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My Monkey and Me

The monkey liked to knit, and his needlework was impeccable. We'd set up a booth at all the art festivals and display the merchandise: bags, dog ponchos, picnic blankets, and hats designed to look like watermelons. These were especially popular among preteen girls.

“They're so cah-ute!” they'd shriek when they saw them, and when they turned to beg their parents to buy them, I'd quickly add additional numbers to the price tag.

“Why is this hat sixty dollars?” their parents would yell at me, eyes popping from the capitalistic injustice of it.

“Because a monkey made it,” I'd say. They wouldn't believe me, so I'd step aside and point at the monkey, who would be knitting a handbag, and then they'd shut up and hand me money. This made the monkey my lifesaver.

He found me one forlorn night of single ruin, just wandered up the fire escape and knocked on my window. I was busy throwing expired leftovers in my blender and letting it puree without the cover, so I didn't see him for a few minutes. When I did finally spot him rapping on the pane, I didn't scream or panic. I removed my safety goggles, pulled lo mein out of my hair, opened the window, and cordially invited him in.

I didn't give him a name because I figured he already had one, and if he didn't want to share, that was fine by me. As far as I knew it was safer for me not to know his name. You never know when you're going to need plausible deniability on your side.

I didn't make him learn knitting either. He just rummaged in the closet, found the bag of needles and yarn my grandma left me, and went to town. I came home to twelve stocking caps and three hot pads.

He was in charge of product; I was in charge of the sale. It wasn't exploitation because he loved doing it. He didn't want to keep them either. If we didn't sell everything he started defecating on the merchandise in frustrated anger, as I imagine Van Gogh might if he were a bit more of a poopy drunkard.

He had no use for paper money, he was a monkey, so I didn't pay him, but I bought him lots of yarn, needles, and Fig Newtons, which he liked better than bananas. All that didn't cost a lot, so the rest of it went towards things like rent, utilities and food, things that really were still to his benefit. He needed a place to live, heat, and his diaper-changer well fed. I saw to all that.

When my ex-boyfriend called three months into the monkey's and my blossoming partnership, he said, “Someone told me you told them you were working as a monkey's front man, and I just wanted to make sure you weren't drinking varnish again.”

“Oh, Stu,” I laughed. “Don't be ridiculous.” I hung up the phone, finished a beer, watched the monkey make socks, and then headed off to the pawnshop to buy back my X Box.

What we had evolved into more than a partnership. It was realer than that. I'd watch craft shows with him, and he'd let me win when we played Tennis on the Wii. I untangled his yarn, and he'd hug my arm when I started to cry. I'd give him Oreos when he finished a project, and he'd fall asleep next to me, curled up on the pillow. I was his human and he was my monkey.

Trouble found us when we set up shop at the State Fair. We were unfortunately placed outside the chicken barn, where unfortunately members of Free the Animals Foundation decided to hold a protest in honor of their beaked compadres. Nothing might have gone down if the little blonde with the bandana hadn't come over to inquire about the blue and yellow spring bag collection.

“Did you make this?” she asked.

“No, my monkey did,” I said, giving credit where credit was due.

“Your what?” she said.

“My monkey. He knits.” I stepped back and showed her. “See?”

On cue, my monkey smiled and waved his needles at her, which caused her eyes to bug out and her mouth to quiver. I assumed it was in surprise and awe. It turns out it was more like horror at the injustice of having a monkey knit all the time without pay.

“But he's a monkey!” I yelled the next day out my window at the protestors gathered. “What does he want money for?”

"Two four six eight, pay the working primate!" they chanted.

I was on TV. The broadcaster informed me I was under investigation and the police would soon be stopping by to interview me. They showed the protestors, and then they showed me, holding out my own protest sign that said “I SUPPORT MONKEYS' RIGHTS TO WORK” and looking like a thoroughly methed out Helena Bonham Carter ala Fight Club. 

My ex-boyfriend called to tell me he saw me on the news.

“You looked good,” he said, “that whole ‘I clearly haven't showered in a week' look works for you. Makes your hair seem less flat.”

“Stu, your kindness means the world to me in this distressing time,” I said.

I hung up and sat down next to my monkey, who was looking uneasy.

“Don't worry,” I said, patting his head and switching to the Martha Stewart show reassuringly. “You're the only monkey for me.”

We both knew it was only a matter of time.

They came the next day, a police officer and an agent from the Animal Welfare Group, who looked more James Bond and less Ace Ventura than I would have guessed.

“Where's the monkey?” he demanded.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said.

“Ma'am,” he said in a disciplinary tone.

“We haven't done anything wrong!” I said.

My monkey peeked out from behind our new leather sofa, clutching his needles and looking upset.

“There he is,” said the agent.

The police officer called for backup, and the agent cruelly snatched the needles out of my monkey's hands.

“Don't!” I begged, feeling tears come to my eyes. “He loves them! Don't take them away from him!”

The agent rolled his eyes and didn't give the needles back.

Backup arrived seconds later, and they carried a small cage with them.

“Please,” I pleaded, “he's all I have.”

“They'll take good care of him,” the officer told me. “He's going to a nature preserve in Florida.”

My monkey looked at me with his big, confused eyes and handed me a knitted heart.

“I love you too,” I told him.

He walked bravely into the cage and they took him away, slamming the door shut behind him. I could hear the protestors cheering, proud their loud bitching broke up our beautiful life. I heard the van careening away, and I was left alone to a place full of yarn and Fig Newtons.

Our apartment slowly drained of everything we bought together and the pawnshop owner was happy to have his old customer back. I tried to learn how to knit, but whenever I'd pick up the needles, I'd picture him making a hat or little cat mittens and start crying. I kept the needles for him, and some yarn, in case he comes back. I leave the windows open every night, and I sleep with the knitted heart next to me on the pillow, and dream about my little monkey and me laughing together forever.