Monkey Tom and Mark de Jong

A full and dynamic existence is lived in pursuit, and appreciation, of love in all its forms. This is another story about love, swaddled by the details of the relationship between a local, highly prolific yet undeniably underappreciated artist by the name of Thomas Forshier, aka Monkey Tom and a longtime local business owner and operator, Mark de Jong, and his family at Marine Diesel of the Florida Keys.

Since 1984, Mark and his band of adorable, oil smudged cronies, as well as his vivacious and beautiful daughter, Marie, have been repairing diesel engines from their shop on Stock Island. With quick and skilled hands, shop mottos like, “To be old and wise you must first be young and stupid” and some of the biggest hearts I personally experienced on the island, they have been keeping Key West’s diesel-powered marine community running smooth for many a year.

Monkey Tom, for his part, has been sitting in an increasingly abject, artistically overflowing and visually overwhelming section of the same Stock Island since the 1970’s, painting images of bearded men of the sea, sailing ships, sea monsters and the occasional Big Brother reference onto absolutely anything and everything he can get his hands on or, more likely, anything that is placed in his hands by someone who appreciates him. He also shellacs dead animals of all species onto pieces of scrap wood, or whatever. Monkey Tom is not particularly judgmental.

My personal experience with Mark de Jong’s form of genius gets pretty personal–in 2011 he replaced the clutch and aligned the Volvo MD7A inboard diesel of my 28′ Columbia and, this go around, after nearly eight months in the boatyard, and at the end of my rope, he installed my cutlass bearing, prop shaft, prop, throttle and gear cables and kill switch. Oh, the tachometer also works. And pretty lights come on when the key is in the “on” position. And this all happened in about six hours, and the delight of it has yet to wear thin, nor has the awareness that this person is vastly more skilled than I.

If you have a problem with your engine, they are who you call. If you value good work, good attitudes and supporting local business, call them again. If you’d like to chat about sea stories or have a tall, icy rum and coke with the cats, show up around 5 o’clock any day of the week at their new location in Robbie’s Marina and Boatyard on Stock Island. There’s not really an option, you should just do it. And, as a pirate-shaped plastic sword stuck in the lime in your rum and coke, now when you visit Mark’s shop, you can also peruse his collection of hundreds of original Monkey Tom’s, displayed prominently on all of the walls of the shop’s foyer.

And here we have the tie that binds. For years, Mark and his family have been amassing and supporting, through a variety of mannerisms, the colorful and imaginative art of Monkey Tom. Tom would like a cigarette, Mark or Marie hands him a piece of wood to paint. Tom needs a ride to the doctor, here, paint this broken oar. You’d like me to address your packages? Paint me a seascape. You catch my drift? The relationship is beautiful. Mark’s shop recently changed location, and Marie de Jong and myself were placed in command of the mission of pulling the hundreds of dusty, dirty, grimy, slimy Monkey Tom paintings from their collected space in a tiny upstairs storage room, loading them into my Ford Econoline and cleaning the muck and the mire off each one. We then arranged them all elegantly on the walls of Mark’s shop.

Come to talk about your busted alternator? Now, your discussion takes place in an art gallery, championing a local artist who has never even once attempted to champion himself and has, instead, quietly and wonderfully continued to produce. Some would say that is the definition of a “true artist.” Art has soul. Soul has grit, soul is sometimes ugly, and soul is interesting. The sparkly eyed paintings on termite-chewed boards got soul, and so do the self-proclaimed “misunderstood white trash” employees of Mark’s, who’s rough and marvelous smiles light up the world around them and hail as a testament to the rowdy, yet alluringly charming, past of America’s most southerly destination. Lest ye not forget your piratical heritage, Conchian mateys. Yarr!

For year’s I have heard lore of Monkey Tom. I have noticed his bearded characters poking their large noses out from the walls of business like The HogFish Bar and Grill and Dirty Harry’s, not to mention a surprisingly large number of conch homes whose interior I was allowed to peruse. Also, people simply walk up to me on the street and assuage me with their favorite “Monkey Tom Story,” as, perhaps, we both so endearingly embody the adjective “unique.” The man paints his flip-flops onto his own feet, for Pete’s sake. He is, perhaps, my spirit animal’s father.

And, when I met him, after he put down the children’s book he was reading about farm animals, and Marie addressed some packages for him and he showed us his recent paintings and shellacked lizards, he ignored me almost entirely. A feat whose difficulty he acknowledged through the only words Monkey Tom has ever said to me, and probably ever will, “You’re big.”

Yes, Monkey Tom, I am large. And so are you. Fabulously unique in an increasingly homogenous environment. Supported and cherished by those in your community. Showcased by a family. So, if you want to see something big happening in Key West, go on down to Mark’s shop and check it out. I say it’s all pretty damn cool.

 

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