Day Adventure with Monkey
Jack woke to a headache that morning and to a feeling, which grew by the moment that the day promised disaster. He felt it, as if crawling down his spine as he dressed and saw it shine dull and limp through his parted blinds. He looked into the street, part of which lay hidden inside dense fog and wondered whether he should pass on his weekly trip about town. He shook his head in displeasure and closed the blinds. He walked to the bathroom, his legs wobble and stiff below him, hoping to chase his mood with a bath, but as he let the water run, steam filling the stale bathroom air, he knew it to be a futile effort. He rubbed his face with a cloth, in quick hard strokes and shut off the water. He decided against the bath, leaving the water and the tub and his bath for later.
He grabbed his backpack, prepared the previous night as per usual; the contents fresh in his mind: one notebook, three pens, a copy of The Metamorphosis, dutifully well worn, marked by dirt and sweat, and a half pack of cigarettes, one of which he lit as he closed the door behind him. He made his way down the stairs, his legs still stiff from sleep and long hours at work the previous day, and thought to himself just as he emerged from the entryway into the cool mist, “I should have stayed in bed.”
He shook his head, again and not for the last time that day, as he walked the length of the driveway and disappeared into the fog.
“Crossing guard, check. Construction workers, check. Will they ever finish remodeling that bar?” He said to himself as he walked, not in any apparent hurry towards the bus stop. He turned his head and watched a car appear out of the fog and glide past him, the thought that he would not see the bus coming occurred to him. He stood for a moment staring into the fog and made a decision about buying cigarettes at that moment or to wait until he arrived downtown.
“Will the bus be early?” He asked himself.
He answered the question and stepped from the curb, making his way towards the store. He kept an eye out for the 56, but he knew his decision to be final. He walked inside the store and without a further thought on the matter took his place in line.
“What will I work on today?” He mumbled to himself. He fingered the change in his pocket, impatient, struggling to grasp hold of a thought, which amounted to pulling a thread, the correct thread from a piece of cloth. The thought ran from him, laughing, laughing and laughing.
“Can I help you sir?”
He looked up to see the clerk, a short fat woman with thinning hair forcing a smile at him through chubby red cheeks.
“Sorry.” He said. He paid for the cigarettes and left the store.
He walked into the fog, which seemed to grow thicker by the moment, with a smile upon his face as he saw a lady waiting, huddled out of the mist under the stop. At that very moment he heard the bus, not yet visible, coming loud and quick towards him. His legs moved as his lips formed into a circle.
“Damn.” He said as he leapt from the curb into the street. The bus emerged from the fog and for a moment, he ran parallel, each second losing ground, his lungs protesting the sudden demand for oxygen. He looked up and with confusion on his face, came to a halt, right there in the middle of the street.
“Did I really see that?” He said, ignoring or maybe not hearing the car horn blaring as its driver waited for him to move.
“Did I just see a monkey on the 56 bus?”
He arrived downtown some fifteen minutes later, out of breathe and the beginnings of a foul mood creeping over him. He made his way through the crowd of the plaza and sat in front of Post 25, in need of rest and a moment to think. He looked around at those waiting, those emerging from buses and exhaled deep the anxiety he felt, the light mist falling steady and quiet over his eyes.
“Today feels wrong.” He said. He closed his eyes and once again tried to catch runaway thoughts, ones which always seemed to escape his grasp. He saw for a moment an image, one of a woman he once knew, talking, but he could not hear the words, could not see to whom she spoke. The image slipped away into the pool, into the deep, gone to join all the other lost scraps, scenes, bits of ideas. His mind centered upon the routine of the day. He saw all those things; lunch with the hot dog man, and hour or two writing at the arcade, a visit to the bookstore and ending at the bar, where he rewarded himself with a pint, and smiled. The routine provided comfort.
He began to walk, passing through the plaza once more, without a glance at the financial buildings to his left side, and up to the traffic light. The arcade lay to his left and the spot the hot dog vender set up his cart lay to the right. He watched traffic crawl through the intersection, impatient for an opening, the beginnings of hunger passing over him. The light turned red and he crossed, almost at a run to the other side, rounding the corner to a familiar sight: the silver gray metal of Bob’s cart, shielded from the elements by a large dotted umbrella. His spirits rose as he approached, the routine set to begin taking shape, not disturbed by missing the 56, and that damned business with the monkey.
“Hey Jack, you’re a little late today.” Bob said as he neared the stand.
“I missed the 56.” Jack said, laying his hand on one of the wheels.
“The busses are never on schedule.” Bob said.
“Tell me about it.” Jack said. He reached into his pocket, a reassurance to feel the crisp dryness of folded money against his hand, for not matter how careful he seemed to be, he never lost his paranoia of forgetting lunch money at school all those years earlier.
“What will it be today, Jack?”
“I’ll take two with mustard and a soda.”
“Coming right up.” Bob busied himself with Jack’s order. Jack watched him for a moment, watching a craftsman, always surprised at the pleasure Bob seemed to take in his work, deft and sure and meticulous. First the bun, placed on a piece of foil, opened with tongs; then another set of tongs to place the hot dog inside, followed by a swipe of mustard. Bob wrapped the two with another piece of foil, gentle as to not rub off the mustard, and place both inside a paper bag.
“How is business today?” Jack asked.
“Oh, the usual I guess, except for the monkey.” Bob said. He betrayed not a bit of surprise or shock in his voice, not the slightest sign that what he said might be unusual.
“A monkey?” Jack asked, suddenly not feeling well.
“Sure. About ten minutes ago. Bought two dogs with mustard. Left me a nice tip too if I may say so.”
“Really.” Jack said. He felt the blood drain out of his face.
“Sure thing.”
Jack turned and walked towards the arcade. His mind raced, but he could not begin to say what he felt. “That damned monkey again.” He thought over and over. He walked without looking across the intersection, not a care for oncoming traffic, lost in his thoughts.
He stood, the stairs dark, beckoning to his right, and let the noises of the street wash over him for a moment before he climbed the stairs. He placed a foot on the first stair and hesitated, fillied with a feeling he could not explain, and as he stood there holding his warm paper bag, he knew. He knew but did not want to admit to himself what he knew to be true, not even at he rounded the corner, bringing into the view the balcony he knew so well. He stepped out onto the balcony to see the monkey, looking up at him, traces of mustard on its mouth.
Jack stood silent, realizing at once that the monkey sat in his usual seat and wondered to himself, “Can this be a coincidence?” He shook his head, knowing. Had he not known after the business with the bus and with Bob? Had he not known the very moment he woke that morning with an inexplicable feeling of dread? He walked to the other side of the balcony, away from the monkey. He sat down, not in his usual seat he reminded himself, all the while watching the small animal sitting in the spot he called his own for a year.
He unwrapped his lunch, still watching; seeing black fur surrounding tan face, eyes large, furtive and black, the mouth still chewing upon lunch, small human like hands scratching a spot behind large ears. The eyes bothered Jack, every few moments locking with his own, blank and empty eyes.
“What?” Jack said.
Silence. The monkey kept scratching.
“You’re sitting in my seat, ruining my day. You should at least have something to say for yourself.”
Further silence, the only response the honking of horns from the street below, the squeal of brakes.
‘Say something.” Jack felt anger rising, hot and fast over his face. He finished his lunch and threw the remains, brown bag and foil wrappers, into his backpack. He rose, not knowing or thinking what to do, but once on his feet, he ran, with loud slapping steps, towards the monkey. The monkey jumped up and over the balcony; onto the street below before he covered half the distance between them. He stood for a moment in silence, not seeing the young woman who watched him from the stairway.
“Who are you talking to?” She asked.
He looked at her, confused. She looked young, hair bleached blonde and cascading over her shoulders, her blue eyes gazing up at him in awe.
“Why, I was speaking with that damn monkey.” He said, looking at the place the monkey jumped, nimble and sure, from the balcony.
“What monkey?” She asked.
His mind spun and he pushed by her, ran down the stairs and out into the street. He fought to settle himself, mumbling obscenities under his breath as he walked on, without realizing, towards the bookstore.
“This can’t be happening.” He said to himself, over and over again, the entire walk, falling silent as he arrived upon the corner, the bookstore to his left, the bar straight in front of him.
“Decisions.” He said. He thought to himself, all the while scratching his head, whether to visit the bookstore first or to buy himself a pint.
“What will the monkey do?”
He looked up at the bookstore, but saw nothing. He made a guess and went into the bar.
Once inside, he saw no sign of the monkey. He smiled as he sat; knowing he’d bested the beast.
“Just change your routine a small amount, do not worry.” He said to himself.
He ordered a pint and for a while, settled into thoughts that did not include the monkey.
He left the bar in good spirits, happy with himself. ‘No monkey can ruin my day.” He said as he opened the door, which led to a flight of stairs, which in turn led to the bookstore. He bounded up the stairs two at a time. He entered the store, placed his backpack with the cashier as required, and at once spotted a volume he found to his liking. He approached and took the book, a complete volume of Kafka’s short stories, from the shelf. The volume, a well-worn hardcover, felt good in his hands, firm and sure.
“Look at what we have here.” He said. He set the book back on the shelf. “I’ll get that before I leave.”
He walked down the aisle, rounding the corner and went into the bathroom.
“I’ll buy that book, and then I’ll take a trolley over to east side. Maybe I’ll get a coffee or cappuccino.”
He left the bathroom relieved, always preferring to have a plan set, and his day on a definite course. He rounded the corner to see the monkey, standing in the spot he stood a few moments before, holding the same said volume of Kafka in his paws. The monkey looked at him, teeth showing, and laughed. The monkey, with the volume in his grasp, jumped and scratched and laughed, high pitched shrieking laughter.
“No!” Jack yelled. No longer able to brook the monkey’s taunts, he lunged at him. The two rolled on the floor, wrestling for the volume, books and shelves falling in their wake.
“Give me the book.” He screamed, feeling the fur between his fingers.
(“Sir!”)
“What do you want with it? Haven’t you done enough today?” Jack yelled his grip on the book slipping.
(“Sir!”)
“Why?” He yelled.
(“Sir!”)
SIR!
Jack stopped. He looked up and saw the clerk, her eyes brown and beady looking down upon him. He turned his head, seeing the store in shambles, bookcases overturned, pages ripped from volumes strewn about the aisle. In his hands he felt the same sure firm solidity of Kafka and around him he saw nothing of the monkey amongst the ruins.
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