Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition

by Kurt Vonnegut,Gregory D. Sumner

  So the time finally came to put on the play. We ran it for three nights—Thursday, Friday, and Saturday—and we murdered those audiences. They believed every word that was said on stage, and when the maroon curtain came down they were ready to go to the nut house along with Blanche, the faded sister.

  On Thursday night the other girls at the telephone company sent Helene a dozen red roses. When Helene and Harry were taking a curtain call together, I passed the roses over the footlights to her. She came forward for them, took one rose from the bouquet to give to Harry. But when she turned to give Harry the rose in front of everybody, Harry was gone. The curtain came down on that extra little scene—that girl offering a rose to nothing and nobody.

  I went backstage, and I found her still holding that one rose. She’d put the rest of the bouquet aside. There were tears in her eyes. “What did I do wrong?” she said to me. “Did I insult him some way?”

  “No,” I said. “He always does that after a performance. The minute it’s over, he clears out as fast as he can.”

  “And tomorrow he’ll disappear again?”

  “Without even taking off his makeup.”

  “And Saturday?” she said. “He’ll stay for the cast party on Saturday, won’t he?”

  “Harry never goes to parties,” I said. “When the curtain comes down on Saturday, that’s the last anybody will see of him till he goes to work on Monday.”

  “How sad,” she said.

  Helene’s performance on Friday night wasn’t nearly so good as Thursday’s. She seemed to be thinking about other things. She watched Harry take off after curtain call. She didn’t say a word.

  On Saturday she put on the best performance yet. Ordinarily it was Harry who set the pace. But on Saturday Harry had to work to keep up with Helene.

  When the curtain came down on the final curtain call, Harry wanted to get away, but he couldn’t. Helene wouldn’t let go his hand. The rest of the cast and the stage crew and a lot of well-wishers from the audience were all standing around Harry and Helene, and Harry was trying to get his hand back.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ve got to go.”

  “Where?” she said.

  “Oh,” he said, “home.”

  “Won’t you please take me to the cast party?” she said.

  He got very red. “I’m afraid I’m not much on parties,” he said. All the Marlon Brando in him was gone. He was tongue-tied, he was scared, he was shy—he was everything Harry was famous for being between plays.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll let you go—if you promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?” he said, and I thought he would jump out a window if she let go of him then.

  “I want you to promise to stay here until I get you your present,” she said.

  “Present?” he said, getting even more panicky.

  “Promise?” she said.

  He promised. It was the only way he could get his hand back. And he stood there miserably while Helene went down to the ladies’ dressing room for the present. While he waited, a lot of people congratulated him on being such a fine actor. But congratulations never made him happy. He just wanted to get away.

  Helene came back with the present. It turned out to be a little blue book with a big red ribbon for a place marker. It was a copy of Romeo and Juliet. Harry was very embarrassed. It was all he could do to say “Thank you.”

  “The marker marks my favorite scene,” said Helene.

  “Um,” said Harry.

  “Don’t you want to see what my favorite scene is?” she said.

  So Harry had to open the book to the red ribbon.

  Helene got close to him, and read a line of Juliet’s. “ ‘How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?’ ” she read. “ ‘The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here.’ ” She pointed to the next line. “Now, look what Romeo says,” she said.

  “Um,” said Harry.

  “Read what Romeo says,” said Helene.

  Harry cleared his throat. He didn’t want to read the line, but he had to. “ ‘With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,’ ” he read out loud in his everyday voice. But then a change came over him. “ ‘For stony limits cannot hold love out,’ ” he read, and he straightened up, and eight years dropped away from him, and he was brave and gay. “ ‘And what love can do, that dares love attempt,’ ” he read, “ ‘therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.’ ”

  “ ‘If they do see thee they will murther thee,’ ” said Helene, and she started him walking toward the wings.

  “ ‘Alack!’ ” said Harry, “ ‘there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords.’ ” Helene led him toward the backstage exit. “ ‘Look thou but sweet,’ ” said Harry, “ ‘and I am proof against their enmity.’ ”

  “ ‘I would not for the world they saw thee here,’ ” said Helene, and that was the last we heard. The two of them were out the door and gone.

  They never did show up at the cast party. One week later they were married.

  They seem very happy, although they’re kind of strange from time to time, depending on which play they’re reading to each other at the time.

  I dropped into the phone company office the other day, on account of the billing machine was making dumb mistakes again. I asked her what plays she and Harry’d been reading lately.

  “In the past week,” she said, “I’ve been married to Othello, been loved by Faust and been kidnaped by Paris. Wouldn’t you say I was the luckiest girl in town?”

  I said I thought so, and I told her most of the women in town thought so too.

  “They had their chance,” she said.

  “Most of ’em couldn’t stand the excitement,” I said. And I told her I’d been asked to direct another play. I asked if she and Harry would be available for the cast. She gave me a big smile and said, “Who are we this time?”

  (1961)

  WELCOME TO THE MONKEY HOUSE

  SO PETE CROCKER, the sheriff of Barnstable County, which was the whole of Cape Cod, came into the Federal Ethical Suicide Parlor in Hyannis one May afternoon—and he told the two six-foot Hostesses there that they weren’t to be alarmed, but that a notorious nothinghead named Billy the Poet was believed headed for the Cape.

  A nothinghead was a person who refused to take his ethical birth-control pills three times a day. The penalty for that was $10,000 and ten years in jail.

  This was at a time when the population of Earth was 17 billion human beings. That was far too many mammals that big for a planet that small. The people were virtually packed together like drupelets.

  Drupelets are the pulpy little knobs that compose the outside of a raspberry.

  So the World Government was making a two-pronged attack on overpopulation. One pronging was the encouragement of ethical suicide, which consisted of going to the nearest Suicide Parlor and asking a Hostess to kill you painlessly while you lay on a Barcalounger. The other pronging was compulsory ethical birth control.

  The sheriff told the Hostesses, who were pretty, tough-minded, highly intelligent girls, that roadblocks were being set up and house-to-house searches were being conducted to catch Billy the Poet. The main difficulty was that the police didn’t know what he looked like. The few people who had seen him and known him for what he was were women—and they disagreed fantastically as to his height, his hair color, his voice, his weight, the color of his skin.

  “I don’t need to remind you girls,” the sheriff went on, “that a nothinghead is very sensitive from the waist down. If Billy the Poet somehow slips in here and starts making trouble, one good kick in the right place will do wonders.”

  He was referring to the fact that ethical birth-control pills, the only legal form of birth control, made people numb from the waist down.

  Most men said their bottom halves felt like cold iron or balsa-wood. Most women said their bottom halves felt like wet cotton o
r stale ginger ale. The pills were so effective that you could blindfold a man who had taken one, tell him to recite the Gettysburg Address, kick him in the balls while he was doing it, and he wouldn’t miss a syllable.

  The pills were ethical because they didn’t interfere with a person’s ability to reproduce, which would have been unnatural and immoral. All the pills did was take every bit of pleasure out of sex.

  Thus did science and morals go hand in hand.

  · · ·

  The two Hostesses there in Hyannis were Nancy McLuhan and Mary Kraft. Nancy was a strawberry blonde. Mary was a glossy brunette. Their uniforms were white lipstick, heavy eye makeup, purple body stockings with nothing underneath, and black-leather boots. They ran a small operation—with only six suicide booths. In a really good week, say the one before Christmas, they might put sixty people to sleep. It was done with a hypodermic syringe.

  “My main message to you girls,” said Sheriff Crocker, “is that everything’s well under control. You can just go about your business here.”

  “Didn’t you leave out part of your main message?” Nancy asked him.

  “I don’t get you.”

  “I didn’t hear you say he was probably headed straight for us.”

  He shrugged in clumsy innocence. “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “I thought that was all anybody did know about Billy the Poet: that he specializes in deflowering Hostesses in Ethical Suicide Parlors.” Nancy was a virgin. All Hostesses were virgins. They also had to hold advanced degrees in psychology and nursing. They also had to be plump and rosy, and at least six feet tall.

  America had changed in many ways, but it had yet to adopt the metric system.

  Nancy McLuhan was burned up that the sheriff would try to protect her and Mary from the full truth about Billy the Poet—as though they might panic if they heard it. She told the sheriff so.

  “How long do you think a girl would last in the E. S. S.,” she said, meaning the Ethical Suicide Service, “if she scared that easy?”

  The sheriff took a step backward, pulled in his chin. “Not very long, I guess.”

  “That’s very true,” said Nancy, closing the distance between them and offering him a sniff of the edge of her hand, which was poised for a karate chop. All Hostesses were experts at judo and karate. “If you’d like to find out how helpless we are, just come toward me, pretending you’re Billy the Poet.”

  The sheriff shook his head, gave her a glassy smile. “I’d rather not.”

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said today,” said Nancy, turning her back on him while Mary laughed. “We’re not scared—we’re angry. Or we’re not even that. He isn’t worth that. We’re bored. How boring that he should come a great distance, should cause all this fuss, in order to—” She let the sentence die there. “It’s just too absurd.”

  “I’m not as mad at him as I am at the women who let him do it to them without a struggle”—said Mary—“who let him do it and then couldn’t tell the police what he looked like. Suicide Hostesses at that!”

  “Somebody hasn’t been keeping up with her karate,” said Nancy.

  · · ·

  It wasn’t just Billy the Poet who was attracted to Hostesses in Ethical Suicide Parlors. All nothingheads were. Bombed out of their skulls with the sex madness that came from taking nothing, they thought the white lips and big eyes and body stocking and boots of a Hostess spelled sex, sex, sex.

  The truth was, of course, that sex was the last thing any Hostess ever had in mind.

  “If Billy follows his usual M.O.,” said the sheriff, “he’ll study your habits and the neighborhood. And then he’ll pick one or the other of you and he’ll send her a dirty poem in the mail.”

  “Charming,” said Nancy.

  “He has also been known to use the telephone.”

  “How brave,” said Nancy. Over the sheriff’s shoulder, she could see the mailman coming.

  A blue light went on over the door of a booth for which Nancy was responsible. The person in there wanted something. It was the only booth in use at the time.

  The sheriff asked her if there was a possibility that the person in there was Billy the Poet, and Nancy said, “Well, if it is, I can break his neck with my thumb and forefinger.”

  “Foxy Grandpa,” said Mary, who’d seen him, too. A Foxy Grandpa was any old man, cute and senile, who quibbled and joked and reminisced for hours before he let a Hostess put him to sleep.

  Nancy groaned. “We’ve spent the past two hours trying to decide on a last meal.”

  And then the mailman came in with just one letter. It was addressed to Nancy in smeary pencil. She was splendid with anger and disgust as she opened it, knowing it would be a piece of filth from Billy.

  She was right. Inside the envelope was a poem. It wasn’t an original poem. It was a song from olden days that had taken on new meanings since the numbness of ethical birth control had become universal. It went like this, in smeary pencil again:

  We were walking through the park,

  A-goosing statues in the dark.

  If Sherman’s horse can take it,

  So can you.

  When Nancy came into the suicide booth to see what he wanted, the Foxy Grandpa was lying on the mint-green Barcalounger, where hundreds had died so peacefully over the years. He was studying the menu from the Howard Johnson’s next door and beating time to the Muzak coming from the loudspeaker on the lemon-yellow wall. The room was painted cinder block. There was one barred window with a Venetian blind.

  There was a Howard Johnson’s next door to every Ethical Suicide Parlor, and vice versa. The Howard Johnson’s had an orange roof and the Suicide Parlor had a purple roof, but they were both the Government. Practically everything was the Government.

  Practically everything was automated, too. Nancy and Mary and the sheriff were lucky to have jobs. Most people didn’t. The average citizen moped around home and watched television, which was the Government. Every fifteen minutes his television would urge him to vote intelligently or consume intelligently, or worship in the church of his choice, or love his fellowmen, or obey the laws—or pay a call to the nearest Ethical Suicide Parlor and find out how friendly and understanding a Hostess could be.

  The Foxy Grandpa was something of a rarity, since he was marked by old age, was bald, was shaky, had spots on his hands. Most people looked twenty-two, thanks to anti-aging shots they took twice a year. That the old man looked old was proof that the shots had been discovered after his sweet bird of youth had flown.

  “Have we decided on a last supper yet?” Nancy asked him. She heard peevishness in her own voice, heard herself betray her exasperation with Billy the Poet, her boredom with the old man. She was ashamed, for this was unprofessional of her. “The breaded veal cutlet is very good.”

  The old man cocked his head. With the greedy cunning of second childhood, he had caught her being unprofessional, unkind, and he was going to punish her for it. “You don’t sound very friendly. I thought you were all supposed to be friendly. I thought this was supposed to be a pleasant place to come.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “If I seem unfriendly, it has nothing to do with you.”

  “I thought maybe I bored you.”

  “No, no,” she said gamely, “not at all. You certainly know some very interesting history.” Among other things, the Foxy Grandpa claimed to have known J. Edgar Nation, the Grand Rapids druggist who was the father of ethical birth control.

  “Then look like you’re interested,” he told her. He could get away with that sort of impudence. The thing was, he could leave any time he wanted to, right up to the moment he asked for the needle—and he had to ask for the needle. That was the law.

  Nancy’s art, and the art of every Hostess, was to see that volunteers didn’t leave, to coax and wheedle and flatter them patiently, every step of the way.

  So Nancy had to sit down there in the booth, to pretend to marvel at the freshness of the yarn th
e old man told, a story everybody knew, about how J. Edgar Nation happened to experiment with ethical birth control.

  “He didn’t have the slightest idea his pills would be taken by human beings someday,” said the Foxy Grandpa. “His dream was to introduce morality into the monkey house at the Grand Rapids Zoo. Did you realize that?” he inquired severely.

  “No. No, I didn’t. That’s very interesting.”

  “He and his eleven kids went to church one Easter. And the day was so nice and the Easter service had been so beautiful and pure that they decided to take a walk through the zoo, and they were just walking on clouds.”

  “Um.” The scene described was lifted from a play that was performed on television every Easter.

  The Foxy Grandpa shoehorned himself into the scene, had himself chat with the Nations just before they got to the monkey house. “ ‘Good morning, Mr. Nation,’ I said to him. ‘It certainly is a nice morning.’ ‘And a good morning to you, Mr. Howard,’ he said to me. ‘There is nothing like an Easter morning to make a man feel clean and reborn and at one with God’s intentions.’ ”

  “Um.” Nancy could hear the telephone ringing faintly, naggingly, through the nearly soundproof door.

  “So we went on to the monkey house together, and what do you think we saw?”

  “I can’t imagine.” Somebody had answered the phone.

  “We saw a monkey playing with his private parts!”

  “No!”

  “Yes! and J. Edgar Nation was so upset he went straight home and he started developing a pill that would make monkeys in the springtime fit things for a Christian family to see.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes—?” said Nancy.

  “Nancy,” said Mary, “telephone for you.”

  When Nancy came out of the booth, she found the sheriff choking on little squeals of law-enforcement delight. The telephone was tapped by agents hidden in the Howard Johnson’s. Billy the Poet was believed to be on the line. His call had been traced. Police were already on their way to grab him.

  “Keep him on, keep him on,” the sheriff whispered to Nancy, and he gave her the telephone as though it were solid gold.