Piss, Shit, and a Fucking MonkeySubmitted by AllyJeans at 2009-07-22 13:41:41 EDT
Rating: 1.53 on 45 ratings (45 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
A few weekends back, my friend Candy and I went to a bar called The Mille. From the outside I expected it to be the kind of place that had dead ferrets hanging from the ceiling and grim-looking people talking about what went wrong with their lives. I told Candy to dress down expecting the creepy drunk potential to be quite high but was surprised when I entered and found a raucous, albeit older, crowd inside.
The actual bar was relatively small, only a 10-seater, with a big rustic glass mirror behind it and a swarthy bartender dripping sweat into the mixed drinks. Many of the patrons were standing around, singing along to Elton John songs on the overhead speakers (“Don’t let the sun fall down on me!”) though others were relatively quiet, grouped around the four or five tables set about 30 feet away from the bar proper. Candy and I waited by the door with some guys making song requests to no one in particular. “Walk like an Egyptian would rule,” one kept saying. “that or Desperado.” After about ten minutes we were able to snag some seats at the bar.
We started slow, drinking Sam Adams and pointing out all the nice little quirks. There was a telephone booth set into the wall below and to the right of a spiral staircase. The door was painted black with a diamond-shaped window showing a dim light within. To the left of that was a single bathroom with the word “head” written in flaky red paint and to the left of that was the entrance-way to the kitchen. The fluorescent light from the kitchen was striking compared to the warm tones all around us and occasionally a silhouette would emerge—some cook or dishwasher trying to take in some of the air conditioning.
At about 9 a rumor started to circulate. Someone who knew the owner said that there was a monkey in the cellar. Upon asking, the bartender begrudgingly confirmed this. He said that the owner’s friend was a dealer in exotic animals and that he needed a place to keep the monkey for the night. Of course, once this information got out everyone wanted to see the monkey and as the drinks flowed, they started demanding to see the monkey. Finally, to avoid a riot, the bartender agreed to let people through the kitchen and down into the cellar, but only two at a time and for five bucks each.
People began going down and after ten or fifteen minutes would come back laughing and making Outbreak jokes. One pair claimed Patrick Dempsey was dead by the cage, bleeding from all orifices. Another came up and said that Cuba Gooding Jr. was laying in wait down there, biding his time until he could tranq it.
At about ten the crowd had doubled and some were barely able to stand. One old guy walked in off the street drunk out of his mind, with brown stains on the back of his pants. Whether he had shit himself that night or ten nights ago, I couldn’t tell you. People pointed and laughed, he took it as applause and began spinning in circles. Disgusted, the bartender pushed through the crowd and sidled up to him. “Jesus, Roger, go home.” But Roger just smiled and began spinning again. Eventually the bartender managed to escort him out, but not before someone started a “Shit! Shit! Shit!” chant.
At 11, I was still drinking Sam Adamses but Candy had moved on to shots. She was getting pretty liquored up, but despite my protests kept plowing ahead. Every now and then she would say, “Let’s go see the monkey” and I would tell her “No, I have seen monkeys.”
“Come on! It will be fun”
For the tenth time I told her no, that if she wanted to see the monkey she could do it on her own, that monkey watching did not require backup.
“Fine,” she said.
She took a shot and pushed through the crowd. She got up to the bartender, swayed slightly, and said “Monkey,” putting her finger to her nose in what I assumed to be a secret code.
For her benefit, he winked and she ushered her into the kitchen and pointed down the stairs. It was too busy for him to leave the bar and he had stopped going after the first couple tourists.
Meanwhile, as if the night couldn’t get any crazier, someone had opened the door the telephone booth and found someone pissing against the wall. From my vantage point I could see everything and naturally started laughing. The bartender heard it, heard everyone else’s, and then spotted the guy, leaning against the side, his head resting on the top of the phone.
The guy didn’t turn, but continued to piss.
“For fuck's sake.”
The bartender wrestled through the crowd, which had started chanting “Let him finish! Let him finish!” When he got to the guy he shook him by the shoulders, trying to get his attention, and the piss stream shook in turn. Everybody was dying, including me. That’s probably why it took so long to register the new uproar. The guy next to me fell off his chair. People started screaming and laughing and running and pushing against each other in random directions. I turned and saw the reason.
Standing in the kitchen entrance-way was Candy. The monkey was on her head--humping her face.
“He likes me.” She slurred.
The bartender was speechless, his mouth slightly open. I put my head on the bar, laughing. Candy stood there swaying to the beat, her cheek getting jabbed insistently by monkey phallus.
Someone yelled. “She’s infected for sure!”
Another: “Oh no! African Motaba!”
And yet another “Get Dustin Hoffman!”
No one was doing anything, though, except watch and laugh. Since she was my friend, I felt obliged. I saw a cane in an umbrella stand so I grabbed it and walked toward Candy. This was easier because an invisible circle had formed around her and because I was a little drunk myself, feeling less fear than I should have. Slightly buzzed, I took the cane poked the monkey. “Shoo!” People laughed. I did it again and it bared its teeth at me. Then it went back to humping Candy’s face.
Eventually one of the cooks went down and got the cage and he and another patron managed to grab the monkey and shut him inside. After that, people bought Candy and I drinks—for her because she was the adventurer, for me because I was the adventurer’s friend. For the rest of the night people asked her to recount the tale, but she didn’t say much aside from “It was a cute monkey.” At about 1 AM we called a cab and went home.
(Remember Candy, you gave me permission to tell this.)
he was a curious little monkey.gif