Al Batt, Tales from Exit 22

I stopped to get gas, and I understood what the cashier said over the speaker by the convenience store fuel pumps. That was a surprise.

I was on my way to a luncheon where I shared a table with some good folks who winter in Surprise, Ariz.

The surprise and Surprise caused my mind to wander back to the days when both playgrounds and classrooms had slide rules, and I was an avid reader of the comic books found in barbershops. The comic books carried wonderful advertisements for all kinds of peculiar goodies. They were written by snake oil salesmen and aimed at naive boys with wild imaginations. There were advertisements for Charles Atlas, who promised muscles so big that no one would dare kick sand in my face ever again. There were ads for sea monkeys, magic tricks from Johnson Smith, X-ray specs that promised an ability to see through things so well that my imagination could have some time off, a course on learning how to play the guitar in a week, the prospect of selling Grit newspapers to my parents in return for fame and fortune, a million dollars of old bank notes from The Fun House, and Venus fly traps that would free me of the duty of ever having to swat another fly.

It was evident to any well-read boy that the answers to all of life’s problems were to be found within the pages of a comic book.

Marvel comics had ads that marketed monkeys. An ad read, “America’s Most Amusing Pet. Squirrel Monkey. Good healthy stock from South America at a special low price. Will amuse children and adults for hours, only $13.95 fob with cage. Send cashier’s check or money order. Immediate delivery. Hialeah Pets, Dept. 16, Box 4484, Hialeah, Fla.”

I read that ad and my mind flashed to me becoming Tarzan (thanks to the Charles Atlas course) with my very own Cheetah. Not a chimp Cheetah. A squirrel monkey would have to do. I figured that a chimpanzee would be beyond my means. Actually, the squirrel monkey would be as well. I considered visiting the local banker, Joe Skophammer, and seeing if he had any squirrel monkey loans he could make for a promising up-and-comer like me. How could he have turned me down? I had a mission statement and a business plan.

My mission statement was that I wanted a mail order monkey. Mission statements should be short and to the point.

My business plan was that the monkey would make me more profitable by doing the things I didn’t have time to do — like brushing my teeth and homework. That would leave me more time for reading comic books and selling Grit newspaper subscriptions to my parents.

It was all good. In addition, there would be that element of surprise. Harvey Bell was our rural mail carrier. That job was a mail-dominated one in those years. Harvey was a good man who faithfully delivered mail, including baby chickens. My brain was in the wrong place. I could picture Harvey seeing the squirrel monkey box with its breathing holes. He would peer into it, trying to figure out what was inside. Maybe Harvey’s curiosity would get the best of him and he would decide to do a little postal inspection. He’d open the box a bit and the monkey would jump out. Newspapers, bills, Saturday Evening Posts, and unintelligible words would fly. No one would be hurt of course. It would be a good surprise for Harvey. Postal aerobics to keep him gruntled. I would name the monkey Surprise.

I mentioned to my mother that I was going to ride my bicycle into town. My bicycle didn’t have handlebars. It had a truck steering wheel instead. My father bought it from Carl Johnson for $1.25.

“Can you believe I got that for only $1.25?” he asked me.

I could.

My father was happy to give me a rusty bicycle because he hoped that it would spread my mischief over a bigger area.

Anyway, my mother asked why I was going to pedal to town. I told her that I needed to go to the bank and apply for a monkey loan. Mom asked for details. I told her more than I knew about the squirrel monkey and offered her an opportunity to invest some money in a monkey. I’ll not forget my mother’s response.

“A squirrel monkey would not be housebroken. You barely are. Drop the monkey from your mind, Tarzan. If you want to be Charles Atlas, go stack some hay.”

I knew that I would have my own personal squirrel monkey when monkeys flew.

It was no surprise.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.