KARL MARX: A REFUTATION

KARL MARX:  A REFUTATION                                            

            The rumor that Paul, the general manager, hired a monkey to be a server persisted all week.  Not one employee could verify the fact or had seen a monkey in the restaurant of late.  Paul deflected questions and merely stated, “Karl starts on Friday.”  Paul refused to give further details, which led to much speculation.  Some wondered if Paul hired a real life monkey or indeed made some sort of statement about the general quality of new hires in recent months.

            Scott arrived early for his shift that Friday night, not wanting to miss the arrival of the monkey, Karl.  He placed his bag on the employee bench and went to make himself a coffee.  A few coworkers stood round the coffee station chatting and enjoying the free moments before the dinner rush.  In the group he saw Kim, one of his least favorites, talking as usual, and the others listening with less than perfect attention.

            “I wonder if Karl has worked in a restaurant before now.”  Kim said.  Scott remained silent and eyed her, watching as she ran her fingers through her hair, thick and blonde.

            “A monkey in a restaurant?”  Asked another.  Scott smiled at the brunette, his favorite female co-worker.  She smiled back at him, full lips and pretty brown eyes.  He reached out his hand and squeezed her arm, running his fingers over her tanned smooth skin.

            “I think it has something to do with quotas.” Scott said, a few laughs from the workers, who as a whole seemed rather nervous.

            “I don’t want to work with a monkey.” Kim said, shaking her hair back and forth, in obvious displeasure.  Murmurs of agreement from the workers were heard.

            “Why not?”  A voice said.

            “Huh?”  Kim responded, turning to answer.

            A monkey stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a head taller than the countertop, which is to say, a little over three feet in height.  He waited for a response, one leg tapping on the tile floor, his arms behind his back, the red of the uniform a striking contrast to his black fur and brown ears.  Scott thought him to be the ugliest monkey he had ever laid eyes on, with his eyes set too far into his skull, which gave him a sinister look when he smiled.

            “I’ve never worked with a monkey.” Kim managed to say.

            “Sure you have.” Karl said, winking at her, to the delight of the workers, smiles all around. 

            “I’m Kim.”  She extended her hand towards the monkey.”

            “Call me Karl, Karl Marx.”

            Scott blinked and looked around, but nobody seemed to think strange of a monkey being named Marx.  He wondered if they knew that Karl Marx wrote the communist manifesto.  He walked away, coffee in hand as his co-workers questioned Karl.  He heard laughter and looked in time to see the monkey pinch Kim on her backside.  Scott shook his head in dismay and walked towards the side door, which gave a view of the highway.  He looked out, watching the cars passing and honking and entering the parking lot.  He sipped his coffee in silence for a few minutes, the sounds of laughter from his co-workers mixing with the sounds of traffic coming through the open windows.

            He felt someone next to him.  He turned and saw Melissa, close to him, her scent pleasing and inviting.

            “It’s odd.”  She said.

            “What’s that?”  Scott asked her.  He put his arms around her, pulling her against him.

            “Karl is a writer.”

            Scott thought for a moment.  He rested his cheek against her forehead and sighed.  His stomach felt tight and full of nerves.

            “What does he write?”  Scott asked.

            “He said he wrote a fantasy novel.”

            Scott laughed and kissed her cheek, feeling better.

            “What can one expect from a monkey?”  He asked, laughing.

            Scott saw little of Karl during the monkey’s first week of employment.  The two shifts he worked with him, Karl was surrounded by the female workers, who generally thought highly of him.  Karl basked in the glow of his popularity and indeed, the fact that he liked to party after his evening shifts made him an instant success.  Scott heard from Kim that she spent a rather entertaining evening with him outside work.

            “What do you mean entertaining?”  Scott asked her.

            “He is just a funny monkey, that’s all.”  She answered, secrets hidden in her smile as she played with her hair.

            Scott wanted to talk with Karl himself, but didn’t get that chance until a week later, on a Monday afternoon.  He sat at a table near the kitchen, eating a hamburger before his evening shift, when Karl walked in the front door.  None of the other servers had arrived yet and as there was nobody else to talk with, Karl made his way over to Scott.  He hopped into the booth across from him and took a French fry off of Scott’s plate.

            Scott stared at him, not amused.  Karl smiled as he chewed and took yet another French fry.

            “It’s okay, I wasn’t eating those.”  Scott said, not attempting to hide the contempt in his voice.

            “You don’t like me, do you?”  Karl asked him.

            Scott didn’t answer and grabbed the newspaper off the seat.  He began to read, hoping Karl might just leave him in peace to eat his meal.

            “I hear you are a writer.” Karl said.

            Scott put down the paper and folded his hands across his lap. 

            “Yes, I am.”  He said.

            “I wrote a novel myself.”  Karl said.

            “Congratulations.”

            Karl either didn’t notice the tone or chose to ignore it, for he thanked Scott.

            “I want to be a bestseller one day, like Stephen King.  Although, I don’t write horror, I write fantasy.”

            “Same difference.”  Scott replied.

            “Really?  What type of books do you write?”  Karl asked, smiling once again.

            Scott sighed and did not answer.  “Do I have to get into this discussion with yet another writer?” he whispered to himself.

            “Well?”  Karl asked.

            “I write literary fiction.”  He answered.

            Karl whistled and clapped his hands together in excitement.

            “You are an elitist.”  Karl said, laughing.

            “I write for myself, without worrying about the issue of selling books.”  Scott said, annoyed.

            “An elitist.”  Karl repeated.

            “As you wish.”  Scott said.

            “Don’t you want to make money?”  Karl asked him.

            “I want to write what I feel in my heart.  If that sells, so be it, but money isn’t why I write.”

            “Liar!”  Karl exclaimed, pointing his finger.

            “It isn’t always about the money.” 

            “Yes, it is always about the money.  All writers want to be on the best sellers list, make a load of money; some are just honest and admit it.”

            “I don’t care about money.”

            “Liar!”  Karl said again.

            Scott sighed once more and felt his anger rising.  He gripped his fingers together, tightly, his fingertips white, red from the pressure.

            “You are a capitalist pig.”  Scott said.

            “No, I am a monkey.”  Karl said, as he walked into the kitchen, laughing.

            Scott kept to himself that night, watching Karl flirt and joke and clown his way through the shift.  He remained the center of attention for the ladies and took liberties with this attention.  He watched at Karl groped nearly every female worker, and far from being reprimanded for such behavior, he seemed to be of great amusement.

            “This monkey does not work.”  Scott said to Tim, the shift manager.

            Tim shook his head in agreement and pointed at Karl, who, a towel in hand, was chasing females round the kitchen.  He caught Kim and whacked her on the backside with the towel, great fits of laughter from the workers.

            “He doesn’t have time.”  Tim said as he walked away, shutting himself in the office.

            Scott began setting a tray of food, putting the plates down with a bang.  He saw Karl rubbing his hands on Kris’s back, whose job it was to set food on trays, the monkey’s hands moving down and resting on her ass.

            “I have to set my own trays now so you two can have more time to grope each other, is that it?”  Scott said.

            “You’re just jealous.”  Karl said, sticking out his tongue.

            Scott carried his food out into the dining room, angry.  When he returned, he saw Karl pushing himself against Melissa.  Karl looked at him and laughed as his hands came to a rest on her shirt.  He squeezed Melissa’s breasts and jumped back, howling with laughter, his eyes remaining on Scott.

            “Hey!”  Melissa said.  She laughed and shrugged her shoulders.  Scott gnashed his teeth together and took a step towards Karl.

            “You’re disgusting.”  Scott said.

            “I don’t see her complaining.”  The monkey responded.  Scott threw up his hands and went towards the back for a smoke.  He sat down and lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag to settle his nerves.  He exhaled through his nose, slowly and took another drag.  He leaned his head on his hand and sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

            “Don’t let him get to you.”  He heard a voice say.  He looked up to see Dave, one of the cooks.

            “Hey, Dave.”

            Dave rubbed his hand on his shirt, which was soiled with food and grease and patted Scott on the shoulder.

            “The ones that count know.”  Dave said.

            “Thanks.”  Scott answered.

            Dave lit a cigarette and sat down beside him.

            “He is taunting me.”

            “When?”  Dave asked.

            “Just now, with Melissa.  I’m sure someone told him I have it bad for that girl.”

            Dave nodded and patted his shoulder again.

            “Don’t worry.  Melissa likes you.”

            Scott sighed and took a drag from his cigarette.  He pushed his cigarette around in the astray for a moment, making patterns with ash.

            “You should ask her on a date.”  Dave said.

            “Maybe.”  Scott answered.  He snubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and stood, fixing his apron before he returned to the front.  He heard the servers talking about their plans following the shift.

            “Are you going out tonight, Karl?”  Kris asked.  Scott looked at her; hair dark brown, which flowed over her shoulders, pale skin and thin lips and thought, ‘You can have the monkey.’

            “Count on it.”  Karl said.  He heard a cheer from the workers.

            “You can always count on Karl to party.”  Kim said as she twirled blonde hair between her fingers.

            Scott ignored them and began counting his money in silence.  They were making plans and he wished to be invited.  It had been a long time since he’d been invited to join the workers for drinks.

            “It’s all about the writing.”  He said to himself.  He looked at his money, sixty three dollars for himself after a tip for the bartender, and shook his head.

            “I can’t afford it anyway.”  He said.

            “Can’t afford what?”  Melissa asked.

            “A drink.”

            “Come on, you can afford to have one drink, it won’t kill you.”  She said, putting her hand on his shoulder.  He smiled and squeezed her hand with his own.

            “I have to write...” He began to say, but she interrupted him.

            “Nonsense.  You can’t say no to me.  You’re going out tonight and that’s all there is to it.”  She slapped his arm playfully as he pinched her side.

            “Bad boy.”  She said, smiling.  “Don’t pinch my fat.”

            “For the last time, you’re not fat.”  He answered.  “You beautiful and you know it.”

            She smiled and hugged him, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek.

            “I’ll see you there.”  She said.

            He squeezed her hand before walking towards the office.

            Scott stopped at his apartment to shave and shower, which is why most of his co-workers were already at the bar when he arrived.  He entered the front door and saw Kim, Kris and others talking in a group.  He waved hello to them, a greeting not returned, and continued on to where Dave and Melissa sat, Dave’s arm around her shoulders.

            “Scott!”  Dave extended his hand.

            “Dave.”  He said, sitting next to him.  He winked at Melissa as he signaled to the bartender.

            “The usual?”  The bartender asked.

            “You remember?”  Scott laughed.  “You are a credit to the profession.”

            Scott lit a cigarette and looked around the bar, which indeed was Friday night crowded.

            “I saved you a seat.” Dave said.  He clapped Scott on the back and lit a cigarette of his own.

            “Cheers.”  Scott raised he glass and gave Dave a nod.

            “It’s good to see you out again.” Melissa said.  He reached over Dave and squeezed her hand. 

            “I needed a break from writing.” 

            She looked at him and smiled; her brown eyes pretty and framed lightly with mascara, dark brown hair, almost black, on her forehead, which she brushed away with her fingers.  She leaned towards him and touched glasses, giving him a view of a black bra and beautiful tanned breasts.  His eyes met hers and he smiled again, warmth spreading in his stomach. 

            “I’m glad to be here.”  Scott said, as Kylie, Dave’s girl, walked in the front door.  Dave got off his stool and walked over to meet her, leaving him alone with Melissa.

            “Tell me something.”  She said, taking Dave’s stool.  She smelled like flowers and the touch of her arm against his made him feel dizzy.  He wanted to say many things:  how often he wrote about her, how often he imagined her naked, her skin, perfect and golden next to his own, but he said.

            “The novel isn’t going well.”

            “I see.”  She leaned back on the stool and watched him.  She seemed disappointed, but Scott, nerves in his stomach, concentrated more on his fingernails.  He picked at them, peeling away his cuticles.

            “I am writing about outcast man and how society attempts to squelch individuality and personal freedom.”

            “Sounds fun.”  She said.

            Scott looked down into his beer, his eyes narrowed.  He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth.  ‘Tell her you love her.’  He heard a voice say.  He spun his head round, but saw nothing.  He looked at her, a feeling of desperation settling over him.  He ran a hand over his hair and took a deep breath.  She remained quiet and watched him, her eyes intense, maybe a little angry.

            “What do you want out of life?”  He asked her.  She sipped at her drink, her eyes upon his.

            “I guess what everybody else wants, to be happy, secure, to have a nice family.” She said.  He nodded his head in understanding, but inside he wanted to ask what she meant by being happy.  ‘Don’t ask that, tell her you love her.’  He heard the voice say again.  He didn’t look this time and instead drank his beer.

            “What about you?”  She asked.

            “I want to be a published writer.”  He said.  He thought he’d captured it well with that statement and leaned back on his stool, crossing his arms.

            “That’s all?”  She asked.  She seemed confused and leaned towards him, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.

            “Nothing else will make me happy.”  He said.

            She shook her head in displeasure, but didn’t respond.  She looked across the bar, her fingers holding her glass tightly, at a loss for words.  At that moment Scott heard a cheer.

            “Karl!”  From the workers.

            He watched and saw the greetings, hugs, kisses, heard their laughter over the music.  Karl pushed through to the bar and looked at Scott.  With a grin spread wide over his monkey face, he called out to all around him.

            “Who wants a shot?” 

            A loud cheer from the workers.

            “I’ll take one.”  Melissa yelled, getting up to join the others.  At that moment, Dave took his seat once again, with Kylie at his side.  Without asking, Dave ordered shots from the bartender, which they drank off in silence.  Scott closed his eyes, but still heard the chorus of laughing from the workers.  He looked up to see Karl dancing on a table, kicking his furry legs high in the air.  Karl executed a back flip, sending a roar of approval through the bar.  The bartender rang the bell and pushed a shot towards the monkey.

            “On the house!”

            “He is nothing save a showboat.”  Scott said his anger palpable.

            “Agreed.”  Dave said, lighting a cigarette.

            “The damned monkey is a fantasy writer!”  Scott said, as if that statement explained it all.  He watched Karl, anger in his eyes.  He remained silent for a moment, watching and grinding his teeth.  He his hands over his hair and finished his beer.  Scott stood and put on his jacket, and took his keys from his pocket.

            “Are you leaving?”  Dave asked.

            “I can’t watch this.”  Scott said.  He saw Karl talking with Melissa and felt the desire to put his fingers around Karl’s neck.  Scott walked towards the door, ignoring Dave’s farewell. 

            Later that night, Scott lay awake, deep in thought.  He attempted to write in his journal, but failed.  After an hour of staring at blank white, lined with blue, the one sentence he wrote displeased him.

            ‘We must fight to retain our individuality in the face of attempts by society to homogenize its citizens into well behaved lemmings.’

            He stared at the ceiling, motionless, silent.  He resisted the urge to light a cigarette and continued to stare at the ceiling, making shaped of shadows cast by moonlight peaking at him through the blinds.  He closed his eyes, his thoughts centered on the monkey.

            “He is everything I am not.”  Scott said to himself, shocked at how thin his voice sounded.  He sighed and rolled onto his stomach, waiting for sleep.

            Weeks passed without change.  Karl remained popular, spending what seemed to be almost every night partying.  Scott grew more bitter and angry as time passed, separating himself from his co-workers.  His writing did not improve and his efforts weren’t helped by news that Karl’s agent might soon sell his novel, which after asking, Scott discovered to be the only work Karl had produced.

            Scott arrived at work for his Friday shift, almost two months after he met Karl, to find the workers filled with excitement.  He saw the ladies talking by the coffee station, in loud voices.  He heard Karl’s name and walked over to discover the news.

            “Karl gave his notice.”  Kim told him.

            “He’s quitting?”  He said to himself.  He felt a surge of joy and laughed the end of his relations with the monkey in sight.

            “Why?”  Scott asked.

            “Haven’t you heard?”  Kim said, looking confused, her fingers once more twirling thick blonde hair.

            Scott stared at her, his heart skipping, his palms sweating, suddenly.  From the bottom of his soul, he wanted to scream, but instead, he attempted to gather himself.

            “I haven’t worked the past couple of days, what is the news?”

            Kim clapped her hands together, as Karl often did, happy to share the news with him.

            “A publisher accepted Karl’s book.’

            Scott blinked, his knees feeling weak beneath him.

            “It can’t be true.  He finished that book less than six months ago.  He couldn’t have sold it this fast.”

            The room seemed to dim and Scott struggled to focus on Kim.  He heard the words, but it took him a few moments to understand.

            “He called to tell me.”  Kim said.  And at that moment, it all seemed to make sense to Scott.

            He leaned upon the counter for support.  The room spun under his feet and he felt cold, very cold.  The floor seemed closer, closer, until he felt his cheek pressed against the tile, which was cool and comfortable against his skin.

            At that moment, Karl entered the kitchen to a cheer from the workers.  Karl stood near the spot Scott lay prone on the floor, close enough to see the pink skin below his monkey fur, all the while the co-workers chanted

            Karl, Karl, Karl

            He heard their voice, which sounded distant, as if under water.  He struggled to raise himself, but lacked the strength; his arm fell useless at his side.  He looked up to see Melissa kiss Karl’s cheek and to see her lips form

            Congratulations

            Scott felt consciousness slipping, to the sounds of...

            Karl, Karl, Karl