THE TELL TAIL TALE
Ding dong. The doorbell rang.
“Someone please get that,” said a female voice from somewhere within the house.
Ding Dong.
Ding Dong.
“Malik, put that game down and get the door,” said a male voice.
Ding dong. Ding dong.
“Malik!” said the woman.
“I’m in the bathroom!” Malik yelled in response.
Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding dong.
“Malcolm? Malcolm! Get the door please!” said the male voice.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” said the man as he rushed to the door, his face half covered in shaving cream.
“God damn it!” said the old man as he entered the foyer, “yall gonna leave me out there all damn night? It’s colder than a witch’s ass!”
“Dad, please,” said the man in exasperation.
“I’m just sayin’,” the old man continued, “I got better things to do than camping out on yo’ front lawn while I wait for you to find yo’ way to the goddamn door.”
“Dad, if you didn’t want to watch the kids, that’s all you had to say,” said the man.
“I told you I’d watch the damn kids and I’ll watch the damn kids!”
“Jesus Christ”, muttered the man under his breath as he turned and walked back towards the rear of the house. “Malik! Malcolm! Come say hello to your grandfather.”
The old man walked into the kitchen and began to rummage through the refrigerator. As he bent over to look at the bottom shelves the fridge light illuminated his face in a way that, with his round cheek bones, pure white hair and matching moustache, made him look a bit like a chocolate Santa Claus.
“What you got to eat in here, boy?” he said to his son, who he thought was behind him but who had returned to the back of the house. When he received no answer, he turned around, irritated.
“Hey boy,” he began again, “I said what – ”
“Hi daddy,” said the woman as she swept into the kitchen and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. She was about 5 feet, 8 inches tall, with a shapely figure, a short bob haircut, skin the color of dark cherry wood and a face that looked like it could have been copied from that of one of those elegant porcelain dolls, the kind you might find in one of the higher-end gift shops in L.A.’s Leimert Park. “I have a pot roast in the oven. It should be ready in about 20 minutes. There are vegetables and potatoes with it. I keep forgetting that your sense of smell isn’t so great these days.”
“Lord, ain’t that the truth,” he said quietly as he slowly rubbed his protruding belly and looked longingly at the stove. “Eatin’ just ain’t what it used to be now that I can barely taste it.”
His daughter-in-law smiled.
“Yeah, but it looks like you’re still doing alright, daddy.”
He laughed.
“Well, you know, these young girls just likes to cook for me so much, and it’s all so good that what I miss in taste I make up for in volume.”
“Young girls? Daddy, what is Miss Collins, like 67 years old?”
“Sixty-eight. That might not be young to you, but she’s a spring chicken to me. I tell you, that woman keeps me going all night long! Why, last weekend we – ”
“Dad!” said his son as he entered the kitchen. “That’s more than we need to know.”
“Alright boy, but you could probably learn a thing or two from yo’ ol’ pop.” He smiled slyly at the woman. “Is my boy treatin’ you right?” he asked, with a glint in his eye.
“Jesus, dad,” said his son, in answer. “Kelli, are you ready to go?”
“Yeah, let me just grab my coat,” she said as she left the two men in the kitchen.
The man, Darius, looked into the reflection of the black glass of the microwave door and straightened his tie. He wore his jet black hair in a short, neat afro that always looked like he had just come back from the barber, even though it was thinning quite a bit on top. His suit, a custom-made grey number that he had picked up the last time he was in Hong Kong, hung well on him. Its dark color complimented his even darker African skin very well, and made his unnaturally white teeth look even whiter. He was a handsome man that some people described as a cross between Denzil Washington and Wesley Snipes, though he liked to think that he had more style than either of them. Everything in his life was the best of the best, from his $24,000 limited edition watch, to the house that he designed from the ground up to his wife, former head cheerleader and prom queen to his 7-year-old twin sons, both straight-A students. The only thing in his life that wasn’t top shelf was his father, an old-school blue-color worker that, while he had provided well for his family while Darius was growing up, had never attained even a fraction of the success that his son enjoyed. He still lived in the house Darius grew up in, purchased in 1962 for $35,000, drove a 28-year-old car that drank at least a quart of oil a week and, more often than not, walked around in one of the old jump suits that he probably purchased around the same time he purchased his car.
“So, how’ve you been dad?” he asked.
“Oh, you know,” said the old man as he pulled a chair out from the table and slowly sat down. “I can’t really complain. Everythang’s goin’ all right.”
“How’s that problem you were having with your back?”
“That? Oh, that’s all fixed up now. I had Bertha May walk on it the other night. Straightened it right out.”
“You had Bertha May Tillman walk on your back? Dad, that woman must weigh 200 pounds!”
“200? Shit! She 275 if she a ounce!” he laughed again. “But you know I always done like me a big girl. Yo’ momma was big and you know I loved her like a pig love slop!”
“Dad,” said Darius sternly, “This is no laughing matter. At your age a stunt like that could have left you with broken ribs, a punctured lung, God only knows what else. You’re lucky that you can still walk after that.”
“She the one that had problems walking afterwards! I brought the magic down on that girl, had her preaching the scripture up in there. She was a’screamin’ and a hollerin’ so bad the neighbors didn’t know whether to grab they guns or grab they bibles!” He broke into another hearty laugh, which ended in a coughing spell. He could tell from the look on his son’s face that he wanted to say something about the coughing, but he was trying not to. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and began to examine the pattern on the kitchen floor tile until his father had fully recovered.
“So dad,” he said, “have you thought anymore about my offer? There’s a great three-story unit that just became available over in the Village. It has its own elevator so you wouldn’t have to walk up and down the stairs, there’s a three-car garage with a full workbench so you can work on the car as much as you like, there’s Italian granite in the - ”
“Son, we done been over this time and time again. Why the hell would I let you buy be a brand new house when I got a perfectly good house of my own? That I paid for with my own damn money?” He peered intently at his son over his wire-rimed glasses.
“Dad, that place is falling apart. The land values in the neighborhood have plummeted over the past few years, while crime has skyrocketed. It’s not safe for you there – either inside or outside the house. Now listen,” he said, his eyes lighting up, “The market is soft right now but I sense a shift. An investment in Village Estates is a smart move. I predict that in 8-10 years, the prices of those homes will be nearly double what they are today.”
“Don’t gimme that shit about land prices and crime statisticals! We both know goddamn well why you wanna move me out of that house – you embarrassed that yo’ old man ain’t livin’ in high style the way his investment banker son is!” he sneered. “I don’t remember you having any problems with it when you was a boy. It was a perfectly respectable place to live then, it’s a perfectly respectable place to live now. You was born in that house! Yo’ momma died in that house!” He pushed
the chair back abruptly and rose to his feet. “How the fuck you gon’ try to move me outta my own goddamn house like I’m some kind of goddamn –”
“Hey! I’m just trying to help you!” yelled his son.
“Help me? Nigga, how you gon’ help me when you can barely help yo’self?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know yo’ little secret. I may still live in the hood, but I get around. I know you got a second, a third and a fourth on this house. I know yo’ car is leased, yo’ furniture is rented – hell, you’re still making payments on that goddamn watch!” he said, looking down at Darius’ diamond and platinum draped wrist. “What do you sophisticated bankin’ people call this again? ‘Leverage’? I call it bullshit! You ain’t no richer than I am. At least I own my goddamn house free and clear! I don’t know how Kelli even puts up with livin’ like this –”
“Keep your voice down!” Darius whispered angrily. “Don’t come in here spreading my business around. Kelli handles the house, I handle the finances. I don’t tell her how to do what she does and doesn’t tell me how to do what I do,” he said indignantly.
“I ain’t tryin’ to tell you what to do either, son,” said his father, solemnly. “You a goddamn grown-ass man and old enough to make yo’ own mistakes. But you runnin’ ‘round here actin’ all saditty an’ shit is going to end up giving these kids a goddamn complex, and that I do have a problem with! You can fuck up yo’ own life however you see fit, but these chil’ren –”
“Grampa! Grampa!” screamed two little boys as they ran into the kitchen. One of them jumped into his grandfather’s arms, but it was hard for the old man to tell which. Malcolm and Malik were identical twins and such exact duplicates of each other that their parents wouldn’t even be able to tell them apart if it wasn’t for the fact that one – Malcolm – had a mole on the top of his left ear. Their mother entered the kitchen a moment later.
“I’m ready” she said to Darius, smiling.
“All right,” said her husband, as he frowned down at his father. “Dad, we can finish this discussion later.”
The old man looked up at him from the chair he had sat in to greet his grandsons, his face a mixture of sadness, anger and resolve. Without a word he went back to listening to Malik tell him about ‘Show & Tell’ day at school.
“Daddy, the roast will be ready in about 15 minutes. Just take it out when the timer goes off and you should be all set,” said Kelli. “All right boys, come give momma a kiss before we leave,” she said as she spread her arms wide and kneeled down to be face-level with her sons. The twins both gave her a peck, on opposite cheeks.
After dinner, the old man and his grandsons watched a bit of television and talked about a wide variety of topics – girls, sports, their school grades, etc. As much as he sometimes made a fuss about it with his son, he dearly loved these boys and treasured every moment he got to spend with them.
“So Grampa,” said Malcolm, “Could I take your glass eye to school to for Show & Tell?”
“My glass eye! How you gon’ ask me a crazy question like that boy!” he said, reaching across the couch and tickling the boy, who squirmed and giggled madly. “How the hell am I supposed to see where I’m going if I only got one eye? Not to mention the fact that women don’t really much care for one-eyed men,” he said, his face animated and smiling.
“Grampa, Grampa!” said Malik, “Tell us again the story of how you lost your eye!”
“I lost this eye in a kangaroo fight!,” he said, grinning widely. “He was one tough, hairy sumbitch, but I whupped his ass in the end!”
“Grampa,” said Malcolm, frowning with concern, “How come your story about how you lost your eye always changes? Once you said it was in the war, then you said you got bitten by a grizzly bear. Now you tell us it’s a kangaroo!’ he said, raising his little arms in frustration.
“I don’t know nuthin’ about no changin’ stories,” said the old man, smiling slyly. “Maybe I got the elkshimer.”
“Elkshimer?” said Malcolm, “Do you mean ‘Alzheimer’s’?”
“Hey, you say tomato, I say potato!” he responded. “Now stop sassin’ yo’ elders and let’s get you young men ready for bed.”
“Awww, Grampa!” the boys said in unison.
“Now, now, none of that. You both know the drill. Let’s get to it,” he said, clapping his hands together.
“Ok,” said Malik in resignation, “But if we go to bed right now, will you tell us a bedtime story?”
“Bedtime story? Boy, you could talk the devil into heaven! Ok, I’ll tell you a story. Go get yo’ pajamas on.” The boys yelled excitedly and ran from the room. Several minutes later their grandfather joined them in their bedroom. They slept in bunk beds, Malcolm on top and Malik down below. The old man grabbed a chair and sat it down next to them. Malcolm leaned slightly over the rail of the top bed, waiting anxiously for his grandfather to begin.
“Well, let me see,” said the old man thoughtfully as he took his glasses off and began cleaning them with a crumpled, grey handkerchief he had pulled from the pocket of his dungarees. “Ok,” he said, putting his glasses back on his face and the handkerchief back in his pocket, “I have a story for you.”
“Once upon a time –”
“Wait!” said Malcolm, “You didn’t tell us the title of the story.”
“Oh, ok. This story is called…” he gazed at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. “This story is called the Tell Tail Tale,” he said, finally.
“The what?” said Malik.
“The Tell Tail Tale. Remember what I told you that time I showed you how to play poker? About being careful not to have a ‘tell’ – those little nervous movements that other people can see and pick up on, that let’s them know what kinda hand you got?” They both nodded. “By the way,” he said, lowering his head and whispering, “you never told yo’ momma or daddy about that, did you?” They both vigorously shook their heads ‘no’.
“But I did win $3 from Harold at school one time!” said Malcolm.
“Good for you, boy!” said his grandfather. “Just be sure to keep that under yo’ hat,” he winked. They both nodded. “Anyway,” he continued, “this ‘tale’, as in ‘story’, is about a monkey, who’s ‘tell’, like in poker, is actually his ‘tail’, like the one monkeys swing from trees with. Get it?”
The boys both looked at him with blank stares and slowly shook their heads ‘no’.
“That’s alright,” said the old man, “you’ll understand soon enough. So back to the story. Once upon a time,” he began again, “there lived a monkey named Michael.”
“Michael?” said Malcolm, “that’s not a ‘monkey’ name!”
“Youngin’, who tellin’ this story – you or me?” Malcolm just shifted under the covers and waited for his grandfather to continue.
“Like I said, his name was name was Michael – Michael the Monkey,” he said, peering briefly over his glasses at Malcolm before continuing, smiling slightly. “And this monkey-”
“Grampa, what kind of monkey was it?” asked Malik.
“Well,” his grandfather said, pausing momentarily, “Just yo’ typical brown monkey, I guess. There was nothin’ partic’larly unusual ‘bout him. He did look a little bit like yo’ daddy, though. Same big ears – but with just a little more hair on the top of his big ‘ol head!” All three of them laughed at that.
“Now,” he continued, “Michael the Monkey lived in the ‘black’ side of the jungle, in the ‘hood. That’s ‘cause he couldn’t afford to live on the ‘white’ side, where Tarzan and Jane lived. The tree him and his family lived in wasn’t the nicest tree in the jungle – the leaves weren’t as green and the branches weren’t as high, but it was dry and safe and they was happy. All of them, that is, except for Michael.”
“You see, while Michael came from a good family of hardworking monkeys that surrounded him with love and comfort, he started noticing that not all monkeys were the same. Some of his friends
lived in nicer trees, some of them wore nicer clothes, some drove nicer cars, and well, Michael the Monkey started to become a little bit jealous. And day by day, week by week, the jealousy started to eat away at him, like a terrible disease. All he could think about was how everybody seemed to be doing better than he and his family was. He started to be embarrassed to go to school, because his friends were wearing the latest designer clothes and he was wearing cheaper imitations. They got FUBU – he got BABU. They got Sean John – he got Long John!” The boys giggled. “He was even embarrassed by the car his father drove – a beautiful 1976 Cadillac Ape De Ville. Yeah, it needed a little body work and could have used some new upholstery, but it was safe, reliable automobile. That wasn’t good enough for Michael. He slouched down in the seat every time his father dropped him off for school in the morning, hoping that none of the other kids would see him.”
“Now it wasn’t that Michael and his family was poor. Michael’s mother was a housewife that took care of the tree and looked after Michael. His father worked at the local banana factory, just as his father and his father’s father before him. Working at the banana factory was a good job – hard work, but a good, respectable job. Michael’s father always made sure that his family had a good tree to live in and good food to eat. He just couldn’t afford to buy Michael all the expensive things that some of his friends’ fathers were able to afford.”
One day a new family moved into the jungle, and they had a daughter right about Michael’s age – a little monkey girl named Shirley. Shirley was beautiful and as soon as Michael laid eyes on her, he was smitten. But Michael wasn’t the only one. Everybody wanted Shirley and they all came a’courtin’, and they lined up with flowers and candy and coconuts, all ready to woo little Shirley. There were gorillas, apes, chimpanzees, orangamatans –”
"Orangamatans?" said Malik. "Grampa, I think you mean orangutans. And gorillas are a type of ape. Gorillas and apes are really the same thing."
"Boy," said the old man, leaning back in his chair to get a better look at his grandson, "if I had a nickel for everytime you done interrupted one of my stories - "
"I'm sorry, Grampa," said Malik, "But you always told us to 'stick to the facts' and that 'the truth shall set you free'."
"Hmmph," said the old man, pausing. "Well, I guess you got me there." Then he smiled slightly. "But could I please finish my story now?"
"Yes," said Malik, smiling in return.
"Ok, where was I?" said his grandfather. "Oh yeah -the courtin’. Gorillas, apes, chimpanzees, oranga-whatevers, you get the general idea - everybody wanted little Shirley. Now shortly before Shirley moved to the neighborhood Michael’s father had bought him a bike and Michael had found hisself a job – a paper route delivering the local newspaper, the Jungle Times, in the morning before school. But Michael still knew he didn’t have enough money to buy Shirley the kinds of things that some of the other monkeys were able to buy her, so he went to his father and asked his father for some advice.”
“’Son,’ said his father, ‘It’s not always about material things. I had the same situation with yo’ momma. Yo’ momma was the prettiest monkey at school and I never thought she’d ever give me the time of day. But you know what? We ended up falling in love and I’ve been blessed with 20 years of joy and I’m looking forward to 20 more! And you know how I did it? I charmed her!’”
“’How do I do that?’ Michael asked his father, and his father said, ‘Be helpful and courteous and caring – don’t forget to tell her how pretty she is – and last but not least, don’t do anything that might cause yo’ tail to show. Now I gotta go to work. I’ll talk to you later,’ and his father was gone.”
“Michael walked away from that conversation deep in thought, trying to figure out how he could charm Shirley into falling in love with him. He didn’t really know what his father meant by not doing anything that might cause his ‘tail to show’. He was a monkey – he had a hole in the back of his pants that his tail stuck out just like all the other monkeys, so his tail always showed. But the idea of paying her compliments seemed like a good one. He thought she was just the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen, so what could be easier than simply confessing that to her? Still deep in thought, he turned the corner and who did he run right into but Shirley herself! After they dusted themselves off, Michael offered to walk her home and Shirley accepted. Now that she was there in person, Michael found himself a bit tongue-tied. As he was trying to decide exactly how he was going to tell her how pretty she looked today, Shirley asked him if he was going to the concert Friday night. ‘What the concert?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you know about the big concert?’ she replied. ‘Everyone’s going to be there.’”
“A monkey concert?” said Malcolm. “I like concerts! Who was at the concert, Grampa?”
“Who was at the concert?” said his grandfather, stroking his chin and thinking hard. “Well, let’s see… there was Notorious A.P.E., and Gorill.I.Am…”
“Gorill.I.Am! That’s funny, Grampa!” said Malcolm. “Who else?”
“Uhhh…Baboon 5 and uhhh…Chimp Monkey Monk! Yeah, that’s it,” he said, smiling widely. “And you know where they were performing at? At the A-ple Center. Get it, like the Staple Center, but since it’s monkeys it’s the ‘Ape’ –le Center?” he said, his voice trailing off. His two grandsons just stared at him.
“And Baboon 5, like Maroon 5? Chimp Monkey Monk – Snoop Doggy Dog? No?” His two grandsons still continued to silently stare at him.
“Ok, ok, I get it. Not funny. Let’s move on,” he said curtly.
“I still think Gorill.I.Am is funny, Grampa” said Malcolm sweetly.
“Thank you son,” said his grandfather.
“Anyway,” continued the old man, “Michael knew he didn’t have enough money to take Shirley to the concert, but he didn’t want her to go with anyone else, so without really thinking it through he said, ‘Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that. Yeah, I’m going. As a matter of fact, I know Gorill.I.Am and I have backstage passes.’ Little Shirley was so excited that she started a’screamin’ and a’hollerin’!”
“You mean like this – Eeehh eeehh, ahhh ahhh!” said Malcolm, trying to imitate a monkey.
“Was that supposed to be a monkey?” said his grandfather, looking over the top of his glasses at his grandson.
“Yeah! That is a monkey!” said Malcolm.
“Let me hear it again,” said his grandfather, very seriously, as he leaned forward in his chair so he could hear it better.
“Eeehh eeehh, ahhh ahhh!”
“Is that a well monkey or a sick monkey?”
“Grampa!” said Malcolm.
“I’m sorry, I’m just asking. Sound like yo’ monkey might be suffering from tuberculosis or hepatitis or something. Might wanna get that checked out.”
“Grampa!” said Malcolm again, sighing heavily.
“I’m just joshing you,” said his grandfather, laughing and relaxing back in his chair. “That’s a fine monkey, a fine monkey. Anyway, all the way home they talked about what Gorill.I.Am was like and how long Michael had known him. Finally, as they neared her tree, Michael said ‘I have two tickets, but I haven’t decided who I’m taking yet. You can come with me if you like.’ Well, of course Shirley said yes, and they had a date. But now Michael had a problem. He had told a lie and now he had to figure out how to get out of it.”
“Lies are bad,” said Malcolm. “Michael doesn’t seem like a very nice monkey.”
“You’re right son,” answered his grandfather. “Lies are bad. But sometimes even good people find themselves telling them without really even knowing that they’re doing it. It might even happen to you one day. You might find yo’self in a situation and before you know it, you’ve said something that ain’t completely true. If you ever do find yo’self in that kind of a predic’dament, the best thing you can do is immediately ‘fess up, ‘cause as yo’ brother just so kindly reminded us, the truth shall set you free. But Michael didn’t do that. I
nstead, he set about figuring out how to cover up the lie and still keep the girl.”
“By the time he got to school the next day, everyone knew that he had asked Shirley to go to the concert with him, but nobody believed that he actually had tickets. Nobody, that is, except Shirley. As it got closer and closer to Friday he started to get more and more panicked, wondering how he could have possibly gotten himself into such a mess! Thursday night he got down on his knees beside his bed and prayed to King Kong – that’s ‘cause as a monkey he didn’t know nothin’ about God or our Lord Jesus Christ – so he prayed to King Kong that if King Kong got him out of this situation, he’d never ever tell another lie, ever! The next day when he woke up he heard on the radio that Gorill.I.Am was sick and the concert had been cancelled. Michael couldn’t believe his luck – King Kong had answered his prayers! But he seemed to have forgotten his promise, and that morning when he got to school, he told everyone how he had gotten a text message from Gorill.I.Am the day before, telling him he was cancelling the show. Planning this ahead of time, he had even sent himself a message and made it look like it came from the rapper, so he could whip out his cell phone and show everyone at school.”
“The monkeys have cell phones?” asked Malik, clearly unconvinced.
“Of course,” said the old man. “Why wouldn’t they have cell phones? They have cars. They go to concerts. Why wouldn’t they have cell phones? Why, let’s see… they’ve got Monkia and Samswung. And Bananarola.”
“Ha, ha,” said Malik dryly, while Malcolm giggled quietly.
“Are you familiar with the phrase ‘suspenders of disbelief?’” said the old man to Malik.
“No, what’s that?” Replied his grandson.
“Nevermind,” said the old man. “Let’s continue. Having impressed all his little friends and leaving all the doubters with they feet in they mouth, Michael was walking away from the crowd when he heard someone yell, ‘Hey Michael, what’s wrong with your tail, man!?’ When Michael looked behind him, he noticed that the tip of his tail was bright neon red. ‘Ahhh!’ he yelled in surprise –”
“He yelled ‘Ahhh’, not ‘Eeehh eeehh, ahhh ahhh’”? asked Malcolm.
“No, it was definitely ‘Ahhh’,” said his grandfather.
“Are you sure?” said Malcolm, innocently.
“Absolutely,” said his grandfather.
“Really?” said Malik. “I think ‘Eeehh eeehh, ahhh ahhh!’ is more like what a monkey would say.”
“No, I’m positive it was ‘Ahhh’!” said the old man. “Will you two youngins’ ever let me finish a story without interrupting?”
“Sorry, Grampa,” said Malcolm.
“So Michael yelled and ran to class, embarrassed,” continued the old man. “His teacher sent him to the nurse, but the nurse couldn’t figure out what was causing his tail to turn red and sent him back to class. He tucked the tip of his tail in his pants and made it through the rest of the day. After school, on his way home, he ran into Shirley again. She noticed his tail tucked into his pants and told him that she had heard what happened and asked him if he was alright. ‘Of course,” he said. Then he said how sorry he was that the concert had been cancelled. ‘Gorill.I.Am was going to send a limo for us and everything’ he said.”
“Shirley was impressed. ‘How sweet of him,’ she said, then she stopped and pointed at his tail. ‘Uh-oh, I think it’s getting worse’ she said. Michael looked behind him. His tail had fallen out of his pants and, sho’nuff, a full one-third of it was now bright, flamin’, glow-in-the-dark red!”
“So he had a red butt, like a baboon?” asked Malcolm.
“No, it wasn’t his butt, just part of his tail!” said Malik.
“But ‘tail’ and ‘butt’ can be the same thing,” said Malcolm.
“Not this time.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know.”
“Mom says ‘because’ is not an answer.”
“Mom also said you should listen to people older than you.”
“You’re only older than me by two minutes! That doesn’t even count!”
“Yes it does!”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Yes it does!”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Yes it does!”
“No it –”
“Hey! Enough!” said the old man. “Do you want me to finish this story or don’t you?”
“Yes, Grampa,” the boys both said.
“Alright then,” said their grandfather. “To answer yo’ question, young man,” he said, looking at Malcolm, “in this case, tail means the long, snakey thing, not the thing you wipe. But you’re right, it can be confusing. Anyway, when Michael saw his tail, he immediately tried to tuck it back into the top of his pants to hide the red, but so much of it was now red that it was impossible to hide it all.”
“’Do you have some kind of disease or something?’ asked Shirley as she slowly started backing away from him. ‘No, no,’ said Michael, following her. ‘It’s not a disease, it’s…it’s…the new fashion! I dyed it this way. It’s the newest style. All the monkeys in Hollywood are doing this now’. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Shirley, ‘it just changed again.’ Now half of Michael’s tail was bright red! Shirley turned around and started walking fast and Michael, understanding that he was about to lose her forever, followed her. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Michael, ‘This is exactly how Gorill.I.Am wears his tail!’ Now three quarters of his tail was bright red! Shirley shrieked and started running, but Michael ran with her. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘If you’re nice to me, I’ll get you Gorill.I.Am’s autograph’. That finally caused her to stop.”
“‘Really?’ she said. ‘Sure,’ said Michael, and as those words come out of his mouth, the remaining length of his tail turned the same red color. ‘Oh my God’ said Shirley – ”
“You mean ‘Oh my King Kong’,” said Malik.
“What?” said the old man.
“Remember – you just said monkeys don’t know anything about God, and that they pray to King Kong,” replied Malik.
“That’s right – I was just testin’ you! Good catch son!” said the old man, as he winked at the other boy from the corner of his eye.
“’Oh my King Kong,’ said Shirley,” the boys’ grandfather said as he resumed the story, “‘I have to go home now!’ Michael tried to grab her but little Shirley was stronger than she looked and pushed him so hard that he fell down in the grass, right on his butt. And as Shirley disappeared down the street, Michael yelled after her ‘It’s just a joke – it washes right out!’ When Michael tried to get up, his pants caught on a sprinkler head and were ripped right off his body, showing a monkey butt that was now just as red as his tail!”
“Then he really did look like a baboon!” said Malcolm.
“Yes sir, he sho’ did,” said his grandfather, and all three laughed. “And just then the school bus drove past and all the other monkeys saw him and started laughing so hard that Michael took off running and cried all the way home. So the moral of this story,” he continued, “is don’t go ‘round tellin’ fibs, or you’re liable to come away looking to the rest of the world like a monkey’s ass!”
They all laughed again. Then the old man made sure that both of the boys were carefully tucked in and gave each one of them a kiss on the top of the head.
“Grampa,” said Malik, just as his grandfather was about to turn off the light and leave the room, “Whatever happened to Michael? Did his tail ever turn back to the right color?”
“I don’t know,” said the old man, smiling slightly. “You’d have to ask yo’ daddy about that. Goodnight now.” Then he closed the door.