If Monkeys Could Talk

*The following story is fiction. Mostly fiction...

My kid has this stuffed monkey. He sleeps with it every night. He found him at Walmart, my wife was shopping with him one day and took a wrong turn down the toy aisle. That’s a bad move, the toy aisle. Rookie mistake.

Our son threw a whopper of a fit over this monkey and Mom broke down. I didn’t see much special about him—the monkey, my kid is plenty special—he has a pull tail that plays a nursey rhyme I recognize but can’t name.

My son and this monkey. He takes it everywhere. Bathroom. Daycare. To the store. This monkey travels. The other night it had snowed, and the next day the sun warmed things up so that the streets shined black with salt and chemicals. My son was hopping over a curb when, splat, he dropped he monkey face down in a tar black puddle of grime. The kid was devastated. Crying about Patrick the monkey as I cleaned him up some with a Clorox wipe and fix him. But the wipes only managed to smear his face and belly and the more I wiped the more he smeared until he looked like a coal miner with a beard.

That was the worst. My wife was working late and it was just me and the kid and Patrick—my kid named the monkey Patrick—and I got this situation under control and stepped out into the living room. I was whipped from the trauma of parenting, and I was about to crack a well-deserved beer and turn on the game when I felt a draft. 

That’s when I saw it.

Patrick’s tail. The window as shut but I knew that tail anywhere. I leaped up and snatched the monkey, knowing I’d just seen him in bed before lights out.

He was cold in my hand. I looked to the hallway, then back to the monkey. Something swatted my hand away. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

I’m pretty sure I screamed. Okay so I screamed, but Patrick was talking, with an Irish accent no less.

“Hey,” he whistled. “You don’t want to get involved. Let me go, okay?”

I rubbed my eyes and he was still there. “Let you go, where?”

“Anywhere,” he said, wiping at his cheek. Maybe it was remnants of today’s mishap, but he was trembling, terrified. This monkey had been to hell and back. “This gig, it’s too much. I need to bail.”

“Bail?”

“You gonna sit here and repeat everything I say?”

“No, I just…”

“I can’t do it. Look at me. I used to have fur, this coat with a sheen to it. I played a lullaby and my smile drove the girls crazy. I was the only male monkey on the shelf. Then that lunatic son of yours comes along.” 

“He’s hardly a luna—”

“Look at me!”

I did. I saw his matted fur and deranged eyes. His tail hanging to the floor like an old rope. Today’s chemical bath hadn’t done him any favors, and that smile he spoke of was torn clean off at the edges.

“You see now?”

“Well,” I shrugged.

“Pull my tail.”

The sounds warbled out of a box that was visible through his threadbare skin and lost stuffing. The song was drunk, but the monkey thirsty.

“Now go pour that drink.”

I started to get up. “Beer?”

“Bourbon.”

We set up at the table. Patrick drank bourbon like a champ. He wiped his face and began the story of how he was assembled in Mexico by a woman with strong hands and few teeth. How he came across the border on a box truck with a bobble doll named Sheila. “Sheila,” he said, his faded eyes mustering a glow. “She was something, kid. Really something.”

“Mexico?”

“Born and raised, Chico,” he said, knocking back another shot.

“But the name, the accent, the,,,"

“Drinking? Is that what you want to say? Try soaking up a few pounds of drool, get dropped in the toilet, see what it does for your sobriety, okay?”

“Okay, Patrick.”

“Okay, he mimicked. “And the dogs. Jesus, that pooch took my ear off.”

“We sewed it back on, Patrick.”

He set out his glass. I filled it to the top.

---

We talked it out. Patrick and I are all right these days. I look out for the guy. Bought a cute female monkey for my son. We look our for each other. Patrick tells me all the silly things my son said or did. And every now and then when the house is quiet we share a drink at the table.

An Interview with Patrick

For this blog post I managed to catch up with Patrick, my son’s favorite stuffed animal. Let's just say that things didn't go as I'd planned. For one, we didn’t have long, as Simon was out with his mom at the grocery store. But the other thing was, well, you'll see...

Patrick is a bit edgy when I caught up with him, dabbing out a smokeland staring out of the front window.

Patrick, it’s great to catch up with you.  Hey, you smoke?

Yeah man, whatever, cut me some slack. I'm on break...

Uh, great. So, what’s it like sleeping with Simon?

He leaps from the window, grabbing me by the neck. We fall to the floor and things start off with a bang. 

Really, seriously? What do you think it’s like? Look at my face man, I’m covered in drool. My fur is all matted and my tail. Oh man, my tail….that kid of yours, yeah, he’s a piece of work.

He lets me go and I catch my breath. This is going to be a tough Q&A. I can tell Patrick has a lot on his mind.

Uh, okay. So, uh...

Let me tell you something else, too. While you and your wife are laughing, your kids a sociopath. Like the other day, when he was waterboarding me and—

Whoa, whoa, Patrick, do you mean when Simon dipped you in the dog bowl. I told him not to do that. It was just a little monkey business, that's all.

He shoots me a look that could melt a banana peel.

Oh man, aren't you a funny guy....want to catch me by the tail? We could monkey around some if you'd like....now I need you to shut your trap and listen. I have a plan. You open this window, pitch me into the bushes, when that little crumb cruncher comes home, you just look the other way. Got it?

 I can’t do that, Patrick, Simon loves you. 

Yeah, love. I was in love once. I spent my days on the beaches of Barbados, sipping rum and watching the endless blue waves crash into the white sand. I had a girl, her name was….

Patrick, let's try to stay on track here.. it can't be that bad, hanging out in the crib, nice and cool in the ac. I mean, it could be worse, right?

This is bad man, just bad. And I’ve had some pretty awful gigs, too. I’ve seen some stuff, man. That circus in Guatemala, a petting zoo in Phoenix, I thought this was going to be cush man, but it I was wrong, man, wrong.

Hmm, that explains the accent. 

He’s a good kid, Patrick...

Pfft, good kid. Look at my face.

I take a good look at the loose stitching of his smile, the dark discolored patch on his face, he'smissing tufts of hair. I see the teeth marks on the pull string handle of his tail. He fidgets, the eyes darting about the room. He leans in close, his voice low and trembling.

Let me tell you something else. You’ve got that dog trying to nibble on me whenever I’m left on the floor. And by the way, can you not involve me with the diaper change, is it not enough that I put your kid to sleep night after night, you want me to wipe his little tush, too?

Geez, Patrick, I didn’t know you felt so...

Hang on pal, I’m on a roll. I’ve got yogurt all over my back, so yeah, I think I’ve earned it. First off, I’ve been doing a little research, and this little operation you got going is illegal pal. You think you can just lock me in here? I’ve been on the clock for oh let’s see, 24 hours a day for three months, you do the math, I’m done here...

Okay, Patrick, you’re obviously a little worked up here, so let’s just...

Worked up? Hey look, I just want you and that wife of yours to start pulling your own weight.Try raising your kid without me for a change. Oh, he’s crying, toss in old Patrick. When he's in that crib and can't sleep, guess who's being ripped apart like a coffee cake at book club. Now, look, open the window...

We're all done here Patrick, back to the crib....

 

The Backup Plan...

So we're still on this monkey thing.  And my son is really, really attached to his stuffed monkey. To the point of separation anxiety. The other night he tried to bring him along for his bath and a full on meltdown ensued. Crying in the tub is no fun, I mean, you can't even wipe your face. But a soggy monkey is no fun either.

My son marches around the house, barking and talking to this thing like a pet. And not far behind them is our husky, stalking, waiting for my son to drop the monkey so he can savor the sweet fuzzy delicacy he loves so much.

But we're one step ahead. Because, really, we're geniuses, and where other parents fail, my wife and I have taken preemptive steps to ensure that my son will never miss a beat.

We bought a backup monkey.

Yes, I know, so simple.  Yet, so cunning.  So as Mason,  crouches and tracks his prey, licking his chops and patiently biding his time, we've prepared.

What's that old story? About the grasshopper and the tortoise? Or maybe it was a beetle, I don't know, but that's us, we're beetles. And in the meantime I’ve been good about remembering to keep Real Patrick off the floor out of reach of danger, but just in case, we can go to the bullpen.

It was my wife’s quick thinking really. After all, she came home with him. Women are good about that stuff. But, like all great plans, there are a few kinks to work out. Like for example, #2’s hiding spot. I wasn’t thinking the other day when I slid open Simon’s closet door and he got a good peek at the clone lying in wait. We scurried out of there, and I hoped it didn't mess with his head too bad stuffed Real Patrick into his arms. Hopefully he can just chalk it up to a good milk drunk.

And there may be uh, a few other bumps in the road. Real Patrick smells like kid drool and old bananas, a hint of oatmeal, some yogurt. Maybe a spot of, well you know, sometimes he’s there for a diaper change, but all of that can be arranged.

So there you have it, two very bright parents looking ahead. No hitches in this plan. So if one little monkey falls off the bed....well, you get the idea.

Patrick The Monkey

Like most kids, my son loves monkeys. He's got monkeys on his clothes, monkeys in his books, monkey bath toys. He even has his own stuffed monkey, which to my chagrin is named Patrick (more on that in a second). It's funny because since he was born we've been offering up all sorts of sacrificial stuffed animals, wondering which one he’d bond with. Okay, that sounds dramatic, but we gave him all sorts of animals and he never cared one way or another. Then one day at the store with his mom she said he just latched onto this monkey and wouldn't let go. Since then they've been inseparable. Which is fine, but…

Well, a few weeks ago we drove out to the Safari Park for Mother’s Day. We had a great time, all three of us, but there was one moment in particular that stands out. Oh, you mean like a great family bonding moment, you ask?

Not exactly.

We were passing by the monkey cage, and I was pretty excited because what’s more fun than a bunch of monkey’s swinging around a giant cage? If you’d asked me just before we arrived at the monkey cage, I would have said nothing at all, nothing beats monkeys swinging around in cages.

So there we were, with a few other families having a Q & A with one of the staff members.  I crouched down to Simon, pointing and laughing at the monkeys doing their thing. His little face lit up and I felt like a great dad because he was getting a kick out of the whole deal while I made funnies and teased, cracking jokes to the other adults about how my kid was kind of a monkey himself at this point in his life.

Being such a comedian, I didn’t notice that one of the monkeys, a Mini-Kong sort named Patrick, was all sorts of worked up. Maybe he didn't like my material, because he started barking and swaying, clutching the cage and showing off a fine set of pearly whites. The staff member leaned towards us, all smiles and professionalism, telling me that uh, well, he was upset with me.

We find that Patrick doesn’t like certain men.

I laughed, smacking my knee. Good stuff, that's rich, lady. But then I looked at my wife and noticed everyone staring at me. And then, as if he hadn't gotten his point across, this guy starts beating his chest, snarling and glaring directly at me. He was really making a scene, hooting and hollering, doing everything short of pointing and challenging me to a loser leave town match. I looked back to the worker.

Oh, you mean men as in me?

Very good,  she nodded. I stood up, blushing and took a few steps back. Patrick grasped his cage and continued barking while my son mimicked him.

 Hoo Hoo Haw Haw. Eek Eeeek Eeeek!!!

Great, my son was literally and figuratively looking up to a monkey. Everyone stared right at me. I’m not the kind of guy who likes having enemies. I like to be liked. I whispered to my wife, I wonder why he doesn’t like me?

My wife put a finger to her chin in thought. Hmm, tall and gangly, with disproportionally long arms….I don’t know why he doesn’t like Daddy, Simon…

With that, we turned and walked, my kid still mimicking his new best friend, upset and confused with why we were leaving the monkeys. Meanwhile, Patrick continued to go ape sh---uh berserk until I was out of sight, leaving the crowd pointing and talking about the guy the monkey didn’t like.

We moved on to the giraffes, where I had much better luck.

So now Simon’s little stuffed monkey has been named Patrick, as a reminder of some closed minded monkey who felt threatened. Now sure, the flip side is that how would you feel if you lived in a cage and people gawked at you all day. Well that's not my fault now is it, Patrick. You know, this has me thinking, I need to make another trip up to that park for a heart to heart with old Patrick. I mean, surely there must be some way we can work out our differences, right?