The Hungry Little Monkey

After many years of guilt and shame over never having written a story about a mail-order monkey, I have finally written a story about a mail-order monkey and the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders. This is what I was meant to be all my life: A man who wrote a story about a mail-order monkey. Thank you and gobbless.The Hungry Little Monkey

Heavy rain fell upon the squirrel monkey as it crouched on the edge of the Dumpster behind the McDonald’s located off the Interstate in Newark, New Jersey.

That was exactly where the monkey was. 

The monkey had been assigned the name “Herbie” but that meant nothing to it. It hadn’t been trained to accept the name before its escape. The word “herbie” that the family kept hurling at it only aggravated its panic. 

The monkey could smell the intoxicating draw of the fast food even through the rain. It was the summer of 1968, night. The monkey waited, wondering what to do. 

It had been ordered from an ad in the back of a comic book (Tales to Astonish) and delivered to the Brooklyn, NY apartment of 16-year-old Billy Hoban and his family. 

The ad claimed the monkey would make an adorable pet and companion. It was simple to take care of and train. It enjoyed lollipops. It was almost human with its warm, friendly eyes. You could hold it in one hand. 

Billy bought it to show off to his friends, confident it would grant him instant status.  

The monkey had endured a long, terrifying journey inside a dark and tumbling box. The monkey thought it was going to die and shrieked with distress, bashing against its cramped confines.

Billy Hoban had sent for the animal without permission. His parents were not pleased when it arrived. Billy had saved his allowance with discipline and determination. The monkey cost $18.95.

Upon its release, the thing screeched and jumped and ran around the rooms in a frenzied state of uncomprehending animal panic.

 It lived there for two anxious, chaotic days before escaping.  

It broke out through a window screen. Billy Hoban’s dad had corralled the animal into the new baby’s room (the baby wasn’t due for three more weeks). There was a small tear in the screen and the monkey worked it wide enough to climb through. 

The environment it encountered was confusing and composed of hard-edged stone and it assaulted the monkey with loud sounds (which the monkey interpreted as threats and warnings) and sharp, distressing smells and sudden movements that sprang at it like lethal traps. Bright blurs of light and deep creeping shadows. The monkey felt targeted by countless relentless predators. 

It spent the night cowering under a delivery truck outside a fabric factory.

Due to nervous exhaustion, the monkey had fallen into a doze when the truck suddenly lurched to life with a deafening, earth-throttling roar. 

The monkey screamed and darted out from under the truck.

Another roar bellowed directly in front of it. And then another from behind. An entire line of trucks were heading out to make deliveries. The dawn of a new workday.

Hopelessly surrounded by menacing beasts, the monkey scrambled up the side of the nearest truck until it reached the roof. 

The monkey was relieved to see that the sky looked the same as the one above its home at the animal farm in Miami Beach. The entire world hadn’t gone mad. There was safety in the sky. Comfort in the clouds.

The truck started to move and shake. The little monkey huddled behind the wind deflector, clinging to it as wind and motion and the searing sounds of traffic assailed it. 

The little monkey was on its way to New Jersey.

When the truck pulled into a rest area off the Interstate, the little monkey quickly climbed down and scrambled behind a nearby Dumpster, grateful to be safe in a motionless, noiseless world again.

Twenty minutes later it started to rain.

The monkey climbed to the top of the McDonald’s Dumpster. It could smell the discarded food inside and searched for a way in, pulling at the lid. But it was bolted and chained and wouldn’t budge. The monkey yanked the rattling chain for several minutes, frustrated and starving. And then gave up. So many things in this world were locked away from it. It wasn’t fair.

The monkey sat in the rain, shivering. Its stomach raged. 

Every time the glass door tilted open, another golden wave of foodsmell wafted out, increasing the monkey’s already ravenous appetite. 

Finally, it warily crept toward the McDonald’s, the smell of food forcing it forward, the monkey’s hunger imparting a reckless bravery. It darted from car to car until it reached a row of small evergreen shrubs. It sniffed at the plant, curious to see if it were edible. 

The monkey decided not to try it. 

It stationed itself by the door and waited. It knew how doors worked. Humans used them a lot. It would be opening soon.

The monkey’s heart was a nervous bird in its chest. Its eyes darted. 

The rush of the rain drowned out sounds of possible danger, leaving the monkey vulnerable in its vigil.

Eventually, a large woman bustled out, pulling along a small child who was pestering her with questions. 

And the monkey darted through the open door behind them.

It was met with sudden bright fluorescent light and an overwhelming tidal wave of powerful smells. 

A woman screamed. 

The little monkey was instantly disoriented. It jerked its head around, assessing its surroundings and then jumped on the nearest occupied table and snatched up one of the soft foodshapes—a half-eaten Filet-O-Fish sandwich. 

The man at the table lurched out of the booth, slipped, and tumbled sprawling to the floor. He groped and crawled away from the (as yet unidentified) animal that had just stolen his meal. 

The monkey raced toward the door, its prize clutched firmly in its tiny hand.

But the door had closed again, locking the monkey inside. It jumped against the glass, shrieking with panic. 

It was so close. Inches away from freedom, food in hand. Only to be blocked by this maddening world of sudden, impossible puzzles.

The monkey jumped at the door again as the restaurant erupted into frantic commotion: “Somebody call the cops!” “Is it some kinda rat?” It’s a friggin’ monkey!” “Animal control! Animal control!”

One of the managers, a tall bald man, approached the door, holding a broom. The little monkey thumped its hand against the glass. The manager reached out above the monkey and gently pushed the door open while herding the monkey toward the opening with the broom.   

The monkey scurried outside. The restaurant’s patrons and staff ran to the windows but the monkey had already disappeared.

It hid under a parked car to stay out of the rain and began to eat. Finally.

The food was unfamiliar, soft and warm like overripe fruit rotting in the sun. It had several strong, competing flavors but the monkey grew accustomed to it once the third bite had become mush in its mouth.

 Its hunger sated, the monkey moved to search for a safe place to sleep. Beyond the border of the rest area was a rushing river of lights and noise that the monkey wouldn’t dare attempt to cross.

But behind the Dumpster stood a dark stretch of birch and pine. 

The monkey climbed easily over a chain-link fence and entered the peace of the thicket. The rain had ceased. 

The little monkey climbed atop a sturdy birch and looked around, surveying its surroundings. 

It crouched above an endless sea of tiny stars, some moving, some not. With the end of the rain came a clearing of the sky and more stars emerged. 

The monkey curled into itself, secure in the grasp of the branches and fell asleep wondering about the stars as best as it could.