Migglio the Monkey
Ned Nedmiller, Dead Poet 

Monday, Oct. 29, 2001
When Ned was a boy he liked few things more than throwin’ rocks at boats down on the shores of the ol’ Pomak river. Them boats would steam on by, their big paddlewheels a splooshin’ along like so many scum filters in the aquariums. The ladies in their hoopty skirts and the gentlemanly types in their bowties and ice cream suits would wave to Ned from the boats, holdin’ them Martinis and smilin’ like it was time to get a picture taken to send to some poor kids in Somnabiqua so they’d know who was the folks sent them all that pocket change and lil’ bits of crackers and rice kernels. Them folks would smile and wave at little Neddy, and Ned would sure as April rains throw rocks at them peoples and try to knock them right out of their four-dollar shoes. When Ned was especially small, his flung rocks only made it about half-way and them ladies and gentlemen would laugh at Ned, pointing their fingers and breaking sweet wind in his direction. But each year that went by them peoples laughed a little less and looked a little more concerned, and some of them even took to carryin’ umbrellas out on the deck in case Ned should hit a growins spurt and gain some extra yardage.

Finally, when Ned was eight he was able to fling them rocks right up onto the decks of them boats, and them peoples who formerly had been laughin’ would yell and duck and sometimes throw rocks, and deck chairs, and Cuban waiters back at Ned. These were high times, and Ned would often find himself on the banks of the Pomak, doubled over with laughter or sometimes with a gushin’ head wound from a particularly well-returned stone. One time this was the case, and Ned done fell over, with laughin or with takin a head shot, it’s not Ned’s time to recall which it was, but when Ned was on the ground some Gypsies come along and scooped Nedder right up into a sack and onto them horses.

Them Gypsies done built a little wooden cage for Ned, just big enough for him to crouch inside, with designs and little dancin’ bears painted all up it and down it. They would carry Nedro from town to town, where they’d set up a little stage in the woods and charge the townfolk a nickel to watch Ned dance and sing little songs, and play poker with a little miniature monkey named Migglio.

Neddle and Migglio was fast friends, as they bonded over knowin’ that Migglio was scooped up by them Gypsies in much the same fashion, one day when he was flingin’ fig newtons at the King of Morocco. Ned an’ Migglio was inseperatistable in them days, sittin’ in their wooden cages and singin’ Al Jolsen songs in them two-part harmonies.

One day Ned and Migglio come up with a plan to escape from them Gypsies. Them caravan of Gypsies was comin’ back through the town where Nedder was from, and that night after Ned and Migglio done finished their show, Migglio went and hid in a big cast-iron pot while Ned went back to his cage like nothin’ was the wiser. Them plan was for that Migglio to wait until everyone was sleepin’, then go an’ grab the keys to Ned’s cage, and they’d be off like two jackals in a bobsled.

Ned sat up an waited for them Gypsies to fall asleep, but at the same time he done gone an’ fell asleep hisself. Them Gypsies woke Ned up for dinner and they all ate some monkey soup and then them Gypsies went asleep. Ned waited and waited, but Migglio never come. Late into the night, when the moon were high as an opera star in a coca farm, it donned on Nedder. That little monkey bastard! Migglio done left without Ned!

Ned decided enoughs was enoughs so he stuck he legs out through the bars of his little wooden cage, tipped it on over and scrambled out of Dodge like a turtle made of wood. When Ned got home his parents was mad at him for stayin’ out for eight months without permission, on a school night no less, and for not being there to tuck in the hedgehogs at night. They busted Ned out of his wooden cage and he went to tuck them hedgehogs in, cursing that little bastard monkey Migglio all the while.