Mister Monkey

by Francine Prose

  “Next time for sure,” says Ray.

  Two months ago Lauren moved into his condo, and they’ve been happy. In the mornings, Ray makes coffee, Lauren takes the subway to work, and Ray goes to his study, where he spends a few hours staring at the screen on which he types the words My Bronx, just as he used to all those years ago, when he got out of the service and the Veterans Administration sent him to college, where he took Astrid’s writing class because it seemed like four easy credits requiring no work. He was less qualified than the other students, the ambitious future writers, but he was Puerto Rican, a former Marine, and handsome, and when he appeared in the classroom that first day and caught Astrid’s eye, what passed between them was an early draft of the look he’d exchanged at the Mister Monkey party with Lauren.

  When at last the guy at the next table returns, Ray has to fight the impulse to put his hands over Lauren’s eyes. To show he’s not worried or competitive, he says good evening to the movie-star handsome young man, and Lauren smiles a little too brightly and says hi. Ray refuses to go there, to do that self-loathing Othello shit.

  Blessed Mario reappears.

  “Enjoy the show,” Ray tells Mario, too loud. He’s aware that he’s already said that, but now apparently he needs to make a point of his generosity. Apparently he needs to sound like a fucking idiot. Generous Ray. Certainly Lauren must notice. Mario’s already thanked him.

  “I will,” Mario says. “Thank you. So what will it be? The usual?”

  “Bring it on,” says Ray.

  Part of the tradition is that Ray lets Mario decide. The trust between them is such that it never crosses Ray’s mind that Mario might bring them a menu item that isn’t selling, or anything but the freshest and most delicious dishes.

  Tonight it’s a platter of clams oreganata and a dozen oysters.

  Ray loves to watch Lauren going after the last drop of oyster liquor, the last crusty morsel of oily, salty, garlicky bread crumbs. Only a fool would worry about the future when someone is doing that with a clam shell! Was it Astrid or Emer who took him to see Tom Jones, with its erotic dinner scene? Has Lauren seen it? Ray can’t risk asking. Most likely she wasn’t born when the film came out.

  Lauren signals with a slight sideways nod: check out the couple beside them. Ray tries to look without being too obvious. The woman seems unhappy; the guy telegraphs annoyance to anyone interested in picking up his signal. Meaning everyone, or so he thinks. Who wouldn’t be fascinated by every nuance of his shifting mood? Meanwhile he and the woman have run out of conversation; it’s a first date gone wrong. Ray can tell that Lauren is thinking the same thing, and he feels guilty for being glad that the young couple’s misery is making him and Lauren appreciate their own happiness even more.

  The couple start talking again, just when Ray and Lauren are devoting their undivided attention to the scallop and razor clam risotto that Mario has delivered.

  “Delicious,” says Lauren, licking her fingers.

  The young man has gotten louder, and now the words fucking Darwin pierce the companionable fog of wine and food into which Lauren and Ray have slipped.

  “Oh, please no,” whispers Lauren.

  Once more Ray knows what she’s thinking. It thrills him to realize that he and Lauren have been together long enough to free-associate to the same thing. The word Darwin reminds them of one of the many reasons why Ray so hates Mister Monkey the Musical.

  Maybe Ray had expected too much—expected anything—when Gavin Leaming, who’d had several Broadway hits, approached him about doing Mister Monkey as a musical. How could Ray have predicted that, six months into the process, Gavin would become a strict Creationist who believed that Charles Darwin was the spawn of Satan. Having accepted Jesus into his heart as his personal savior, Gavin told Ray that he thought of Mister Monkey as a Christian redemption story. The mercilessly cheerful songs, the hysterically upbeat lyrics have always reminded Ray of Godspell and Christian rock music. Ray had said as much at one rehearsal, but by then Gavin wasn’t listening to godless Ray, who saw it twice, maybe three times before he’d had enough. Even the kids in the audience had seemed mystified, or perhaps just stupefied with boredom.

  Ray hates the play. Those ludicrous songs and dances. “Monkey Tango.” That bullshit cell phone song. Gavin thought cell phones were cute. Ray thinks that if you want to talk about the workings of Satan, you should start with cell phones. It shocks him that people will still pay to see such a pointless piece of shit when they can read a book or stay home and watch the world end on their HD home theaters.

  What is the young couple talking about so excitedly? Fucking Darwin is all that Ray and Lauren hear, because the music has started up. An accordion and a tenor are serenading the customers. “Come Back to Sorrento” and “Funiculì, Funiculà” are the hazards of dining at Enzo’s. Fortunately, Enzo knows who likes the music and who doesn’t. Ray has never had to suffer through an embarrassing musical interlude. Except once when he and Emer were having one of their screaming fights. The musicians are Enzo’s second-line bouncers; when a table gets too loud, he sends over music, the food of love, on the house.

  The young woman beside them vaults out of her seat. As she squeezes past Ray and Lauren, her ass practically in their faces, she trips over Lauren’s backpack, tucked under the table. She actually kicks Lauren’s backpack.

  A spike of adrenaline zaps Ray. She can’t treat his girlfriend’s stuff like that. But Lauren, saint of decency and forgiveness, model of civilized behavior, smiles at the woman and says, “Sorry!” With one foot Lauren slides her backpack farther under her seat. “It goes on walks when it wants to.”

  Just knowing Lauren, just having the privilege of watching her, makes Ray a better person.

  “Bad boy,” he says to the backpack, and Lauren’s social smile brightens into a genuine one as she turns back to him.

  The young woman’s date, who has seen this all go down, shrugs and rolls his eyes. Don’t blame me. She’s not even my girlfriend. Neither Ray—nor, Ray is glad to see, Lauren—acknowledge him. Of course the poor girl got drunk to console herself for being out with a jerk like that!

  The jerk takes out his phone to keep him company while she’s gone, and as he taps away at his device, Lauren says, “Fuck Curious George, anyhow.”

  “Excuse me?” says Ray.

  “Have you read it lately?” Lauren says. “It’s an apology for imperialism. The man with the yellow hat kidnaps Curious George, and it’s supposed to be fine. The monkey’s taken out of his home, and of course he keeps getting into trouble. He’s blamed for whatever goes wrong.”

  “So is Mister Monkey,” says Ray.

  “That’s different,” Lauren says. “Mister Monkey is innocent. And when he’s unjustly accused, everyone goes to a certain amount of trouble to help him. I love Mister Monkey, I do. I haven’t been faking it all this time just because I want your body.”

  Is it possible to die of happiness? Take me now, Ray prays.

  “We should all boycott Curious George,” Lauren is saying. “Just like no one reads Little Black Sambo anymore. It’s racist imperialist propaganda.”

  A lot of what Lauren says could be taken in two ways. Ray could see it as evidence of her passionate youthful idealism and adore her even more. Or he could conclude that only a very young person would say such a thing, which would then remind him that he is no longer young. He decides to take the first option, the more loving, less depressing view of her hatred for Curious George. This allows him to bask in affection for Lauren and in the anticipation of the delicious main courses—did they want the swordfish or the veal, or the swordfish and the veal?—that Mario has promised.

  Ray feels the young woman return, coming up behind him. Something prickles on his skin: a barometric change. He swivels around and watches her lurch toward the table, both shoulders raised as the implacable goddess of female vengeance and fury emerges from beneath the mask of the kindly grade-school teacher.

  She stands
behind her date until the young man notices that Lauren’s startled gaze is focused on something just over his shoulder, and he turns.

  The woman says, “You asshole! You stupid son of a bitch. You think this is a fucking wine tasting? Swish swish, spit, I give the cabernet a four. Or some celebrity game show? I give that talented break-dancing ghetto youth a four. Or some hotel Web site? I give the Nashville Airport Ramada Inn a four. Or Amazon? I give War and Peace a four. Though on the travel sites and Amazon that’s four out of five, which is better than four out of ten, which is what this asshole gave me.”

  The words this asshole make Ray realize that she has shifted her focus from her date to him and Lauren. They are the witnesses and the jury at his trial. Ray can tell that this isn’t what this woman usually does, or says. He and Lauren and the guy are watching a once-in-a-lifetime performance, Ray hopes.

  “Sonya, please,” says the young man.

  Sonya covers her face and sways slightly. The young man shakes his head, as if to dislodge an insect buzzing in his ear. Performing, Ray thinks. For them and for himself.

  Sonya lets her hands drop and asks Lauren, “Do you know what this asshole did? While I was in the bathroom he texted his frat-boy friend and told him that I was a four out of ten, except that he’s so fucking stupid he texted me.”

  “I didn’t,” the young man says. “Jesus Christ. I would never do that.”

  Ray wants to say, Hey, a four is not so bad. Not to defend his male brother but to make the woman feel less awful. A person could marry a four, it could be a happy marriage. But why would he lie to this poor girl about the guy she’s out with? And what does he know about happy marriages? Her rage and grief seem reasonable. Maybe she wants to get married. Maybe she has begun to suspect that she could have one bad date after another until she gives up and moves back in with her mom and dad.

  “Don’t say Jesus,” she says. “You did it, and you know it. You called me a four.”

  Again she turns to Ray and Lauren. “I’m a teacher. I teach kindergarten.”

  Ray knew it! He wants to say that just today he was reading his book to a grade-school class, she’s probably heard of Mister Monkey, she probably read it as a child. Seeing as how she’s a teacher, she’s probably used it in class. But he says nothing. Women prefer you to listen. And he doesn’t want Lauren thinking that he’s just another guy trying to make this all about him.

  The teacher, Sonya, says, “Every day I’ve got the minds of twenty-five little people in these two hands, and it’s my job to help turn them into the smartest, most productive, happiest little human beings they can be. And every day there’s a crisis. Right now I could lose my job because one of my students mentioned evolution.”

  That explains why her date said fucking Darwin.

  She says, “Doesn’t that entitle me to go to the bathroom and take a piss without getting a text that says I’m a four?”

  “Totally,” says Lauren.

  Ray’s nodding like a bobble-head doll. He can’t seem to make himself stop.

  “Absolutely,” he says. Where is Enzo? Where the hell is Mario?

  The woman turns and heads for the door, where Enzo, gallant knight, puts his arm around her shoulders and gently guides her out into the street where he will call her a cab. The young man watches her go, then takes a show-offy breath, exhales, turns to Ray and Lauren.

  “What that bitch doesn’t realize,” he says, “is that it all means nothing. I could rate her a four, a ten, a fifty billion. And it would still mean nothing.”

  He is very drunk. Ray feels torn between the desire to protect himself and Lauren from whatever the guy’s about to say—and the desire to hear it. For the first time Ray picks up the faint traces of an accent, but instead of disordering the guy’s syntax, the alcohol’s making him more fluent.

  He says, “It’s all going to end. We’ve passed the point of no return. The glaciers are melting, the polar ice caps are shrinking, the sea is rising, first the basements go under, then the lobbies, then the people on the sixtieth floor watch their downstairs neighbors float away. The future is fucking dark. Dark. So whether the bitch is a four, or a ten, or a twelve, whether I work to save the mouse or to exterminate every last fucking rodent . . . Global warming? Hilarious. Global dying. I don’t mean to ruin your evening, but there’s nothing we can do to stop what is going to happen.”

  Ray and Lauren are silent. Ray has no idea what to say.

  Lauren says, “She called you an asshole, and you are an asshole. Not just an ordinary asshole but a gloomy nihilistic asshole. I refuse to believe that it’s over, that nothing can be done.”

  The young man leers at Lauren. “Nihilistic. Big word meaning what?” He asks Ray, “You speak English well enough to understand your girlfriend here?”

  Lauren says nothing. She crosses her legs and turns as far away from him as she can. She’s done with him. He’d have to reach over and grab her to make her pay attention.

  The guy’s not going to grab anyone. He totters to his feet and heads for the door, where Enzo is watching everything. Enzo thumps him on the shoulder. Ray can lip-read Enzo mouthing your dad.

  Mario brings a platter of swordfish, a smaller plate of veal, a dish of greens in olive oil with garlic and salt. He neatly divides the greens, not an easy task, between Ray and Lauren.

  “What was that about?” Why is Ray asking Mario, who made a point of absenting himself?

  “I don’t know,” says Mario.

  “Bad date,” says Ray.

  “That’s what I figured,” Mario says.

  “So are you going to use the tickets?” Ray wants to die of shame.

  Mario says, “I enjoy seeing the different ways that different actors do the play.”

  When Mario leaves, Lauren says, “It’s a beautiful book, really, Ray. Look at what it still means to Enzo and Mario and probably those kids you read to, today. It’s nothing like Curious George. It has heart, Ray, real heart.”

  “Thank you,” Ray says. “That means a lot.”

  “You’re a real person, Ray, not some . . . artificial construct. Not some phony monologue about a man who has a soul. It’s been hard for me to find that with guys my age. I feel that if I hang out with you, I could learn to be a real person.”

  “You are a real person,” says Ray. This is a conversation that young people have. But he can pretend to be young.

  “I’m trying,” Lauren says. “Tell me you’re listening, okay?”

  “I’m hanging on every word,” says Ray.

  They seem to have finished the wine. Ray raises the bottle just enough to catch Mario’s eye.

  “I’m listening. I swear,” says Ray.

  Ray eats his swordfish, tastes Lauren’s veal, and then uses his tongue and even discreetly his napkin to make sure he doesn’t have greens in his teeth. That he can’t grimace and ask Lauren to look at his teeth proves they are still in love, though maybe that’s the sign of an immature love. Maybe real love is being able to ask, Do I have greens in my teeth? Is it too late to find that with Lauren? Does he want to? Shouldn’t he be looking for someone willing to take care of him in his . . . Wait. Lauren seems to be saying something about a boyfriend.

  “I had this boyfriend,” Lauren is saying. “Briefly. Once we were having sex in his room beside an open window and he said, ‘Feel it. The breeze is a sex toy.’”

  The story makes Ray miserable. Why can’t Lauren see that? Is she trying to ruin his evening? What’s left of the Xanax and codeine can’t stand up to this.

  She says, “Have you ever heard anything more pretentious? More of a buzzkill? We’re in the middle of doing whatever, not that it was all that great. Believe me. And he says that?”

  More than anything, Ray wants to believe that it was not all that great.

  “And he can’t resist the temptation to come up with some perfect line. I know this guy, he probably used this same line with fifty other women. Did I mention that he was a writer? I swore off writers af
ter that.”

  “But you made an exception for me,” Ray says.

  “A big exception,” says Lauren.

  What Ray feels is like a drug, or like after sex, or like the first few moments when a painkiller kicks in. He feels as if he’s levitating slightly above this red-sauce paradise in which people all around him are doing things—serving food, pouring wine—designed to make other people happy. He wants to give Lauren something. He wants to do something for her.

  After a silence Ray hears himself say, “In Vietnam, there were all these stories, these . . . I don’t know what to call them. Urban legends . . . about monkeys.”

  This is what he is giving Lauren? Something he’s never told anyone. A gift, all right, but not a gift that any sane person would want. Stories he’s never told anyone because they come with their own illustrations, pictures he doesn’t want anyone else seeing when they close their eyes. Is that his love-gift to Lauren: a case of contact PTSD?

  He wants to tell this story without crying. After all these years, hasn’t he earned the right not to cry if he doesn’t want to?

  “Everywhere I went, that’s all anyone talked about. Monkeys. Was it a coincidence? I was too fucked-up to tell. I kept hearing about how somebody went to a restaurant or dinner party and was served monkey brains in a monkey skull. Everyone told it as if no one had ever heard it before. Once in Saigon the signal guy in my office said he’d had his wallet stolen by a monkey. He chased the monkey and caught it and tried to grab his wallet back, and the other monkeys came and formed a scary circle around him, and this guy kept saying he didn’t care, the monkeys could go fuck themselves, it was his wallet. He could tell that the older monkeys were telling the little chimp to give it back. Which he did.”

  “Mister Monkey,” says Lauren.

  “Sort of,” says Ray. “I guess.”

  No tears. He touches his cheek to make sure.

  There’s still one story he’s not telling. The family of dead monkeys beside the path through the jungle. The dad and mom and two baby monkeys hung from the trees, in nooses, executed, like humans. What sick fuck would do that? American? South Vietnamese? The enemy sending a message?