Even at the age of four, Urban Jungle Boy had the strength of 100 men. Not 100 weak men or even 100 normal men. But 100 strong men. Which is roughly the equivalent of 231 normal men or 647 weak men or 4,627 sprightly octogenarians--or 11,789 newborns.
But Urban Jungle Boy did not swing through the jungle canopy on thick and endless vines.
Nor did he wail, while we’re on the subject, with a wild warbling song for his animal companions the elephant, the cheetah, and the monkey (named Cheeta).
No, this Jungle Boy lived in the city and thus was known sometimes by his full name, Urban Jungle Boy (not to be confused with his famous father, known as Concrete Jungle Boy in his youth during the ‘50s).
With his incredible strength, his will of iron, and his flaxen hair flowing like waves of melted caramel behind his head, Urban Jungle Boy could be seen daily as he flew down 2nd Avenue and across 14th Street, his powerful dominant right leg kicking back and sending him upon his scooter an entire city block with one bold stroke.
His mother, calling after him in vain, in her warbling cry of panic. “Stop at the corner! Do not cross against the light!"
Here’s how Urban Jungle Boy approached his daily tasks, even at four years of age:
He would lift the family car from its morning location on the north side of the street to its afternoon location on the south side, barely breaking a sweat, and thus avoiding for his family the parking-on-the-wrong-side ticket.
He would pile all the family’s furniture on the tip of his finger, balanced without effort, as his mother danced about the room, dusting and vacuuming, free from the frustrating roadblocks of apartment furniture.
But this year, Urban Jungle Boy would turn five (and gain the strength of 127 strong men) and would be ready to attend public school, with tykes his own age, height, weight, and disposition (but of inferior strength by a factor of x10 or so, depending on how good your math is).
And this is where he encountered Gorgan.
Gorgan, at 214 pounds, was the biggest kindergartener the school had ever known. In fact, the city had ever known. Even the state.
He was legendary. The Legendary Gorgan. He was also known as the Great Ape because as a toddler he ate an inordinate amount of bananas. Oddly enough, as an infant he wouldn’t touch banana baby food, mashed up in the little jars that POPPED when opened, let alone homemade smashed-up bananas that turned brown before your eyes with rotten acceleration.
He’d hurl, with surprising confidence, the small, red plastic bowl bearing the likeness of Nemo the fish across the room--where it would crack into the plaster wall each day, creating, over time, a scale-like pattern on the plaster not unlike that on a fish, a fish like Nemo.
Later, when given an un-smashed banana, Gorgan found joy. Ecstasy, to be precise. What was this firm, fruity thing, so unlike an apple or a raisin? And it came in its own easy-to-open, protective yellow container, as well.
Gorgan made it his life’s mission to consume any and all bananas in his immediate and eventual vicinities. This mission partially accounted for his immense bulk and also his contented temperament. Formerly-contented, to be precise.
For what was Gorgan now, if not a bubbling stew of wrath? And what grotesquely overweight child wouldn’t be, given the circumstances?
His parents: dead, pushed together in front of the D train on the Herald Square platform, arcing like synchronized divers into the unknown.
His uncle, who adopted Gorgan shortly thereafter, left him shortly thereafter again (gone to Nairobi in search of the mythical horizontally-striped Zebra, the Yebra) feared, too, after all these months, dead. Or surely lost forever in those jungles. Or is it those savannahs? Gorgan’s family was not big on geography, which no doubt contributed to his uncle's downfall.
But now, Gorgan had found one upon whom to unleash his smoldering disappointment: the young Urban Jungle Boy. And unleash he did. First, in a torrent of snide comments, whispered under his breath each time Urban Jungle Boy passed his desk. Then, in an escalation of events, first with pushing the lad whenever they were in line together, and then tripping him whenever they were at "recess."
Finally, Urban had had enough. The battle of the century, between two legends, commenced, spontaneously, near the monkey bars over in the corner of the playground.
Initially, Gorgan had the advantage. Rage gives you that. But rage wears out both the rager and the ragee, and soon Gorgan tired, puffing like an immense blowfish. Which is when Urban Jungle Boy saw his opening. And took it. He lifted Gorgan over his head, like lifting a jumbo size bag of Stay-Puff'd Mini Marshmallows, and sent him aloft, across the playground, and far out of the schoolyard.
Back home that night, Urban's dad, Concrete, asked Urban Jungle Boy, "So, son, how was school?"
"The usual, Dad," said Urban Jungle Boy. "I learned more on the playground than in the classroom."
"That'll never change!" said his dad.
Carl Plumer is a graduate of the Masters Writing Program at Stony Brook University. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The Foghorn, Blink | Ink, Black Lantern, Static Movement, Pulpsmith and elsewhere. Carl lives with his beautiful wife and four extraordinary children somewhere in the Midwest, sleeplessly plotting his imminent return to New York City.
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