As wildly as I swung around he wouldn't let loose, claws digging into my tits, atrocious breath blasting my ear. Apey fur scratching at the back of my neck as my mind bounced between the pain in my pec and the tickle at the rear of my ear.
He growled a little. Low in pitch but definitely there. His hot breath contaminated my brain. I became crazy insane, absolutely lost my marbles.
Sure I'd spent years in the institution. Many institutions to be exact. Many years. But I never thought it would come to this no matter how many people in how many institutions told me the truth. Not me. This was my battle, my uphill. Mine! Now I found myself confronted with four claws, four letters. Mine! And all the while I was stuck in my own little rut.
Get the fuck off my back!
Eventually, I took it to the streets. Not that I thought there was any particular help out there, I just figured that my furry foe might loosen up a little if he was among friends. The first thing I noticed was the stunning array of monkeys. Middle-age men dragging gorillas to board meetings, macaques at power lunches. Young women stooped under the weight of chimpanzees in front of shop windows. Even little kids with baby ringtails whispering directions in their ears. I wanted to cry out and let them all know the truth, but my chest hair caught fire the second the idea reached my brain. Damn telepathic primate!
I ducked into a building. After rubbing my nipples numb, I looked around to see that the entire bank was staring at me. There I was, on display. It was as if they all knew what I was thinking. All of them against me. I looked up to see the guard rushing forward, club in hand, huge sloth reared up and pointing in my direction. And that shriek! It didn't take me long to reach the street. No way I'm going to fuck around with an angry sloth.
Downtown at lunch hour felt like I was at the zoo. No, more like a fucked up sequel to Planet of the Apes. Monkeys riding personal slaves. I shuddered.
And the worst part was the fact that the fucking monkeys had us all fooled. We were completely content fulfilling their wishes, so long as we thought they were our own. It was unbearable. So many fools waking up every morning with that hot breath on their necks, claws stuck in their nipples, and all the while believing that this was the way it had to be. This is the way they wanted it to be. It made me ill.
Again with the claws!
It was too much. Glares all around me. Big, dark eyes protruding from beneath menacing orbital brows. No more.
Get the fuck off me!
"'Get the fuck off me!"' I scraped at the back of my neck thrashing my way into the middle of the street. Traffic stopped, horns blared. People shook their heads as they bustled by en route to point B. Tourists seized the photo op.
"'Get the fuck off me, you furry piece of shit!!!"'
As I spun myself around, the storefronts, billboards, sale posters all streaked into one beautiful landscape. I felt the claws heading for my eyes, my inertia pulling them wider. The fur tickled its way towards my forehead. So I spun faster, flung more violently. My whole body vibrated. Round and round again, until I toppled over backwards.
I stood up. A cool wind swept down my neck. I stopped, looked around in circles.
Was I really free?
As my lips went to smile I heard a voice in the back of my head.
What about the rest?
The glares in my direction didn't give me much confidence. And the hisses only lent a soundtrack to my fear. I had to find somewhere safe.
But they were everywhere.
I finally ducked into a restaurant. I'm still not sure why I sat down. It wasn't like I was going to have lunch. I suppose it had something to do with the tall dividers between the booths. At first, I couldn't see anyone, and they couldn't see me. But once the waiter came to my table, my cover was blown. Stupid bastard. That marmoset started to point, bobbing up and down in time with his frantic screams.
A crowd gathered next to my booth. All these people standing there staring at this poor, sweaty man, and all the while these monkeys are going ape shit. Right there on their shoulders.
I didn't need to understand their shriek-talk to know that it was of no benefit to me. So I bolted. I rammed my way through the crowd, and as I rounded the corner, I glanced back and noticed that I was being followed. Those fucking monkeys.
I knew that if I stuck to the streets for too long, the conspiracy would have its way. After all, I was the only free one out there, and I had no way of knowing what those fuckers were shrieking behind me. My only chance was to find my old foe or lose the followers.
Though I've never been much of a runner, I found myself rather speedy. Surprising until it dawned on me that no matter how accustomed you are to carrying a monkey on your back it slows your step. So my next plan was to run these bastards ragged. Judging from the noise behind me, there were only two of them. It took three blocks for the orangutan to shriek off into silence. But that howler was determined to let me know it hadn't given up.
In a panic, I rounded the corner and found myself in Times Square. It was getting to be that time -- the throng of teenage gawkers had already assembled outside TRL. A sea of them waving homemade signs and posters. I laughed as I dashed into their midst. Didn't they know the cameras wouldn't be on for another thirty minutes? Then I looked at the monkeys, whooping and jumping up and down like the kids. It was probably the only thing that saved me.
Why don't they just enjoy the ride?
And then it hit me. Famous monkeys?!
The real question was whether the monkey made the man, or vice versa.
On my way back to my apartment, I happened upon traffic and nervously awaited the go ahead. As I kept a sideways eye on the two red asses next to me, I noticed the father and son shaking their fists. The father's sunken face reminded me of failure.
"'Dad! I told you, I'm gay and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it!"'
He looked at me with the energy of a light bulb, and next thing I knew my lips were smushed against his and I heard an old man die inside.
Barely audible over the shrieking baboons.
Benjamin Mitchell-Yellin is twenty-two years old and comes from Ann Arbor, Michigan. He currently lives in Mie-ken, Japan where he works as an English teacher. When he was six years old, he had a theory that people turned into goblins when no one was looking. He spent a lot of time trying to peer silently around corners.
© 2003 Benjamin Mitchell-Yellin.
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