High anxiety sweeps through the hamlet of Frost Heave after the Monkey Man killer claims another victim, this time a postman, who was found impaled on one of his ski poles, mail satchel strapped to his back, no letter disturbed, three claw marks streaked across his frightened frozen face. A modest pile of cash, not enough to really change one’s life, but a decent amount to make days and nights pass with greater ease, is being offered by the police to the citizen who supplies info leading to capture.
I was alone, reading the newspaper on the green tongue, our L-shaped sectional that has absorbed many years of coffee, whiskey, mango purée, lima bean mash, drool, dog ass, kimchee, a sampling of some of the best music ever recorded, leaky ballpoint pens, and a porcupine quill. My roommate, Dan, appeared out of nowhere. First no sign of life, and then, abracadabra, twitchy itchy Dan, dressed head to toe in black Carhartt, eyes blackened with baseball makeup, but no league games scheduled in winter with snow covering the ground like thick cake frosting.
Fleeing the notorious Monkey Man killer who swung from a vine above the Fountain of the Bashful Explorer, a bride and her sisters plus one aunt ran with flowers in their hair down a steep flight of stairs toward the foyer. The groom, trailing his future wife by only a few steps, suffered greatly for his slower feet by tripping on his unusually long coattails and tumbling down a hundred stairs, striking his head numerous times. Similar sadness occurred when a Frost Heave baker, fearing attack, jumped to his death from the roof of his bakery. Lonely, yeasty dough rose without the powerful kneading hands of its maker as police detectives scoured the white, flour-filled area for clues.
Grieving doesn’t come naturally to me. Maybe if I comforted the baker’s shy daughter at the funeral, who was crying and in need of comfort, she’d have sex with me on the floor of the bakery. She’d lift up her skirt and bounce on top of me, growl and cuss, choke a little death into me with her bare hands. Maybe that would relieve her sadness. That was what I hoped for. Question: Who will make the buttermilk donuts now that the baker is gone?
Groups of frustrated men are taking to the streets waving sticks, scissors, swords, tridents, and scimitars. Hoping to entice MMK, who might very well be an alien from a planet that sneaks glances at earth, the vigilantes carried perfectly ripe bananas with a faint streak of green on the skin as bait.
A confident chef turned his back on the flame and multitasked. I grilled onions but I was not physically in the kitchen.
“What are you cooking?” Dan asked. “What are you doing with the onions?”
“Potatoes Lyonnaise,” I said.
Since Dan and I worked different shifts at the same restaurant we rarely inhabited the same room at the same time, but today we did, and it surprised me how nervous he behaved. I successfully calmed him down with a discussion about caramelizing onions, how important it is to allow them time to break down, to be patient and not incessantly stir or flip the translucent fellas which look like wiggly worms when tripping on acid, to give them their own private time with the heated oil, to brown in a skillet without distraction, otherwise the eater will not experience the remarkable transformation from harsh, tear-inducing bulb to silky sweet vegetable candy.
“Caramelization proclamation,” we said in unison, but this time we did not tap knuckles like we usually do when we see eye to eye.
I took my dog Leslie, who hobbled gracefully on three legs, born without the fourth, out for a walk. Her fur is the color of wet sand. She liked the feel of fresh snow on her paws. When we approached the Fountain of Mystical Formulations I realized I was walking in my sleep, that I had not officially woken up from the previous night’s slumber. Or maybe I did and Dan sprinkled snooze dust into my hair. “Sleepwalker, take yourself home now,” I said to myself, but I just stood there, teetering left foot, right foot. Once the perverse aroma of night blooming jasmine entered my nostrils my eyes fluttered open. Awake, I bore witness to a little gentleman who performed an unusual act, but my frozen blood and trembling arms caused temporary inaction on my part, and a mild form of blindness. Was the little gentleman Dan?
The Monkey Man has three buttons on its chest. One allows it to become a monkey, the second gives it extra strength, the third makes it invisible. When he touches a locked door, the knob falls off and breaks.
Dan and I first got to know each other over the restaurant’s bouillabaisse, and how it was originally brought by angels to the Three Marys when they were shipwrecked on the bleak shores of the Camargue. We lamented about our bouillabaisse and how much it sucked because frozen rock fish lacks the high gelatin content necessary for creating that slightly cloudy look, not to mention all the microscopic finny tidbits that make each slurp oceanic bliss.
Some citizens, believing that you can rob the Monkey Man killer of his powers, are standing by ready to throw water on his chest. The creature’s motherboard heart, concealed beneath its thick black coat of hair, gets short-circuited by liquid. The police struggle with their homicidal instincts suggesting that we all shoot MMK on sight.
I punched my mechanic in the neck thinking he was Monkey Man. He fell to the snow, cried out for help. I felt very bad but he looked so much like the simian marauder when he rolled out from under my truck. So terribly hairy, wearing black greasy clothes.
Snowflakes fell gently from the sky, a day to chill on the green tongue; we watched The Naked Chef on the Food Network.
“Dude,” I said, “did you know that a chef’s hat is called a toque?”
“What do you mean?” Dan reached into his crotch, peered inside, scratched.
“I mean, that the classic chef’s hat was invented by French stoners who were toking burly weed and they named their big hat the toque.”
Without warning Dan lunged at me. I received minor abrasions. Fearing infection I walked through snow and visited my doctor who offered me an overly priced rabies shot, which I refused. I opted for the modest tetanus shot.
Some people say MMK is painted silver; others have stated that he dresses all in white and is covered with bandages like a mummy. Only his bulging eyes are visible. Sometimes he wears safety goggles. There are also Monkey Man copy cats who don monkey masks and take advantage of the “fearpsychosis” of citizens so they may scuffle and loot.
My doctor described the maniac’s mind to me: MMK, he said, is probably suffering from frustrations. He continued to freely espouse that the sufferer takes on a role that allows him to exercise control over people who would otherwise treat him as a failure. No one wants to touch him.
Then there was the poor little girl who was beaten because residents said that the devilish soul of a Monkey Man had inverted her body. She appeared upside down, bouncing on her head.
The phone rang. I answered. A halting voice on the other end. Dan’s Hungarian love interest. Her name was similar to onion, but without the consonants. Before I had a chance to communicate a warm greeting, Dan grabbed the phone from me, turned his back, and emited an “ooh ooh,” then waited and laughed when he heard the caller make the same sound back, i.e., their not-so-secret monkey code. Dan’s incisors come to fine points. My teeth are all rounded for softer foods: oatmeal, ice cream, and éclairs. His teeth are for removing bottle caps. He and his insect-eating girlfriend made a date to go bouldering. I’ve seen Oouioo pull down fir branches and snack on pine needles. Dan dropped the phone. Conversation done. He leapt into a handstand position, his hairy toes wiggling freely at eye level. He has drawn pictures of Mary and the Baby Jesus with those longfingered feet.
“Save some potatoes for me, dude,” he said, and then vanished in an unexplained manner. Suddenly there was a fire in the kitchen (oh no, the onions), followed by an explosion. I flew through the air and landed on my head, on the street. When I righted myself I found nothing broken or scratched.
A bicycle rolled by. A projectile slammed against our front door. The Sunday paper.
The headline mirrored my exact thoughts: HOW DO YOU KNOW WHEN TO BLOW THE WHISTLE?