A Little Bit Like Home

The Green, Slimy Monster

There are people who can tell a story, and then there are people who can make you believe it. Jerry Clower could make an ordinary tale hilarious simply by telling it. Imagine Michael Jackson’s Thriller without Vincent Price’s voice. The words matter, but so do the timing, the pauses, and the silence between them. One of the best storytellers I ever knew was Wayne White.

Wayne and Dad had been friends all their lives. After Wayne married Martha and Dad married Mom, their friendship continued between the couples, with suppers, card games, movies, and plenty of singing. Martha had a beautiful soprano voice, and Wayne had a rich bass that could make people smile. That same voice was especially effective at scaring little boys, including me. Wayne could frighten me half to death with a story, and five minutes later I would beg him to tell another.

One favorite was “The Golden Arm,” an old ghost story about a man whose missing golden arm brought him back from the grave. Wayne began the ghost’s demand in a low whisper: “Give me back my golden arm.” As the ghost approached, he repeated it, each time louder and slower, until he suddenly grabbed your arm and shouted, “TAKE IT!” Even though I knew it was coming, I jumped anyway. Years later, I learned Mark Twain used that same story to teach the importance of a well-timed pause. Wayne certainly understood the lesson.

But the story that frightened me most was his tale of The Green, Slimy Monster. The name doesn’t look terrifying on paper. Wayne made it terrifying by saying each word as though it deserved its own paragraph. “The Green.” Then, drawn out slowly, “Slimy.” A slight pause. “Monster.” By that point, my imagination was already doing most of his work.

I considered myself fairly educated about monsters, thanks to Dr. San Guinary’s Creature Feature on Saturday nights. Vampires could be discouraged with garlic, and I figured I could outrun Frankenstein’s monster. Werewolves, I had decided, were mostly a London problem. But I had seen enough of “Creature from the Black Lagoon” to know a monster capable of living underwater and coming ashore presented an entirely different set of concerns.

Through the grove and across the highway from our farm was a large irrigation lake where Wayne sometimes took my brother Joe and me fishing. It was home to plenty of bullfrogs, which were green and slimy enough to make Wayne’s account sound plausible. According to him, something much larger lurked beneath the surface, waiting for its next opportunity. I pictured a cross between an enormous bullfrog and a space alien. I wasn’t entirely sure what it would do if it caught me, and I didn’t intend to find out.

The trouble was this monster wasn’t hiding in some faraway movie lagoon. It supposedly lived within sight of our house in that lake. I enjoyed going with Wayne, but I wasn’t entirely comfortable with what might be watching from underwater. The sensible response would have been to ask him to stop telling the story. Instead, I asked him to repeat it every chance I got. I knew exactly when he’d lower his voice and say, “The Green. Slimy. Monster.” It worked every time.

Eventually, the lake was drained. Wayne later reported seeing what appeared to be a strange carcass near the old shoreline, remarkably close to our fishing spot. He was fairly certain he knew what it was. Imagine how narrowly Joe and I had escaped! I never inspected the evidence myself. Frankly, Wayne’s word was good enough, and I had no interest in discovering whether the creature had relatives.

The lake is farm ground now, but I still remember Wayne singing bass with Martha, Mom, and Dad, along with the stories and laughter those lifelong friends shared. Some of the best things we carry from childhood aren’t things at all. They’re voices. Wayne had one of those voices, and I can still hear him pause, then slowly say it: The Green. Slimy. Monster.

Tom Brand is a St. Joseph, Missouri, writer whose latest book, “You Have To Leave If You Want To Come Back,” is available at RichardsonPress.com. He remains suspicious of any bullfrog with its eyes just below the water’s surface, especially one that appears to be waiting for him.