close he looked like he ate babies, and I felt a sudden urge to pee.
Monroe came over to where we stood in the tall grass. From behind the tinted sunglasses he gave each of us a casual sweep with his eyes. After several uneasy seconds, Monroe looked at me and asked, “Lost?”
“L-Looking for M-Monroe Huff,” I stammered, a worried smile wobbling on my lips.
“Are you … you M-Mr. Huff?”
“Why would you be looking for Monroe Huff?” he asked, glancing at Kiki and Pia.
“I’ve b-been told …” A spasm arose in my throat. Monroe Huff had the scariest face I had ever seen. “I’ve been told h-he k-knows about c-caves.”
Monroe had a smell about him that I couldn’t identify. A wet smell. A musty smell.
“That so?” His deep voice was like the bawl of faraway thunder.
I nodded. “M-My name’s Pablo Perez.”
“Congratulations.”
“This is my sister, Pia,” I said, nodding to where Pia stood cowering in the tall grass. “And my cousin Kiki. Sh-She’s from St. Louis.”
“Get to it, boy!”
“Yes, well, I heard”—I tried to find some spit to send down my throat, but it had all dried up—“that Monroe Huff was one of the best s-s-spelunkers in the state.”
“You heard wrong.”
I fell silent. I could definitely use a bathroom break.
“He’s the best.”
“Yes, well, uh, we’d like to hire him. You.”
“To do what?”
Kiki leaned into the conversation. “We’d like to go cave exploring, Mr. Huff. You are Mr. Huff, right? If you’re not, then we’ll be on our way.” Kiki let out an awkward chuckle.
Monroe Huff made a strange puffing sound through his nose. “I’m Huff. What cave do you want to explore?”
“Could we go inside and talk?” I asked, trying to put some muscle in my voice .
Monroe hesitated for a moment. “Sure, let’s go inside.” He snorted again, then turned and strode back toward the cabin.
“Pablo, are we sure about this?” Kiki whispered. “Do we really want to crawl inside a cave with this … this Neanderthal?”
“Who’d you expect? Orlando Bloom?”
Pia giggled, but it didn’t stay on her lips for long.
We followed Monroe into his cabin. The curtains were drawn over the windows and it was dark inside. It reminded me of a cave. Or a tomb.
Monroe offered us chairs, but I said we’d stand.
In case we need to make a run for it.
The one-room cabin was sparsely furnished: a twin bed, a tiny refrigerator, a worn sofa, and a rocking chair. A small wood-burning stove sat in the middle of the room. A rope ladder lay on the floor next to it. About 50 hardback books were stacked in one corner. I could make out one of the titles: The Grapes of Wrath.
An old GE radio sat on the kitchen counter. It was tuned to a classical music station out of Springfield. An announcer said the next song would be “O Sole Mio” by someone named Pavarotti. It didn’t seem like the kind of music Monroe Huff would be listening to.
This whole thing is too weird.
Monroe pulled his sunglasses away from his eyes, pushing them up on his head. “I don’t like light.”
I wondered what else Monroe Huff didn’t like. Uninvited guests? Three amateur explorers? Kids on dirt bikes?
Pia stood staring at cave memorabilia that covered the wall above the sofa. The mementos included color photographs of spelunkers in various underground locales.
“My wall of fame,” Monroe said, gesturing at the photos.
I studied the pictures, labeled with captions like: Cave of the Winding Stair, California; Sitting Bull Falls, New Mexico; Clinton’s Cave, near Great Salt Lake, Utah . Several awards and citations were mixed in with the photos including one that read : Monroe Huff—Lifetime Member—National Speleological Society. Another read: The 1,000-Mile Club.
“Is this you, Mr. Huff?” Pia asked, pointing at one of the photos. The man in the picture was hanging from a rope halfway up a towering cave wall.
“Sure is, sweet pea,” Monroe said, dropping into the
Monroe came over to where we stood in the tall grass. From behind the tinted sunglasses he gave each of us a casual sweep with his eyes. After several uneasy seconds, Monroe looked at me and asked, “Lost?”
“L-Looking for M-Monroe Huff,” I stammered, a worried smile wobbling on my lips.
“Are you … you M-Mr. Huff?”
“Why would you be looking for Monroe Huff?” he asked, glancing at Kiki and Pia.
“I’ve b-been told …” A spasm arose in my throat. Monroe Huff had the scariest face I had ever seen. “I’ve been told h-he k-knows about c-caves.”
Monroe had a smell about him that I couldn’t identify. A wet smell. A musty smell.
“That so?” His deep voice was like the bawl of faraway thunder.
I nodded. “M-My name’s Pablo Perez.”
“Congratulations.”
“This is my sister, Pia,” I said, nodding to where Pia stood cowering in the tall grass. “And my cousin Kiki. Sh-She’s from St. Louis.”
“Get to it, boy!”
“Yes, well, I heard”—I tried to find some spit to send down my throat, but it had all dried up—“that Monroe Huff was one of the best s-s-spelunkers in the state.”
“You heard wrong.”
I fell silent. I could definitely use a bathroom break.
“He’s the best.”
“Yes, well, uh, we’d like to hire him. You.”
“To do what?”
Kiki leaned into the conversation. “We’d like to go cave exploring, Mr. Huff. You are Mr. Huff, right? If you’re not, then we’ll be on our way.” Kiki let out an awkward chuckle.
Monroe Huff made a strange puffing sound through his nose. “I’m Huff. What cave do you want to explore?”
“Could we go inside and talk?” I asked, trying to put some muscle in my voice .
Monroe hesitated for a moment. “Sure, let’s go inside.” He snorted again, then turned and strode back toward the cabin.
“Pablo, are we sure about this?” Kiki whispered. “Do we really want to crawl inside a cave with this … this Neanderthal?”
“Who’d you expect? Orlando Bloom?”
Pia giggled, but it didn’t stay on her lips for long.
We followed Monroe into his cabin. The curtains were drawn over the windows and it was dark inside. It reminded me of a cave. Or a tomb.
Monroe offered us chairs, but I said we’d stand.
In case we need to make a run for it.
The one-room cabin was sparsely furnished: a twin bed, a tiny refrigerator, a worn sofa, and a rocking chair. A small wood-burning stove sat in the middle of the room. A rope ladder lay on the floor next to it. About 50 hardback books were stacked in one corner. I could make out one of the titles: The Grapes of Wrath.
An old GE radio sat on the kitchen counter. It was tuned to a classical music station out of Springfield. An announcer said the next song would be “O Sole Mio” by someone named Pavarotti. It didn’t seem like the kind of music Monroe Huff would be listening to.
This whole thing is too weird.
Monroe pulled his sunglasses away from his eyes, pushing them up on his head. “I don’t like light.”
I wondered what else Monroe Huff didn’t like. Uninvited guests? Three amateur explorers? Kids on dirt bikes?
Pia stood staring at cave memorabilia that covered the wall above the sofa. The mementos included color photographs of spelunkers in various underground locales.
“My wall of fame,” Monroe said, gesturing at the photos.
I studied the pictures, labeled with captions like: Cave of the Winding Stair, California; Sitting Bull Falls, New Mexico; Clinton’s Cave, near Great Salt Lake, Utah . Several awards and citations were mixed in with the photos including one that read : Monroe Huff—Lifetime Member—National Speleological Society. Another read: The 1,000-Mile Club.
“Is this you, Mr. Huff?” Pia asked, pointing at one of the photos. The man in the picture was hanging from a rope halfway up a towering cave wall.
“Sure is, sweet pea,” Monroe said, dropping into the
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