When I was a kid there was a Super Walmart type of store in my hometown called “Shopper’s City” (yeah I know, say it 10 times fast). They had a pet section in the back of the store and I was always overly excited to go there because they had a little monkey.
Anyone that knows me knows that I’ve always been fascinated by monkeys. I begged my parents for a pet monkey my entire childhood, but the stock reply was always the same, “They’re too wild, they’re not supposed to be pets, they stink, they throw shit, and they’ll scratch your face off!”
One Christmas my dad got me a very life-like stuffed monkey with real glass eyes that looked real. The best part was that his tail was attached to its head and you could ask it any yes or no question and get a head nod, and believe me, I asked everyone every yes or no question I could think of. I still have it and still ask it questions. It’s my furry magic eight ball.
Sad to say, nobody would buy the real live Shopper’s City monkey because he was too wild (my dad was right). The sign on his cage warned, “DO NOT PUT YOUR FINGERS IN THE CAGE. PLEASE DON’T TEASE THE MONKEY!” I, for one, never hurled insults (or poo) at him, but I witnessed some that did tease him and I felt that sinking ache of pity for him as I put myself in his place, trapped and away from anything familiar being mocked by ugly, hairless creatures. I would’ve catapulted poo too if was him (or is it ‘if I were he? ‘). I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d instigated some kind of digital maiming either, but this was back before law suits were all the rage and somehow he hadn’t been convicted of whatever discrepancy that had taken place, even if he was on a kind of death row.
Whatever the case, it didn’t matter to me that this little monkey was branded a wild bastard, I liked him anyway. I’d sometimes stand there and watch him the whole time my mom shopped and I’d still protest when she’d come to get me to go home. The more time I spent observing that monkey the more fascinated I became, and in a way I think he kind of got used to me. He never threw anything at me, or screeched at me when I got too close to the cage. No, I didn’t put my fingers in the cage, but once his paw was grasping the bar and I gently touched it just for a second and he made eye contact with me just before he pulled his paw away and jumped back to his nervous perch. I often imagined that he knew and remembered me and was maybe even a little glad to see me. Yeah I know, “Is that a banana in your fur or are you just glad to see me…”
Speaking of phallus-shaped objects, this monkey had an odd habit – well, odd to me, I was just a kid remember – of grabbing his own personal pink banana and pulling it so violently that it appeared to me that he was trying to rip it right off of his body. Something like spit would dribble out of the end of the tiny pink limb and sometimes he’d take whatever that was and either eat it or whip it to the bottom of his cage. He repeated this procedure over and over again, and due to my naiveté I had no idea what he was doing and as ever, I was curious (not Curious George and the man and the yellow hat, though I’d read every one of those books and the third limb was never mentioned).
I decided to ask my mom about this strange behavior and finally talked her into watching the monkey (as long as she didn’t tease him). She did, and afterwards I asked her what he was doing and “what was that white stuff coming out of that little leg in the middle?” She calmly replied, “I think he has an infection. He’s sick.” She grabbed my hand and we walked toward the doors, all the while I was looking back longingly at my poor little sick monkey. If only I could’ve brought him home with me and nursed him back to life (I know, it sounds like the premise for some kind of bestiality-based porn movie, but I was just a kid!).
I continued to visit my sick monkey and he never got better. The last times I saw him there were a couple of kids that teased him just a little too much, he had a monkey fit, screeched, and whipped the white substance he had in his hand at one of his antagonists. Whenever I watch the scene from “Silence Of The Lambs” where Clarice is in the high security prison meeting Hannibal for the first time and the inmate throws his “monkey pus” at her I think of my little sick monkey. Had I known that the “pus hurling” incident was going to be the last time I’d see my monkey I would’ve said a teary goodbye. I probably would’ve whiningly begged my mom one more time if we could buy him.
I’ve thought about that monkey a lot over the years, it’s often not a pleasant thought. I imagine his sad life ended tragically, I know now that he should have never been caught, caged, or subjected to teasing in the first place. After all, he wasn’t a criminal, he merely had an “infection”and was doing what monkeys do. However, I did learn a valuable lesson that I’ve referred to again and again throughout my life, whatever you do, don’t tease the monkey.
