"Mischief"

by Kendra Lester

Part 6 - Driving Ms. Mischief

The day finally came when I was brave enough to try a car trip with Mischief.  I had to wrestle her into her play clothes (corduroys and hooded sweatshirt), she was so antsy.  I was sure she felt my excitement and was just reacting to it. So I tried deep breathing, slowing my actions down and lower my voice an octave or so.  I pulled her up into my lap and gently put her leather, monkey muzzle on, something we had been practicing at home for awhile.  She was eyeing me cautiously, as I took her leash down from the wall hook. When I hooked it to her collar she took hold of her collar with one hand, the other hand tightly clenching my other hand, with her strong, limber tail wrapped tightly around my arm for extra safety.  She walked tentatively out the door with me, her enormous, amber eyes darting everywhere at once. Upon reaching the car,  I stretched around her and opened the door . She nearly broke my hand bounded into the car, dragging me behind her.  We could not shut that door quick enough. Once I got her situated in the baby seat in the front seat and helped my son into the back seat we were ready to ride. I will say she was a trooper for she took it all in stride.

Our first stop was the drive through at the bank. At first I thought nothing of the funny looks the bank tellers were giving me, until one kind of leaned over and gave me a decidedly dirty look.  As I started to drive off I started wondering what that dirty look had been about.  But with a youngster and monkey in the car, I didn't have time to worry myself too hard about it. I counted my change and found she had given me two suckers, so I gave Mischief a cherry one (first of course, monkey-rules) and a grape one to my blonde hair, blue eyed son.  As they sat happily slurping on their suckers, I began to mull over the attitude problem the teller seemed to have.  I know she had leaned over to look at Mischief, but neither teller had made a sound, not even the "oh how cute" one.  As I drove, I looked over at Mischief to see if she appeared to be doing anything disgusting or vile, but she looked innocence enough, sucking on her sucker; her tiny, black, baby, face peering out from her hood; and then it hit me, black, baby face!!! Half hidden from view by my lily-white body, shadows further distorting what they thought they saw in their tinted glass enclosure. Now remember this was Birmingham Alabama, in the early1970's, the heart of prejudice and bigotry, and here I was proudly sporting around town, what appeared to be a black baby boy.  I didn't know whether to drive back and laugh in their faces or to curse them out.  Upon further reflection I decided it just wasn't worth it, what did it matter what they thought anyway.  After all they didn't know me anyway, I would just make future deposits further down the road from now on.

Our next trip out in the car was on a dazzling summer day.  The birds chirping, the bees buzzing and the yards we drove past ablaze with brilliant colors. A sun-kissed day God made just for playtime. I had chosen the middle of the day as our time out.  A time I felt prime for playing with Mischief without a number of question asking spectators making her nervous. When we climbed out of the car I could smell the pine trees and honeysuckle, their scents tantalizing in the warm, summer breeze. The trees alive with bustling squirrels and birds fluttering to and fro. I kicked off my shoes so I could feel the prickly grass tickle my feet. Hand in hand we three sauntered across the park.  Mischief was almost skipping in her excitement, little black feet dancing on the lush grass.

I spotted my favorite, the merry-go-round and lead them there first. I seated my son and then climbed aboard with Mischief. I sat there, hanging my feet off, as I used them to push us slowly around. Mischief had by then climbed into my lap and was hugged me, her mouth open as she made soft little wooh wooh sounds. Both of them big eyed, with huge smiles plastered on their faces. My son started begging to go to the slide, so off we hopped.  But when I tried climbing up with her, she climbed straight into my arms and began chattering up a storm.  Clearly she did not want to play on the slide, so I eased us back down. When our feet were firmly on the ground, we watched brother dear come whooshing down.  Sucking air and laughing in ecstasy. Then I spied the jungle gym and thought what more appropriate place to play with her than on the monkey bars.  This particular set was in the shape of a Viking ship, complete with some kind of grimacing gargoyle face on it.  We began our climb and Mischief though somewhat timid, followed close enough behind me that if I had stopped suddenly, she would have been kissing my hinny.   Until we got about five feet off the ground and then she started screaming, thrashing and refusing to go any higher.  I could not believe it, I had a monkey afraid of heights. So like a dummy I trying coaxing her into going higher and she just became more frantic.  Resigned I followed her back down, almost losing my footing as she scampered down, dragging me behind. As we passed the front of the ship, she let out one great ear-splitting scream and leaped into my arms, arms clenching at me frantically and her head buried into my neck. What in the heck was that all about?  Then I saw what had frightened her, what had caused all the commotion, that dang, ugly, grinning, gargoyle face.  No wonder she had freaked, it looked like some madman's fantasy, not a plaything for children.

After those first excursions I felt pretty safe in taking her out on short trips. We began to broaden our experiences, sometimes just riding around and looking at sights.  I even took them to see the Christmas lights.  The city a sea of twinkling lights, both sat entranced and mesmerized by the wonder of it all.   Mischief pursing her little lips and smacking her kissy faces at me, seeming to thoroughly enjoy herself.

Then one day while out doing our Sunday driving, the interstate unusually full for a Sunday, Mischief took it into her head that she should be allowed to drive.  She climbed over her seat, into my lap, putting both wiry little hands and both dexterous feet on my wheel, wrapping her limber tail around my gearshift and proceeded to help!!  Her help had us swerving all over the highway, as I fought for control.  Until this time, I had no idea how strong one little monkey could be, or how stubborn.  We fought for what seemed like hours but was probably not more than a few minutes, as my son screamed from the back seat.  I saw the wild-eyed looks the other drivers gave me, as a struggling woman and a screaming monkey wrestling and swerved all over the crowed highway.  I finally had no choice but to steer to the side of the interstate and cut the engine.  Exhausted and more than a little frightened. Reality hitting me when I realized that in the compact's tight quarters, I had been unable to remove her Herculean self from the wheel. This was a horrible reality check, that both amazed and frightened me.   After raised voices, threats and a couple well-aimed swats to her behind, I got her situated back in her seat.  Though she sat there clearly sulking, at least it seemed she was going to sit there and behave.  Hands shaking I entered the traffic again and started toward home, as I glanced every once in a while over at her crossed arms and sulky face. As I drove I guess her anger grew, for in a mere minute, she moved her muzzle to one side, crossed her seat and bit me hard on the arm.  She then placed her muzzle back in place and returned to her seat.  I sat stunned, blood running down my arm, as she looked at the window, now clearly ignoring me.  She had know all along how to remove that dang monkey muzzle and had been smart enough to never let me know it. 

We drove on in silence, totally thunderstruck. Both of us just a little bit wiser about our rightful places in this family.  My mother/master's position not as clearly defined as before. Myself humbled in the knowledge that I had done the ultimate wrong thing with a primate, I had let her witness my fear. In fact the fear had been so strong in that car, as we played the death-race ballet, that I am sure she didn't have to see it, she had only to smell it.  When we arrived home, the first thing I did was confine her to her cage, both of us physically and emotionally exhausted by today's ordeal. Later that evening I sat alone in my rocking chair, knees drawn up under my chin, tears sliding down my cheeks, as I contemplated what had happened. The bite she had given me was deep and hurt like hell, about one and one half inches across and a good one half inch deep.  An ugly, jagged, gash that explained in no uncertain terms what those canines were for. If I couldn't decide anything else right now, I did know one thing for sure, I would not have both her and my son in the car at the same time, until I knew I could trust her.

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