Banging the Monkey

by Tod A

  The train dove out of the brown sky into the yellow tunnel, shrieking to a halt at Delancey Street station. When I reached the street it was still drizzling.

  The party was across town, in Tribeca, where Blake and I had once lived. But I wanted to walk. I needed time to steel myself. These days I lived in fear of meeting any of our mutual friends from before the divorce. There was something deeply depressing about plodding through the mandatory small-talk and sympathetic nods. It was usually all I could do to escape on some lame pretext.

  I pulled out the beer I’d stashed in my coat and struck off down the oily pavement, shoulders hunched against the rain, passing unnoticed like a ghost, crossing Grand to Elizabeth, as street-lamps leered from their bleary orbits, then down through the last vestiges of Little Italy, skirting Chinatown with its neon glare and fishy stink, melding into the crowd, fording Canal and retreating into the sanctum of the dark streets again, the traffic blare and bark of hawkers receding as I zigzagged westward and southward, fleeing the headlights and sighing tires, until at last I felt the sad cobblestones of the old neighborhood beneath my soles, and found myself staring up at the glowing windows of our former flat, now full of strangers.

  Ralph and Jen’s door was unlocked, so I slipped in unnoticed, grabbed two beers from the fridge, and passed through the hipster crowd. Thankfully there was no sign of anyone I knew.

  It was a typical NYC apartment: cramped and overpriced. Yet even humble artists’ digs like these were fast disappearing. The Wall Street boys were moving in quick, with their pumped-up cars and inflated sense of self-worth. Landlords gleefully booted out long-term tenants and jacked up the rents to milk the newcomers. In New York people scrapped over real estate like hyenas on a fresh carcass. Ralph and Jen had clung on for years, fighting every attempt to displace them from their few square feet of rent-controlled turf. But now even they were giving up.

  The place was packed, and the chatter welled up around me. I sought an empty corner where I could simply sit and drink, but there were none. I was hit with a sudden claustrophobic dread. The room seemed sucked dry of oxygen. Everywhere I looked I saw jabbering mouths and judgmental eyes: everyone broadcasting, nobody listening.

  Finally I found refuge outside on the tiny balcony overlooking the river. I took a deep breath and leaned back against the window, hoping that the persistent drizzle would keep all but the most desperate nicotine addicts away. I kept looking over my shoulder, scanning for Blake.

  At some point I noticed an incongruous guest in the center of the room. He seemed to be searching for someone. With his floral shirt and tan, he was like an exotic species dropped into this sea of pale skin and avant-garde hair.

  I liked to think I was pretty good at visually sizing someone up. This guy was tough to peg. As he moved toward the balcony I noticed a Blackberry on his hip and a fuck-off gold wristwatch. Securities trader? Cosmetic surgeon? Something about him told me was not American.

  “Smoking section?” he asked, setting his scotch on the railing.

  I nodded vaguely, pretending to be absorbed by the view.

  “Cold,” he said. He put on the sport coat that had been folded over his arm. There was a waft of cologne. “I forget about seasons.”

  Not wanting to encourage him, I said nothing.

  “But what a view, eh?”

  He pulled out a cigar and began the protracted process of lighting it.

  “The hosts are friends of yours?” he asked after a while.

  I gave in. “Yeah, we’re old buddies.” I hadn’t even bothered to greet them yet.

  “I see they are collectors.”

  Jen and Ralph’s flat was a cabinet of curiosities, crammed with pinned insects, animal skulls and other oddities.

  “Yeah, well, you know—artists,” I said.

  He nodded. “I collect a few things myself.” Was that a German accent or Austrian? It was hard to tell. “And you are also an artist?”

  “A bullshit artist, maybe.”

  He chuckled. “No, no, don’t tell me. I’m keen to guess.”

  He appraised me carefully. “You are not in military or government work, we can assume.”

  “We can.”

  “And I would rule out banking and insurance. Or any arm of the financial sector,” he said, eyeing my boots.

  “It’s that bad, is it?”

  He pulled at his cigar with a wet sucking sound.

  “An actor, perhaps?” He exhaled. “No, not quite. And not a musician either, I think.”

  “That’s disappointing. I always felt I had star quality.”

  He looked me up and down slowly one more time. “You are a writer.”

  My expression must have betrayed me.

  “Yes, that’s it,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

  I wasn’t invisible anymore, merely transparent. “Like I said. A bullshit artist.”

  He chuckled again and drained his glass. “Care for another drink?”

  “Always,” I said. “Beer.”

  He left his cigar smoldering on the ashtray and went inside.

  I looked out over the Hudson again and sank into a familiar sadness. No more Electric City for me. The fun days were finished and everybody was heading for the hills. Nationwide, too, the party was over. The 9/11 attacks and the president had seen to that. People were depressed and scared, shell-shocked and depleted. I watched a garbage barge slog slowly downriver. For a moment, I considered jumping off the balcony before he returned.

  There was a burst of music as the door opened and an Asian woman in a tight silk dress poked her head out.

  “Ooh, so cold! You see Frank?”

  I caught the scent of coconut.

  “German guy?”

  “Ja, you see him? I think maybe he out here smoking cigar.” She braced herself against the door frame.

  “He went to get a drink.”

  She squinted at me. “You Frank friend?”

  She didn’t wait for my answer. “Well, you see him, you tell him Nung already go.”

  “He might be in the bathroom or something.”

  “Nung see Frank at hotel bar, okay?” She did a passable impression of a smile, and the door shut behind her.

  I turned to watch her as she pushed into the crowd. Beneath the gaudy veneer she was quite a beauty. I wouldn’t mind a bit of that, I mused—the dusky eyes, the perfumed hair, the sullen lips—but a woman like that was likely interested in one thing only, and it was the main thing I lacked.

  I shivered and looked out toward Jersey City where my check for $560 was waiting to clear. The rich never seemed troubled by the concerns that dogged the rest of us, like food and shelter. They were worried about tax havens and designer shoes. In the distance I could see the lights of jets taking off from Newark for who-knows-where.

  “Scheisse, it’s like Siberia out here.” He was back.

  He handed me a beer.

  “Welcome to the gulag.” I said. “Still, it’s better than in there.”

  “Why?”

  “All those people trying so hard to be fascinating.”

  “Why?” he asked. “Aren’t you fascinating?”

  “Riveting,” I said. “I just don’t want to make everyone else look bad.”

  “How kind,” he said. “And what makes you so riveting?” he asked, nursing his cigar back to life.

  “Most people can’t seem to decide if it’s my rapier-sharp wit or my devilish good looks.”

  “Perhaps you are a bullshit artist after all,” he laughed.

  “Yeah, but unlike everyone in there, I keep most of the bullshit to myself. Unless I’m being paid.”

  “No money, no honey.”

  “Are you calling me a prostitute?”

  “We’re all prostitutes.” He took a long pull on the soggy cigar. “The question is
whether you enjoy the work.”

  “Beats cleaning toilets.”

  “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, they say.”

  “Whoever said that never had to clean toilets.”

  “And you have?”

  This was an odd bird. Our conversation had become some combination of roast and interrogation. I tossed my cigarette over the balcony and lit another. Their glow gave off the illusion of warmth.

  “It wasn’t the highlight of my professional career.”

  “And now?”

  “I get by.”

  “Could one say that you wouldn’t mind your work being somewhat more profitable?”

  “One could say that, yes.”

  “And what sort of writing is it that you do?”

  “Novels. Short stories. But I’ve done it all.”

  “Advertising?”

  “Advertising, magazines, copy-editing, the works.”

  He sucked on his cigar and smiled. “Magnificent view from up here, eh? Maybe the greatest skyline in the world.”

  “I used to think so.” These days it seemed as flat and stale as wallpaper.

  “Any man who can say that is clearly in need of a change. How do you feel about palm trees and white sandy beaches?”

  “What are you? Some kind of travel agent?”

  He chuckled and took another sip of Scotch. “You know, you remind me a bit of my son. He wanted to be a writer.”

  “Wised up, did he?”

  “No. No, he did not.”

  He was silent for a time, then turned to look at me.

  “I’ve neglected to introduce myself. Frank Fochs.”

  “Mark O’Kane.”

  “I may have some work for you, Mark O’Kane,” he said. “If you’re interested.”

  I tried not to look too interested. “What kind of work?”

  “Well, it’s not cleaning toilets,” he said. “Listen, Mark. I consider myself a fairly good judge of character. And as it happens I’ve been looking for someone to help me in my business. I wonder if what you need is a fresh opportunity.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I am not promising anything.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “But send me some of your words. Perhaps we can be of use to each other. You’d have to relocate of course. Six months, perhaps more.”

  “Frank Fochs, Naga Import-Export, Madu,” I read from the card. “Where’s Madu? South Pacific, no?”

  “Southeast Asia. Not far from Java.”

  “I have to tell you, Frank. I know fuck-all about import-export.”

  “It’s not complex. We ship things from here to there,” he said. “Antiques and furniture, mostly. Some religious artifacts. It has proved fairly profitable. As you say, ‘I get by’. But our website is an embarrassment. I’m not much for computers. Wrong generation, I suppose. And my secretary is hopeless. You simply can’t find anyone who speaks decent English anymore. Not over there. It’s ridiculous. We need to present a more professional face.”

  “Your English seems fine,” I said. “Why do you need somebody like me?”

  He drained his glass and stubbed out the cigar. “I love opera,” he said. “And I can tell a good one from shit. That does not make me Puccini.”

  “I guess I could use a bit more sunshine these days.”

  “We have plenty of that on Madu. My email address is on the card,” he said, opening the door to a swell of music and muddled voices.

  “Oh, I forgot,” I said. “There was a young lady here looking for you. Didn’t catch her name. She said she’d see you at the hotel.”

  “Lady?” he snorted. “Nung. That little bitch.”

  I watched him disappear into the crowd. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

  I emailed Frank the next day, attaching some commercial writing samples. A week passed with no response. I had all but given up on the whole business, putting it off to the empty words of a drunken party guest. Then one morning I received an email saying that he had read my work and liked it: if I was willing to take a chance on him, he was willing to take a chance on me.

  The salary was ten million rupees per month. Though it sounded like a lot, it worked out to about a thousand bucks, less than they paid at the Burger King in Bushwick. But Frank claimed that I would live quite comfortably as the cost of living was so low. He would cover my travel expenses, and put me up at his villa until I found my own place. I just had to let him know if and when I was prepared to come. It was the best news I’d had in months. Based on his brief description, it sounded a lot like paradise. Maybe my luck was finally going to change.

  A bit of research revealed that Madu was a small island nation in the Indian Ocean, a few hundred miles south of the equator. Their main exports were rice, coffee, spices and handicrafts. During the colonial period, control of the island had bounced back and forth between the Dutch and the British. The only lasting legacy of the Brits was that the Madunese drove on the left.

  The Dutch left bigger footprints. They built plantations, roads, bridges, and a prison. They imported horses and rifles and beer. They introduced a legal system which, though slanted in their favor, was nonetheless an improvement on the opium-fueled whims of the rajahs. Yet the Dutch presence on the island was always tenuous.

  The Madunese aristocracy had let the Dutch set up shop because it was expedient. The Chinese and Indian traders who preceded them had brought no major headaches. They’d done their business, kept to themselves, and paid the nobles a cut.

  But the Dutch were troublemakers. They were drunk, greedy, and they couldn’t keep their hands off the local girls. Not surprisingly, the Madunese never warmed to these lumbering giants from northern Europe. They called them mayat, or corpses, because of their pallor. Corpses are exactly what most of them became in 1906, when the Madunese finally decided they’d had enough. They slaughtered every Dutch man, woman and child on the island and threw their bodies to the sharks.

  Americans learned of Madu in 1948, when a handful of GI’s returned with tales of topless women, pristine beaches, and swaying palms. But even today the island remained off the tropical tourism trail. It was just another torrid backwater, frequented mainly by surfers, sex tourists and spiritual adventurers. But that sounded pretty good from where I was sitting, alone in my room, with a view across an alley to a brick wall.

  I had more or less made up my mind to accept Frank’s offer—until my final dinner with Blake. When I’d phoned her to see if she wanted back any of her books, she sucker-punched me with an invitation to dinner. I’d been too tongue-tied to produce a dodge. We met at what had been our favorite curry joint on 6th street, with its twinkling lights and Bollywood muzak.

  There are always those who claim they saw the disaster coming, those dismal prophets of doom who never shut up about the tempest on the horizon, no matter how fair the current weather. But who listens to them?

  “You’re drunk,” she said as I sat down.

  “Nice to see you too, Blake.”

  “No big surprise, I suppose,” she sighed. “You know, you’re not looking at all well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A bit, um, yellow?”

  “It’s just the lighting.”

  “You’re not dying, or anything, are you? When’s the last time you had a check-up? ”

  “Who can afford doctors?” Of course I didn’t tell her, but I hadn’t been feeling so great lately. There was this nagging pain under my ribs. “Anyway, we’re all dying, Blake. It’s just a question of when.”

  Despite all that had happened between us, I could still make her laugh.

  “Good evening, Sir, Madame. Would you care to order some drinks?”

  “I believe I’ll try the Mango mojito.”

  “Kingfisher. Large.”

  “Well
, this place hasn’t changed much,” she said, looking around.

  “I thought it might bring back some nice memories. Plus, it’s, you know, affordable.”

  “Yes, Roger told me he had to let you go.”

  “That was weeks ago. Anyway, he didn’t fire me. I quit.”

  “But why, Mark?” she said. “It wasn’t easy getting you that position.”

  “Position? Writing bullshit dust jacket blurbs for Roger’s little stable of hacks? Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “One of these days you’ll have to accept that sales do actually mean something.”

  “Yes, they mean that you’ve sunk to the level of the average consumer. Most of Roger’s trash wasn’t fit to wipe my ass on.”

  “You’ve always had such a colorful way with words,” she said. “Please forgive me for trying to be helpful. It won’t happen again.”

  “I’m sure your heart was in the right place, Blake.”

  It wasn’t. She was fucking Roger, and I knew it. And she knew that I knew it. I had only taken the job out of desperation. But even the desperate need a little self-respect.

  “You’re rapidly running out of bridges to burn in this city, you know.”

  “That’s why I figure I should go burn bridges somewhere else for a while. Somewhere a bit sunnier.”

  Our drinks came and I took a deep draft from the Kingfisher.

  “So, tell me about this new job, then,” she said. “From what you said on the phone it all sounds a bit . . .”

  I knew that skeptical tone. “A bit what?”

  “I don’t know. Fishy? Some guy you met at a party offers to fly you halfway across the world to be his boy Friday in an import-export business?”

  “So, what? I met you at a party.”

  “Yes, and look how that turned out.”

  I laughed. “We had some good years.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” She put down her glass. “I mean, what is import-export anyway? And more importantly, what do you know about it?”