So, it’s three in the morning and a man in a gorilla suit is running across my lawn. Quigley runs figure-eights—yapping, yelping. The light in McKevitt’s window flickers on then off—he doesn’t see this ****
stumbling and slopping about the dark yard, pulling at the plush love handles of his unwieldy suit—its zipper just visible in blue moonlight. He’s trying not to step on the little black dog nipping at his paw. I pace at the window hoping he will leave.
I pace some more and fumble at the nightstand for a cigarette. I beat my chest to scare this thing away and though I feel foolish, I grunt. I grunt and expect him to listen to reason— he doesn’t and collapses near the shed.
Quigley watches him—curiously cocking his head. He licks the rubber face with his pink tongue thinking this monkey’s me—not well at all and sopped in *****. I get under the cold sheet. I toss. I turn. I curse the ****** ape well into morning. I hit snooze until I’m sure he’s gone.
This has been going on for weeks I beat my chest and show my teeth. I pace the dark room—smoking, grumbling. I consider buying a bigger dog, a bigger gun. I send him death threats, then love notes. Nothing works— I can’t shake this monkey from my back.
So excuse me for calling at this odd hour to howl about my primate problem—the chimp on my shoulder. or maybe a bonobo? (you know, the one that made life with me so hard.) In any case, he’s my problem now and tonight he’s knocking at the door