Beach Party Surf Monkey Page 9

  “That can be arranged,” I said. “I’m not too crazy about the world’s most wonderful buffet next door.”

  “So where do you two like to go for fun around here?” asked Cassie.

  “Fun food?” said Gloria.

  Cassie shook her head. “Just fun.”

  “Smugglers Cove,” I said without missing a beat. “It’s an awesome mini golf course on Madeira Beach.”

  “But you guys have a Putt-Putt golf course right here at the motel,” said Cassie, sounding confused.

  “True. But I have to be honest: Smugglers Cove is even more awesome. It has a giant pirate ship, a waterfall, and—get this—an alligator feeding station.”

  “No way.”

  “Way. You put some grilled chicken on a fishing line and dangle it for the gators to snap down. The first time Grandpa took me, I was maybe in kindergarten. He held me in his arms so I could reach my pole out over the water to feed the biggest alligator, the ornery one they called Ugly Gus, the mean ol’ cuss.”

  I went on. “Well, Ugly Gus chomped down hard on my line and wouldn’t let go. But I wouldn’t let go of my pole, either. It was a battle of wills. Me against the meanest gator in the swamp.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Gloria.

  “I prefer the term ‘adventurous.’ ”

  “What happened?” asked Cassie.

  “That gator yanked me right out of Grandpa’s arms! Before I knew it, I was in the swirling water, surrounded by half a dozen agitated alligators who all thought I was the biggest bucket of bait they’d ever seen!”

  “What’d you do?” asked Cassie, her eyes wide.

  “What everybody should do during an alligator attack. I stayed calm. I didn’t splash around. And then I started singing.”

  “Excuse me?” said Gloria.

  “I sang Ugly Gus a song I learned in preschool. Nice and easy. Like a lullaby. ‘Alligator, alligator, big and green. You’ve got the longest tail I’ve ever seen.’ Have you two ever seen an alligator smile?”

  “No,” said Cassie with a laugh.

  “I have. Six of ’em. The more I sang, the more they smiled. Before long, Ugly Gus rolled over and showed me his belly. I scratched it. He purred like a happy kitten. Then he flipped over and let me climb on his back. We rode around the lagoon a couple times, just gliding across the water. Security guys started yelling at me, so I asked Gus to carry me back to the floating dock where the gators like to sunbathe. I reminded them all to use sunblock while somebody lowered a ladder, and I climbed back to Grandpa.”

  I opened my wallet, where I keep mostly coupons and cards.

  “And that’s why, to this very day, I still have a free pass to Smugglers Cove. They gave it to me so we wouldn’t sue them, I guess. But now I can play Putt-Putt anytime I want. I just can’t feed the alligators anymore.”

  “That is so cool,” said Cassie.

  “Here,” I said, handing her the free pass. “Use it sometime while you’re in town. And tell Ugly Gus that P. T. Wilkie says hi.”

  Gloria cleared her throat. “Correct me if I’m wrong, P.T., but don’t all the merchants up and down the beaches give free passes to all the motel operators in hopes that you will promote their attractions to guests?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I don’t care,” said Cassie. “I like P.T.’s story better.”

  “Yeah,” said Gloria. “Me too.”

  The crew had been setting up cameras, lights, scenery, and props on the beach since before the sun popped up.

  That sort of activity will draw a crowd. I’d say maybe two hundred curious onlookers were lined up behind a banner of rolled-out tape. Some new photographers were there, too.

  “This is so cool,” said Pinky. “Look at all those people.”

  Veronica Conch was in the crowd, cradling one of those yappy little foo-foo dogs in her arms. She waved.

  I waved back.

  She waved again.

  I pretended the sun was in my eyes. Again.

  The scene we were about to film was another big dance number. I was back to playing a finger-snapping blob in the background. But I knew there might be a chance I could get upgraded again, so I was going to be the best blob I possibly could!

  Gunther, the German director of photography, wanted to wait for what he kept calling goldene Zeit, which I found out meant “golden time”—the moment the morning sun would be at the perfect angle to make the beach look fantastic.

  “It will be a very short window, folks,” announced Dawg. “So let’s get it right on the first take.”

  Since Aidan Tyler wasn’t in the scene, we had a chance of actually doing that.

  “Goldene Zeit!” shouted Gunther, pointing at the sun.

  “You all set?” the director asked Cassie.

  “Yes, sir!”

  J.J. handed Kevin to Cassie. The monkey scampered up to her shoulder.

  “Roll playback,” said the director.

  “Roll playback,” shouted Dawg.

  “Rolling playback,” said the soundman, tapping a button.

  And that’s when everything went bananas.

  Wild guitar riffs blasted.

  Dancers gyrated.

  Kevin the Monkey bopped to the beat.

  Cassie and the chorus lip-synched to the lyrics.

  “Hey there, ho there, Mr. Sun is gonna shine.

  Time for makin’ waves and feelin’ fine.

  Surf’s up! (Go, Surf Monkey!)

  Surf’s up! (Go, Surf Monkey!)—”

  All of a sudden, Veronica Conch’s little foo-foo dog started yapping something fierce.

  “Cut!” shouted Kurt.

  The music skidded to a warbly, ear-piercingly harsh halt—totally terrifying the terrier.

  The little dog leapt out of Veronica’s arms and charged across the beach, its tiny legs churning up a sandstorm. It was yipping and yapping and gunning for what it figured was the source of the horrible noise: Kevin the Monkey.

  Kevin saw the dog and scampered up to perch on top of Cassie McGinty’s 1960s beehive hairdo. He stood up and thumped his chest like he was King Kong.

  That only made the dog nuttier. It snarled and let loose a barrage of barks.

  First Kevin shrieked and then he freaked.

  He leapt off Cassie’s head, hit the sand, and took off.

  “Kevin!” shouted J.J. “Come back.”

  “Fluffy!” shouted Veronica. “Heel.”

  “Goldene Zeit!” shouted Gunther.

  There was a whole lot of shouting going on.

  “Arrest that monkey!” Veronica hollered.

  “Control your dog!” screamed J.J.

  “It’s not my dog, lady!” shouted Veronica. “I’m pet-sitting!”

  I was watching the chase scene from where the surf hits the sand, because that’s where we background actors were positioned for the big dance number.

  “We have lost zee golden light!” Gunther sobbed behind the camera.

  Kurt threw up his arms. “This is a disaster!”

  I had to agree. Totally.

  “You people never should’ve made this movie here!” Veronica Conch shouted over her shoulder.

  “I agree,” muttered the director.

  We were doomed! Even the neighborhood dogs were trying to destroy the Wonderland’s chance at becoming the most famous motel in Florida.

  But then I had an idea.

  I remembered something the animal trainer had told me one day when I was watching Kevin rehearse: “Monkeys feel safest up high. They love trees.”

  I tore across the beach, which, by the way, is extremely hard to do unless you’re on the wet part, like I was.

  So while J.J. and Veronica slipped and slid across the sand, I ran. I also called Grandpa.

  “Hello?” he said, sounding kind of groggy. I must’ve woken him up from his early-morning nap.

  “Grandpa,” I panted.

  “P.T.? Why are you breathing so hard? You should see a doctor….” />
  “Meet…me…behind…the…Sea…Spray…Motel.”

  “Why?”

  “Kevin…the…Monkey. Running…for…trees. Sea…Spray. Hurry. Bring…bologna!”

  I was right.

  Fluffy the dog treed Kevin the Monkey behind the Sea Spray Motel. Turned out it was an orange tree. I learned this when Kevin hurled a few juicy fruit bombs down at Fluffy.

  “Sit,” I said to Fluffy, since I was the first to arrive on the scene.

  Fluffy didn’t sit. Instead, he snarled. At me.

  “That monkey is a menace!” said Veronica Conch, huffing and puffing her way up the sandy slope to join me at the base of the tree.

  “Heads up!” I shouted.

  Kevin had just launched another rotten orange.

  It bonked Veronica in the head.

  “Ouch!” whined Veronica. Hot orange juice, seeds, and pulp dribbled down around her ears. “That’s assault and battery!”

  “Your dog started it,” said J.J., who’d finally reached the orange grove. She was followed by several of the gawkers, who found the dog-monkey chase more exciting than the stalled dance scene on the beach.

  “For the last time,” said Veronica, “Fluffy is not my dog. I am pet-sitting for a guest, because unlike some fly-by-night operations, the Conch Reef Resort is a full-service hotel, which is why you guys should’ve made this movie at our place instead of the Blunderland!”

  Veronica yanked Fluffy off the ground and squeezed his wiggling body against her chest. “Quit. Squirming. Dog.”

  “Why aren’t you in school?” I asked.

  “Because!” was Veronica’s answer.

  “What’s our situation?” asked Gloria, joining us under the tree with her clipboard and radio.

  “Kevin’s scared but he’s safe,” said J.J.

  “He’d be safer over at our resort!” snapped Veronica. “We have security guards and much stricter leash rules than the Wonderland, which, hello, isn’t even a hotel. It’s a motel!”

  Gloria ignored her. “Kevin is fine,” she relayed to whoever was on the other end of her walkie-talkie.

  “But now comes the hard part,” said J.J. “Coaxing him down.”

  “Yeah,” snorted Veronica. “Good luck with that!”

  J.J. started making clicking noises with her tongue.

  Kevin looked down at her like he thought she was an idiot. No way was he falling for the old “clicking my tongue to make you think I’m a monkey” trick.

  Finally, Grandpa arrived on the scene.

  “Step aside, coming through,” he said to part the crowd. “Emergency bologna delivery.”

  “Bologna?” Veronica said with a laugh. “What are you gonna do with bologna, old man?”

  Grandpa ignored Veronica, too. He handed me a sealed package of Oscar Mayer’s finest circular luncheon meat.

  “Is that really bologna?” said J.J.

  I nodded. “It has a very strong odor. A lot of animals can’t resist the scent.”

  J.J. arched an eyebrow. “And if I may ask, where did you learn this interesting piece of animal trivia?”

  “Working with the tigers at Wild Cat Safariland over in Tampa.” (Actually, it was more like I was running away from them.)

  “Liar!” shouted Veronica. “That’s just another one of your silly stories!”

  It was my turn to ignore her. I peeled back the plastic wrapper.

  The spicy, hot-doggish aroma of processed pork whacked my nostrils hard.

  It whacked Kevin’s even harder.

  He hesitated for half a second, then scurried down the tree trunk.

  I handed the bologna to J.J. The monkey leapt into her arms. She gave him a few tasty bites.

  “The cat is in the bag,” Gloria said to her walkie-talkie. “The monkey is on the merry-go-round.”

  “Huh?” somebody squawked through the tinny speaker.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Kevin the Monkey is fine and headed back to the set with J.J.”

  Grandpa proudly displayed his package of luncheon meat to the crowd. “Bologna, ladies and gentlemen. It is the duct tape of foods. There ain’t nothing it can’t do!”

  Ten minutes later, we were once again ready to shoot the big dance number.

  “The sun is still nearly perfect,” announced Gunther. “But we must hurry! Mach schnell!”

  Cassie’s hair was back to looking like a bubbly beehive instead of a monkey-clawed rat’s nest. Kevin the Monkey was totally chill, pecking a piece of bologna out of Grandpa’s hand. Veronica had taken the yappy dog back to its owners.

  Everything was as it should be.

  “All right, everybody,” said Kurt through his megaphone. “Let’s take it from the top!”

  “Let’s take it from the top!” hollered Dawg, scanning the crowd of spectators, looking for potential disasters.

  The lady with the slate slapped it shut. “Scene nine hundred, take two!”

  “Aaaaand action!” shouted Kurt.

  The music started up again.

  So did the dancing.

  I didn’t have to “act” or pretend that I was excited. The scene was one of the most spectacular things I’ve ever seen!

  And Pinky Nelligan?

  The guy can dance almost as good as he sings.

  On a cue from his trainer, Surf Monkey puckered his lips as if he were whistling.

  Two hippie girls ran down the beach with a monkey-sized surfboard. It had an upright handlebar like you’d see on a scooter.

  Kevin hoisted his mini surfboard over his head and dashed toward the waves.

  When he reached the waterline, the director called, “Cut!”

  The monkey froze.

  “Good boy!” shouted J.J. “Mr. Wilkie?”

  “More bologna,” cried Grandpa, shuffling across the sand. “Coming through!”

  Yep. Grandpa had another fun new job: Assistant Animal Trainer in Charge of Meat Treats.

  “Man, he loves that bologna more than any reward I’ve ever given him!” I heard J.J. say.

  Grandpa shrugged. “He has good taste. Same as me.”

  “You want to test the rig while we’re here?” J.J. asked the director when he was happy with the song and dance number after only two takes.

  “Good idea.”

  Suddenly, we heard Aidan Tyler screaming, way up at the motel.

  “Scram, man! I don’t need no acting coach.”

  “Pah!” boomed a voice with a Russian accent. “There is nothing more I, Boris Kolenkov, can do. You have the emotional range of a turtle!”

  “Takes one to know one!” Aidan was in full meltdown mode.

  So naturally, cameras were clicking. Phones were up and shooting videos. Another Aidan Tyler temper tantrum was being live-tweeted and I was too far away to stop it.

  Kurt rolled his eyes. “We’re going to be down here all night shooting Aidan’s next two lines. Let’s hurry up and test the monkey gag while we still have a chance.”

  Dawg barked orders into his walkie-talkie while the prop guys carried in a second surfboard that looked exactly like the one Kevin the Monkey had been toting over his head. Only, this new board had a remote-controled submarine with propellers attached to its bottom.

  Kevin rode on J.J.’s shoulder as the trainer waded into the water.

  “You ready to rock?” she asked the monkey. She said that a lot. I think it was a cue for Kevin to focus.

  I started wishing that we had an Aidan Tyler trainer, too.

  Kevin took his place on the surfboard. J.J. strapped him into a life jacket. Two motorized skiffs were set to shadow the monkey’s moves.

  “Give it a go,” said the director when everything was ready. “Hurry.”

  On the beach, one of the special effects guys thumbed a remote control. Surf Monkey slid across the water. J.J. hollered a couple of different commands. Kevin raised one hand over his head, executed a backflip, did a butt-wiggle dance. He reminded me of Grandpa doing the Swim.

  He was so hyster
ical the paparazzi stopped focusing on Aidan Tyler and turned their lenses on Kevin the Monkey!

  Everybody cheered, which made Kevin act even goofier.

  He flipped over the handlebar, dipped his toes in the water to hang ten, and flashed us all a big smile as he zoomed by.

  The crowd went crazy!

  “Aiyyo? What y’all doin’ with that mangy monkey, man?”

  Aidan Tyler was back on the set.

  He did not look or sound happy.

  “Are you fools almost done monkeying around or what?” demanded Aidan, flanked by his flunkies.

  They all made pouty faces whenever their star made a pouty face, to let us know they were just as upset as Aidan was.

  “Why’d you even call me to the set, man? I could be in my trailer, chillaxin’.”

  “We were using the downtime between shots to test the Surf Monkey rig,” explained Kurt. “You were supposed to use this time to work with Mr. Kolenkov.”

  “Forget that noise. I don’t need no acting coach. I’m Aidan Tyler! I’m a superstar!”

  J.J. and the props guys brought Kevin the Monkey and his tricked-out surfboard back to shore. Aidan and his entire entourage crossed their arms over their chests and frowned.

  “Okay,” said the director. “Let’s stow the surfboard rig. We’re ready to start shooting your scene, Aidan. This is where you flirt with Polly Pureheart on the beach.”

  “Not if she has that fool monkey.”

  “What?”

  “I’m Aidan Tyler. The Tyes. I need to keep it real, man.”

  His minions nodded.

  “No way would I fall for a girl who hangs around with a funky monkey. Besides, Kevin the Monkey ain’t the right costar for me in this movie.”

  “What?” The director started tugging at both sides of his hair again.

  “Monkeys are so last year, man. This is the year of the pig.”

  “What?”

  Aidan had reduced the director’s vocabulary to one word.