When a gypsy carnival stopped at Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm, Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor, bought a monkey from one of the workers. He mentioned that the monkey was a notorious thief, which prompted Jaybird to name him Dillinger.
The creature was always in a foul mood, and his face was so ugly that just looking at him made little children flee. Set deeply in his small head, Dillinger’s maraschino red eyes flashed fury, his whiskered mouth puckered and frowned, his flared nostrils were wide apart, and he had a widow’s peak that pointed sharply downward.
Dillinger liked only one person: Jaybird. He hated other humans so much that his master had to cage him when visitors came, especially if they were white. Reluctantly, he tolerated my Caucasian skin, but only because I was Jaybird’s friend.
Planting season was just a few weeks ahead, and needing an extra man, my father hired a young white guy named Morton. A drifter, he was tall and skinny, with bony facial features and black unfriendly eyes. He always wore his prized possession, a Boston Red Sox baseball cap, which he claimed was given to him by none other than famed slugger Ted Williams. Its bill was bright red, and the top was made of triangular segments whose points converged beneath a shiny red button.
Dad told me to show Morton around the farm, so I made sure to introduce him to Jaybird first. When we arrived, my friend was lounging on the porch, with Dillinger perched on his shoulder. Instantly, the monkey began jumping up and down, pointing, and hooting loudly.
“Whoa — don’t come no futhuh ’til I puts dis bad little fella in his cage,” Jaybird said. “Dat monkey don’t play.” The cage was made of strong wires with room between them for Dillinger to reach through for snacks.
When Morton remarked that he’d never seen such an ugly creature, the monkey seemed to understand and poked his arms through the wires, grabbing for his insulter.
“Don’t git too close,” Jaybird warned. “Like I said, dat monkey don’t play.”
Morton shot back, “Shoot — I ain’t a’feared of no monkey — I’ll prove it. He’s got a mean stare, but mine is meaner. I’ll bet y’all I can outstare him.” Simultaneously, Jaybird and I said, “No way.”
Morton kneeled beside the cage and locked eyes with Dillinger, whose simian stare shot right through the hated white face that kept getting closer to the cage.
When the bill of Morton’s beloved cap came within range, Dillinger shot out one of his long arms and jerked it into the cage.
Then, with machine-like precision and speed, he used his needle-sharp teeth to strip every thread from the cap, leaving a neat pile containing the bill, the top button, and the triangular segments at the bottom of the cage.
“I warned you,” Jaybird said to Morton, who stared in shock at the dismembered cap and at Dillinger with deep visceral hatred. “Dat monkey don’t play.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
