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Kirk Boys: Thieving Monkeys

I have taken into consideration the fact that I might have an overactive imagination. And I’m not going to deny there have been times when I’ve stretched the truth a bit, but I swear this is not one of them. So either this all happened to me, or I am seriously disturbed. The whole thing is just really traumatic.

Simply put, I appear to be the random victim of a pack of thieving damned monkeys. I was their bitch. I don’t think I am blind to the fact that monkeys, for most people, conjure cute little animals swinging on jungle vines no threat to anyone or anything. For millions, monkeys are the embodiment of playfulness. Take the sock monkey for example, their cute, cuddly, and a comfort to children who are lonely or sick. I certainly am in no position to dissuade anyone’s opinion of monkeys as anything other than wholesome and good humored. But listen to me carefully, every story has two meanings, and every coin two sides, and I have witnessed first hand that monkey’s can, in a gang or group dynamic, be very mean spirited and vicious. So I am asking you to put aside your pre-conceived beliefs, to check your attitude at the door and believe me when I say, “This bunch I was dealt came from devil seed; they were no way your ordinary marmosets.”

Of course it bothers me why they chose to prey on me. Was it cosmic randomness, simple fate or were there monkey slave traders in my family unbeknownst to me? In any case, no matter the circumstance, I have landed squarely on these monkeys shit list? I have nasty monkey Karma.

Let me tell you as clearly and unemotionally as possible how this whole event began. I was returning to my parked car, enjoying the pleasant summer temperatures, after picking up some groceries at the new Piggly Wiggly on Birdsong Boulevard. By way of explanation I am what society terms a house husband, or a domesticated partner. My wife Peg, often when she’s irritated, calls me a fat-ass good for nothing, but that has no immediate bearing on this matter. Of course we have our issues just like any happily married couple, but certainly nothing we can’t overcome through mutual respect. You see Peg leaves our home for her position at Shrunk and Fossil a CPA firm every morning at precisely 6am and returns in the evening at precisely 6pm. Everyone, including my mother, say Peg is the best thing that ever happened to me. And Peg is very professional with her polished Capezios, her perfect pleats and white starched blouse. “Peg is buttoned up and buttoned down,” I like to say, “Like Fort Knox.” And she is always telling me, “Webster, I am the backbone of this operation.” And I always answer, “You are indeed a powerful and capable woman Peggy Planteen.”

So anyway, before I went into the P Wiggly for groceries I prepared the car. It was warm as I mentioned earlier so I rolled all the windows down on our sedan. I knew that not to do so would be to insure when I returned it would be like opening the car door to Hades and certainly not fit for perishable groceries. But I’m not a careless person, so I locked my cell phone in the glove box so nothing of value was left accessible in the automobile.

Arriving back, arms loaded, I find four monkeys sitting as big as you please in my car staring forward as though waiting for a chauffer to take them to the damn prom. Obviously I am taken aback. Who wouldn’t be? Then I notice my locked glove box has been pried open and the most brazen of the bunch proceeds to flip open my phone and punch in eleven digits without as much as a nod in my direction. Dialing eleven numbers means only two things: long distance and roaming charges. I forget the fact that it’s a monkey using my cell phone for just a moment while I consider the question of where, and who in hell is he calling, a girlfriend in Africa, a brother living in the Amazon? There are few monkey-friendly continents and none of them are covered on my cell plan. I am in such a state of shock that I push aside the monkey and climb into the driver’s seat. I glance over at the screen on my phone like any of this is making sense. He’s calling 1-976 numbers. He is calling sex chat lines on my flip phone! I am screwed! Peg will never believe I didn’t make that call. My wife Peg will call me a perv…. again! She will threaten me with divorce or worse. Now the phone gets passed from one tiny ear to the next in quick succession and I realize I am witnessing a monkey circle jerk. After a considerable amount of carrying on, I have only to say, “Mission accomplished” and you will know more than you wanted to. I reach into the center console for a stack of napkins I wisely borrowed from; “The Burger Basket” for any future emergency needs. This situation clearly qualifies, so I hand them out to the little deviant’s, hopeful for a cleanup, then get us moving.

I make it home and quickly pull into my garage. I have no idea what people who saw me that afternoon thought. I live in an area of town known for eccentrics so there is always the chance my car full of monkeys went unnoticed. Anyway, as soon as the garage door closes behind me they pile out and huddle football style around our spare refrigerator for a pow-wow of some sort. Then they open the door and each snatch one of what would be many ice cold adult beverages. These are not Budweiser’s mind you, but expensive micro-brews they’re drinking. And the drinking precedes the swinging on the rafters, the screeching and the chattering. Minutes later they are making a huge ruckus and all of them are wearing that stupid monkey grin they are so famous for. My dog Sissy, whom I named after my sister, arrives on the scene, bouncing innocently through her dog door and gets all hell scared from her. The damn monkeys, flush with micro brews and opportunity, take turns riding my panicked Sissy around the garage. They latch on her like drunken leeches, swinging their tiny arms around like cowboys in a rodeo. It isn’t long before Sissy is so upset foam is pouring from her and hanging in large billowy sheets from her jowls. I drop and pray for my dog to survive as I am completely helpless to stop it.

What am I supposed to do? My wife is at work, and to be honest, I am frightened and intimidated. I am kneeling on the hard garage floor rocking back and forth similar to that poor Anderson boy up the street. I believe I have been shocked into autism as the monkeys circle me like a band of angry Apaches, dancing hand in hand, mocking and spitting at me. The reality of my situation, if it’s reality at all, is I have been hijacked by a bunch of thieving monkeys. And there is precious little time to ponder my situation further as each of the four scurries past me through the garage door and inside our rare ranch style home. I say rare because just down four blocks, in the Pleasant Meadow subdivision, a single story home very similar to ours came on the market. The, For Sale sign stated clearly, rare Ranch Style Home for sale. My wife Peg was thrilled beyond belief to discover our good fortune.

Once inside our home, the four primate fan out like a swat team searching for God knows what. The smaller of the bunch investigates our kitchen pantry. He rips apart a cereal box scattering toasted flakes across the black and white checkered linoleum Peg had installed with the help of the Home Depot. Another is fascinated with my wife’s collection of Hummels and tiny glass figurines. He screeches and points in particular at the leaping blue dolphin and the yellow faced clown, jumping up and down, shaking the fragile display and nearly toppling it. I can hear the others ripping through our house, room to room, criss-crossing the central hallway like a Chinese fire drill. I realize in my concern for the glass menagerie and spilt cereal that I am missing my wallet and that a certain two of them have located the den/sewing room where I have a computer and high speed internet connection. I rush back to see they have already secured access and are using my credit card to gain entry to sites I had only dreamed existed. I stand mesmerized by the scene. I realize they are also ordering things of a highly inappropriate nature. Things my wife, Peg, insists never be discussed let alone delivered to our Rare Ranch Style Home FedEx next day.

No, these are not ordinary monkeys by any stretch. These are monkeys out to destroy my life, and why? I have never set eyes on these monkeys. And who would ever believe monkeys are capable of finding sexually explicit internet sites or ordering deviant paraphernalia made of latex on line. Monkeys who invade our ranch home, max out my credit card, endanger my wife’s figurines, hijack my car and leave my house reeking of beer and monkey urine.

I might need to see someone. Seek the help of professional who deals in this sort of thing. I suppose I could fill out a police report, but that seems hopeless and potentially embarrassing. No these are not the monkeys that delight children and cause grown-ups to laugh, enthralled by their seemingly harmless human imitations. And after much carrying on, and behavior I do not care to share, I find the four sitting quietly scratching their privates, rubbing their asses on the carpet and checking each other for lice.

Then, as the fog of disbelief lifts, and moments before my wife Peg is scheduled to arrive home, I am distracted by the rays of the setting sun pouring through our window. The homes that line our cul-de-sac are aglow in crimson. And when I glance back the thieving damn monkeys are gone, vanished as though it were all a bad nightmare.

It is then that I ponder how monkeys determine what is right or wrong? How do they know when to draw the line? Everyone has some good inside them. I have always believed that. Wouldn’t it hold true for monkeys just as it does for all of God’s creations? And I ask myself, “What is the right thing to with a pack of thieving monkeys?” It is not as simple as black and white, that much is clear. So I will go out on limb and say this, whatever your story- stick to your guns. Tell your wife, “Monkey see, monkey do.”

STORIE 57-58
© 2006 Leconte


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