the edge, the orangutan grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him back to the center of the ring, then continued jumping on his back, thwacking his head and trying to bite.
Dick became the wildest animal in the fight. He heard himself making the gasping, desperate noises of prey being taken. Being beaten this bad was one thing, but hearing those teeth working next to his neck horrified him. He wriggled and crawled, ignoring the pounding, his eyes on the safety outside the ring. This time, when the ape tried to grab his ankles, he shook and kicked his feet, pulling himself forward with his forearms. Finally, he got his fingers over the edge. Then, with all his might, he pulled himself down out of the ring to the dirt.
After a few moments, the laughter subsided. All around, strangers made eye contact and smiled at each other, validating the experience. Tears were wiped and aching diaphragms massaged. Reluctantly, they began to disperse.
The three hundred dollars was still safe in the carnie’s boot.
Mongo resumed his squat in the center of the ring, breathing slowly through hot leather.
Ronnie pushed his glasses back up on his nose and congratulated himself for having spent his money well.
Dick lay safely outside the ring, tasting blood, breathing dust.
But now, pushing through the crowd toward the ring, a powerful man with a shaved head, large muscles, and shrink-wrapped skin held a fifty over his head. He spoke loudly in a deep, rich baritone, “I hit that monkey, he don’t get up!”
Dick poked his head up above the ring expectantly.
As the man handed his money over, Ronnie looked down at Dick, then across the ring, through the muzzle and into the eyes of the ape. He saw clear, brown eyes, the color of root beer candy, focused on nothing in this world.
(Appeared in Conclave Issue 1: 2008)