Banging the Monkey

by Tod A

  “No, Mr Mark. I can not. You come to my village. Meet my family. Then you will see.”

  I felt like a privileged asshole. There were so many things I took for granted.

  “Where is your village?”

  “My home village is Dimana, up back-island, top of the river. You can stay at my family guest house. I must go there for a big ceremony soon. Maybe it can be interesting for you.”

  I liked the sound of a getaway. More and more I’d been forced to leave my writer’s idyll to brave the city on some errand, usually to the warehouse or the shipping company. Frank’s disappearing act had thrown Naga into an increasingly chaotic state, and Sanjaya began deferring all problems to the token mayat—me.

  Though I’d grown more accustomed to the madness of its traffic, the city’s relentless heat and exhaust were draining. Joro had been stripped bare of trees. To me, this was a crime without comprehensible motive. The Madunese seemed to consider it modish to pour as much concrete as possible. The midday sun shone down as mercilessly as an interrogation lamp. People went into hiding. If they had to venture outside they’d totter about under an umbrella or a newspaper. Pedestrians waiting to cross the street assembled in the slim shadows of electric poles.

  It wasn’t until evening, as the sun declined—when the town was bathed in honey light and the sea breeze cooled the air—that I could at last begin to unwind. I’d meet Tripod on the beach and head to Cooney’s. It usually took three or four large Oh-Cha’s to wash the work-related stress from my system.

  In New York I’d been a nocturnal creature. Days were simply things to be endured until it was time to start drinking. Sundown was merely the swift passage from day into night.

  Here, the sunsets grabbed you by the throat. It was natural theater on a heroic scale. I often found myself racing back from the city so I wouldn’t miss the show. During those first weeks I think I began to understand what it meant to live in the present.

  Yet the past was never far behind, tailing me like some hungry pyedog. On Madu, I was living a life the Bushwick working stiffs could only dream about. But I no longer had New York’s carnival whirl to drown out the chatter in my head. In silent moments, I heard echoes from the past. And Blake’s face was always there, swirling in my head like a passport photo in a slow drain.

  As I sat alone one evening watching the dark slowly descend upon the lagoon, Raj Curry came tottering over the bridge in his white suit and fedora. While affecting an air of Anglo-Indian colonial gentility, he looked more like a Cuban used car salesman. He was a pretentious bastard, but I had warmed to him: I recognized a fellow hustler when I saw one.

  Being the stringer for the local English language papers didn’t pay much, so Raj worked a lot of other odd angles to make ends meet. One week he was translating for visiting Indian dignitaries, the next he’d be stage-managing a blow-out Bollywood wedding. It was after dark that Raj got down to his main preoccupation.

  Madu had recently become a Mecca for spiritually-awakened Western divorcees. They arrived by the planeload, seeking enlightenment, or sexual gratification, or both. If they were female, Raj had them covered. These leathery creatures, dripping with ethnic bangles, were his dal and rice. Woozy from too many cocktails in the tropical heat, they often fell victim to the Indian’s time-tested technique.

  When Raj was turned-on, he was difficult to switch off. He wooed his victims like a velvet-voiced radio guru, stupefying them with esoteric facts, as the drinks kept on coming. His favorite themes were Krishna—that ultimate pervert of the Hindu pantheon—and the Sublime Allure of Erotic Devotion. Meanwhile the rest of us were placing bets on his chances.

  Often Raj returned from the toilet to find the pigeon had flown. But occasionally his mystical monologue and waggling head would work their magic—like a cobra mesmerizing a mongoose. I had witnessed this more than once, and could only shake my own head in silent admiration.

  If there were no women about, I usually received the benefit of his company. That was okay. These days I was glad of any distraction. Without fresh stimulus my brain quickly reverted to unhealthy thoughts.

  “Don’t deny it. I can tell you find it amusing—an Indian called Curry, hey? A bit like meeting an American named Tony Cheeseburger, I should imagine. But Curry is indeed my true family name. One of my ancestors was Irish, apparently. Curry is quite a common surname in the Ulster area. More than likely my forebear shipped out to Bombay with the East India Company and impregnated some blushing maidservant.”

  “What d’you know! We’re fellow Micks. Actually, Tony Cheeseburger is a classic mob name. I did jury duty one time back in New York. Usually you do anything to get out of it. But this was a mafia trial—good material, you know? Couldn’t pass it up.”

  “I myself am a great fan of The Godfather films. Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, the guy on trial was called Joey Carpets.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “They all have names like that. Benny Eggs, Charlie Bats. The prosecutor kept asking the witnesses how this thug got to be called Joey Carpets. One guy said it was because he disposed of his victims in rolled-up carpets. Another one said it was because he always screwed his hookers on the rug. You can’t make this shit up.”

  “Indeed. The Post now has me covering the crime beat itself. As if I wasn’t already overburdened!”

  “I’ve been following your series on the stolen idols.”

  “A brash bit of chicanery, eh? Replacing the original antiques with replicas?”

  “Genius.”

  “Today even, the value of the missing works is incalculable.”

  “Any theories on who’s behind it?”

  “Clearly, suspicion falls heavily upon the head priests, who have of course denied any knowledge. But it seems most telling that the ruse was reported not by the priests, but by aged devotees.”

  A peal of theatrical laughter drifted from the bar. I looked over to see Nung flirting with some new mayat. She was in fine form tonight, all flicking hair and perky breasts.

  “I think I’m turning into a dirty old man,” I said, absentmindedly scratching the wound on my knee. “I want to jump anything in a skirt these days.”

  “Welcome to the club, my friend,” Raj said. “You know you really should have that lesion looked at.”

  “Ah, it’s nothing.”

  The cut on my knee from my slip in the jungle had stubbornly refused to heal. Despite copious doses of disinfectant it had grown pussy and swollen.

  “In this climate the tiniest gash can go septic before one is even aware,” Raj said. “And I must say you are looking decidedly peaked of late.”

  “It’s just the light.”

  “Nonetheless I would rest easier if you would let me recommend my own trusted physician, Dr Fang.”

  “Speaking of ridiculous names! Sounds like a 50’s horror film.”

  “You will find no better Chinese doctor on the island. Here is his card. Promise me you will see him.”

  Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea. I could ask Fang about the lingering pain in my chest.

  “Oh, alright.”

  There was another phony laugh from Nung.

  “I wonder where Mick is tonight,” I said.

  “Yes, I almost forgot. Are you handy with that impressive-looking camera of yours? The Post needs some shots of an event at the weekend. Mick’s broken his neck. Flew to Kuala Lumpur to get it looked after. “

  “Broke his neck?”

  “Drove headfirst into a sewer ditch, it seems.”

  “It’s amazing that guy’s still alive at all.”

  Raj chuckled and polished off his cocktail. The man could hold his liquor. He drank some local concoction called a kupu-kupu. I had no idea what was in them, but he swilled them down and never seemed to show the effects.

  “Oh, he’ll be fi
ne. He was walking around in that condition for a week until I convinced him to get an X-ray. Three compacted vertebrae. Anyway, the Post is left without a photographer until he gets back. It would be a great assistance if you could cover. Feel you can you handle it?”

  “Sure. What’s the event?”

  “It’s at the zoo. They’re unveiling a statue of your president.”

  { 6 }

  Pursued by the Past

  I welcomed any excuse to escape Joro’s swelter and smoke. Though I now understood why wealthy ex-pats walled out the city, the walls of Frank’s world had begun to close in around me.

  That morning, I’d been roped into a dispute with Naga workers over unpaid wages. They couldn’t believe that I hadn’t been paid either, and that I was equally in the dark about Frank’s whereabouts. As usual, Sanjaya took a well-timed tea break, leaving me to take the heat. An hour later, at Dr Fang’s, mortality had reared its ugly head, and I still hadn’t been able to digest what he’d told me.

  I shut these worries from my mind and pointed my motorbike toward the mountain. The jumble of hills rose quickly, as tiny lanes twisted up through switchbacks and hairpin bends, past roadside waterfalls and jungle foliage. The air was cooler here, and fresh. Bird-calls floated above the hum of the engine.

  Three shiny black SUV’s stood near a cluster of motorbikes just beyond the zoo gates. I parked and walked over to the event site. A crowd of people were gathered around what looked like an enormous phallus swathed in a neon-pink condom. Fitch and a handful of local VIPs milled about making small talk, next to a low stage draped in American and Madunese flags.

  A squeal of feedback announced a local high school band. We stood at attention for six long minutes as the students mangled the Madunese national anthem and the Star Spangled Banner on plastic melodicas. When they finally filed off, Fitch and the other dignitaries gravely ascended the podium. I brandished my camera and elbowed my way to the front of the crowd. A local politico took the lectern, introducing Fitch at length in Madunese. I could only pick out a few words: Bush, America, and F-16 Falcon. Then it was the Consul’s turn.

  “Governor’s Secretary Gelojo. Deputy Mayor Merusak. Honored guests. Ladies and gentlemen. Members of the international press. Thank you for coming.”

  The international press appeared to be me. I didn’t see anyone else covering this historic diplomatic event. I took a few pictures, attempting to appear as international and journalistic as possible.

  “This statue, this fine work of art, which we will shortly unveil here today, is being erected to commemorate the gift of five F-16 aircraft from the United States of America to the Republic of Madu.”

  Fitch smiled winningly and the crowd smiled back. For a moment I thought I caught the consul’s eye, but his face betrayed no sign of recognition. He continued in a sober tone.

  “While our governments may not always see eye to eye on every issue, I believe I am not amiss in saying that we do share the conviction of promoting certain ideals, not least among them Democracy, Free Enterprise, and the Rule of Law.”

  The crowd smiled on, clearly not understanding a single word.

  “So, in conclusion, let this monument stand in lasting recognition of the enduring friendship between our two peoples, our respective governments, and our mutual striving for peace.”

  Peace through American-made munitions, apparently.

  He looked around at the others on the stage, trying to signal he was done. Nothing happened.

  “So, uh, it is my great honor at this time, to now ask the students to remove the … unveil the statue.”

  He backed away from the microphone. There was an uncertain smattering of applause.

  The Deputy Mayor, perceiving that the speech was now over, jumped to the lectern and barked at the hapless students. They leapt into action, unceremoniously ripping down the pink plastic to reveal the statue. Hewn from a huge block of white sandstone, it bore a striking resemblance to a chimpanzee on a skateboard.

  I veiled my laughter in a coughing fit. It took me a few seconds to realize that the sculptor had intended to depict George W. Bush, in heroic Mission Accomplished pose, atop a miniature aircraft carrier. It was a proud day to be an American.

  After the ceremony I took a few pictures of the VIP’s in front of the statue and grabbed a press release from Fitch’s assistant. The crowd cleared out pretty fast.

  I bought an Oh-Cha at the bamboo stand and went for a look around. Except for some furtive couples and a gaggle of children, I had the place to myself. Leaves whispered in the breeze. Crickets chattered in the undergrowth. It was a refreshing change from the burning sun and cement, the tangle of wires, the bleat of horns, far below.

  I inspected the sad little zoo. One enclosure held a few tatty peacocks and a dusty tortoise. Nearby, children were jabbing at goats with a stick. A solitary monkey swung in jaded repetition around the bars of its cage. I sat down to watch, transfixed by the monkey’s anthropoid expressions: there was anger, occasional curiosity, but mostly a grim resignation. Watching the poor creature, I recognized myself.

  I was still trying to learn to appreciate the moment, to smell the fucking flowers. I’d lived most of my life trapped inside my head—a defense mechanism I’d developed at school in response to continual bullying. The bleaker reality became, the more I’d retreated. My head was a lonely refuge.

  Around the time I hit puberty the Voices stepped in to fill the void. By my mid-teens they were in full force. I never told anyone at the time. It was my shameful little secret. The Voices came at their whim, and when they came there was no way to shut them up. In the beginning, it was my own shaky voice narrating the daily angst of adolescence. This voice I gradually learned to channel, if not contain—by recording what it said I could at least put it to some use: it fueled my first attempts at writing.

  Then there was the ugly voice, the negative, nagging, nattering voice. This was the voice of the bully—sometimes the voice of my father. It favored words like Weak and Lazy, and Pussy and Queer. It told me I was feckless, an embarrassment. The only thing that drowned it out was drink. Beer didn’t make this voice disappear, but pushed it into the background, like the blather in a bar.

  The voices followed me from puberty into adulthood. Therapists didn’t help. Neither did their meds. Over time, the Voices only grew louder, their babble harder to ignore. Writing was the only effective therapy, and beer the sole anodyne. It took ever-greater quantities of booze to do the job. The same torrent of words that had made me a writer had made me a drunk—and eventually sunk my marriage.

  I looked around me. Even now, enfolded in this equatorial wonderland, I couldn’t truly experience the beauty of it. I felt trapped in the role of passive observer, watching my life roll by, as the voices reeled out the story. I needed to change. I wanted the book I was writing now to be clear, visceral, immediate. I’d always talked a lot about Truth, yet all my life I had followed the opposite path.

  I remembered the monkey head mounted on Buster’s wall. He’d won it in a poker game from one of his Vietnam buddies. It looked incongruous—grinning there among the taxidermy buck and bear—like the head of an insurance salesman. My uncle had inherited Gramp’s gun collection. He kept dogs. He had the camouflage coveralls, the orange cap.

  His house was littered with copies of Field & Stream, Deer Hunting, and Outdoor Life. They offered a glimpse into the world of hunters and their weird jargon, with back pages full of ads for conversion kits and survivalist manuals. The strangest publication was called Full Cry, a newsprint rag dedicated to bloodhound fanatics, featuring page after identical page of strapping men daintily holding their dogs’ tails in the air. Fetishists never realized how bizarre they appeared to outsiders.

  To me, the most cabalistic subculture of all was the world of writers. Their self-seriousness, their nitpicking over minutia, their unwavering allegiance to the belief
that any of it really mattered—all made me want no truck with them. All I had ever wanted to do was write, but I hated the idea of being a Writer. No wonder I was so fucked up.

  If I’d had any sense at all, I would have followed the time-honored path: Ivy League liberal arts degree, off to the Writer’s Workshop at the University of Iowa, doing the rounds of the New York cocktail parties, begging for a story in Granta or the New Yorker. But the thought of all that sucking up had made me sick. The literati couldn’t fathom that the rest of the planet didn’t care whether David Foster Wallace masturbated with his left hand or his right—they’d never heard of the man.

  When I was twenty I knew what I wanted to say—I didn’t need some Brown Semiotics professor to teach me about Truth. I gave higher education the middle finger and drove my sister’s old Toyota station wagon down to New York City to seek my fortune. My best buddy, Frisco Steve, came along for the ride. We dropped acid on I-95 crossing the Rhode Island state line with the Stooges on the 8-track, pounding down one Red White & Blue after another. I’ll never forget catching sight of the Manhattan skyline at sunset, half-tripping, three-quarters drunk, and thirsting for whatever the future might hold.

  I spent the summer living in the Toyota, parking in the side streets off Broadway in Williamsburg, a garbage-strewn no-man’s land sandwiched between the Hasidic Jewish and Colombian neighborhoods. I slept in the back of my car and showered at the Greenpoint YMCA, subsisting on Budweiser and peanut butter sandwiches. There was rarely a cop to be seen in those days, so there were no parking tickets to worry about—just the occasional crack addict.

  I landed a job at a copy shop near Canal Street. With no fixed address I couldn’t open a bank account, so I used the check-cashing joint a few blocks from work. They’d installed a lottery machine to hook the working stiffs when they were feeling flush. Every Friday I watched people blow half their salary on lottery tickets. Luck was the only thing that could pluck them from the treadmill.

  Except for feeding my growing drinking habit, I was pretty tight with my cash. I kept a roll of twenties in an old sock under the passenger seat of the Toyota. By September I had saved enough money to secure a small room in a flat. My roommates spent most of their time smoking pot and watching TV. I installed a deadbolt on my bedroom door, and kept to myself. Eventually we stopped speaking. That was fine: I preferred to be invisible.